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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/39407-8.txt b/39407-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..335f107 --- /dev/null +++ b/39407-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16037 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2, by +John Wilson Townsend + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2 + 1784-1912 + +Author: John Wilson Townsend + +Release Date: July 6, 2012 [EBook #39407] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + + + + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. Alley, III and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images generously made +available by The Internet Archive/Million Book Project) + + + + + + + + + + + +KENTUCKY IN +AMERICAN LETTERS + + +OTHER WORKS BY MR. TOWNSEND + + _Richard Hickman Menefee._ 1907 + _Kentuckians in History and Literature._ 1907 + _The Life of James Francis Leonard._ 1909 + _Kentucky: Mother of Governors._ 1910 + _Lore of the Meadowland._ 1911 + + + + +KENTUCKY IN +AMERICAN LETTERS + +1784-1912 + + +BY + +JOHN WILSON TOWNSEND + + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY + +JAMES LANE ALLEN + + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. II + + +THE TORCH PRESS +CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA +NINETEEN THIRTEEN + +_Of this edition one thousand sets have been printed, of which +this is number_ +241 + +COPYRIGHT 1913 +BY THE TORCH PRESS +PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 1913 + +[Illustration] + + + To + Mary Katherine Bullitt + and + Samuel Judson Roberts + and to their memories + + + + +CONTENTS + + + JAMES N. BASKETT 1 + "I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUSE 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL" 2 + + JAMES LANE ALLEN 4 + KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY: AN ADDRESS 9 + THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE 13 + + NANCY HUSTON BANKS 17 + ANVIL ROCK 18 + THE OLD FASHIONED FIDDLERS 19 + + WILLIAM B. SMITH 20 + A SOUTHERN VIEW OF THE NEGRO PROBLEM 22 + THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH 24 + + ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY 27 + THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN 27 + + ROBERT BURNS WILSON 29 + LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER 32 + WHEN EVENING COMETH ON 32 + + DANIEL HENRY HOLMES 36 + BELL HORSES 39 + MY LADY'S GARDEN 40 + LITTLE BLUE BETTY 42 + THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 44 + MARGERY DAW 45 + + WILLIAM H. WOODS 47 + SYCAMORES 48 + + ANDREW W. KELLEY 49 + THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY 50 + LATE NEWS 52 + + YOUNG E. ALLISON 53 + ON BOARD THE DERELICT 54 + + HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT 57 + THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL 58 + + HENRY C. WOOD 60 + THE WEAVER 61 + + WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY 63 + KANSAS HISTORY 65 + + CHARLES T. DAZEY 67 + THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE 70 + + JOHN P. FRUIT 72 + THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY 72 + + HARRISON ROBERTSON 74 + TWO TRIOLETS 75 + STORY OF THE GATE 75 + + INGRAM CROCKETT 77 + AUDUBON 78 + THE LONGING 79 + DEAREST 80 + + ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN 81 + "SWEET DAY OF REST" 82 + + KATE SLAUGHTER MCKINNEY 85 + A LITTLE FACE 85 + + CHARLES J. O'MALLEY 86 + ENCELADUS 88 + NOON IN KENTUCKY 90 + + LANGDON SMITH 91 + EVOLUTION 92 + + WILL J. LAMPTON 98 + THESE DAYS 98 + OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR 99 + CHAMPAGNE 100 + + MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO 101 + LAZY LOUISVILLE 102 + + MARY R. S. ANDREWS 104 + THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT 106 + + ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER 110 + THE SOUTH AND SONG 111 + SUNDOWN LANE 113 + + JOSEPH S. COTTER 115 + NEGRO LOVE SONG 115 + + ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD 116 + CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 117 + + EVELYN S. BARNETT 119 + THE WILL 119 + + JOHN PATTERSON 123 + A CLUSTER OF GRAPES 124 + CHORAL ODE FROM EURIPIDES 125 + + WILLIAM E. BARTON 126 + A WEARY WINTER 128 + + BENJ. H. RIDGELY 129 + A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT 131 + + ZOE A. NORRIS 135 + THE CABARET SINGER 137 + IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS 138 + + LUCY CLEAVER MCELROY 139 + OLD ALEC HAMILTON 140 + + MARY F. LEONARD 142 + GOODBY 143 + + JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 144 + THE CALL OF THE DRUM 146 + + OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD 150 + THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS 151 + + ELIZABETH ROBINS 156 + A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT 158 + + ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE 162 + MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE 163 + + ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON 165 + THE MAGIC KETTLE 167 + + EVA A. MADDEN 170 + THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL" 170 + + JOHN FOX, JR. 172 + THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON 176 + + FANNIE C. MACAULAY 181 + APPROACHING JAPAN 183 + + JAMES D. BRUNER 184 + THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA 185 + + MADISON CAWEIN 187 + CONCLUSION 191 + INDIAN SUMMER 192 + HOME 193 + LOVE AND A DAY 193 + IN A SHADOW GARDEN 195 + UNREQUITED 196 + A TWILIGHT MOTH 196 + + GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 198 + EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE 199 + + MARY ADDAMS BAYNE 202 + THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER 203 + + ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ 205 + PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN 207 + + REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH 209 + THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES 210 + + CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT 211 + THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY 213 + + ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE 217 + A COUNTESS OF THE WEST 218 + + GEORGE LEE BURTON 222 + AFTER PRISON--HOME 223 + + JAMES TANDY ELLIS 228 + YOUTHFUL LOVERS 229 + + GEORGE HORACE LORIMER 230 + HIS SON'S SWEETHEART 232 + + SISTER IMELDA 233 + A JUNE IDYL 234 + HEART MEMORIES 235 + A NUN'S PRAYER 235 + + HARRISON CONRAD 236 + IN OLD TUCSON 236 + A KENTUCKY SUNRISE 237 + A KENTUCKY SUNSET 237 + + ALICE HEGAN RICE 238 + THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES 239 + + RICHARD H. WILSON 244 + SUSAN--VENUS OF CADIZ 245 + + LUCY FURMAN 247 + A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE 249 + + BERT FINCK 254 + BEHIND THE SCENES 254 + + OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN 255 + NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS 258 + + HARRY L. MARRINER 262 + WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR 263 + SIR GUMSHOO 264 + + LUCIEN V. RULE 265 + WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU? 265 + THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD 266 + + EVA WILDER BRODHEAD 267 + THE RIVALS 269 + + CORDIA GREER PETRIE 273 + ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR 274 + + MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS 279 + MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES 281 + + CALE YOUNG RICE 284 + PETRARCA AND SANCIA 285 + + ROBERT M. MCELROY 289 + GEORGE ROGERS CLARK 290 + + EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER 293 + THE PHILANTHROPIST 294 + + CREDO HARRIS 295 + BOLOGNA 295 + + HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES 297 + THE BISHOP SPEAKS 298 + + EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY 300 + THE RACE OF THE SWIFT 301 + + MILTON BRONNER 303 + MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN 304 + + A. S. MACKENZIE 305 + A KELTIC TALE 306 + + LAURA SPENCER PORTOR 308 + THE LITTLE CHRIST 309 + BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH 310 + + LEIGH GORDON GILTNER 311 + THE JESTING GODS 311 + + MARGARET S. ANDERSON 318 + THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK 318 + NOT THIS WORLD 319 + WHISTLER 320 + + ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH 320 + UNREMEMBERING JUNE 321 + + IRVIN S. COBB 323 + THE BELLED BUZZARD 327 + + ISAAC F. MARCOSSON 343 + THE WAGON CIRCUS 344 + + GERTRUDE KING TUFTS 345 + SHIPWRECKED 346 + + CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 350 + SPRING 351 + SLOW PARTING 351 + OF DEATH 352 + + WILLIAM E. WALLING 353 + RUSSIA AND AMERICA 354 + + THOMPSON BUCHANAN 355 + THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP 358 + + WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT 363 + AN ACTRESS'S HEART 364 + + FRANK WALLER ALLEN 366 + A WOMAN ANSWERED 367 + + VENITA SEIBERT 368 + THE ORIGIN OF BABIES 369 + + CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK 371 + THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY 373 + + GEORGE BINGHAM 375 + HOGWALLOW NEWS 377 + + MABEL PORTER PITTS 379 + ON THE LITTLE SANDY 379 + + MARION FORSTER GILMORE 380 + THE CRADLE SONG 381 + + APPENDIX 383 + + MRS. AGNES B. MITCHELL 385 + WHEN THE COWS COME HOME 385 + + + + +KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN LETTER + + + + +JAMES NEWTON BASKETT + + +James Newton Baskett, novelist and scientist, was born near Carlisle, +Kentucky, November 1, 1849. He was taken to Missouri in early life by +his parents. He was graduated from the University of Missouri in 1872, +since which time he has devoted himself almost exclusively to fiction +and to comparative vertebrate anatomy, with ornithology as his +particular specialty. At the world's congress of ornithologists at the +Columbian Exposition in 1893, Mr. Baskett presented a paper on _Some +Hints at the Kinship of Birds as Shown by Their Eggs_, which won him the +respect of scientists from many lands. He has published three scientific +works and three novels: _The Story of the Birds_ (New York, 1896); _The +Story of the Fishes_ (New York, 1899); _The Story of the Amphibians and +Reptiles_ (New York, 1902); and his novels: _At You All's House_ (New +York, 1898); _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900); and his most recent +book, _Sweet Brier and Thistledown_ (Boston, 1902). Of this trio of +tales the first one, _At You All's House_, is the best and the best +known, Mr. Baskett's masterpiece hitherto. For the Texas Historical +Society he wrote, in 1907, a series of papers upon the _Early Spanish +Expedition in the South and Southwest_. With the exception of three +years spent in Colorado for the benefit of his health, Mr. Baskett has +resided at Mexico, Missouri, since leaving Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Athenaeum_ (July 28, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (October, 1900); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, + v. i). + + +"I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUS 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL"[1] + +[From _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900)] + +They had been boy and girl together, not schoolmates nor next-farm +neighbors, but their homes were in the same region. Her father's house +was far enough away to make the boy's visits not so frequent as to +foster the familiarity which breeds contempt, yet they gave him an +occasional little journey out of the humdrum of home lanes, and away +from the monotonous sweep of the prairie's flat horizon. + +Hers was rather a timber farm, located on the other side of Flint +Creek, where the woods began to fringe out upon the treeless plain +again; but his was high out eastward upon the prairie swell, several +miles from water. From his place the wooded barrier between them +seemed only a brown level brush-stroke upon the sky's western margin. + +Sometimes, when he was tired from his day's work afield, he watched the +sun sink behind this border, which the distance made so velvety; and, if +the day were clear, it looked to him as if the great glowing ball were +lying down upon a cushion for its comfort. If it set in a bank of cloud +or storm, it seemed to send up long streaming, reaching stripes, as if +it waved a farewell to the sky, and stretched a last grasp at the day as +it left it, or shot a rocket of distress as it sank. + +When a child he had often sent her his good-will upon the westering +messenger, and he imagined that the beams, sometimes shot suddenly out +from beneath a low-hung cloudy curtain, were answers to his greetings. +Long after it was dreary at his place, he fancied the light was still +cuddling somewhere in the brush near her and that it was cheery yet +over there. + +When he was seven and she was three, he was visiting at her house one +day. She was sitting on a bench in the old, long porch, shouting to +him, her elder brother, and some others, as they came toward her from +a romp out in the orchard. Suddenly Bent bantered the boys for a race +to the baby; and, swinging their limp wool hats in their hands, they +sped toward her. The child caught the jubilance of the race, and when +Bent dropped first beside her, she grabbed him about the neck, laid +the rose of her cheek against the tan of his, and said: + +"I 'oves 'oo best, 'tause 'oo beat 'em all." + +The act was an infant tribute to prowess, a bound here in babyhood of +the heart which wants but does not weigh; of the body which asks but +does not question. The boy felt his heart go to meet hers, so that the +little girl stood ever after as his idol. As time went on, his +reverence for her as a lisper grew as she became a lass; and though, +out of the dawning to them of what the years might bring, there came +eras of pure embarrassment, wherein their firmness and trust wavered a +little, yet confiding companionship came anew and stayed, till some +new revelation of each to self or other barred for a time again their +ease and intimacy. They were man and woman now, with a consciousness +of much that the grown-up state must finally mean to them, if this +continued. There was the freedom from embarrassment which experience +brings; but there came with all this a sort of proximity of hopes and +aims, which, burdened sweetly with its own importance, persisted with +a presage of a crisis down the line. + +He could no longer ride up to her side as she left the stile at church, +and, without a previous engagement or the lubricant of a commonplace, +open a conversation right into the heart of things. When she responded +to him now it was with a shy sort of confidence which admits so much yet +defines so little. Yet never when they met did they fail to pick up the +thread, which tended to bind them closer and closer, and give it a +conscious snatch of greater strain, till, as either looked back at the +skein of incidents, there came a delightful feeling of hopeless +entanglement in this fibre of their fate. However, the ends of the +filament were free and floating yet, as the fray of a swirling gossamer +in the autumn wind. Day by day these two felt that these frayed ends +would meet sometime; and hold? or snap? and then? and then! + +Nothing had ever strongly tried their attachment. Yet there was +creeping now into the heart of each a sort of heaviness--a wondering, +at least--if the other was still holding true to the childish troth; a +definite sort of mental distrust was abiding between them, along with +a readiness to be equal to anything which an emergency might bring. +But in their hearts they were lovers still. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[1] Copyright, 1900, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +JAMES LANE ALLEN + + +James Lane Allen, the foremost living American master of English +prose, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, December 21, 1849. His home +was situated some five miles from Lexington, on the old Parker's Mill +road, and it was burned to the ground more than thirty years ago. He +was the seventh and youngest child of Richard Allen, a Kentuckian, and +his wife, Helen Foster Allen, a native of Mississippi. Lane Allen, as +he was known in Kentucky until he became a distinguished figure in +contemporary letters, was interested in books and Nature when a boy +under his mother's tutelage. He was early at Kentucky University, now +rechristened with its ancient name, Transylvania. Mr. Allen was +valedictorian of the class of 1872; and five years later the degree of +Master of Arts was granted him, after an amusing quibble with the +faculty regarding the length of his oration, _The Survival of the +Fittest_. He began his career as teacher of the district school at the +rural village of Slickaway, which is now known as Fort Spring, about +two miles from his birthplace. He taught this school but one year, +when he went to Richmond, Missouri, to become instructor of Greek in +the high school there. A few years later he established a school for +boys at Lexington, Missouri. Mr. Allen returned to Kentucky to act as +tutor in a private family near Lexington; and in 1878, he was elected +principal of the Kentucky University Academy. He resigned this +position, in 1880, to accept the chair of Latin and English in Bethany +College, Bethany, West Virginia, which he occupied for two years, when +he returned once more to Lexington, Kentucky, to open a private school +for boys in the old Masonic Temple. In 1884 Mr. Allen discarded the +teacher's garb for that of a man of letters, and since that time he +has devoted his entire attention to literature. + +While his kinsfolk and acquaintances regarded him with quiet wonder, +if not alarmed astonishment, he carefully arranged his traveling bags +and set his face toward the city of his dreams and thoughts--New York. +Once there he shortly discovered that it was a deal easier to get into +the kingdom of heaven than into the pages of the great periodicals, +yet he had come to the city to make a name for himself in literature +and he was not to be denied. His struggle was most severe, but his +victory has been so complete that the bitterness of those days has +been blown aside. The first seven or eight years of his life as a +writer, Mr. Allen divided between New York, Cincinnati, and Kentucky. +He finally quit Kentucky in 1893, and he has not been in the state +since 1898, at which time his _alma mater_ conferred the honorary +degree of LL. D. upon him. He now resides in New York. + +Mr. Allen began with short essays for _The Critic_, _The Continent_, +_The Independent_, _The Manhattan_, and other periodicals; and he +contributed some strong and fine poems to _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The +Interior_, _Harper's Monthly_, _Lippincott's Magazine_, _The +Independent_, and elsewhere. But none of these represented the true +beginning of his work, of his career. His first short-story to attract +general attention was _Too Much Momentum_, published in _Harper's +Magazine_ for April, 1885. It, however, was naturally rather stiff, as +the author was then wielding the pen of a 'prentice. This was followed +by a charming essay, _The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky_, in +_Harper's_ for February, 1886, and which really pointed the path he +was to follow so wonderfully well through the coming years. + +His first noteworthy story, _Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_, appeared in +_The Century Magazine_ for April, 1888. Then followed fast upon each +other's heels, _The White Cowl_; _King Solomon of Kentucky_, perhaps +the greatest short-story he has written; _Posthumous Fame_; _Flute +and Violin_; and _Sister Doloroso_, all of which were printed in the +order named, and in _The Century_, save _Flute and Violin_, which was +originally published in _Harper's Magazine_ for December, 1890. These +"Kentucky tales and romances" were issued as Mr. Allen's first book, +entitled _Flute and Violin_ (New York, 1891; Edinburgh, 1892, two +volumes). Many of the author's admirers have come to regard these +stories as the finest work he has done. As backgrounds for them he +wrote a series of descriptive and historical papers upon Kentucky, +originally published in _The Century_ and _Harper's_, and collected in +book form under the title of the first of them, _The Blue Grass Region +of Kentucky_ (New York, 1892). Up to this time Mr. Allen had written +nothing but short-stories, verses, and sketches. While living at +Cincinnati he wrote his first novelette, _John Gray_ (Philadelphia, +1893), which first appeared in _Lippincott's Magazine_ for June, 1892. +This is one of the author's strongest pieces of prose fiction, though +it has been well-nigh forgotten in its original form. + +These three books fitted Mr. Allen for the writing of an American +classic, _A Kentucky Cardinal_ (New York, 1894), another novelette, +which was published in two parts in _Harper's Magazine_ for May and +June, 1894, prior to its appearance in book form. This, with its +sequel, _Aftermath_ (New York, 1895), is the most exquisite tale of +nature yet done by an American hand. It at once defies all praise, or +adverse criticism, being wrought out as perfectly as human hands can +well do. At the present time the two stories may be best read in the +large paper illustrated edition done by Mr. Hugh Thomson, the +celebrated English artist, to which Mr. Allen contributed a charming +introduction. _Summer in Arcady_ (New York, 1896), which passed +through the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ as _Butterflies_, was a rather +realistic story of love and Nature, and somewhat strongly drawn for +the tastes of many people. When his complete works appear in twelve +uniform volumes, in 1913 or 1914, this "tale of nature" will be +entitled _A Pair of Butterflies_. + +_The Choir Invisible_ (New York, 1897), Mr. Allen's first really long +novel, was an augmented _John Gray_, and it placed him in the forefront +of American novelists. Mr. Orson Lowell's illustrated edition of this +work is most interesting; and it was dramatized in 1899, but produced +without success, as the author had prophesied. Later in the same year +_Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_ appeared as a bit of a book, and was +cordially received by those of the author's admirers who continued to +regard it as his masterpiece. _The Reign of Law_ (New York, 1900), a +tale of the Kentucky hemp-fields, of love, and evolution, was published +in London as _The Increasing Purpose_, because of the Duke of Argyll's +prior appropriation of that title for his scientific treatise. The +prologue upon Kentucky hemp strengthened Mr. Allen's reputation as one +of the greatest writers of descriptive prose ever born out of Europe. It +was widely read and discussed--in at least one quarter of the +country--with unnecessary bitterness, if not with blind bigotry. + +_The Mettle of the Pasture_ (New York, 1903), which was first +announced as _Crypts of the Heart_, is a love story of great beauty, +saturated with the atmosphere of Kentucky to a wonderful degree, yet +it has not been sufficiently appreciated. For the five years following +the publication of _The Mettle_, Mr. Allen was silent; but he was +working harder than ever before in his life upon manuscripts which he +has come to regard as his most vital contributions to prose fiction. +In the autumn of 1908 his stirring speech at the unveiling of the +monument to remember his hero, King Solomon of Kentucky, was read; and +three months later _The Last Christmas Tree_, brief prelude to his +Christmas trilogy, appeared in _The Saturday Evening Post_. _The Bride +of the Mistletoe_ (New York, 1909), part first of the trilogy, is one +of the finest fragments of prose yet published in the United States. +It aroused criticism of various kinds in many quarters, one declaring +it to be one thing, and one another, but all agreeing that it was +something new and wonderful under our literary sun. The critics of +to-morrow may discover that _The Bride_ was the foundation-stone of +the now much-heralded _Chunk of Life School_ which has of late taken +London by the ears. Yet, between _The Bride_ and _The Widow of the Bye +Street_ a great gulf is fixed. Part two of the trilogy was first +announced as _A Brood of the Eagle_, but it was finally published as +_The Doctor's Christmas Eve_ (New York, 1910). This, one of Mr. +Allen's longest novels, was met by adverse criticism based on several +grounds, but upon none more pointedly than what was alleged to be the +unnatural precocity of the children, who do not appear to lightly flit +through the pages in a way that our old-fashioned conventions would +prescribe they should, but somewhat seem to clog the unfolding of the +tale. Whatever estimate one may place upon _The Doctor_, he can +scarcely be held to possess the subtile charm of _The Bride_. The +third and final part of this much-discussed trilogy will hardly be +published before 1914, or perhaps even subsequent to that date. + +_The Heroine in Bronze_ (New York, 1912), is Mr. Allen's latest novel. +It is an American love story with all of the author's exquisite +mastery of language again ringing fine and true. For the first time +Mr. Allen largely abandons Kentucky as a landscape for his story, the +action being in New York. The phrase "my country," that recurs +throughout the book, succeeds the "Shield," which, in _The Bride of +the Mistletoe_, was the author's appellation for Kentucky. The sequel +to _The Heroine_--the story the boy wrote for the girl--is now +preparing. + +Twenty years ago Mr. Allen wrote, "Kentucky has little or no +literature;" and while he did not write, perhaps, with the whole +horizon of its range before him, there was substantial truth in the +statement. The splendid sequel to his declaration is his own +magnificent works. He pointed out the lack of merit in our literature, +but he did a far finer and more fitting thing: he at once set out upon +his distinguished career and has produced a literature for the state. +He has created Kentucky and Kentuckians as things apart from the +outside world, a miniature republic within a greater republic; and no +one knows the land and the people other than imperfectly if one cannot +see and feel that his conception is clear and sentient. With a light +but firm touch he has caught the shimmering atmosphere of his own +native uplands and the idiosyncrasies of their people with all the +fidelity with which the camera gives back a material outline. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Stories of James Lane Allen_, by L. W. Payne, + Jr., in _The Sewanee Review_ (January, 1900); _James Lane Allen's + Country_, by Arthur Bartlett, _The Bookman_ (October, 1900); + _Famous Authors_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1901); _Authors of Our + Day in Their Homes_, by F. W. Halsey (New York, 1902); _Social + Historians_, by H. A. Toulmin, Jr. (Boston, 1911). + + +KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY: AN ADDRESS[2] + +[From _The Outlook_ (December 19, 1908)] + +We are witnessing at present a revival of conflict between two ideas +in our civilization that have already produced a colossal war; the +idea of the greatness of our Nation as the welded and indissoluble +greatness of the States, and the idea of the separate dignity and +isolated power of each sovereign commonwealth. The spirit of the +Nation reaches out more and more to absorb into itself its own parts, +and each part draws back more and more into its own Attic supremacy +and independence, feeling that its earlier struggles were its own +struggles, that its heroes were its own heroes, and that it has +memories which refuse to blend with any other memories. It will +willingly yield the luster of its daily life to the National sun, but +by night it must see its own lighthouses around its frontiers--beacons +for its own wandering mariner sons and a warning to the Nation itself +that such lights are sacred wherever they stand and burn. + +But if the State more and more resists absorption into the Federal +life, then less and less can it expect the Nation to do what it +insists is its own peculiar work; the greater is the obligation +resting upon it to make known to the Nation its own peculiar past and +its own incommunicable greatness. Among the States of the Union none +belongs more wholly to herself and less to the Nation than does +Kentucky; none perhaps will resist more passionately the encroachments +of Federal control; and upon her rests the very highest obligation to +write her own history and make good her Attic aloofness. + +But there is no nobler or more eloquent way in which a State can set +forth its annals than by memorializing its great dead. The flag of a +nation is its hope; its monuments are its memories. But it is also true +that the flag of a country is its memory, and that its monuments are its +hopes. And both are needed. Each calls aloud to the other. If you should +go into any land and see it covered with monuments and nowhere see its +flag, you would know that its flag had gone down into the dust and that +its hope was ended. If you should travel in a land and everywhere see +its flag and nowhere its monuments, you would ask yourself, Has this +people no past that it cares to speak of? and if it has, why does it not +speak of it? But when you visit a country where you see the flag proudly +flying and proud monuments standing everywhere, then you say, Here is a +people who are great in both their hopes and in their memories, and who +live doubly through the deeds of their dead. + +Where are Kentucky's monuments for her battlefields? There are some; +where are the others? Where are her monuments for her heroes that she +insists were hers alone? Over her waves the flag of her hopes; where +are the monuments that are her memories? + +This man whom you memorialize to-day was not, in station or +habiliment, one of Kentucky's higher heroes; his battlefield was the +battlefield of his own character; but the honor rightly heaped upon +him at last makes one remember how many a battlefield and how many a +hero remain forgotten. Not alone the fields and heroes of actual war, +but of civic and moral and scientific and artistic leadership. These +ceremonies--whom will they incite to kindred action elsewhere? What +other monuments will they build? + +There is a second movement broader than any question of State or +National patriotism, in which these ceremonies also have their place. +It is the essential movement of our time in the direction of a new +philanthropy. + +No line of Shakespeare has ever been perhaps more quoted than this: +"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with +their bones." It is true that he put the words into the mouth of a +Roman of old; but they were true of the England of his time and they +remained true for centuries after his death. But within the last one +hundred years or less an entirely new spirit has been developed; a +radically new way of looking at human history and at human character +has superseded the old. The spirit and genius of our day calls for the +recasting of Shakespeare's lines: Let the evil that men do be buried +with them; let the good they did be found out and kept alive. + +I wish to take one illustration of the truth of this from the history +of English literature. + +Do you know when and where it was that satire virtually ceased to exist +in English literature? It was at the birthplace and with the birth of +Charles Darwin. From Darwin's time, from the peak on which he stood, a +long slope of English literature sinks backward and downward toward the +past; and on that shadowy slope stand somewhere the fierce satirists of +English letters. Last of them all, and standing near where Darwin stood, +is the great form of Thackeray. All his life he sought for perfection in +human character and never found it. He searched England from the throne +down for the gentleman and never found the gentleman. The life-long +quest sometimes left him bitter, always left him sad. For all of +Thackeray's work was done under the influence of the older point of +view, that the frailties of men should be scourged out of them and +could be. Over his imagination brooded the shadow of a vast myth--that +man had thrown away his own perfection, that he was a fallen angel, who +wantonly refused to regain his own paradise. + +And now from the peak of the world's thought on which Darwin stood, +the other slope of English literature comes down to us and will pass +on into the future. And as marking the beginning of the modern spirit +working in literature, there on this side of Darwin, near to him as +Thackeray stood near to him on the other side, is the great form of +George Eliot. George Eliot saw the frailties of human nature as +clearly as Thackeray saw them; she loved perfection as greatly as he +loved perfection; but on her lips satire died and sympathy was born. +She was the first of England's great imaginative writers to breathe in +the spirit of modern life and of modern knowledge--that man himself is +a developing animal--a creature crawling slowly out of utter darkness +toward the light. You can satirize a fallen angel who willfully +refuses to regain his paradise; but you cannot satirize an animal who +is developing through millions of years his own will to be used +against his own instincts. + +And this new spirit of charity not only pervades the new literature of +the world, but has made itself felt in every branch of human action. + +It has affected the theatre and well-nigh driven the drama of satire +from the stage. Every judge knows that it goes with him to the bench; +every physician knows that it accompanies him into the sick-room; +every teacher knows that he must reckon with it as he tries to govern +and direct the young; every minister knows that it ascends with him +into his pulpit and takes wing with his prayer. + +And thus we come back around a great circle of the world's endeavor to +the simple ceremony of this hour and place. There is but one thing to +be said; it is all that need be said; it is an attempt to burnish one +corner of a hero's dimmed shield. + +It is autumn now, the season of scythe and sickle. Time, the Reaper, +long ago reaped from the field of this man's life its heroic deed; and +now after so many years it has come back to his grave and thrown down +the natural increase. On the day when King Solomon was laid here the +grass began to weave its seamless mantle across his frailties; but out +of his dust sprang what has since been growing--what no hostile hand can +pluck away, nor any wind blow down--the red flower of a man's passionate +service to his fellow-men when they were in direst need of him. + +And so, long honor to his name! A new peace to his ashes! + + +THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE[3] + +[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, December 5, 1908)] + +The stars burn out one by one like candles in too long a night. + +Children, you love the snow. You play in it, you hunt in it; it brings +the tinkling of sleighbells, it gives white wings to the trees and new +robes to the world. Whenever it falls in your country, sooner or later +it vanishes: forever falling and rising, forming and falling and +melting and rising again--on and on through the ages. + +If you should start from your homes and travel northward, after a +while you would find that everything is steadily changing: the air +grows colder, living things begin to be left behind, those that remain +begin to look white, the music of the earth begins to die out; you +think no more of color and joy and song. On you journey, and always +you are traveling toward the silent, the white, the dead. And at last +you come to the land of sunlessness and silence--the reign of snow. + +If you should start from your homes and travel southward, as you crossed +land after land, in the same way you would begin to see that life was +failing, colors fading, the earth's harmonies being replaced by the +discords of Nature's lifeless forces, storming, crushing, grinding. And +at last you would reach the threshold of another world that you dared +not enter and that nothing alive ever faces--the home of the frost. + +If you should rise straight into the air above your housetops, as +though you were climbing the side of an unseen mountain, you would +find at last that you had ascended to a height where the mountain +would be capped with snow. All round the earth, wherever its mountains +are high enough, their summits are capped with the one same snow; for +above us, everywhere, lies the upper land of eternal cold. + +Some time in the future, we do not know when, but some time in the +future, the Spirit of the Cold at the north will move southward; the +Spirit of the Cold at the south will move northward; the Spirit of the +Cold in the upper air will move downward to meet the other two. When the +three meet there will be for the earth one whiteness and silence--rest. + + * * * * * + +A great time had passed--how great no one knew; there was none to +measure it. + +It was twilight and it was snowing. On a steep mountainside, near its +bald summit, thousands of feet above the line that any other living +thing had ever crossed, stood two glorious fir trees, strongest and last +of their race. They had climbed out of the valley below to this lone +height, and there had so rooted themselves in rock and soil that the +sturdiest gale had never been able to dislodge them; and now the twain +occupied that beetling rock as the final sentinels of mortal things. + +They looked out toward the land on one side of the mountain; at the +foot of it lay a valley, and there, in old human times, a village had +thriven, church spires had risen, bridal candles had twinkled at +twilight. On the opposite side they looked toward the ocean--once the +rolling, blue ocean, singing its great song, but level now and white +and still at last--its voice hushed with all other voices--the roar of +its battleships ended long ago. One fir tree grew lower down than the +other, its head barely reached up to its comrade's breast. They had +long shared with each other the wordless wisdom of their race; and +now, as a slow, bitter wind wandered across the delicate green harps +of their leaves, they began to chant--harping like harpers of old who +never tired of the past. + +The fir below, as the snowflakes fell on its locks and sifted closely +in about its throat, shook itself bravely and sang: + +"Comrade, the end for us draws nigh; the snow is creeping up. To-night +it will place its cap upon my head. I shall close my eyes and follow +all things into their sleep." + +"Yes," thrummed the fir above, "follow all things into their sleep. +If they were thus to sleep at last, why were they ever awakened? It is +a mystery." + +The whirling wind caught the words and bore them to the right and to +the left over land and over sea: + +"Mystery--mystery--mystery." + +Twilight deepened. The snow scarcely fell; the clouds trailed through +the trees so close and low that the flakes were formed amid the boughs +and rested where they were created. At intervals out of the clouds and +darkness the low musings went on: + +"Where now is the Little Brother of the Trees--him of the long +thoughts and the brief shadow?" + +"He thought that he alone of earthly things was immortal." + +"Our people, the Evergreens, were thrust forth on the earth a million +ages before he appeared; and we are still here, a million ages since +he left, leaving not a trace of himself behind." + +"The most fragile moss was born before he was born; and the moss +outlasted him." + +"The frailest fern was not so perishable." + +"Yet he believed he should have eternal youth." + +"That his race would return to some Power who had sent it forth." + +"That he was ever being borne onward to some far-off, divine event, +where there was justice." + +"Yes, where there was justice." + +"Of old it was their custom to heap white flowers above their dead." + +"Now white flowers cover them--the frozen white flowers of the sky." + +It was night now about the mountaintop--deep night above it. At +intervals the communing of the firs started up afresh: + +"Had they known how alone in the universe they were, would they not +have turned to each other for happiness?" + +"Would not all have helped each?" + +"Would not each have helped all?" + +"Would they have so mingled their wars with their prayers?" + +"Would they not have thrown away their weapons and thrown their arms +around one another? It was all a mystery." + +"Mystery--mystery." + +Once in the night they sounded in unison: + +"And all the gods of earth--its many gods in many lands with many +faces--they sleep now in their ancient temples; on them has fallen at +last their unending dusk." + +"And the shepherds who avowed that they were appointed by the Creator +of the universe to lead other men as their sheep--what difference is +there now between the sheep and the shepherds?" + +"The shepherds lie with the sheep in the same white pastures." + +"Still, what think you became of all that men did?" + +"Whither did Science go? How could it come to naught?" + +"And that seven-branched golden candlestick of inner light that was +his Art--was there no other sphere to which it could be transferred, +lovely and eternal?" + +"And what became of Love?" + +"What became of the woman who asked for nothing in life but love and +youth?" + +"What became of the man who was true?" + +"Think you that all of them are not gathered elsewhere--strangely +changed, yet the same? Is some other quenchless star their safe +habitation?" + +"What do we know; what did he know on earth? It was a mystery." + +"It was all a mystery." + +If there had been a clock to measure the hour it must now have been +near midnight. Suddenly the fir below harped most tenderly: + +"The children! What became of the children? Where did the myriads of +them march to? What was the end of the march of the earth's children?" + +"Be still!" whispered the fir above. "At that moment I felt the soft +fingers of a child searching my boughs. Was not this what in human +times they called Christmas Eve?" + +"Hearken!" whispered the fir below. "Down in the valley elfin horns +are blowing and elfin drums are beating. Did you hear that--faint and +far away? It was the bells of the reindeer! It passed: it was the +wandering soul of Christmas." + +Not long after this the fir below struck its green harp for the last +time: + +"Comrade, it is the end for me. Good-night!" + +Silently the snow closed over it. + +The other fir now stood alone. The snow crept higher and higher. It +bravely shook itself loose. Late in the long night it communed once +more, solitary: + +"I, then, close the train of earthly things. And I was the emblem of +immortality; let the highest be the last to perish! Power, that put +forth all things for a purpose, you have fulfilled, without explaining +it, that purpose. I follow all things into their sleep." + +In the morning there was no trace of it. + +The sun rose clear on the mountaintops, white and cold and at peace. + +The earth was dead. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[2] Copyright, 1908, by the Outlook Company. + +[3] Copyright, 1908, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +NANCY HUSTON BANKS + + +Mrs. Nancy Huston Banks, novelist, was born at Morganfield, Kentucky, +about 1850. She is the daughter of the late Judge George Huston, who +for many years was an attorney and banker of her native town. When a +young woman Miss Huston was married to Mr. James N. Banks, now a +lawyer of Henderson, Kentucky. Mrs. Banks's first book, _Stairs of +Sand_ (Chicago, 1890), has been forgotten by author and public alike, +but shortly after its publication, she went to New York, and there she +resided at the Hotel St. James for many years. At the present time she +is living in London. She became a contributor to magazines, her +critical paper on Mr. James Lane Allen and his novels, which appeared +in _The Bookman_ for June, 1895, being her first work to attract +serious attention. A few years later Mrs. Banks dropped her magazine +work in order to write her charming novel of life in southern +Kentucky, _Oldfield_ (New York, 1902). This story was highly praised +in this country and in England, the critics of London coining a +descriptive phrase for it that has stuck--"the Kentucky Cranford." Her +next novel, _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903), was a worthy +follower of _Oldfield_. One reviewer called it "a blend of an +old-fashioned love story and an historical study." Mrs. Banks's most +recent novel is _The Little Hills_ (New York, 1905). The opening words +of this story: "The air was the breath of spice pinks," was seized +upon by the critics and set up as a sign-post for the book's tone. +Mrs. Banks has been a great traveler. She was sent to South Africa +during the Boer war by _Vanity Fair_ of London, and her letters to +that publication were most interesting. She knew Cecil Rhodes and +George W. Steevens, the war correspondent, and, with her beauty and +charm, she became a social "star" in the life about her. Mrs. Banks's +one eccentricity--according to the literary gossips of New York--is +her distaste for classical music; and that much of her success is due +to the fact that she knows how to handle editors and publishers, we +also learn from the same source. At least one of her contemporaries +once held--though he has since wholly relented and regretted +much--that, in a now exceedingly scarce first edition, she +out-ingramed Ingram! But, of course, that is another story. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1902); _The Nation_ + (February 5, 1903); _The Bookman_ (February, 1904). + + +ANVIL ROCK[4] + +[From _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903)] + +The courage and calmness which he had found in himself under this test, +heartened him and made him the more determined to control his wandering +fancy. Looking now neither to the right nor the left, he pressed on +through the clearing toward the buffalo track in the border of the +forest which would lead him into the Wilderness Road. Sternly setting +his thoughts on the errand that was taking him to the salt-works, he +began to think of the place in which they were situated, and to wonder +why so bare, so brown, and so desolate a spot should have been called +Green Lick. There was no greenness about it, and not the slightest sign +that there ever had been any verdure, although it still lay in the very +heart of an almost tropical forest. It must surely have been as it was +now since time immemorial. Myriads of wild beasts coming and going +through numberless centuries to drink the salt water, had trodden the +earth around it as hard as iron, and had worn it down far below the +surface of the surrounding country. The boy had seen it often, but +always by daylight, and never alone, so that he noted many things now +which he had not observed before. The huge bison must have gone over +that well-beaten track one by one, to judge by its narrowness. He could +see it dimly, running into the clearing like a black line beginning far +off between the bordering trees; but as he looked, the darkness +deepened, the mists thickened, and a look of unreality came over +familiar objects. And then through the wavering gloom there suddenly +towered a great dark mass topped by something which rose against the +wild dimness like a colossal blacksmith's anvil. It might have been +Vulcan's own forge, so strange and fabulous a thing it seemed! The boy's +heart leaped with his pony's leap. His imagination spread its swift +wings ere he could think; but in another instant he reminded himself. +This was not an awful apparition, but a real thing, wondrous and +unaccountable enough in its reality. It was Anvil Rock--a great, +solitary rock rising abruptly from the rockless loam of a level country, +and lifting its single peak, rudely shaped like a blacksmith's anvil, +straight up toward the clouds. + + +THE OLD-FASHIONED FIDDLERS + +[From the same] + +Those old-time country fiddlers--all of them, black or white--how +wonderful they were! They have always been the wonder and the despair +of all musicians who have played by rule and note. The very way that +the country fiddler held his fiddle against his chest and never +against his shoulder like the trained musician! The very way that the +country fiddler grasped his bow, firmly and squarely in the middle, +and never lightly at the end like a trained musician! The very way +that he let go and went off and kept on--the amazing, inimitable +spirit, the gayety, the rhythm, the swing! No trained musician ever +heard the music of the country fiddler without wondering at its power, +and longing in vain to know the secret of its charm. It would be worth +a good deal to know where and how they learned the tunes that they +played. Possibly these were handed down by ear from one to another; +some perhaps may have never been pent up in notes, and others may have +been given to the note reader under other names than those by which +the country fiddlers knew them. This is said to have been the case +with "Old Zip Coon," and the names of many of them would seem to prove +that they belonged to the time and the country. But there is a +delightful uncertainty about the origin and the history of almost all +of them--about "Leather Breeches" and "Sugar in the Gourd" and +"Wagoner" and "Cotton-eyed Joe," and so on through a long list. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[4] Copyright, 1903, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +WILLIAM B. SMITH + + +William Benjamin Smith, perhaps the greatest scholar ever born on +Kentucky soil, first saw the light at Stanford, Kentucky, October 26, +1850. Kentucky (Transylvania) University conferred the degree of +Master of Arts upon him in 1871; and the University of Göttengen +granted him his Doctor of Philosophy degree in 1879. Dr. Smith was +professor of mathematics in Central College, Missouri, from 1881 to +1885, when he accepted the chair of physics in the University of +Missouri. In 1888 he was transferred to the department of mathematics +in the same institution, which he held until 1893, when he resigned +to accept a similar position at Tulane University. In 1906 Dr. Smith +was elected head of the department of philosophy at Tulane, which +position he holds at the present time. He was a delegate of the United +States government to the first Pan-American Scientific Congress, held +at Santiago, Chile, in 1908. Dr. Smith is the author of the following +books, the very titles of which will show his amazing versatility: +_Co-ordinate Geometry_ (Boston, 1885); _Clew to Trigonometry_ (1889); +_Introductory Modern Geometry_ (New York, 1893); _Infinitesimal +Analysis_ (New York, 1898); _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905), a +stirring discussion of the Negro problem from a rather new +perspective; two theological works, written originally in German, _Der +Vorchristliche Jesus_ (Jena, Germany, 1906); and _Ecce Deus_ (Jena, +Germany, 1911), the English translation of which was issued at London +and Chicago in 1912. These two works upon proto-Christianity have +placed Dr. Smith among the foremost scholars of his day and generation +in America. Besides his books he wrote two pamphlets of more than +fifty pages each upon _Tariff for Protection_ (Columbia, Missouri, +1888); and _Tariff Reform_ (Columbia, Missouri, 1892). These show the +author at his best. And his biography of James Sidney Rollins, founder +of the University of Missouri, was published about this time. During +the month of October, 1896, Dr. Smith published six articles in the +Chicago _Record_, on the sliver question and in defense of the gold +standard, which were certainly the most thorough brought out by the +presidential campaign of that year. Among his many public addresses, +essays, and articles, _The Pauline Codices F and G_ may be mentioned, +as well as his articles on _Infinitesimal Calculus_ and _New Testament +Criticism_ in the _Encyclopaedia Americana_ (New York, 1906); and he +compiled the mathematical definitions for the _New International +Dictionary_ (New York, 1908). Dr. Smith's fine poem, _The Merman and +the Seraph_, was crowned in the _Poet Lore_ competition of 1906. As a +mathematician, philosopher, sociologist, New Testament critic, +publicist, poet, and alleged prototype of _David_, hero of Mr. James +Lane Allen's _The Reign of Law_--which he most certainly was not!--Dr. +Smith stands supreme among the sons of Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (June, 1905); _The Nation_ + (November 23, 1911). + + +A SOUTHERN VIEW OF THE NEGRO PROBLEM[5] + +[From _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905)] + +It is idle to talk of education and civilization and the like as +corrective or compensative agencies. All are weak and beggarly as over +against the almightiness of heredity, the omniprepotence of the +transmitted germ-plasma. Let this be amerced of its ancient rights, +let it be shorn in some measure of its exceeding weight of ancestral +glory, let it be soiled in its millenial purity and integrity, and +nothing shall ever restore it; neither wealth, nor culture, nor +science, nor art, nor morality, nor religion--not even Christianity +itself. Here and there these may redeem some happy spontaneous +variation, some lucky freak of nature; but nothing more--they can +never redeem the race. If this be not true, then history and biology +are alike false; then Darwin and Spencer, Haeckel and Weismann, Mendel +and Pearson, have lived and laboured in vain. + +Equally futile is the reply, so often made by our opponents, that +miscegenation has already progressed far in the Southland, as witness +millions of Mulattoes. Certainly; but do not such objectors know in +their hearts that their reply is no answer, but is utterly irrelevant? +We admit and deplore the fact that unchastity has poured a broad stream +of white blood into black veins; but we deny, and perhaps no one will +affirm, that it has poured even the slenderest appreciable rill of Negro +blood into the veins of the Whites. We have no excuse whatever to make +for these masculine incontinences; we abhor them as disgraceful and +almost bestial. But, however degrading and even unnatural, they in +nowise, not even in the slightest conceivable degree, defile the +Southern Caucasian blood. That blood to-day is absolutely pure; and it +is the inflexible resolution of the South to preserve that purity, no +matter how dear the cost. We repeat, then, it is not a question of +individual morality, nor even of self-respect. He who commerces with a +negress debases himself and dishonours his body, the temple of the +Spirit; but he does not impair, in anywise, the dignity or integrity of +his race; he may sin against himself and others, and even against his +God, but not against the germ-plasma of his kind. + +Does some one reply that some Negroes are better than some Whites, +physically, mentally, morally? We do not deny it; but this fact, +again, is without pertinence. It may very well be that some dogs are +superior to some men. It is absurd to suppose that only the elect of +the Blacks would unite with only the non-elect of the Whites. Once +started, the _pamnixia_ would spread through all classes of society +and contaminate possibly or actually all. Even a little leaven may +leaven the whole lump. + +Far more than this, however, even if only very superior Negroes formed +unions with non-superior Whites, the case would not be altered; for it +is a grievous error to suppose that the child is born of its proximate +parents only; it is born of all its ancestry; it is the child of its +race. The eternal past lays hand upon it and upon all its descendants. +However weak the White, behind him stands Europe; however strong the +Black, behind lies Africa. + +Preposterous, indeed, is this doctrine that _personal excellence is +the true standard_, and that only such Negroes as attain a certain +grade of merit should or would be admitted to social equality. A +favourite evasion! _The Independent_, _The Nation_, _The Outlook_, the +whole North--all point admiringly to Mr. Washington, and exclaim: "But +only see what a noble man he is--so much better than his would-be +superiors!" So, too, a distinguished clergyman, when asked whether he +would let his daughter marry a Negro, replied: "We wish our daughters +to marry Christian gentlemen." Let, then, the major premise be, "All +Christian gentlemen are to be admitted to social equality;" and add, +if you will, any desired degree of refinement or education or +intellectual prowess as a condition. Does not every one see that any +such test would be wholly impracticable and nugatory? If Mr. +Washington be the social equal of Roosevelt and Eliot and Hadley, how +many others will be the social equals of the next circle, and the +next, and the next, in the long descent from the White House and +Harvard to the miner and the ragpicker? And shall we trust the hot, +unreasoning blood of youth to lay virtues and qualities so evenly in +the balance and decide just when some "olive-coloured suitor" is +enough a "Christian gentleman" to claim the hand of some +simple-hearted milk-maid or some school-ma'am "past her bloom?" The +notion is too ridiculous for refutation. If the best Negro in the land +is the social equal of the best Caucasian, then it will be hard to +prove that the lowest White is higher than the lowest Black; the +principle of division is lost, and complete social equality is +established. We seem to have read somewhere that, when the two ends of +one straight segment coincide with the two ends of another, the +segments coincide throughout their whole extent. + + +THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH[6] + +[From _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, 1906)] + + I + + Deep the sunless seas amid, + Far from Man, from Angel hid, + Where the soundless tides are rolled + Over Ocean's treasure-hold, + With dragon eye and heart of stone, + The ancient Merman mused alone. + + II + + And aye his arrowed Thought he wings + Straight at the inmost core of things-- + As mirrored in his magic glass + The lightning-footed Ages pass-- + And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress, + But broods on Everlastingness. + + "Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not, + Thoughts that Age and Change await not, + All unfeeling, + All revealing, + Scorning height's and depth's concealing, + These be mine--and these alone!"-- + Saith the Merman's heart of stone. + + III + + Flashed a radiance far and nigh + As from the vortex of the sky-- + Lo! a maiden beauty-bright + And mantled with mysterious might + Of every power, below, above, + That weaves resistless spell of Love. + + IV + + Through the weltering waters cold + Shot the sheen of silken gold; + Quick the frozen heart below + Kindled in the amber glow; + Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned, + Rose to where the Glory burned. + + "Deeper, bluer than the skies are, + Dreaming meres of morn thine eyes are; + All that brightens + Smile or heightens + Charm is thine, all life enlightens, + Thou art all the soul's desire"-- + Sang the Merman's heart of fire. + + "Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given + Thee to walk the ways of Heaven; + Vain the vision, + Fate's derision, + Thee that raps to realms elysian, + Fathomless profounds are thine"-- + Quired the answering voice divine. + + V + + Came an echo from the West, + Pierced the deep celestial breast; + Summoned, far the Seraph fled, + Trailing splendours overhead; + Broad beneath her flying feet, + Laughed the silvered ocean-street. + + VI + + On the Merman's mortal sight + Instant fell the pall of Night; + Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor + He dreams the vanished vision o'er, + Hears anew the starry chime, + Ponders aye Eternal Time. + + "Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not, + Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not, + Times unending + Comprehending, + Space and worlds of worlds transcending, + These are mine--but these alone!"-- + Sighs the Merman's heart of stone. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[5] Copyright, 1905, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + +[6] Copyright, 1906, by Richard G. Badger. + + + + +ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY + + +Anderson Chenault Quisenberry, historical writer, was born near +Winchester, Kentucky, October 26, 1850. He was educated at Georgetown +College, Georgetown, Kentucky. In 1870 Mr. Quisenberry engaged in +Kentucky journalism, being editor of several papers at different +periods, until 1889, when he went to Washington to accept a position +in the War Department; but he has continued his contributions to the +Kentucky press to the present time. His first volume was _The Life and +Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_ (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). This +was followed by his other works: _Revolutionary Soldiers in Kentucky_ +(1896); _Genealogical Memoranda of the Quisenberry Family and Other +Families_ (Washington, D. C., 1897); _Memorials of the Quisenberry +Family in Germany, England, and America_ (Washington, D. C., 1900); +_Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-51_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906), +one of the most attractive of the Filson Club publications; and +_History by Illustration: General Zachary Taylor and the Mexican War_ +(Frankfort, Kentucky, 1911), the most recent volume in the Kentucky +Historical Series of the State Historical Society. Mr. Quisenberry +resides at Hyattsville, Maryland, going into Washington every day for +his official duties. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Quisenberry to the present writer; + _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN[7] + +[From _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-1851_ (Louisville, Kentucky, +1906)] + +The victims, bound securely, were brought out of the boat twelve at a +time; of these, six were blindfolded and made to kneel down with their +backs to the soldiers, who stood some three or four paces from them. +These six executed, the other six were put through the same ghastly +ceremony; then twelve others were brought from the boat; and so on, +until the terrible and sickening tragedy was over. As each lot were +murdered their bodies were cast aside to make room for the next lot. + +An eyewitness says of these martyrs to liberty: "They behaved with +firmness, evincing no hesitation or trepidation whatever." Among those +shot was a lad of fifteen who begged earnestly on his knees that some +one be sent to him who could speak English, but not the slightest +attention was paid to him. One handsome young man desired that his +watch be sent to his sweetheart. After the first discharge those who +were not instantly killed were beaten upon the head until life was +extinct. One poor fellow received three balls in his neck, and, +raising himself in the agonies of death, was struck by a soldier with +the butt of a musket and his brains dashed out. + +Colonel Crittenden, as the leader of the party, was shot first, and +alone. One of the rabble pushed through the line of soldiers, and +rushed up to Crittenden and pulled his beard. The gallant Kentuckian, +with the utmost coolness, spit in the coward's face. He refused to +kneel or to be blindfolded, saying in a clear, ringing voice: "A +Kentuckian kneels to none except his God, and always dies facing his +enemy!"--an expression that became famous. Looking into the muzzles of +the muskets that were to slay him, standing heroically erect in the +very face of death, with his own hands, which had been unbound at his +request, he gave the signal for the fatal volley; and died, as he had +lived, "Strong in Heart." Captain Ker also refused to kneel. They +stood up, faced their enemies, were shot down, and their brains were +beaten out with clubbed muskets. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[7] Copyright, 1906, by the Filson Club. + + + + +ROBERT BURNS WILSON + + +Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a Pennsylvania +father and a Virginia mother, was born in his grandfather's house near +Washington, Pennsylvania, October 30, 1850. When a very small child he +was taken to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother died +when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened his +subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in the schools of Wheeling, +West Virginia, after which he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to +study art. When but nineteen he was painting portraits for a living. +In 1871 he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York artist, +chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river from Pittsburgh, +hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, Kentucky. They had hardly +reached the Kentucky shore, however, when they disagreed about +something or other, and young Alexander left him in the night and +returned to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his boat into a +bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in that county a year, when +he went up to Louisville. He gained more than a local reputation with +a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making +considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered by the late +Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, who persuaded him to remove to +that town. Mr. Wilson settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there +for the following twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors +are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions of that +interesting old town, for he was its "great man" for many years, and +its toast. As painter and poet he was heralded by the folk of +Frankfort until the outside world was attracted and nibbled at his +work. The first public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the +Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884. + +Mr. Wilson's first poem, _A Wild Violet in November_, was followed by +the finest flower of his genius, _When Evening Cometh On_, which was +originally printed in _Harper's Magazine_ for October, 1885. This is the +only Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned in the +same breath with Gray's _Elegy_. Many of his poems and prose papers were +published in _Harper's_, _The Century_, and other periodicals. His first +book, _Life and Love_ (New York, 1887), contained the best work he has +ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of his mother were lovely; +and there are many more poems to be found in the volume that are very +fine. _Chant of a Woodland Spirit_ (New York, 1894), a long poem of more +than fifty pages, portions of which had originally appeared in +_Harper's_ and _The Century_, was dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom +Mr. Wilson was friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the +poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent collection of +lyrics, _The Shadows of the Trees_ (New York, 1898), was widely read and +warmly received by all true lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's +striking poem, _Remember the Maine_, provoked by the tragedy in Havana +harbor, was printed in _The New York Herald_; and another of his several +poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight that is remembered, _Such is +the Death the Soldier Dies_, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_. The +Kentucky poet's battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no +other American singer, unless it was by the late William Vaughn Moody. +Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a novel, _Until the Day Break_ (New +York, 1900), is unreadable as a story, but the passages of nature prose +are many and exquisite. + +While he has always been a writing-man of very clear and definite gifts, +Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits and landscapes, working with equal +facility in oils, water-color, and crayon. He is held in esteem by many +competent critics as an artist of ability, but nearly all of his work in +any of three mediums indicated, is exceedingly moody and pessimistic; +and his water-colors, especially, are "muddy." It is greatly to be +regretted that he did not remain the poet he was born to be, instead of +drawing his dreams--many use a stronger word--in paints. + +As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius of the town of +Frankfort during his life there; and he was a bachelor! Thereby hangs +a tale with a meaning and a moral. For many years the widows and the +other women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of the +mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, dash through a +field and over a fence, punching plants with his never-absent stick, +and return to town with a poem pounding in his pulses, and another +landscape in his brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of +it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious to +get him into their nets, they awoke one morning in 1901 to find that +little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, and daughter of a former +attorney-general of Kentucky, had married their heart's desire, that +their dreams were day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New +York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following year their +child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short time afterwards he removed to +New York, where he has lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions +have reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been prose +papers and lyrics in the magazines. + +A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, the famous +Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: "The old man whose head has +grown gray in the service of the Muses, who is about to leave the +lists of poetry forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place +to twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among the +stars,' extends his hand to a younger brother of his art with an +earnest _Te moriturus saluto_." These charming words were elicited by +_June Days_, and _When Evening Cometh On_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Recent Movement in Southern Literature_, by C. + W. Coleman, Jr. (_Harper's Magazine_, May, 1887); _Who's Who in + America_ (1901-1902); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, + v. xv, 1910), an excellent study by Mrs. Ida W. Harrison. + + +LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER[8] + +[From _Life and Love. Poems_ (New York, 1887)] + + The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, + And we were plucking violets--thou and I. + A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; + Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, + And I was mad with hope that God would stay + Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by! + Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why + Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away. + + First loved; first lost; my mother:--time must still + Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best + In me, and in my art, is thine:--Me-seems, + Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, + My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams + I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest. + +Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887. + + +WHEN EVENING COMETH ON + +[From the same] + + When evening cometh on, + Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky + The fane-like, purple-shadowed clouds arise; + Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh; + Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes + The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly + Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries + His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands + Of misty silence cross the far-off lands + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell, + Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold, + Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell + In moveless waves against the shimmering gold. + Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell + Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold + Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool + Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Along their well-known paths with heavier tread + The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return; + The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led, + Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn + Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread; + And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn; + Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream, + Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams, + With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways, + Their gearings glinted by the waning beams; + Close by their heels the heedful collie strays; + All slowly fading in a land of dreams, + Transfigured specters of the shrouding haze. + Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade, + Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Across the dotted fields of gathered grain + The soul of summer breathes a deep repose, + Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain, + And from the blurred and blended brake there flows + The undulating echoes of some strain + Once heard in paradise, perchance--who knows? + But now the whispering memory sadly strays + Along the dim rows of the rustling maize + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Anon there spreads upon the lingering air + The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank, + And odors from far fields, unseen but fair, + With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank. + O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there? + Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank? + Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair; + Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest. + The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream, + The bars that lie along the smouldering west, + The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem + To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest + This wavering flame, this agonizing dream, + Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain, + And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown, + In darkness reaching out her sentient hands; + Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown + Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands, + Close on the brink, unfearing and alone, + And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands; + Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears, + So lonely and so sad the sound she hears + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought. + All colors vanish when the sun goeth down. + Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught + No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown + Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot. + Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown. + The fair enchantment of the golden day + Far through the vale of shadows melts away + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul, + And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow: + The wounded heart Love only can console. + Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now, + So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll; + Take then the portion which the gods allow. + Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast + Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest + When evening cometh on? + +FOOTNOTE: + +[8] Copyright, 1887, by O. M. Dunham. + + + + +DANIEL HENRY HOLMES + + +Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions of Theodore O'Hara +and Madison Cawein, the foremost lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully +claim, although he happened to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851; +and that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple title to +his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, was a native of +Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, +settled at New Orleans when a young man as a merchant; but a year after +the birth of Daniel Henry Junior--as the future poet always signed +himself while his father lived--or in 1852, he purchased an old colonial +house back of Covington, Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and +called it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became a +warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and he spent the +following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning each fall to New Orleans +for the winter. When the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies +were entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where eight years +were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at the age of eighteen years, +Daniel Henry Junior, with his family, returned to the United States, and +entered his father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for +commercialism in any form became so great that his father wisely +permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which was then in charge of an +uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. In the same year that he returned +to Holmesdale (1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact +to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and Holmesdale became +the manor-place of his people for many years. Holmes was graduated in +law in 1872, and he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In +1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter of one of the +old and wealthy families of that city. He and his bride spent the year +of their marriage at Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad. + +Holmes's first and finest book of poems, written at Covington, was +entitled _Under a Fool's Cap: Songs_ (London, 1884), and contained one +hundred and forty-four pages in an edition that did not exceed five +hundred copies. The poet whimsically placed his boyhood name of +"Daniel Henry Junior" upon the title-page. This little volume is one +of the most unique things ever done by an American hand. Holmes took +twenty-four old familiar nursery jingles, which are printed in +black-face type at the top of the lyrics relating to them, and he +worked them over and turned them over and did everything but parody +them; and in only one of them--_Margery Daw_--did he discard the +original metres. He employed "three methods of dealing with his +nursery rhymes; he either made them the basis of a story, or he took +them as an allegory and gave the 'modern instance,' or he simply +continued and amplified. The last method is, perhaps, the most +effective and successful of all," the poems done in this manner being +far and away the finest in the book. Holmes spent the seven years +subsequent to the appearance of _Under a Fool's Cap_, in France, +Italy, and Germany. In 1890 his father gave him Holmesdale. He +returned to Kentucky, and the remaining years of his life were spent +at Covington, save several winters abroad. + +Holmes's second book of lyrics, _A Pedlar's Pack_ (New York, 1906), +which was largely written at Holmesdale, contained many exceedingly +clever and charming poems, but, with the exception of some fine +sonnets, _A Pedlar's Pack_ is verse, while _Under a Fool's Cap_ is +genuine poetry. Holmes was an accomplished musician, and his _Hempen +Homespun Songs_ (Cincinnati, 1906), mostly written in Dresden, +contained fourteen songs set to music, of which four had words by the +poet. Of the other ten songs, three were by W. M. Thackeray, two by +Alfred de Musset, and Austin Dobson, Henri Chenevers, W. E. Henley, +Edgar Allan Poe, and Alfred Tennyson were represented by having one of +their songs set to music. This was his only publication in the field +of music, and his third and final book. Holmes's last years were spent +at the old house in Covington, devoted to arranging his large library, +collected from the bookshops of the world, and to his music. His life +was one of endless ease, the universal pursuit of wealth being neither +necessary nor engaging. He had lived parts of more than forty years of +his life at Holmesdale when he left it for the last time in the fall +of 1908 to spend the winter at Hot Springs, Virginia, where he died +suddenly on December 14, 1908. He had hardly found his grave at +Cincinnati before lovers of poetry on both sides of the Atlantic arose +and demanded word of his life and works. This demand has been in part +supplied by Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, the Maine publisher, who has +exquisitely reprinted _Under a Fool's Cap_, and written this beautiful +tribute to the poet's memory: + + "One vital point of interest should be restated: the man who took + these old tags of nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them some of + the tenderest lyrics ever written was an American by birth and in + the doing of this unique thing did it perfectly. That he never + repeated these first fine careless raptures is nothing to his + discredit. That he _did_ accomplish what he set himself to do with + an originality and a proper regard to the quality of his work + rather than its quantity is the essential fact; and in his ability + to touch a vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have come + across these lyrics we feel that the mission of Daniel Henry + Holmes was fulfilled both in letter and in spirit." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_, edited by J. J. Piatt + (Cincinnati, 1900); _The Cornhill Magazine_ (August, 1909), review + of _Under a Fool's Cap_, by Norman Roe; _The Bibelot_ (May, 1910); + _Under a Fool's Cap_ (Portland, Maine, 1910; 1911), lovely + reprints of the 1884 edition, with Mr. Roe's review and foreword + by Mr. Mosher; letters from Mrs. Holmes, the poet's widow, who has + recently reopened Holmesdale. + + +BELL HORSES + +[From _Under a Fool's Cap_ (London, 1884)] + + Bell horses, Bell horses, + What time of day? + One o'clock! Two o'clock! + Three! and away. + + I shall wait by the gate + To see you pass, + Closely press'd, three abreast, + Clanking with brass: + + With your smart red mail-cart + Hard at your heels, + Scarlet ground, fleck'd around + With the Queen's seals. + + Up the hills, down the hills, + Till the cart shrink + To a faint dab of paint + On the sky-brink, + + Never stop till you drop, + On to the town, + Bearing great news of state + To Lords and Crown. + + And down deep in the keep + Of your mail-cart, + There's a note that I wrote + To my sweetheart. + + I had no words that glow, + No penman's skill, + And high-born maids would scorn + Spelling so ill; + + But what if it be stiff + Of hand and thought, + And ink-blots mark the spots + Where kisses caught, + + He will read without heed + Of phrases' worth, + That I love him above + All things on earth. + + I must wait here, till late + Past Evensong, + Ere you come tearing home-- + Days are so long!-- + + But I'll watch, till I catch + Your bell's chime clear ... + If you'll bring _me_ something-- + Won't you please, dear? + + +MY LADY'S GARDEN + +[From the same] + + How does my Lady's garden grow? + How does my Lady's garden grow? + With silver bells, and cockle-shells, + And pretty girls all in a row. + + All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair, + And wholly unconscious they are so fair, + With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep, + And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air. + + They all have crowns and all have wings, + Pale silver crowns and faint green wings, + And each has a wand within her hand, + And raiment about her that cleaves and clings. + + But what have my Lady's girls to do? + What maiden toil or spinning to do? + They swing and sway the live-long day + While beams and dreams shift to and fro. + + And are so still that one forgets, + So calm and restful, one forgets + To think it strange they never change, + Mistaking them for Margarets. + + But when night comes and Earth is dumb, + When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb, + The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse, + For the time of their magic toil has come. + + They deck themselves in their bells and shells, + Their silver bells and their cockle-shells, + Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves + And chaunting Runic hymns and spells, + + They spread their faint green wings abroad, + Their wings and clinging robes abroad, + And upward through the pathless blue + They soar, like incense smoke, to God. + + Who gives them crystal dreams to hold, + And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, + And laughter spun of beams of the sun, + And tears that shine like molten-gold. + + And when their hands can hold no more, + Their chaliced hands can hold no more, + And when their bells, and cockle-shells, + With holy gifts are brimming o'er, + + With swift glad wings they cleave the deep, + As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, + Through Space and Night they take their flight + To where my Lady lies asleep; + + And there, they coil above her bed,-- + A fairy crown above her bed-- + While from their hands, like sifted sands, + Falls their harvest winnowèd. + + And this is why my Lady grows, + My own sweet Lady daily grows, + In sorcery such, that at her touch, + Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose. + + And this is what the pretty girls do, + This is the toil appointed to do, + With silver bells, and cockle-shells, + Like Margarets all in a row. + + +LITTLE BLUE BETTY + +[From the same] + + Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, + She sold good ale to gentlemen. + Gentlemen came every day, + And little Blue Betty hopp'd away. + + A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove," + That Little Blue Betty was mistress of; + But rarer still than its far-famed taps + Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps. + + So gentlemen came every day-- + As much for the caps as the ale, they say-- + And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot: + If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't; + + For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms + Which come of inordinate singing of psalms, + Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale, + To freshen the lips and smarten the ale. + + So gallants came, by the dozen and score, + To sit on the bench by the trellised door, + From the full high noon till the shades grew long, + With their pots of ale, and snatches of song. + + While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts, + And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts, + Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence, + Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence. + + How well I remember! I used to sit down + By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown + Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,-- + Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be, + + Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug, + Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug, + And wheedle and coax my young vanity back, + So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack. + + Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way, + As I travell'd westward the other day, + For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine, + And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign. + + The inn was gone--to make room, alas! + For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass, + Where sat a proper young person in pink, + Selling ale--which I hadn't the heart to drink. + + +THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL + +[From the same] + + There was an old woman lived under the hill, + And if she's not gone, she lives there still; + Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies, + And she's the old woman who never told lies. + + A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown, + In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown, + Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, + Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads. + + In winter or summer, come shine or come rain, + When the bustles and beams into twilight wane, + To the top of her hill, one can see her climb, + To sit out her watch through the long night-time. + + The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell-- + As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well + Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill + When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still. + + She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair + As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air, + When under the hill--one fine evening--she met + A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet: + + From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, + And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed; + Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand, + Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland. + + What befell her there no mortal can tell, + But it must have been things indescribable, + For when she returned, at last, alone, + Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone. + + They gather'd about her: she shook her head + --She had been through Hell--that was all she said + In answer to whens, and hows, and whys; + So they took her word, for she never told lies. + + And now, they say, when the sun goes down + This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown + Turns into a beautiful lass, once more, + With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore, + + And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams + Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, + In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, + To woo her again--till the Chanticleer crows. + + And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill + Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill, + And suffers in silence and patience alway, + In the hope that God will forgive, some day. + + +MARGERY DAW + +[From the same] + + See-Saw! Margery Daw! + Sold her bed to lie upon straw; + Was she not a dirty slut + To sell her bed, and live in dirt? + + And yet perchance, were the circumstance + But known, of Margery's grim romance, + As sacred a veil might cover her then + As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen. + + It's a story told so often, so old, + So drearily common, so wearily cold: + A man's adventure,--a poor girl's fall-- + And a sinless scapegoat born--that's all. + + She was simple and young, and the song was sung + With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue, + That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song + Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong. + + And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard, + Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, + Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn-- + God pity the woman who falls before them! + + They closed the door for evermore + On the contrite heart which repented sore, + And she stood alone, in the outer night, + To feed her baby as best she might. + + So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, + The gown off her back, the shawl off her head, + Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, + Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself. + + And so it came that Margery's name + Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame, + And Margery's face grew familiar in + The market-place where they trade in sin. + + What use to dwell on this premature Hell? + Suffice it to say that the child did well, + Till one night that Margery prowled the town, + Sickness was stalking, and struck her down. + + Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast + In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last, + Of all she had to be pawned or sold, + To keep her darling from hunger and cold. + + So the baby pined, till Margery, blind + With hunger of fever, in body and mind, + At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand, + Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand. + + Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw, + And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw: + Not a sparrow falls, they say--Oh well! + God was not looking when Margery fell. + + With irons girt, in her felon's shirt, + Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt, + A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray, + With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay. + + See-saw! Margery Daw! + What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law! + It makes all smooth--for she's out of her head, + And her brat is provided for. It's dead. + + + + +WILLIAM H. WOODS + + +William Hervey Woods, poet, was born near Greensburg, Kentucky, +November 17, 1852, the son of a clergyman. He was educated at +Hampden-Sidney College, in Virginia, after which he studied for the +church at Union Theological Seminary, Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Woods +was ordained to the ministry of the Southern Presbyterian church in +1878; and since 1887 he has been pastor of the Franklin Square church +at Baltimore. For the past several years he has contributed poems to +_Scribner's_, _Harper's_, _The Century_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The +Youth's Companion_, _The Independent_, and several other periodicals. +This verse was collected and published in a pleasing little volume of +some hundred and fifty pages under the title of _The Anteroom and +Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911). As is true of the purely literary +labors of most clergymen, a few of the poems are somewhat marred by +the homiletical tone--they simply must point a moral, even though that +moral does not adorn the tale. Several of the poems reveal the +author's love for his birthplace, Kentucky; and, taken as a whole, the +book is one of which any of our singers might be proud. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (January 16, 1912); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (July; August, 1912). + + +SYCAMORES[9] + +[From _The Anteroom and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911)] + + They love no crowded forest dark, + They climb no mountains high, + But ranged along the pleasant vale + Where shining waters lie, + Their brown coats curling open show + A silvery undergleam, + Like the white limbs of laughing boys + Half ready for the stream. + + What if they yield no harvests sweet, + Nor massive timbers sound, + And all their summer leafage casts + But scanty shade around; + Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance, + Their young leaves laugh in tune, + And there's no lad in all the land + Knows better when 'tis June. + + They come from groves of Arcady, + Or some lost Land of Mirth, + That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed + May not possess the earth, + And though they neither toil nor spin, + Nor fruitful duties pay, + They also serve, mayhap, who help + The world keep holiday. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[9] Copyright, 1911, by the Author. + + + + +ANDREW W. KELLEY + + +Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preëminent of life on a country +newspaper, was born in the state of New York about 1852. When twenty +years of age he left Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873 +he settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder of his +life. He was associate editor of Opie Read's paper, _The Patriot_, for +some time, but when that sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post +until a kindly death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little +town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding +Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York girl, all things were +ready for the celebration of the ceremony, when the bride-to-be suddenly +changed her mind, and poor _Parmenas Mix_ was thus started in the +drunkard's path. He planned to go East for several years prior to his +death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he sat in his room and dreamed +his life away. Kelley died at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried +in the potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition was +wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place of his grave can +only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote many poems, nearly all of which +celebrated some phase of life on a country newspaper, but his +masterpiece is _The Old Scissors' Soliloquy_, which was originally +published in _Scribner's Monthly_--now _The Century Magazine_--for +April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac Department," illustrated +with a single tail-piece sketch of editorial scissors "lying at rest" +upon newspaper clippings, with "a whopping big rat in the paste." Many +of his other poems were also published in _Scribner's_. _The New +Doctor_, _Accepted and Will Appeal_, and _He Came to Pay_, done in the +manner of Bret Harte's _The Aged Stranger_, are exceedingly clever. A +slender collection of his poems could be easily made, and should be. +Opie Read wrote a tender tribute to the memory of his former friend, in +which his merits were thus summed up: "The country has surely produced +greater poets than 'Parmenas Mix,' but I doubt if we shall ever know a +truer lover of Nature's divine impulses. He lightened the heart and made +it tender, surely a noble mission; he talked to the lowly, he flashed +the diamond of his genius into many a dark recess. He preached the +gospel of good will; he sang a beautiful song." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Poetry of American Wit and Humor_, by R. L. + Paget (Boston, 1899). + + +THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY + +[From _Scribner's Monthly_, April, 1876] + + I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,-- + The place is deserted and still,-- + To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, + To my left are the ink and the quill-- + Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint, + And refuses to write with a pen; + He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, + Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben. + + I love the old fellow--together for years + We have managed the _Farmer's Gazette_, + And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears + And can crowd the compositors yet. + But my duties are rather too heavy, I think, + And I oftentimes envy the quill + As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink + While I'm slashing away with a will. + + But when I was new,--I remember it well, + Though a score of long years have gone by,-- + The heaviest share of the editing fell + On the quill, and I think with a sigh + Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two + From a neighboring editor's leader, + Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew + In behalf of the general reader. + + I am being paid off for my merriment then, + For my master is wrinkled and gray, + And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen + Except when he wishes to say: + "We are needing some money to run this machine, + And subscribers will please to remit;" + Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green, + And so knotty it couldn't be split." + + He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind + (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter), + And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find + Head or tale to the most of his matter. + The compositors plague him whenever they see + The result of a luckless endeavor, + But the darling old rascal just lays it to me, + And I make no remonstrance whatever. + + Yes, I shoulder the blame--very little I care + For the jolly compositor's jest, + For I think of a head with the silvery hair + That will soon, very soon be at rest. + He has labored full long for the true and the good + 'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us-- + His only emolument raiment and food, + And--a pass, now and then, to the circus. + + Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright + Of a lass with the freshness of clover + Who used me to clip from her tresses one night + A memorial lock for her lover. + That dear little lock is still glossy and brown, + But the lass is much older and fatter, + And the youth--he's an editor here in the town-- + I'm employed on the staff of the latter. + + I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night-- + The place is deserted and still-- + The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight + Through the trees on the brow of the hill. + Clouds hurry along in undignified haste + And the wind rushes by with a wail-- + Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste-- + How I'd like to shut down on his tail! + + +LATE NEWS + +[From _Scribner's Monthly_, December, 1876] + + In the sanctum I was sitting, + Engaged in thought befitting + A gentleman of letters--dunning letters, by the way-- + When a seedy sort of fellow, + Middle-aged and rather mellow, + Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?" + + Then I smiled on him serenely-- + On the stranger dressed so meanly-- + And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate; + And that the troops in Flanders, + Both privates and commanders, + Had been dealing very freely in profanity of late. + + Then the stranger, quite demurely, + Said, "That's interesting, surely; + Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear; + Though excuse me, sir, for stating + That the facts you've been narrating + Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!" + + + + +YOUNG E. ALLISON + + +Young Ewing Allison, one of the most versatile of the Kentucky writers +of the present school, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, December 23, +1853. He left school at an early age to become the "devil" in a +Henderson printing office. At seventeen years of age Mr. Allison was a +newspaper reporter. At different times he has been connected with _The +Journal_, of Evansville, Indiana; city and dramatic editor of _The +Courier-Journal_; editor of _The Louisville Commercial_; and from 1902 +to 1905 he was editor of _The Louisville Herald_. Mr. Allison founded +_The Insurance Field_ at Louisville, in 1887, and has since edited it. +He has thus been a newspaper man for more than forty years; and though +always very busy, he has found time to write fiction, verse, literary +criticism, history, and librettos. In prose fiction Mr. Allison is best +known by three stories: _The Passing of Major Kilgore_, which was +published as a novelette in _Lippincott's Magazine_ in 1888; _The +Longworth Mystery_ (_Century Magazine_, October, 1889); and _Insurance +at Piney Woods_ (Louisville, 1896). In half-whimsical literary criticism +he has published two small volumes which are known in many parts of the +world: _The Delicious Vice_ (Cleveland, 1907, first series; Cleveland, +1909, second series). These papers are "pipe dreams and adventures of an +habitual novel-reader among some great books and their people." Mr. +Allison's libretto, _The Ogallallas_, a romantic opera, was produced by +the Bostonians Opera Company in 1894; and his _Brother Francisco_, a +libretto of tragic opera, was presented at the Royal Opera House, +Berlin, by order of Emperor William II. The music to both of these +operas was composed by Mr. Henry Waller, Liszt's distinguished pupil. In +history Mr. Allison has written _The City of Louisville and a Glimpse of +Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1887); and _Fire Underwriting_ (Louisville, +1907). Of his lyrics, _The Derelict_, a completion of the four famous +lines in Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_, has been printed by +almost every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world, set +to music by Mr. Waller, and an illustrated _edition de luxe_ has +recently appeared. _The Derelict_ and _The Delicious Vice_ have firmly +fixed Mr. Allison's fame. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter + (Louisville, 1905); letter from Mr. Allison to the writer. + + +ON BOARD THE DERELICT + +A Reminiscence of _Treasure Island_ + +[From a leaflet edition] + + _Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_ + --[_Cap'n Billy Bones his song_] + + Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike, + The bos'n brained with a marlinspike, + And the Cookey's throat was marked belike + It had been gripped + By fingers ten; + And there they lay, + All good dead men, + Like break-o'-day in a boozin' ken-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of a whole ship's list-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Dead and bedamned, and the rest gone whist! + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + The skipper lay with his nob in gore + Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore, + And the scullion he was stabbed times four. + And there they lay + And the soggy skies + Dreened all day long + In up-staring eyes-- + At murk sunset and at foul sunrise-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Ten of the crew had the Murder mark-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + 'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead, + Or a yawing hole in a battered head-- + And the scuppers glut with a rotting red. + And there they lay-- + Aye, damn my eyes!-- + All lookouts clapped + On paradise, + All souls bound just the contra'wise-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of 'em good and true-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Every man Jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold, + With a ton of plate in the middle hold, + And the cabins riot of loot untold. + And they lay there + That had took the plum + With sightless glare + And their lips struck dumb, + While we shared all by the rule of thumb-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + _More was seen through the sternlight screen-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Chartings undoubt where a woman had been-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + A flimsy shift on a bunker cot, + With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot, + And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot. + Or was she wench ... + Or some shuddering maid...? + That dared the knife + And that took the blade?... + By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_ + + Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + We wrapp'd 'em all in a mains'l tight, + With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight + And we heaved 'em over and out of sight-- + With a yo-heave-ho! + And a fare-you-well! + And a sullen plunge + In the sullen swell, + Ten-fathoms deep on the road to hell-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + + + +HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT + + +Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert ("Dolly Higbee"), newspaper woman and +novelist, was born near Edina, Missouri, March 12, 1854. She was the +daughter of James Parker Higbee, a Kentuckian, and his second wife, +Martha Lane (Galleher) Higbee, a woman of Virginian parentage. Both of +Miss Higbee's parents died before she was fourteen years old, and she +came to Lexington, Kentucky, to live in the family of Dr. Samuel H. +Chew, who had married her half-sister. Dr. Chew's farm was situated +some seven miles from Lexington, and there Miss Higbee lived for ten +years. She was educated in Midway, Kentucky, and then taught for +several years. She detested teaching and, "in January, 1878, while it +was still quite dark, I stole down stairs with five dollars in my +pocket and such luggage as I could carry in a handbag, tiptoed into +the drizzle and 'lit out.'" The flip of a nickle determined that her +new home should be Louisville, and to that city she went. Miss Higbee +was the first woman in Kentucky, if not in the South, to adopt +journalism as a profession. The following fourteen years of her life +were spent in the daily grind of newspaperdom, she having held almost +every position on _The Courier-Journal_, save that of editor-in-chief. +In the four hottest weeks of the year, and in the brief intervals of +leisure she could snatch from her daily duties, Miss Higbee wrote her +now famous novel, _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890). After the +Lippincotts had refused this manuscript, _Belford's Monthly Magazine_ +accepted it by telegram, paying the author two hundred dollars for it, +and publishing it in the issue for November, 1889; and in the +following May the story appeared in book form. Colonel Henry Watterson +wrote a review of _In God's Country_ that was afterwards published as +an introduction for it, and this did much to bring the tale into wide +notice. Miss Higbee went to Chicago in 1893 to accept a position on +_The Tribune_. On April 4, 1894, she was married to Mr. William +Geppert of Atlanta, and the first five years of their married life +were spent at Atlanta. It was during this time that Mrs. Geppert's +best story was written, _Burton's Scoop_, one of the first American +stories written upon hypnotism and related phenomena. The opening +chapters of this appeared in the author's little literary magazine, +_The Autocrat_, which she conducted at Atlanta for about two years, +but it has never been published in book form. Two musical romances, +entitled _The Scherzo in B-Flat Minor_ (Atlanta, 1895), and _Un Ze +Studio_ (Atlanta, 1895), attracted considerable attention, and a third +was announced as _Side Lights_, but was never published. _In God's +Country_ was dramatized, with Miss Catherine Gray cast in the role of +_Lydia_, and opened at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, September +5, 1897, but the work of the playwright and actors was most +displeasing to the author. In 1900 Mr. Geppert became one of the +editors of the New York _Musical Courier_, and he and his wife have +since resided at Croton-on-the-Hudson. Mrs. Geppert has abandoned +literature, but _In God's Country_ has given her a permanent place +among the writers of Kentucky.[10] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter + (Louisville, 1905); _Lexington Leader_ (July 25, 1909). + + +THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL[11] + +[From _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890)] + +Her hair had come down and was tumbling about her neck; she whipped it +out and caught it back with a hairpin, took up the guitar, and +skirted the shadowy porch to the room over the kitchen. The window was +open and she could see Karl sitting in the middle of the room with his +head bowed upon his hands. She tapped lightly on the pane. He looked +up and saw her standing in the dim light with the guitar in her hand. + +"Karl," she said, "I want you to sing me that song before you go--the +one you sung me that day for your dinner." + +He came forward and took the instrument. He saw she had been crying, but +the experience of the summer had been so crushing, he was so subdued by +her past behavior, that he did not dream the tears were for him. + +"You are grieved for someding," he said, with touching sympathy. + +He opened the door and gave her a chair, and, sitting near her on the +sill of the window, began to sing the song with all the tenderness and +pathos his own yearning and bitter disappointment could put into it. It +brought back all the old tumult. She saw now, when it was too late, that +she had overestimated her strength. When he finished, she was sobbing; +and in an instant he was kneeling by her chair, raising to her a face +sad, searching, but shining with the tremulous glow of a hope just born. + +"You weep. Liebchen, is it for me?" + +She did not answer, but laid a hand gently on his head and looked at +him, with all the pent yearning of her full heart, all the agony of +that long, weary struggle, and all the pathos of defeat in her eyes. +It was no use. At that moment it seemed that there was nothing else in +the world but him. Everything else was remote, dim, and unreal. + +He clasped her with a fierce, exultant joy. + +"You love me in spite of dis?" he asked, looking down at his coarse +attire. "You love me in spite of dat I am your nigga?" + +"In spite of all," she faltered. + +It was out at last: the crest of victory sank in inglorious surrender. +Her humiliation was his triumph. + +He looked at her with a face radiant, shining with a beauty not of +earth. + +"Liebchen," he whispered, "it is divine." + +"You vill gome mit me to mein gountry?" he asked presently. + +She laid a finger on his lips. "Don't," she said; "I can't bear it." + +"I vill not be a vagabond in mein own gountry; we vill be very happy. +Gome mit me, Liebchen." + +He would not be a vagabond in his own country. The information that +would have been worth much to her once was worth nothing now. She +scarcely heard it. + +"I can't do that," she said. "You must go, and I must stay here and do +as I have promised; but I wanted to tell you that I know I have been +very cruel, and that I am very sorry. It was hard for me, too, and I +could not trust myself to be kind." + +It seemed but a moment she had been sitting there with his arms around +her and his head upon her breast, but the east was red and the sun was +almost up. Lydia rose wearily. The sense of defeat, that was more +fatiguing than the struggle, clung to her. "It's time you were gone," +she said. He took her hands in his and asked, with searching +earnestness, + +"If you love me, vy vill you not gome mit me?" + +"I can't," she answered, too tired for explanation. + +"Is it your fader?" he asked. + +She nodded, and said good-bye, looking up at him with a tender glow on +her face. The hair streaming about her shoulders had caught the flame +of sunrise like a torch. He stooped and touched it with his lips as +reverently as he would have kissed the garment of a saint. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] Mrs. Geppert died at Scarsborough-on-the-Hudson, New York, +February 23, 1913. Her remains were not brought to Kentucky for +interment. + +[11] Copyright, 1890, by the Belford Company. + + + + +HENRY C. WOOD + + +Henry Cleveland Wood, novelist and verse-maker, was born at +Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in January, 1855. His mother was a writer of +local reputation. In 1874 Mr. Wood's poems and stories began to appear +in English and American magazines; and he has continued his work for +them until this day. Seven of his novels have been serialized by the +following publications: _Pretty Jack and_ _Ugly Carl_ (_The +Courier-Journal_); _Impress of Seal and Clay_ (_New York Ledger_, in +collaboration with his uncle, Henry W. Cleveland, author of a +biography of Alexander H. Stephens); _The Kentucky Outlaw_, and _Love +that Endured_ (_New York Ledger_); _Faint Heart and Fair Lady_ (_The +Designer_); _The Night-Riders_ (_Taylor-Trotwood Magazine_); and _Weed +and War_ (_The Home and Farm_). Of these only one has been issued in +book form, _The Night Riders_ (Chicago, 1908). This was a tale of love +and adventure, depicting the protest against the toll-gate system in +Kentucky years ago, with a brief inclusion of the more recent tobacco +troubles. Mr. Wood's verse has been printed in _Harper's Weekly_, +_Cosmopolitan_, _Ainslee's Magazine_, _The Smart Set_, _The Youth's +Companion_, and other periodicals. Two of his librettos, _The Sultan's +Gift_ and _Amor_, have been set to music; and at least one of his +plays has been produced, entitled _The Pretty Shakeress_. Mr. Wood +conducts a little bookshop in his native town of Harrodsburg. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Illustrated Kentuckian_ (November, 1894). + + +THE WEAVER + +[From _The Quiver_ (London, England)] + + The sun climbed up the eastern hills, + And through the dewy land + Shot gleams that fell athwart the rills + That sang on every hand. + + Upon the wood and in the air + There hung a mystic spell, + And on the green sward, every where, + Soft shadows lightly fell. + + And in a cottage where the bloom + Of roses on the wall + Filled all the air, there was a loom + Well built of oak and tall. + + All through the fragrant summer day + A maiden, blithe and fair, + Sat at the loom and worked away, + And hummed a simple air;-- + + "Oh! idle not, ye leafy trees, + Weave nets of yellow sun, + And kiss me oft, O! balmy breeze, + My task is but begun." + + Still higher in the hazy sky + The sun climbed on and on, + And autumn winds came rushing by, + The summer's bloom was gone; + + Now sat a mother at the loom, + The shuttle flew along, + With whirr that filled the little room + Together with her song;-- + + "O! shuttle! faster, faster fly, + For know ye not the sun + Is climbing high across the sky, + And yet my work's not done?" + + The sun shot gleams of amber light + Along the barren ground, + And shadows of the coming night + Fell softly all around. + + And in the little cottage room + From early dawn till night, + A woman sat before the loom + With hair of snowy white. + + The hands were palsied now that threw + The shuttle to and fro, + While as the fabric longer grew + She sang both sweet and low;-- + + "Half hidden in the rosy west + I see the golden sun, + And I shall soon begin my rest, + My task is almost done!" + + * * * * * + + The spring again brought joy and bloom, + And kissed each vale and hill; + But in the little cottage room + The oaken beam was still. + + The swaying boughs with rays of gold + Wove nets of yellow sun, + And cast them where a headstone told-- + The weaver's task was done. + + + + +WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY + + +William Elsey Connelley, historian and antiquarian, was born near +Paintsville, Kentucky, March 15, 1855, the son of a soldier. At the +age of seventeen he became a teacher in his native county of Johnson; +and for the following ten years he continued in that work. John C. C. +Mayo, the mountain millionaire, was one of his pupils. In April, 1881, +Mr. Connelley went to Kansas; and two years later he was elected clerk +of Wyandotte county, of which Kansas City, Kansas, is the county-seat. +In 1888 he engaged in the lumber business in Missouri; and four years +thereafter he surrendered that business in order to devote himself to +his banking interests, which have hitherto required a considerable +portion of his time. In 1905 Mr. Connelley wrote the call for the +first meeting of the oil men of Kansas, which resulted in the +organization of an association that began a crusade upon the Standard +Oil Company, and which subsequently resulted in the dissolution of +that corporation by the Supreme Court of the United States. This is +set down here because Mr. Connelley is, perhaps, prouder of it than of +of any other thing he has done. He is well-known by students of +Western history, but, of course, his fame as a writer has not reached +the general reader. He is a member of many historical societies and +associations, including the American, Nebraska, Missouri, Ohio, and +Kansas, of which he was president in 1912. Mr. Connelley has made +extensive investigations into the language and history of several of +the Indian tribes of Kansas, his vocabulary of the Wyandot tongue +being the first one ever written. He has many original documents +pertaining to the history of eastern Kentucky; and the future +historian of that section of the state cannot proceed far without +consulting his collection. The novelist of the mountains, John Fox, +Jr., has sat at the feet of the historian and learned of his people. +Mr. Connelley lives at Topeka, Kansas. A complete list of his works +is: _The Provisional Government of Nebraska Territory_ (Topeka, 1899); +_James Henry Lane, the Grim Chieftain of Kansas_ (Topeka, 1899); +_Wyandot Folk-Lore_ (Topeka, 1899); _Kansas Territorial Governors_ +(Topeka, 1900); _John Brown--the Story of the Last of the Puritans_ +(Topeka, 1900); _The Life of John J. Ingalls_ (Kansas City, Missouri, +1903); _Fifty Years in Kansas_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Heckewelder +Narrative_ (Cleveland, Ohio, 1907), being the narrative of John G. E. +Heckewelder (1743-1823), concerning the mission of the United Brethren +among the Delaware and Mohegan Indians from 1740 to the close of +1808, and the finest book ever issued by a Western publisher, +originally selling for twenty dollars a copy, but now out of print and +very scarce; _Doniphan's Expedition_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Ingalls of +Kansas: a Character Study_ (Topeka, 1909); _Quantrill and the Border +Wars_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), one of his best books; and _Eastern +Kentucky Papers_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), "the founding of Harman's +Station, with an account of the Indian Captivity of Mrs. Jennie +Wiley." In 1911 Baker University conferred the honorary degree of A. +M. upon him. For the last three years Mr. Connelley has been preparing +a biography of Preston B. Plumb, United States Senator from Kansas for +a generation, which will be published in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from Mr. + Connelley to the writer. + + +KANSAS HISTORY + +[From _History as an Asset of the State_ (Topeka, Kansas, 1912)] + +Kansas history is like that of no other State. The difference is +fundamental--not a dissimilarity in historical annals. This fact has +been long recognized. A quarter of a century ago Ware wrote that-- + + Of all the States, but three will live in story: + Old Massachusetts with her Plymouth Rock, + And old Virginia with her noble stock, + And sunny Kansas with her woes and glory. + +The south line of Kansas is the modified line between free soil and +slave territory as those divisions existed down to the abolition of +slavery. For almost half a century it was the policy of the Government +to send here the remnants of the Indian tribes pushed west by our +occupation of their country. The purpose in this was to make the +Western prairies the Indian country of America and thus prevent its +settlement until the slave-power was ready to utilize it for its +peculiar institution. Many things occurred which had not been counted +on, and the country was forced open before the South was ready to +undertake its settlement. While the crisis was premature, the +slave-power entered upon the contest with confidence. It had never +lost a battle in its conflict with the free-soil portion of the Union, +and it expected to win in Kansas. The struggle was between the two +antagonistic predominant ideas developed in our westward expansion, +and ended in a war which involved the entire nation and threatened the +existence of the Union. Politically, Kansas was the rock about which +the troubled waters surged for ten years. The Republican party grew +largely out of the conditions and influence of Kansas. When +hostilities began the Kansans enlisted in the armies of the Union in +greater proportion to total population than did the people of any +other State. Here the war was extremely bitter, and in some instances +it became an effort for extermination. Kansas towns were sacked, and +non-combatants were ruthlessly butchered. The border embraced at that +time all the settled portion of the State, and it would be difficult +indeed to make the people of this day comprehend what occurred here. +Kansas was founded in and by a bloody struggle, which, within her +bounds, continued for ten years. No other State ever fought so well. +Kansas was for freedom. She won, and the glory of it is that the +victory gave liberty to America. That is why we maintain that Kansas +history stands alone in interest and importance in American annals. + +The history of a State is a faithful account of the events of its +formation and development. If the account is set out in sufficient +detail there will be preserved the fine delineations of the emotions +which moved the people. These emotions arise out of the experiences of +the people. And the pioneers fix the lines of their experiences. They +lay the pattern and mark out the way the State is to go, and this way +can never be altered, and can, moreover, be but slightly modified for +all time. These emotions produce ideals which become universal and the +common aim of the State, and they wield a wonderful influence on its +progress, growth, and achievement. A people devoid of ideals can +scarcely be found, but ideals differ just as the experiences which +produced the emotions from which they result differed. If there be no +particular principle to be striven for in the founding of a State, +then no ideals will appear, and such as exist among the people will be +found to have come over the lines from other and older States. Or, if +by chance any be developed they will be commonplace and ordinary, and +will leave the people in lethargy and purposeless so far as the +originality of the thought of the State is concerned. The ideals +developed by a fierce struggle for great principles are lofty, sublime +in their conception and intent. The higher the ideals, the greater the +progress; the more eminent the achievement, the more marked the +individuality, the stronger the characteristics of the people. + + + + +CHARLES T. DAZEY + + +Charles Turner Dazey, author of _In Old Kentucky_, was born at Lima, +Illinois, August 13, 1855, the son and grandson of Kentuckians. When a +lad the future dramatist was brought to Kentucky for a visit at the +home of his grandparents in Bourbon county, whom he was to visit again +before returning to Kentucky, in 1872, to enter the Agricultural and +Mechanical College of Kentucky University, where he studied for a +year. In the fall of 1873 young Dazey matriculated in the Arts College +of the University. Ill-health caused him to miss the following year, +but he returned in 1875 and remained a student in the University until +the summer of 1877. He was a member of the old Periclean Society, the +society of James Lane Allen and John Fox, Jr., while at the +University. When he left Lexington he lacked two years of graduation. +Mr. Dazey later went to Harvard University, where he was one of the +editors of the _Harvard Advocate_, and the poet of his class of 1881. +While a Senior at Cambridge he had begun dramatic composition, and +after leaving the University he became a full-fledged playwright. His +plays include: _An American King_; _That Girl from Texas_--first +called _A Little Maverick_--with Maggie Mitchell in the title-role; +_The War of Wealth_; _The Suburban_; _Home Folks_; _The Stranger_, in +which Wilton Lackaye played for two seasons; _The Old Flute-Player_; +and _Love Finds a Way_. In collaboration with Oscar Weil Mr. Dazey +wrote _In Mexico_, a comic opera, produced by The Bostonians; and with +George Broadhurst he wrote two plays: _An American Lord_, with William +H. Crane as the star; and _The Captain_, played by N. C. Goodwin. + +The play by Mr. Dazey in which we are especially interested here, is, +of course, _In Old Kentucky_, a drama in four acts, first written to +order for Katie Putnam, a soubrette star, who was very popular a +quarter of a century ago. She, however, did not consider the play +suited to her, and it was then offered to several managers without +success, until it was finally accepted by Jacob Litt. When first +produced by Mr. Litt at St. Paul on August 4, 1892, it had a most +distinguished cast: Julia Arthur, the beautiful, appeared as _Barbara +Holton_; Louis James as _Col. Doolittle_; Frank Losee as _Joe Lorey_; +and Marion Elmore made a most alluring _Madge Brierly_. This was only +a trial production, and the play went into the store-house for a year, +when, in August, 1893, it began its first annual tour at the Bijou +Theatre (now the Lyceum), at Pittsburgh. In that first regular company +Bettina Gerard played _Madge_; Burt Clark, _Col. Doolittle_; George +Deyo, _Joe Lorey_; William McVey, _Horace Holton_; Harrison J. Wolfe, +_Frank Layson_; Charles K. French, _Uncle Neb_; Edith Athelston, +_Barbara_; and Lottie Winnett was _Aunt Alathea_. Mr. Litt and his +associate, A. W. Dingwall, have always mounted _In Old Kentucky_ +handsomely, and this has been an important element in its great +success. For twenty years this drama of the bluegrass and the +mountains has held the boards, more than seven million people have +seen it, and even to-day it is being produced almost daily with no +signs of loss in popular interest. It is the only play Mr. Dazey has +written with a Kentucky background, and it would be "a hazard of new +fortunes" for him to attempt to do so; he could hardly improve upon +his masterpiece. In 1897 Mr. Litt had a small edition of _In Old +Kentucky_ privately printed from the prompt-books; and in 1910 Mr. +Dazey collaborated with Edward Marshall in a novelization of the play, +which was published as an attractive romance by the G. W. Dillingham +Company, of New York. With Mr. Marshall he also novelized _The Old +Flute-Player_ (New York, 1910). Mr. Dazey has recently dramatized +_Fran_, John Breckinridge Ellis's popular novel; and at the present +time he is engaged upon a new play, which he thinks, promises better +than anything he has so far written. Mr. Dazey was in Kentucky several +times between 1877 and 1898, the date of his most recent visit, at +which time he found John Fox, Jr., giving one of his inevitable +readings in Lexington, and James Lane Allen looking for the last time, +mayhap, upon the scenes of his books. He spent several weeks with +friends and relatives near Paris; and, like all good Kentuckians, he +"hopes to revisit the dear old state in the near future." Mr. Dazey +has an attractive home at Quincy, Illinois. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in the Theatre_, by John Porter (Boston, + 1912); letters from Mr. Dazey to the writer. + + +THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE[12] + +[From _In Old Kentucky_ (1897)] + +_Act III, Scene IV. The exterior of the race-track. Fence, tree, etc._ + + _Colonel._ (_Enter L._) I didn't go in. I kept my word, though it + nearly finished me. (_Shouts heard._) They're bringing out the + horses. (_Looks through knot-hole._) I can't see worth a cent. + It's not hole enough for me. To Hades with dignity! I'll inspect + that tree. (_Goes to tree; puts arm around it._) + +[_Enter_ Alathea, _R._] + + _Alathea._ (_Pauses, R. C._) Everyone's at the races. I'm + perfectly safe. There is that blessed knot-hole. (_Goes to hole; + looks through._) + + _Col._ (_Comes from behind tree; sees Alathea._) A woman, by all + that's wonderful--a woman at my knot-hole. (_Approaches._) Madam! + (_Lays hand on her shoulder._) + + _Alathea._ (_Indignantly._) Sir! (_Turns._) Col. Sundusky + Doolittle! + + _Col._ Miss Alathea Layson! (_Bus. bows._) + + _Alathea._ Colonel, what are you all doing here? + + _Col._ Madam, what are you all doing here? + + _Alathea._ Colonel, I couldn't wait to hear the result. + + _Col._ No more could I. + + _Alathea._ But I didn't enter the race-track. + + _Col._ I was equally firm. + + _Alathea._ Neb. told me of the knot-hole. + + _Col._ The rascal, he told me, too! + + _Alathea._ Colonel, we must forgive each other. If you really must + look, there is the knot-hole. + + _Col._ No, Miss Lethe, I resign the knot-hole to you. I shall + climb the tree. + + _Alathea._ (_As Colonel climbs tree._) Be careful, Colonel, don't + break your neck, but get where you can see. + + _Col._ (_Up tree._) Ah, what a gallant sight! There's Catalpa, + Evangeline--and there's Queen Bess! (_Shouts heard._) + + _Alathea._ What's that? (_To tree._) + + _Col._ A false start. They'll make it this time. (_Shouts heard._) + They're off--off! Oh, what a splendid start! + + _Alathea._ Who's ahead? Who's ahead? (_To tree._) + + _Col._ Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well back. + + _Alathea._ Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front? Oh, if I were + only on that mare. (_Back to fence._) + + _Col._ At the half, Evangeline takes the lead--Catalpa next--the + rest bunched. Oh, great heavens!--(_Lethe to tree._)--there's a + foul--a jam--and Queen Bess is left behind ten lengths! She hasn't + the ghost of a show! Look! (_Lethe back to tree._) She's at it + again. But she can't make it up. It's beyond anything mortal. And + yet she's gaining--gaining! + + _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Keep it up--keep it up! + + _Col._ At the three quarters; she's only five lengths behind the + leader, and gaining still! + + _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Oh, push!--push!--I can't stand it! I've got + to see! (_Climbs tree._) + + _Col._ Coming up, Miss Lethe! All right, don't break your neck, + but get where you can see. In the stretch. Her head's at Catalpa's + crupper--now her saddle-bow, but she can't gain another inch! But + look--look! she lifts her--and, Great Scott! she wins! + +(_As he speaks, flats forming fence are drawn. Horses dash past, Queen +Bess in the lead. Drop at back shows grand stand, with fence in front +of same. Spectators back of fence._ Neb. _and_ Frank. _Band playing +"Dixie."_ Holton _standing near, chagrined._ Col. _waves hat and_ +Alathea _handkerchief, in tree. Spectators shout._) + +(_For second curtain_, Madge _returns on Queen Bess_. Col. _and_ +Alathea _down from tree and passing near. Other horses enter as +curtain falls._) + +[_Curtain_] + +FOOTNOTE: + +[12] Copyright, 1897, by Jacob Litt. + + + + + +JOHN P. FRUIT + + +John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was born at +Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He was graduated from Bethel +College, Russellville, Kentucky, in 1878, after which he became a +teacher. For two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty +College, Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was professor of +English in his _alma mater_, Bethel College. In 1895 the University of +Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. degree; and three years later he was +elected to the chair of English in William Jewell College, Liberty, +Missouri, which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an +edition of Milton's _Lycidas_ (Boston, 1894), and this was followed by +his edition of Coleridge's _The Ancient Mariner_ (Boston, 1899). Both +of these little volumes have been used in many schools and colleges. +Dr. Fruit devoted many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and his +works, and his researches he brought together in _The Mind and Art of +Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899). This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost +place among the Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially +recognized by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, and it +has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the present time Dr. Fruit +is engaged in a comprehensive study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his +pamphlet, entitled _Hawthorne's Immitigable_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n. +d.), having attracted a deal of attention. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from + Prof. Fruit to the writer. + + +THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY[13] + +[From _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899)] + +Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme without +reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate some of +Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes singing "in +the cotton and the corn." So much sound makes us suspicious of the +sense, but a little closer ear appreciates delicate and telling +onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels join hands in sweetest +fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of harmony." + +As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been trifling +with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote _The Bells_. + +The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones of the +bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person to our +souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin humanizes the +sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, +never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, +almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its +appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of +chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential." + +Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he never +humanized the notes of a musical instrument.... + +He took the common bells,--the more praise for his artistic +judgment,--and rang them through all the diapason of human sentiment. + +If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression and +conception, in the previously considered poems, than really exists, +there can be no doubt on that point, even to the mind of the wayfaring +man, in reading _The Bells_. + +If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let the +variety of topic in _The Bells_ protest. + +Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest +verification in _The Bells_. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," led +him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly simple; that +"one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; nine-tenths, +however, appertain to the mathematics; and the whole is included +within the limits of the commonest common-sense." + +It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic +discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and nowhere +with more skill than in _The Bells_. It is the climax of his art on +its technical side. + +Read the poem and think back over the course of the development of +poet's art-instincts. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[13] Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company. + + + + +HARRISON ROBERTSON + + +Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a +well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January +16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which +he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker, +and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on _The +Courier-Journal_, being managing editor at the present time. He won +his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever +written, entitled _How the Derby Was Won_, which was originally +published in _Scribner's Magazine_ for August, 1889. Ten years later +his first long novel, _If I Were a Man_ (New York, 1899), "the story +of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by _Red Blood and +Blue_ (New York, 1900); _The Inlander_ (New York, 1901); _The +Opponents_ (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, _The Pink +Typhoon_ (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit. +In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very +cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has +ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and +the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a +charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson +changed literary steads, although his _How the Derby Was Won_ must not +be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the +daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another +poem or novel. More's the pity! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (April, 1900; April, 1901); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The Bookman_ (December, + 1910). + + +TWO TRIOLETS[14] + +[From _A Vers de Socíeté Anthology_, by Caroline Wells (New York, +1907)] + + I + + What He Said: + + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it? + And may it from its soft recess-- + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Be blown to you, a shy caress, + By this white down, whene'er you use it. + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you _don't_ refuse it! + + II + + What She Thought: + + To kiss a fan! + What a poky poet! + The stupid man, + To kiss a fan, + When he knows that--he--can-- + Or ought to know it-- + To kiss a _fan_! + What a poky poet! + + +STORY OF THE GATE + +[From the same] + + Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, + Under the maple, it was hinged-- + The little wooden gate; + 'Twas there within the quiet gloam, + When I had strolled with Nelly home, + I used to pause and wait. + + Before I said to her good-night + Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite + Within the garden's pale; + And there, the gate between us two, + We'd linger as all lovers do, + And lean upon the rail. + + And face to face, eyes close to eyes, + Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise, + After a stealthy quest,-- + So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat, + That I'd grow drunken from the sweet + Tuebrose upon her breast. + + We'd talk--in fitful style, I ween-- + With many a meaning glance between + The tender words and low; + We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit, + Some idle gossip we'd repeat, + And then I'd move to go. + + "Good-night," I'd say; "good-night--good-by!" + "Good-night"--from her with half a sigh-- + "Good-night!" "_Good_-night!" And then-- + And then I do _not_ go, but stand, + Again lean on the railing, and-- + Begin it all again. + + Ah! that was many a day ago-- + That pleasant summer-time--although + The gate is standing yet; + A little cranky, it may be, + A little weather-worn--like me-- + Who never can forget + + The happy--"End?" My cynic friend, + Pray save your sneers--there was no "end." + Watch yonder chubby thing! + That is our youngest, hers and mine; + See how he climbs, his legs to twine + About the gate and swing. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[14] Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +INGRAM CROCKETT + + +Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed as one of the most +exquisite poets of Nature yet born in Kentucky, first saw the light at +Henderson, Kentucky, February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett, +was a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a member of +the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. Ingram Crockett was educated in +the schools of his native town, but he never went to college. For many +years past Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank, +Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not seared the spirit +of song within his soul. In 1888 he began his literary career by +editing, with the late Charles J. O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and +critic, _Ye Wassail Bowle_, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and +prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, entitled _The +Port of Pleasant Dreams_ (Henderson, 1892), was followed by a long poem, +_Rhoda, an Easter Idyl_. The first large collection of his lyrics was +_Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet +friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a true +interpreter of many-mooded Nature. _A Year Book of Kentucky Woods and +Fields_ (Buffalo, New York, 1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent +writing. A story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, _A +Brother of Christ_ (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's only novel, and +it was not overly successful. _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ +(Chicago, 1908), is his most recent volume of verse. "It contains poems +as big as the world," one enthusiastic critic exclaimed, but it has not +brought the author the larger recognition that he so richly deserves. +This work surely contains Mr. Crockett's best work so far. One does not +have to travel far in any direction in Kentucky in order to find many +persons declaring that Ingram Crockett is the finest poet living in the +state to-day. His latest book, _The Greeting and Goodbye of the Birds_ +(New York, 1912), is a small volume of prose-pastels, somewhat after the +manner of his _Year Book_. It again reveals the author's close +companionship with Nature, and his exquisite expression of what it all +means to him. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _The Courier-Journal_ (August 3, 1912). + + +AUDUBON[15] + +[From _Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898)] + + Not with clash of arms, + Not 'midst war's alarms, + Thy splendid work was done, + Thy great victory won. + + Unknown, thro' field and brake, + By calm or stormy lake, + Lured by swift passing wings-- + Songs that a new world sings-- + + Thou didst untiring go + Led by thine ardor's glow, + Cheered by thy kindling thought + Beauty thy hand had wrought. + + Leaving thy matchless page + Gift to a later age + That would revere thy name-- + Build for thee, surely fame. + + O, to have been with thee, + In that wild life and free, + While all the birds passed by + Under the new world sky! + + O, to have heard the song + Of that glad-hearted throng, + Ere yet the settlers came + Giving the woods to flame! + + O, to have with thee gone + Up the white steps of Dawn! + Or where the burning west + Crimsoned the wild drake's breast! + + Yet better than bays we bring + Are the woods whispering + When life and leaf are new + Under the tender blue! + + Master, awake! for May + Comes on her rainbowed way-- + Hear thou bird-song again + Sweeter than praise of men! + + +THE LONGING[16] + +[From _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1908)] + + I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by + With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why-- + I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring-- + _But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!_ + + I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar + Over and over again one day as the day before-- + And what does it all avail and the end of it--where? + _But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!_ + + Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast, + That e'en as we grasp it dulls--dust of the dust at last. + For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead? + _But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!_ + + Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon! + And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon? + And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place? + _But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!_ + + +DEAREST + +[From the same] + + Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree, + And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody-- + And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold, + And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold. + + Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon, + The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon-- + And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown + Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown. + + Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path, + Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath-- + The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way + With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May. + + Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train, + And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again-- + But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go, + And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[15] Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell. + +[16] Copyright, 1908, by the Author. + + + + +ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN + + +Mrs. Eliza Calvert Obenchain, ("Eliza Calvert Hall"), creator of _Aunt +Jane of Kentucky_, was born at Bowling Green, Kentucky, February 11, +1856; and she has lived in that little city all her life. Miss Calvert +was educated in the private schools of her town, and then spent a year +at "The Western," a woman's college near Cincinnati, Ohio. Her first +poems appeared in the old _Scribner's_, when John G. Holland was the +editor; and her first prose papers were published in _Kate Field's +Washington_. She was married to Professor William A. Obenchain, of +Ogden College, Bowling Green, on July 8, 1885, and four children have +been born to them. _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907), the +memories of an old lady done into short stories, opens with one of the +best tales ever written by an American woman, entitled _Sally Ann's +Experience_. This charming prose idyl first appeared in the +_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, for July, 1898, since which time it has been +cordially commended by former President Roosevelt, has been reprinted +in _Cosmopolitan_, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and many other +magazines, read by many public speakers, and finally issued as a +single book in an illustrated _edition de luxe_ (Boston, 1910). Many +of the other stories in _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ are very fine, but +_Sally Ann_ is far and away superior to any of them. Mrs. Obenchain's +_The Land of Long Ago_ (Boston, 1909), was another collection of Aunt +Jane stories. _To Love and to Cherish_ (Boston, 1911), is the author's +first and latest novel. Upon these four volumes Mrs. Obenchain's fame +rests secure, but _Sally Ann's Experience_ will be read and enjoyed +when her other books have been forgotten. She struck a universal truth +in this little tale, and the world will not willingly let it die. Her +most recent work is a _A Book of Hand-Woven Coverlets_ (Boston, +1912), a large and delightful volume on coverlet collecting and the +study of coverlet making. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (July, 1908); _The Bookman_ + (October, 1910). + + +"SWEET DAY OF REST"[17] + +[From _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907)] + +"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin' +Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a long time, and +the church'd been takin' things easy, and finally they got a new +preacher from down in Tennessee, and the first thing he did was to +draw lines around 'em close and tight about keepin' Sunday. Some o' +the members had been in the habit o' havin' their wood chopped on +Sunday. Well, as soon as the new preacher come, he said that Sunday +wood-choppin' had to cease amongst his church-members or he'd have 'em +up before the session. I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd have +his wood chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' wood +carried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long in the +cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty soon they +got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread 'way out into +the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan was one o' the +first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, he told +about the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to be forgiven for breakin' +the Sabbath day. + +"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone by +the town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on the Fourth +Commandment and all about that pore man that was stoned to death for +pickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. And Sam Amos, he says +after meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my opinion that that man was a +industrious, enterprisin' feller that was probably pickin' up +kindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, and,' says he, 'if they wanted +to stone anybody to death they better 'a' picked out some lazy, +triflin' feller that didn't have energy enough to work Sunday or any +other day.' Sam always would have his say, and nothin' pleased him +better'n to talk back to the preachers and git the better of 'em in a +argument. I ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the Mite +Society, and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrong +thing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intended +for anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for them to keep +the Sabbath day holy, but,' says she, 'the Lord don't rain down manna +in my yard. And,' says she, 'men can stop plowin' and plantin' on +Sunday, but they don't stop eatin', and as long as men have to eat on +Sunday, women'll have to work.' + +"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and these very +preachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath day holy, +they'll walk down out of their pulpits and set down at some woman's +table and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits and corn bread and five +or six kinds o' vegetables, and never think about the work it took to +git the dinner, to say nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after.' + +"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but Abram; I +reckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to own it, but"--here +her voice fell to a confessional key--"I never did like Sunday till I +begun to git old. And the way Sunday used to be kept, it looks to me +like anybody could 'a' been expected to like it but old folks and lazy +folks. You see, I never was one o' these folks that's born tired. I +loved to work. I never had need of any more rest than I got every +night when I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day's +work. I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishing' for rest, but, honey, +all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough to do it.' +And when a person looks at all the things there is to be done in this +world, they won't feel like restin' when they ain't tired. + +"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself Sunday +and every other day; and I ricollect I used to be right glad when any +o' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and send for me to help nurse +'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' necessity, and mercy, too. And +then, child, the Lord don't ever rest. The Bible says He rested on the +seventh day when He got through makin' the world, and I reckon that +was rest enough for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundays +jest the same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, and +the wind blows and He does it all." + + "'For still the Lord is Lord of might; + In deeds, in deeds He takes delight,'" + +I said. + +"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion in +restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight as +rest." + +Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun was +sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting and +twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from a +huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky for +a moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly resting +place. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and the +poorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour. + +Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days, +between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life, +his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth and +death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, what +glory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreams +and vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day be +more magnificent than life? + +As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded. +The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in the +shadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peace +which "passeth all understanding." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[17] Copyright, 1907, by Little, Brown and Company. + + + + +KATE SLAUGHTER McKINNEY + + +Mrs. Kate Slaughter McKinney ("Katydid"), poet and novelist, was born +at London, Kentucky, February 6, 1857. She was graduated from +Daughters', now Beaumont, College, Harrodsburg, Kentucky, when John +Augustus Williams was president. On May 7, 1878, Miss Slaughter was +married at Richmond, Kentucky, to James I. McKinney, now +superintendent of the Louisville and Nashville railroad. Mrs. +McKinney's best work is to be found in her first book of verse, +_Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, 1887). This slender volume was +extravagantly praised by the late Charles J. O'Malley, but it did +contain several lyrics of much merit, especially "The Little Face," a +lovely bit of verse surely. Mrs. McKinney's first novel, _The Silent +Witness_ (New York, 1907), was followed by _The Weed by the Wall_ +(Boston, 1911). Both of these works prove that the author's gift is of +the muses, and not of the gods of the "six best sellers." Neither of +her novels was overly successful, making one wish she had held fast to +her earlier love, verse-making. Besides these three volumes, Mrs. +McKinney has published a group of songs which have attracted +attention. She resides at Montgomery, Alabama. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A LITTLE FACE[18] + +[From _Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1887)] + + A little face to look at, + A little face to kiss; + Is there anything, I wonder, + That's half so sweet as this? + + A little cheek to dimple + When smiles begin to grow; + A little mouth betraying + Which way the kisses go. + + A slender little ringlet, + A rosy little ear; + A little chin to quiver + When falls the little tear. + + A little face to look at, + A little face to kiss; + Is there anything, I wonder, + That's half so sweet as this? + + A little hand so fragile + All through the night to hold; + Two little feet so tender + To tuck in from the cold. + + Two eyes to watch the sunbeam + That with the shadow plays-- + A darling little baby + To kiss and love always. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[18] Copyright, 1887, by the Author. + + + + +CHARLES J. O'MALLEY + + +Charles J. O'Malley, the George D. Prentice of modern Kentucky +literature, the praiser extraordinary and quite indiscriminately of +all things literary done by Kentucky hands, and withal a poet of +distinguished ability, was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, February +9, 1857. Through his father O'Malley was related to Father Abram J. +Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy; and his mother was of +Spanish descent. He was educated at Cecilian College, in Hardin +county, Kentucky, and at Spring Hill, a Jesuit institution near +Mobile, Alabama, from which he returned to Kentucky and made his home +for some years at Henderson. His contributions in prose and verse to +the newspapers of southwest Kentucky made him well-known in the State. +A series of prose papers included _Summer in Kentucky_, _By Marsh and +Pool_, and _The Poets and Poetry of Southwest Kentucky_, attracted +much favorable comment. His finest poem, _Enceladus_, appeared in _The +Century Magazine_ for February, 1892, and much of his subsequent work +was published in that periodical. In 1893 O'Malley removed to Mt. +Vernon, Indiana, to become editor of _The Advocate_, a Roman Catholic +periodical. His first and best known book, _The Building of the Moon +and Other Poems_ (Mt. Vernon, Indiana, 1894), brought together his +finest work in verse. From this time until his death he was an editor +of Roman Catholic publications and a contributor of poems to _The +Century_, _Cosmopolitan_, and other high-class magazines. For several +years O'Malley was editor of _The Midland Review_, of Louisville, and +this was the best periodical he ever edited. Many of the now +well-known writers of the South and West got their first things +printed in _The Review_. It did a real service for Kentucky authors +especially. During his later life O'Malley seemed to realize that he +had devoted far too much time in praising the literary labors of other +writers, and he turned most of his attention to creative work, which +was making him better known with the appearance of each new poem. +O'Malley may be ranked with John Boyle O'Reilly, the Boston editor and +poet, and he loses nothing by comparison with him. He was ever a Roman +Catholic poet, and his religion marred the beauty of much of his best +work. Besides _The Building of the Moon_, O'Malley published _The +Great White Shepherd of Christendom_ (Chicago, 1903), which was a +large life of Pope Leo XIII; and _Thistledrift_ (Chicago, 1909), a +little book of poems and prose pastels. For several years prior to his +passing, he planned a complete collection of his poems to be entitled +_Songs of Dawn_, but he did not live to finish this work. At the time +of his death, which occurred at Chicago, March 26, 1910, O'Malley was +editor of _The New World_, a Catholic weekly. Today he lies buried +near his Kentucky birthplace with no stone to mark the spot. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Century Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The New + World_ (Chicago, April 2, 1910). + + +ENCELADUS[19] + +[From _The Building of the Moon and Other Poems_ (Mount Vernon, +Indiana, 1894)] + + I shall arise; I am not weak; I feel + A strength within me worthy of the gods-- + A strength that will not pass in gray despair. + + Ten million years I have lain thus, supine, + Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks, + And the slow centuries have heard me groan + In passing, and not one has pitied me; + Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath + This mighty horror fixed upon my chest, + And have not eased me of a moment's pain. + + Oh, I will rise again--I will shake off + This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove! + Lo, prone in darkness I have gathered hope + From the great waters walking speaking by! + These unto me give mercy, thus forshown: + + "We are the servants of a mightier Lord + Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee. + We go forth at His bidding, laying bare + The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms + That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man, + And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon + The mighty base of unborn continents. + The old earth, when it hath fulfilled His will, + Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise + And fuller life, and like unto God, + Fills the new races struggling on the globe. + + "Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm, + And mighty order from the deep breaks up + In all her parts, and only Night remains + With all her starts that minister to God, + Who sits sublimely, shaping as He wills, + Creating always." These things do they speak. + "The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars, + Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk + To mournful cloisters of the under-world; + And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self + Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm." + + These things, and more, the waters say to me, + How this old earth shall change, and its life pass + And be renewed from fathomless within; + How other forms, and likelier to God, + Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud; + How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes, + In that far time, when He hath wrought His plan, + Shall the new globe inherit, and like us + Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of ours-- + Or of our dust again made animate. + + These things to me; yet still his curse remains, + His burden presses on me. God! thou God! + Who wast before the dawn, give ear to me! + Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust + This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me, + When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven, + And the earth crumbles, plunging to the void + With all its shrieking peoples!--Let it fall! + Let it be sown as ashes underneath + The base of all the continents to be + Forever, if so rent I shall be freed! + + Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope + On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings? + Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within + Through all its massive frame, and know His hand + Again doth labor shaping out His plan. + Oh, I shall have all patience, trust and calm, + Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring, + On their broad wings, release from this deep hell, + And that I shall have life yet upon earth, + Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath, + And meet the living races face to face. + + +NOON IN KENTUCKY + +[From the same] + + All day from the tulip-poplar boughs + The chewink's voice like a gold-bell rings, + The meadow-lark pipes to the drowsy cows, + And the oriole like a red rose swings, + And clings, and swings, + Shaking the noon from his burning wings. + + A flash of purple within the brake + The red-bud burns, where the spice-wood blows, + And the brook laughs low where the white dews shake, + Drinking the wild-haw's fragrant snows, + And flows, and goes + Under the feet of the wet, wood-rose. + + Odors of may-apples blossoming, + And violets stirring and blue-bells shaken-- + Shadows that start from the thrush's wing + And float on the pools, and swim and waken-- + Unslaken, untaken-- + Bronze wood-Naiads that wait forsaken. + + All day the lireodendron droops + Over the thickets her moons of gold; + All day the cumulous dogwood groups + Flake the mosses with star-snows cold, + While gold untold + The oriole pours from his song-thatched hold! + + Carol of love, all day in the thickets, + Redbird; warble, O thrush, of pain! + Pipe me of pity, O raincrow, hidden + Deep in the wood! and, lo! the refrain + Of pain, again + Shall out of the bosom of heaven bring rain! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[19] Copyright, 1894, by the Advocate Publishing Company. + + + + +LANGDON SMITH + + +Langdon ("Denver") Smith, maker of a very clever and learned poem, was +born in Kentucky, January 4, 1858. From 1864 to 1872 he attended the +public schools of Louisville. As a boy Smith served in the Comanche +and Apache Wars, and he was later a correspondent in the Sioux War. In +1894 Smith was married to Marie Antoinette Wright, whom he afterwards +memorialized in his famous poem, and who survived him but five weeks. +In the year following his marriage, he went to Cuba for _The New York +Herald_ to "cover" the conflict between Spain and Cuba; and three +years later he represented the New York _Journal_ during the +Spanish-American War. Smith was at the bombardment of Santiago and at +the battles of El Caney and San Juan. After the war he returned to New +York, in which city he died, April 8, 1908. He was the author of a +novel, called _On the Pan Handle_, and of many short stories, but his +poem, _Evolution_, made him famous. The first stanzas of this poem +were written in 1895; and four years later he wrote several more +stanzas. Then from time to time he added a line or more, until it was +completed. _Evolution_ first appeared in its entirety in the middle of +a page of want advertisements in the New York _Journal_. It attracted +immediate and wide notice, but copies of it were rather difficult to +obtain until it was reprinted in _The Scrap-Book_ for April, 1906, and +in _The Speaker_ for September, 1908. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909), is a + beautiful and fitting setting for this famous poem. In the + introduction to this edition Mr. Lewis Allen Browne brings + together the facts of Langdon Smith's life and work with many fine + words of criticism for the poem. In 1911 W. A. Wilde and Company, + the Boston publishers, issued an exquisite edition of _Evolution_. + Thus it will be seen that Smith and his masterpiece have received + proper recognition from the publishers and the public; the + judgment of posterity cannot be hurried; but that judgment can be + anticipated, at least in part. That it will be favorable, + characterizing _Evolution_ as one of the cleverest, smartest + things done by a nineteenth century American poet, the present + writer does not for a moment doubt. + + +EVOLUTION[20] + +[From _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909)] + + I + + When you were a tadpole and I was a fish, + In the Paleozoic time. + And side by side on the ebbing tide + We sprawled through the ooze and slime, + Or skittered with many a caudal flip + Through the depths of the Cambrian fen, + My heart was rife with the joy of life, + For I loved you even then. + + II + + Mindless we lived and mindless we loved, + And mindless at last we died; + And deep in a rift of the Caradoc drift + We slumbered side by side. + The world turned on in the lathe of time, + The hot lands heaved amain, + Till we caught our breath from the womb of death, + And crept into light again. + + III + + We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed, + And drab as a dead man's hand; + We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees, + Or trailed through the mud and sand, + Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet + Writing a language dumb, + With never a spark in the empty dark + To hint at a life to come. + + IV + + Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved, + And happy we died once more; + Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold + Of a Neocomian shore. + The eons came, and the eons fled, + And the sleep that wrapped us fast + Was riven away in a newer day, + And the night of death was past. + + V + + Then light and swift through the jungle trees + We swung in our airy flights, + Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms, + In the hush of the moonless nights. + And oh! what beautiful years were these, + When our hearts clung each to each; + When life was filled, and our senses thrilled + In the first faint dawn of speech. + + VI + + Thus life by life, and love by love, + We passed through the cycles strange, + And breath by breath, and death by death, + We followed the chain of change. + Till there came a time in the law of life + When over the nursing sod + The shadows broke, and the soul awoke + In a strange, dim dream of God. + + VII + + I was thewed like an Auroch bull, + And tusked like the great Cave Bear; + And you, my sweet, from head to feet, + Were gowned in your glorious hair. + Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave, + When the night fell o'er the plain, + And the moon hung red o'er the river bed. + We mumbled the bones of the slain. + + VIII + + I flaked a flint to a cutting edge, + And shaped it with brutish craft; + I broke a shank from the woodland dank, + And fitted it, head and haft. + Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn, + Where the Mammoth came to drink;-- + Through brawn and bone I drave the stone, + And slew him upon the brink. + + IX + + Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes, + Loud answered our kith and kin; + From west and east to the crimson feast + The clan came trooping in. + O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof, + We fought, and clawed and tore, + And cheek by jowl, with many a growl, + We talked the marvel o'er. + + X + + I carved that fight on a reindeer bone, + With rude and hairy hand, + I pictured his fall on the cavern wall + That men might understand. + For we lived by blood, and the right of might, + Ere human laws were drawn. + And the Age of Sin did not begin + Till our brutal tusks were gone. + + XI + + And that was a million years ago, + In a time that no man knows; + Yet here to-night in the mellow light, + We sit at Delmonico's; + Your eyes are as deep as the Devon springs, + Your hair is as dark as jet, + Your years are few, your life is new, + Your soul untried, and yet-- + + XII + + Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay, + And the scarp of the Purbeck flags, + We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones, + And deep in the Coraline crags; + Our love is old, our lives are old, + And death shall come amain; + Should it come to-day, what man may say + We shall not live again? + + XIII + + God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds + And furnished them wings to fly; + He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn, + And I know that it shall not die; + Though cities have sprung above the graves + Where the crook-boned men made war, + And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves, + Where the mummied mammoths are. + + XIV + + Then as we linger at luncheon here, + O'er many a dainty dish, + Let us drink anew to the time when you + Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[20] Copyright, 1909, by L. E. Bassett and Company. + + + + +WILL J. LAMPTON + + +William James Lampton ("Will J. Lampton"), founder of the "Yawp School +of Poetry," was born in Lawrence county, Ohio, May 27, 185-, within +sight of the Kentucky line. (Being a bachelor, like Henry Cleveland +Wood, he has hitherto declined to herald the exact date of his birth.) +His parents were Kentuckians and at the age of three years he was +brought to this State. His boyhood and youth was spent in the hills of +Kentucky. He was fitted at private schools in Ashland and Catletsburg, +Kentucky, for Ohio Wesleyan University, which he left for Marietta +College. In 1877 Mr. Lampton established the _Weekly Review_--spelled +either way!--at Ashland, Kentucky. Although he had had no prior +training in journalism, he wrote eleven columns for his first issue. +His was a Republican sheet, and the good Democrats of Boyd county saw +to it that it survived not longer than a year. From Ashland Mr. +Lampton went to Cincinnati and joined the staff of _The Times_. _The +Times_ was too rapid for him, however, and from Cincinnati he +journeyed to Steubenville, Ohio, to take a position on _The Herald_. +Mr. Lampton remained on that paper for three years, when he again came +to Kentucky to join the staff of the Louisville _Courier-Journal_. +Some time later his paper sent him to Cincinnati, which marked his +retirement from Kentucky journalism. It will thus be seen that he +"lapsed out of Kentucky for a time, and lapsed again at the close of +1882." Leaving Cincinnati he went to Washington and originated the now +well-known department of "Shooting Stars" for _The Evening Star_. For +some years past he has resided in New York, working as a "free-lance." +For a long time he contributed a poem almost every day to _The Sun_, +_The World_, or some other paper. In 1910 the governor of Kentucky +created the poet a real Kentucky colonel; and this momentous elevation +above earth's common mortals is heralded to-day upon his stationery. +Colonel Lampton, then, has published six books, the editions of three +of which are exhausted, and he is now happy to think that his works +are "rare, exceedingly scarce." The first of them, _Mrs. Brown's +Opinions_ (New York, 1886), was followed by his chief volume hitherto, +_Yawps and Other Things_ (Philadelphia, 1900). The "other things" were +poems, not yawps. Colonel Henry Watterson contributed a clever +introduction to the attractive volume; and another form of verse was +born and clothed. _The Confessions of a Husband_ (New York, 1903), was +a slight offset to Mary Adams's _The Confessions of a Wife_. Colonel +Lampton's other books are: _The Trolley Car and the Lady_ (Boston, +1908), being "a trolley trip from Manhattan to Maine;" _Jedge Waxem's +Pocket-Book of Politics_ (New York, 1908), which was "owned by Jedge +Wabash Q. Waxem, Member of Congress from Wayback," bound in the form +of an actual pocket-book; and his latest collection of cleverness, +_Tame Animals I Have Known_ (New York, 1912). The tall--and +bald!--Kentuckian lives at the French Y. M. C. A., New York, in order, +as he himself has said, "to give a Parisian tinge to his religion." +His "den" is a delight to Bohemians, a replica of many a country +newspaper office in Kentucky. He is one of the joys of life surely. +And though he has turned out almost as much as Miss Braddon, he can +recall but the four lines he wrote in 1900 upon Mr. James Lane Allen: + + "The Reign of Law"-- + Well, Allen, you're lucky; + It's the first time it ever + Rained law in Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (May, + 1902); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (November, 1907); _Lippincott's + Magazine_ (August, 1911). + + +THESE DAYS[21] + +[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (April, 1907)] + + Pray, + What is it to-day + That it should be worse than the early days? + Are the modern ways + Darker for all the light + That the years have shed? + Is the right + Dead-- + Under the wheels of progress + By the side of the road to success, + Bleeding and bruised and broken, + Left in forgetfulness? + Is truth + Stronger in youth + Than in age? Does it grow + Feeble with years, and move slow + On the path that leads + To the world's needs? + Does man reach up or down + To take the victor's crown + Of progress in science, art and commerce? + In all the works that plan + And purpose to accomplish + The betterment of man? + Does the soul narrow + With the broadening of thought? + Does the heart harden + By what the hand has wrought? + Who shall say + That decay + Marks the good of to-day? + Who dares to state + That God grows less as man grows great? + + +OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR[22] + +[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (September, 1908)] + + I builded a castle in the air, + A magical, beautiful pile, + As the wonderful temples of Karnak were, + By the thirsty shores of the Nile. + Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue, + Its walls were of burnished gold, + Which up from the caverns of ocean grew, + Where pearls lay asleep in the cold. + Its windows were gems with the glint and the gleam + Of the sun and the moon and the stars. + Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin's dream + Of the land of the deodars. + It stood as the work of a master, alone, + Whose marvelous genius had played + The music of heaven in mortar and stone + With the tools of his earthly trade. + I builded a castle in the air, + From its base to its turret crown; + I stretched forth my hand to touch it there + And the whole darn thing fell down. + + +CHAMPAGNE + +[From _The Bohemian_] + + Gee whiz, + Fizz, + You shine in our eyes + Like the stars in the skies; + You glint and gleam + Like a jeweled dream; + You sparkle and dance + Like the soul of France, + Your bubbles murmur + And your deeps are gold, + Warm is your spirit, + And your body, cold; + You dazzle the senses, + Dispelling the dark; + You are music and magic, + The song of the lark; + O'er all the ills of life victorious, + You touch the night and make it glorious. + But, say, + The next day? + Oh, go away! + Go away + And stay! + Gee whiz, + Fizz! ! ! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[21] Copyright, 1907, by the Pearson Publishing Company, New York. + +[22] Copyright, 1908, by the Pearson Publishing Co., New York. + + + + +MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO + + +Mrs. Mary Anderson de Navarro, the celebrated actress of the long ago, +and a writer of much ability, is a product of Kentucky, although she +happened to be born at Sacramento, California, July 28, 1859. When but +six months old she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and there her +girlhood days were spent. Miss Anderson was educated at the Ursuline +Convent and the Presentation Academy, two Roman Catholic institutions +of Louisville. At the age of seventeen years, or, on November 27, +1876, she made her _debut_ as _Juliet_ in "Romeo and Juliet," at +Macauley's Theatre, Louisville, and her "hit" was most decided, both +press and public agreeing that a brilliant career was before her. Miss +Anderson's superb figure, her glorious hair, her magnificent voice, +made her the great beauty she was, and thoroughly delightful. Leaving +Louisville for a tour of the principal cities of the country, she +finally arrived in New York, where she was seen in several +Shakespearian roles. Some time later she put on "Pygmalion and +Galatea," one of her greatest successes. In London Miss Anderson won +the hearts of the Britishers with "The Lady of Lyons," "Pygmalion and +Galatea," and other plays. Her second season on the stage saw a +gorgeous production of "Romeo and Juliet" in London, with the American +girl in her first role, _Juliet_. This "held the boards" for an +hundred nights. She returned to the United States, but she was soon +back in London, where "The Winter's Tale," her next play, ran for +nearly two hundred nights. Short engagements on the continent +followed, after which she came again to this country, and to her old +home, Louisville, which visit she has charmingly related in her +autobiography, _A Few Memories_ (London and New York, 1896), which +work Joseph Jefferson once declared would make permanent her stage +successes. From Louisville "Our Mary," as she was called by +Kentuckians, was seen in Cincinnati, from which city she went to +Washington, where she forever rang down the curtain upon her life as +an actress. That was in the spring of 1889, and in June of that year +she was married to Antonio F. de Navarro, since which event she has +resided in England. In recent years Mary Anderson, that was, has +visited in New York, but she has not journeyed out to Kentucky. In +1911 she collaborated in the dramatization of Robert Hichens's novel, +_The Garden of Allah_, and she was in New York for its _premier_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Few Memories_ is delightfully set down, and, + though the author made no especial claims as a writer, her book + will keep her fame green for many years; _McClure's Magazine_ + (July, 1908); _Harper's Weekly_ (January 9, 1909); _Century + Magazine_ (March, 1910). + + +LAZY LOUISVILLE[23] + +[From _A Few Memories_ (London, 1896)] + +After visiting many of the principal States, I was delighted to find +myself again in quaint, charming Louisville, Kentucky. Everything goes +along so quietly and lazily there that no one seems to change or grow +older. Having no rehearsals I used my first free time since I had left +the city soon after my _debut_ to see the places I liked best. Many of +my childhood's haunts were visited with our old nurse "Lou." At the +Ursuline Convent, with its high walls, where music had first cast a +veritable spell, and made a willing slave of me for life, most of the +nuns looked much the same, though I had not seen them in nineteen +years. The little window of the den where I had first resolved to go +upon the stage, was as bright and shining as ever; and I wondered, in +passing the old house, whether some other young and hopeful creature +were dreaming and toiling there as I had done so many years before. At +the Presentation Academy I found the latticed summer-house (where, as +a child, I had reacted for my companions every play seen at the +Saturday matinées, instead of eating my lunch) looking just as cool +and inviting as it did then. My little desk, the dunce-stool, +everything seemed to have a friendly greeting for me. Mother Eulalia +was still the Superioress, and in looking into her kind face and +finding so little change there, it seemed that the vortex I had lived +in since those early years was but a restless dream, and that I must +be a little child again under her gentle care. No one was changed but +myself. I seemed to have lived a hundred years since leaving the old +places and kindly faces, and to have suddenly come back again into +their midst (unlike Rip Van Winkle) to find them as I had left them. + +Many episodes, memorable to me, occurred in Louisville. Not the least +pleasant was Father Boucher's acknowledgment (after disapproving of my +profession for years) that my private life had not fallen under the +evils which, at the beginning, he feared to be inevitable from contact +with the theatre. Father Boucher was a dear old Frenchman, who had +known and instructed me in matters religious since my childhood. My +respect and affection for him had always been deep. When he condemned +my resolution to go upon the stage quite as bitterly as did my +venerated guardian, Pater Anton, my cup of unhappiness overflowed. All +my early successes were clouded by the alienation of such unique +friends. My satisfaction and delight may be imagined when, after years +of estrangement, Father Boucher met me with the same trust with which +he had honoured me as a child, and heartily gave me his blessing. + +It was also at Louisville that the highly complimentary "resolutions" +passed by the Senate of Kentucky, and unanimously adopted by that +body, were presented to me. They were the State's crowning expression +of goodwill to their grateful, though unworthy, country-woman. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[23] Copyright, 1896, by Osgood, McIlvaine and Company, London. + + + + +MARY R. S. ANDREWS + + +Mrs. Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews, short-story writer and novelist, +was born at Mobile, Alabama, in 1860, but she was brought to +Lexington, Kentucky, in September, 1861, when her father, Rev. Jacob +S. Shipman, an Episcopal clergyman, was chosen rector of Christ +Church. When six years old she was sent to Christ Church Seminary, the +church's school, conducted by Rev. Silas Totten and his daughters. One +of these daughters tells with a smile to-day that "May" Shipman's +first story, written at the age of seven, was upon her dog, "Shep." +When thirteen years of age she discovered that the older girls in the +school were studying French, when she was not, and she went to her +father with the request that she be permitted to join the class. But +the rector's question, "May, would you put in your furniture before +you built your walls?" sent her back to her Latin and mathematics +without further protest. She attended the school for eleven years, and +at it received her education, never having attended any other +institution. On November 26, 1877, when the future writer was +seventeen years of age, her father accepted the rectorship of Christ +Church, New York, and the family shortly afterwards removed to that +city. She has been in Kentucky but twice since: five years after her +departure, and about ten years ago. But that she has not forgotten her +Kentucky home is evinced in the signed copies of her books which have +found their way to the Blue Grass country and in her letters to +former friends. On the last day of December, 1884, Miss Shipman +married William Shankland Andrews, now associate justice of the +supreme court of New York. Mrs. Andrews spends her summers in the +Canadian woods, and the winters at her home in Syracuse, New York. Her +first novel, _Vive L'Empereur_ (New York, 1902), a story of the king +of Rome, was followed by _A Kidnapped Colony_ (New York, 1903), with +Bermuda as the background. _Bob and the Guides_ (New York, 1906), was +the experiences of a boy, "Bob," with the French guides of the +Canadian woods who pursue caribou. _A Good Samaritan_ (New York, +1906), has been called the best story ever printed in _McClure's +Magazine_, in which form it first appeared. _The Perfect Tribute_ (New +York, 1906), a quasi-true story of Lincoln and the lack of enthusiasm +with which the crowd received his Gettysburg speech, adorned with a +love episode at the end, is Mrs. Andrews's finest thing so far. This +little tale has made her famous, and stamped her as one of the best +American writers of the short-story. It was originally printed in +_Scribner's Magazine_ for July, 1906. Her other books are: _The +Militants_ (New York, 1907), a collection of stories, several of which +are set in Kentucky, and all of them inscribed to her father in +beautiful words; _The Better Treasure_ (Indianapolis, 1908), is a +charming Christmas story, with a moral attached; _The Enchanted Forest +and Other Stories_ (New York, 1909), a group of stories first told to +her son and afterwards set down for other people's sons; _The Lifted +Bandage_ (New York, 1910), a most unpleasant, disagreeable tale as may +well be imagined; _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911), a +yarn of Yale and her ways, one of the author's cleverest things; _The +Counsel Assigned_ (New York, 1912), another story of Lincoln, this +time as the young lawyer, is not greatly inferior to _The Perfect_ +_Tribute_. Mrs. Andrews's latest volume, _The Marshal_ (Indianapolis, +1912), is her first really long novel. It is a story of France, +somewhat in the manner of her first book _Vive L'Empereur_, but, of +course, much finer than that work of her 'prentice years. It has been +highly praised in some quarters, and rather severely criticized in +others. At any rate it has not displaced _The Perfect Tribute_ as her +masterpiece. That little story, with _A Good Samaritan_, _The Courage +of the Commonplace_, and _Crowned with Glory and Honor_, fairly +entitle Mrs. Andrews to the first and highest place among Kentucky +women writers of the short-story. She has attained a higher note in a +most difficult art than any other woman Kentucky has produced; and it +is only right and just that her proper position be allotted her in +order that she may occupy it; which she will do with a consensus of +opinion when her Kentucky life is more widely heralded. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _American Magazine_ (May, 1909); _Scribner's + Magazine_ (September, 1911; August, 1912). + + +THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT[24] + +[From _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911)] + +Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston "Tech." As his +class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father waiting for him. +He noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a +wonderful head--a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared +and cut down to the marrow of brains and force--a man to be seen in +any crowd. With that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the +spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him. The boy had +graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father's +eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing. + +"I didn't know you were coming, sir. That's mighty nice of you," he +said, as they walked down Boylston Street together, and his father +waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone. + +"I wouldn't have liked to miss it, Johnny," he said. "I don't remember +that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have +to-day." + +With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away, +looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere. +His father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he +said anything as intimate to any of his sons. They knew that the cold +manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected +to see the depths uncovered. But here he was, talking of what he felt, +of character, and honor, and effort. + +"I've appreciated what you have been doing," the even voice went on. +"I talk little about personal affairs. But I'm not uninterested; I +watch. I was anxious about you. You were a more uncertain quantity +than Ted and Harry. Your first three years at Yale were not +satisfactory. I was afraid you lacked manliness. Then came--a +disappointment. It was a blow to us--to family pride. I watched you +more closely, and I saw before that year ended that you were taking +your medicine rightly. I wanted to tell you of my contentment, but +being slow of speech, I--couldn't. So"--the iron face broke for a +second time into a whimsical grin--"so I offered you a motor. And you +wouldn't take it. I knew, though you didn't explain, that you feared +it would interfere with your studies. I was right?" Johnny nodded. +"Yes. And your last year at college was--was all I could wish. I see +now that you needed a blow in the face to wake you up--and you got it. +And you waked." The great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "I have +had"--he hesitated--"I have had always a feeling of responsibility to +your mother for you--more than for the others. You were so young when +she died that you seem more her child. I was afraid I had not treated +you right well--that it was my fault if you failed." The boy made a +gesture--he could not very well speak. His father went on: "So when +you refused the motor, when you went into engineers' camp that first +summer, instead of going abroad, I was pleased. Your course here has +been a satisfaction, without a drawback--keener, certainly, because I +am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, how well you were +doing, how much you were giving up to do it, how much power you were +gaining by that long sacrifice. I've respected you through these years +of commonplace, and I've known how much more courage it meant in a +pleasure-loving lad such as you than it would have meant in a serious +person such as I am--such as Ted and Harry are, to an extent, also." +The older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son such a +shining face as the boy had never seen. "That boyish failure isn't +wiped out, Johnny, for I shall remember it as the corner-stone of your +career, already built over with an honorable record. You've made good. +I congratulate and I honor you." + +The boy never knew how he got home. He knocked his shins badly on a +quite visible railing, and it was out of the question to say a single +word. But if he staggered, it was with an overload of happiness, and +if he was speechless and blind, the stricken faculties were paralyzed +with joy. His father walked beside him and they understood each other. +He reeled up the streets contented. + +That night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his father +turned and ordered fresh champagne opened. + +"We must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent of +the Oriel mine," he said. Johnny looked at him, surprised, and then at +the others, and the faces were bright with the same look of something +which they knew and he did not. + +"What's up?" asked Johnny. "Who's the superintendent of the Oriel +mine? Why do we drink to him? What are you all grinning about, +anyway?" The cork flew up to the ceiling, and the butler poured gold +bubbles into the glasses, all but his own. + +"Can't I drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked Johnny, and +moved his glass and glanced up at Mullins. But his father was beaming +at Mullins in a most unusual way, and Johnny got no wine. With that +Ted, the oldest brother, pushed back his chair and stood and lifted +his glass. + +"We'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to Johnny, "to the +gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent +of the Oriel mine, Mr. John Archer McLean," and they stood and drank +the toast. Johnny, more or less dizzy, more or less scarlet, crammed +his hands in his pockets and stared and turned redder, and brought out +interrogations in the nervous English which is acquired at our great +institutions of learning. + +"Gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. And "is this a merry jape?" +And "Why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow what's up your +sleeve?" While the family sipped champagne and regarded him. + +"Now, if I've squirmed for you enough, I wish you'd explain--father, +tell me!" the boy begged. + +And the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness, +interrupting freely. It seemed that the president of the big mine +needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and the latest ideas, +had written to the head of the Mining Department in the School of +Technology, to ask if he would give him the name of the ablest man in +the graduating class--a man to be relied on for character as much as +brains, he specified, for the rough army of miners needed a general at +their head almost more than a scientist. Was there such a combination +to be found, he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four, +such as would be graduating at the "Tech?" If possible, he wanted a +very young man--he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the athletic +tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the unmade reputation +which would look for its making to hard work in the mine. The letter +was produced and read to the shamefaced Johnny. "Gosh!" he remarked at +intervals, and remarked practically nothing else. There was no need. +They were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the boy +who had been a failure three years ago. + +On the urgent insistence of every one, he made a speech. He got to his +six-feet-two slowly, and his hand went into his trousers as usual. "Holy +mackerel," he began--"I don't call it decent to knock the wind out of a +man and then hold him up for remarks. They all said in college that I +talked the darnedest hash in the class, anyway. But you will have it, +will you? I haven't got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except +that I'll be blamed if I see how this is true. Of course I'm keen for +it--Keen! I should say I was! And what makes me keenest, I believe, is +that I know it's satisfactory to Henry McLean." He turned his bright +face to his father. "Any little plugging I've done seems like thirty +cents compared to that. You're all peaches to take such an interest, and +I thank you a lot. Me, the superintendent of the Oriel mine! Holy +mackerel!" gasped Johnny, and sat down. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[24] Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER + + +Mrs. Elvira (Sydnor) Miller Slaughter, the "Tatler" of _The Louisville +Times_ in the old days, and a verse-writer of considerable reputation, +was born at Wytheville, Virginia, October 12, 1860. When a child Miss +Miller was brought to Kentucky, as her mother had inherited money +which made necessary her removal to this State in order to obtain it. +She was educated at the Presentation Academy, in Louisville, by the +same nuns that had instructed Mary Anderson de Navarro, the famous +actress. She was subsequently gold medalist at a private finishing +school, but she still clings to the Catholicism instilled at the +Presentation Academy. Shortly after having left school Miss Miller +published her first and only book of poems, _Songs of the Heart_ +(Louisville, 1885), with a prologue by Douglass Sherley.[25] About +this time her parents lost their fortune, and she secured a position +on _The Louisville Times_, where she was trained by Mr. Robert W. +Brown, the present managing editor of that paper. After three years +of general reporting, Miss Miller became editor of "The Tatler +Column," and this she conducted for fourteen years with cleverness and +success, only resigning on the day of her marriage to Mr. W. H. +Slaughter, Jr. Her second book, _The Tiger's Daughter and Other +Stories_ (Louisville, 1889), is a group of fairy tales, several of +which are entertaining. _The Confessions of a Tatler_ (Louisville, +1905), is a booklet of the best things she did for her department on +_The Times_. She surely handled some men, women, books, and things in +this brochure in a manner that even he who runs may read +and--understand! From 1909 to 1912 she lived at Camp Dennison, near +Cincinnati, Ohio, but at the present time she is again at Louisville, +engaged in literary work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Dear Old Kentucky_, by G. M. Spears + (Cincinnati, 1900). + + +THE SOUTH AND SONG + +[From _The Midland Review_ (Louisville, Kentucky)] + + I.--THE SOUTH + + Spirit, whose touch of fire + Wakens the sleeping lyre-- + Thou, who dost flood with music heaven's dominions, + Where hast thou taken flight-- + Thou comfort, thou delight? + In what blest regions furled thy gloomy pinions, + Since from the cold North voices call to me: + "Thou South, thou South! Song hath abandoned thee!" + + + II.--VOICES + + We cry out on the air: + Thy palace halls are bare, + Shorn of the glory of the dream-gods' faces: + Thy sweetest strain were sung + When thy proud heart was young; + Fame hath no crowns, nay, nor no vacant places-- + So, all in vain, thy poet-songs awaken: + Thou serenadest casements long forsaken. + + Thy rivers proudly flow, + As in the long ago. + Like kings who lead their rushing hosts to battle: + Thy sails make white the seas-- + They fly before the breeze, + As o'er the wide plains fly storm-drifted cattle: + Laughter and light make beautiful thy portals, + Spurned by the bright feet of the lost immortals. + + What gavest thou to him + Whose fame no years may dim, + Song's great archangel, glorious, yet despairing-- + Who, o'er earth's warring noises + Heard Heaven's and Hell's great voices-- + Who, from his shoulders the rude mantle tearing, + Wrapt the thin folds about his dying wife, + The angel and the May-time of his life? + + And what to him whose name + Is consecrate to Fame-- + Whose songs before the winds of war were driven-- + Who swept his lute to mourn + That banner soiled and torn, + For which a million valiant hearts had striven-- + Who set God's cross high o'er the battling horde, + And sheltered neath its arms the lyre and sword? + + What gav'st thou that true heart + That shrined its dreams apart, + From want and care and sorrow evermore-- + Him, who mid dews and damp, + Burned out life's feeble lamp, + Striving to keep the wolf from out his door, + And while the land was ringing with his praise, + Slumbered in Georgia, tired and full of days? + + And what to him whose lyre, + Prometheus-like, stole fire + From heaven; whom sea and air gave fancies tender-- + Whose song, winged like the lark, + Died out in death's great dark; + Whose soul, like some bright star, clothed on in splendor, + Went trembling down the viewless fields of air, + Wafted by music and the breath of prayer? + + What gav'st thou these? A crust: + A coffin for their dust: + Neglect, and idle praise and swift forgetting-- + Stones when they asked for bread: + Green bays when they were dead-- + Who sang of thee from dawn till life's sun-setting, + And whose tired eyes, thank God! could never see + Thy shallow tears, thy niggard charity. + + Yet fair as is a night, + O strong, O darkly bright! + Thou shinest ever radiant and tender, + Drawing all hearts to thee, + As from the vassal sea + The waves are lifted by the moon's white splendor: + So poet strains awake, and fancies gleam + Like winds and summer lightning through thy dream. + + +SUNDOWN LANE + +[From _The Louisville Times_] + + Through a little lane at sundown in the days that used to be, + When the summer-time and roses lit the land, + My sweetheart would come singing down that leafy way to me + With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand. + Oh, I threw my arms about her as we met beside the way, + And her darling, curly head lay on my breast, + While she told me that she loved me in her simple, girlish way, + And then kisses that she gave me told the rest; + For a kiss is all the language that you wish from your sweetheart, + When you meet her in the gloaming there, so lonely and apart, + And she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + + Through a little lane at sundown we went walking hand in hand, + 'Mid the summer-time and roses long ago, + And the path that we were treading seemed to lead to fairyland, + The place where happy lovers long to go; + Oh, we talked about our marriage in the quiet, evening hush, + And I bent to whisper love words in her ear, + And her dainty pink sunbonnet was no pinker than her blush + For she thought the birds and flowers all might hear; + Oh, that dainty pink sunbonnet, bright in memory still it glows, + It hid her smiles and blushes as the young leaves veil the rose, + When she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me, + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + + Through a little lane at sundown I go roaming all forlorn, + Though the summer-time once more smiles o'er the land, + And the roses seem to ask me where their sister rose has gone + With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand. + But false friends came between us and I found out to my cost, + When I learned too late her sweetness and her truth, + That the love we hold the dearest is the love that we have lost, + With the roses and the fairyland of youth. + Now the flowers all bend above her through the long, bright + summer day, + And my heart grows homesick for her as she dreams the hours away, + She who set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[25] (George) Douglass Sherley, born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 27, +1857; educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and University +of Virginia; joined staff of the old Louisville _Commercial_; made +lecture tour with James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet; now resides +near Lexington, Kentucky. Author of: _The Inner Sisterhood_ +(Louisville, 1884); _The Valley of Unrest_ (New York, 1884); _Love +Perpetuated_ (Louisville, 1884); _The Story of a Picture_ (Louisville, +1884). Mr. Sherley has done much occasional writing since his four +books were published, which has appeared in the form of calendars, +leaflets, and in newspapers. + + + + +JOSEPH S. COTTER + + +Joseph Seaman Cotter, Kentucky's only negro writer of real creative +ability, was born near Bardstown, Kentucky, February 2, 1861. From his +hard day-labor, he went to night school in Louisville, and he has +educated himself so successfully that he is at the present time +principal of the Tenth Ward colored school, Louisville. Cotter has +published three volumes of verse, the first of which was _Links of +Friendship_ (Louisville, 1898), a book of short lyrics. This was +followed by a four-act verse drama, entitled _Caleb, the Degenerate_ +(Louisville, 1903). His latest book of verse is _A White Song and a +Black One_ (Louisville, 1909). Cotter's response to Paul Lawrence +Dunbar's _After a Visit_ to Kentucky, was exceedingly well done, but +his _Negro Love Song_ is the cleverest thing he has written hitherto. +His work has been praised by Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, Madison +Cawein, Charles J. O'Malley, and other excellent judges of poetry. +Cotter is a great credit to his race, and he has won, by his quiet, +unassuming life and literary labors, the respect of many of +Louisville's most prominent citizens. One of his admirers has ranked +his work above Dunbar's, but this rating is much too high for any +thing he has done so far. In the last year or two he has turned his +attention to the short-story, and his first collection of them has +just appeared, entitled _Negro Tales_ (New York, 1912). + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (November 14, 1909); _Lore of the + Meadowland_, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky, 1911). + + +NEGRO LOVE SONG[26] + +[From _A White Song and a Black One_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1909)] + + I lobes your hands, gal; yes I do. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + I lobes your earnings thro' an' thro'. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + Now, heah de truf. I'se mos' nigh broke; + I wants ter take you fer my yoke; + So let's go wed ter-morro'. + + Now, don't look shy, an' don't say no. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + I hope you don't expects er sho' + When we two weds ter-morro'. + I needs er licends--you know I do-- + I'll borrow de price ob de same frum you, + An' den we weds ter-morro'. + + How pay you back? In de reg'ler way. + When you becomes my honey + You'll habe myself fer de princ'pal pay, + An' my faults fer de inter's' money. + Dat suits you well? Dis cash is right. + So we two weds ter-morro' night, + An' you wuks all de ter-morro's. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[26] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + + + + +ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD + + +Ethelbert Dudley Warfield, historical writer, was born at Lexington, +Kentucky, March 16, 1861, the brother of Dr. Benjamin Breckinridge +Warfield, the distinguished professor in Princeton Theological Seminary. +President Warfield was graduated from Princeton, continued his studies +at the University of Oxford, and was graduated in law from Columbia +University, in 1885. He practiced law at Lexington, Kentucky, for two +years, when he abandoned the profession for the presidency of Miami +University, Oxford, Ohio. In 1891 he left Miami for the presidency of +LaFayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, where he has remained ever +since. In 1899 Dr. Warfield was ordained to the Presbyterian ministry. +He teaches history at LaFayette. Besides several interesting pamphlets +upon historical subjects, Dr. Warfield has published three books, the +first of which was _The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798: an Historical +Study_ (New York, 1887), his most important work so far. _At the Evening +Hour_ (Philadelphia, 1898), is a little book of talks upon religious +subjects; and his most recent volume, _Joseph Cabell Breckinridge, +Junior_ (New York, 1898), is the pathetic tale of the years of an early +hero of the Spanish-American war, graphically related. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (August, 1901); _The + Independent_ (December 25, 1902); _The Independent_ (July 13, + 1905). + + +CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS + +[From _The Presbyterian and Reformed Review_ (April, 1892)] + +Columbus is one of the few men who have profoundly changed the course +of history. He occupies a unique and commanding position, seeming to +stand out of contemporary history, and to be a force separate and +apart. He is the gateway to the New World. His career made a new +civilization possible. His achievement conditions the expansion and +development of human liberty. His position is simple but certain. His +figure is as constant and as inexorable as the ice floes which girdle +and guard the pole are to us, or as the sea of darkness which he +spanned was to his predecessors. He inserted a known quantity into the +hitherto unsolvable problem of geography, and not only rendered it +solvable, but afforded a key to a vast number of problems dependent +upon it, problems not merely geographical, but economical, +sociological and governmental as well. + +Yet in all this there mingles an element of error. Great events do not +come unanticipated and unheralded. + + "Wass Gott thut, das ist wohl gethan," + +sang Luther, knowing well that God hath foreordained from the +foundation of the world whatsoever cometh to pass. "In the fullness of +time" God does all things in His benign philosophy. In the fullness of +time man was set in the midst of his creation; in the fullness of time +Christ came; in the fullness of time God opened the portals of the west. + +If the Welsh were driven on our shores under Madoc, if the Norsemen came +and sought to found here "Vinland, the good," they did not light upon +the fullness of time. God had no splendid purpose for the Welsh; the +Northland force was needed to make bold the hearts of England, France, +and Italy, to unify the world with fellow-service in the Orient, to +break the bonds of feudalism, and to wing the sandals of liberty. As +Isaac Newton sat watching the apple fall in his garden, he was but +resting from the labor of gathering into his mind the labors of men who +had in this or that anticipated his discovery of the law of gravitation. +In all scientific advance many gather facts. One comes at length and in +a far-reaching synthesis arranges the facts of many predecessors around +some central truth and rises to some great principle. So generalizations +follow generalizations, and the field of truth expands in ever-widening +circles from the central fact of God's establishment. Columbus is not +like Melchisedec. He had antecedents--antecedents many and obvious. The +highest tribute we can pay him is to say that he fixed upon one of the +world's great problems, studied it in all its relations, embraced clear +and definite views upon it, and staked his all upon the issue; and that +not in a spirit of mere adventure, but of dedication to a noble purpose. +He gave to a speculative question reality, and thereby gave a hemisphere +to Christendom. + +But like the girl who admitted the Gauls to the Capitol at Rome in +return for "what they wore on their left arms," Columbus was +overwhelmed by the reward which he demanded for his services. Without +natural ability to command, and without experience, he demanded and +obtained a fatal authority. + + + + +EVELYN S. BARNETT + + +Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, a novelist of strength and promise, was +born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1861, the daughter of Charles +Scott Snead. On June 8, 1886, Miss Snead became the wife of Mr. Ira +Sayre Barnett, a Louisville business man. Mrs. Barnett was literary +editor of _The Courier-Journal_ for seven years, and her Saturday page +upon "Books and Their Writers" was carefully edited. She did a real +service for Kentucky letters in that she never omitted comment and +criticism upon the latest books of our authors, with an occasional +word upon the writers of the long ago. She was succeeded by the +present editor, Miss Anna Blanche Magill. Mrs. Barnett's first story, +entitled _Mrs. Delire's Euchre Party and Other Tales_ (Franklin, Ohio, +1895), the "other tales" being three in number, was followed by +_Jerry's Reward_ (Boston, 1902). These novelettes made clear the path +for the author's big novel, _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909), now in its +second edition. This is a great mystery story, one reviewer ranking it +with the best detective tales of the present-day school. The American +trusts and the hearts of women furnish the setting for _The Dragnet_, +which is bigger in promise than in achievement, and which bespeaks +even greater merit for Mrs. Barnett's new novel, now in preparation. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentuckians in History and Literature_, by J. W. + Townsend (New York, 1907); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE WILL[27] + +[From _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909)] + +Soon after their return, the Alexanders were forced to move to town. +Charles needed the time he had to spend on the road going to and fro, +and he was unwilling to put unnecessary hours of work on Trezevant, +who not only bore his share during the day, but was sleeping with one +eye open in a dingy corner of the shops. As the Dinsmore was +expensive, they rented a modern flat, with tiny rooms, but plenty of +sunlight. Constance knew they could save here, especially as Diana +still wished to make her home with them. + +Finally, the last day at Hillside came. + +Charles drove Diana and Lawson to town, to get things ready there, +leaving Constance to see the last load off, and to make sure that +everything was in good shape for the Clarks, who intended to take +possession in the spring. Constance went into every room, list in +hand, checking the things the new owners had purchased. Then she tried +the window bolts, and snapped the key in the lock of the front door. +She blew the horn for the brougham. The coachman came up. In a +business-like, everyday manner, she ordered him to drive to town, and, +getting in, without one look from the window, she left Hillside. + +When she arrived at the new home, she was pleased to find that Diana +and Lawson had arranged the furniture in the small rooms, and had a +dainty little luncheon awaiting. As she was sitting down to enjoy it, +her first visitor rang the bell--Aunt Sarah, just returned from the +East and the latest fashions, looking younger than ever, and with a +torrent of society gossip that was almost Sanscrit to Constance, +occupied so long with the realities. + +"What was your idea, Constance, in coming to this tiny place?" she +asked, when she had given a full account of the delights of her +summer. + +Constance hesitated, but only for a moment. "Economy," she said, +boldly. + +Aunt Sarah looked anxious. "My dear child, has your husband been +preaching? Don't let him fool you; they all try it. It's a trick. +Every now and then they think it their duty to cry hard times, when it +is no such thing. You go to scrimping and saving, like an obedient +wife, and the first thing you know he buys an automobile or a yacht, +or wants you to give a ball." + +Constance smiled. "But this is real, Aunt Sarah. You know we are +fighting a big trust, and while, eventually, we expect to win, we have +to be content with little or no profits for a few years." + +"Trusts! Profits! What difference do they make as long as you have a +steady income of your own?" + +Constance was debating with herself whether she ought to speak plainly +and have it out with the Parker pride then and there, or wait until +she were not quite so tired and unstrung, when she was happily spared +a decision by her aunt's switching off to another track. + +"Talking of money reminds me that I heard a piece of news to-day," she +said, lowering her voice in deference to Diana's presence behind thin +walls. "I heard that Horace Vendire made a will shortly after his +engagement to ---- and has left her millions." + +"Oh, aunt! I wonder if it is true! How dreadful it would be!" + +Aunt Sarah put up her jeweled lorgnette. "Constance Parker, what on +earth is the matter with you to-day? You seem to be getting everything +distorted, looking at the world upside down. It's that country +business--" she continued emphatically; "the very moment you developed a +fondness for that sort of life, I knew you were bound to grow careless +and indifferent in thoughts, ways, and opinions. People who love the +country always seem to think they have to sneer at civilization." + +Constance was too tired to argue, and too disturbed over the last +piece of gossip to explain; so she said weakly that she supposed she +had changed, and let the rest of the visit pass in banalities. + +The next day a little lawyer sprang a sensation by notifying those +whom it concerned that he held the last Will and Testament of Horace +Vendire, duly signed, attested, and sealed in his presence, a month +before the disappearance. + +Charles came to tell the two women. + +"No, no!" cried Diana: "It's a mistake! He did not intend it to stand!" + +"You surmise the contents of the will?" + +"If it was made only a month before he disappeared. Had he lived, he +would have altered it. I begged him to. Must I go to the meeting of +the heirs?" + +"I think it is best. Cheer up; there are many things worse than money. +Constance and I will go with you. Mr. James is back, and has asked us." + +So Diana went, and she could not have looked more terrified had she +been listening to the last trump, instead of to the smooth voice of a +young lawyer reading the bequests of her dead lover. + +The will was dated, July 26th, 1900. By it, Horace Vendire's life +insurance was left to his brother James, an annuity of five thousand +dollars to his mother, and an income of only three thousand a year to +his fiancée, Diana Frewe, as long as she remained unmarried. It was +evident to Charles that Vendire did not wish to give her enough to +help her friends. The residue, and, eventually, the principal, were to +be used in building and endowing the Horace Vendire Public Library in +the city of New York. + +In a codicil, he directed that his stock in the American Blade and +Trigger Company should be sold, the directors of that company being +given the option of buying it at par before it was offered elsewhere. + +Mr. James Vendire was the first to congratulate Diana. + +"Oh, don't!" she cried, shrinking from his proffered hand. "I cannot +bear it. It is yours; you must take it." She grew almost incoherent. + +Constance petted and soothed. "Be still, dear. Remember you are weak +and unstrung. We will go home now, and see what can be done later." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[27] Copyright, 1909, by B. W. Huebsch and Company. + + + + +JOHN PATTERSON + + +John Patterson, "a Greek prophet not without honor in his own American +land," was born near Lexington, Kentucky, June 10, 1861. He was +graduated from Kentucky State University in 1882; and the following +year Harvard granted him the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He took his +Master's degree from Kentucky University in 1886. The late Professor +John Henry Neville, one of Kentucky's greatest classical scholars, +first taught John Patterson Greek; and to his old professor he is +indebted for much of his success as a teacher of Greek and a +translator and critic of its literature. Professor Patterson's first +school after leaving Harvard was a private one for boys near Midway, +Kentucky; and he was for several years principal of the high school at +Versailles, Kentucky. His first book, _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, +1893), is his only really creative work so far. It contains several +fine poems and was widely admired at the time of its appearance. In +1894 Professor Patterson was made instructor of Greek in the +Louisville High School, which position he held for seven years. His +first published translation was _The Medea of Euripides_ (Louisville, +1894), which he edited with an introduction and notes. This was +followed by _The Cyclops of Euripides_ (London, 1900), perhaps his +finest work hitherto. In 1901 Kentucky University conferred the +honorary degree of Master of Literature upon Professor Patterson; and +in the same year he helped to establish the Patterson-Davenport school +of Louisville. In 1907 he became professor of Greek in the University +of Louisville; and since September, 1908, he has been Dean of the +College of Arts and Sciences of the University with full executive +powers, practically president. His institution granted him the +honorary degree of LL. D. in 1909. Doctor Patterson's latest work is a +translation into English of _Bion's Lament for Adonis_ (Louisville, +1909). At the present time he is engaged upon a critical edition of +the Greek text of the _Lament_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909), v. + ix; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A CLUSTER OF GRAPES[28] + +[From. _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, 1893)] + + Misty-purple globes, + Beads which brown autumn strings + Upon her robes, + Like amethyst ear-rings + Behind a bridal veil + Your veils of bloom their gems reveal. + + Mellow, sunny-sweet, + Ye lure the banded bee + To juicier treat, + Aiding his tipsy spree + With more dulcet wine + Than clover white or wild woodbine. + + Dripping rosy dreams + To me of happy hall + Where laughter trims + The lamps till swallow-call; + Of flowery cup and throng + Of men made gods in wit and song. + + Holding purer days + Your luscious fruitfulness, + When prayer and praise + The bleeding ruby bless, + And memory sees the blood + Of Christ, the Savior, God and good. + + Monks of lazy hills, + Stilling the rich sunshine + Within your cells, + Teach me to have such wine + Within my breast as this, + Of faith, of song, of happiness. + + +CHORAL ODE (ERIPIDES' MEDEA, LINES 627-662.) + +[From the same] + + The loves in excess bring nor virtue nor fame, + But if Cypris gently should come, + No goddess of heaven so pleasing a dame: + Yet never, O mistress, in sure passion steeped, + Aim at me thy gold bow's barbed flame. + + May temperance watch o'er me, best gift of the gods, + May ne'er to wild wrangling and strifes + Dread Cypris impel me soul-pierced with strange lust; + But with favoring eye on the quarrelless couch + Spread she wisely the love-beds of wives! + + Oh fatherland! Oh native home! + Never city-less + May I tread the weary path of want + Ever pitiless + And full of doom; + But on that day to death, to death be slave! + Without a country's worse than in a grave. + + Mine eye hath seen, nor do I muse + On other's history. + Nor home nor friend bewails thy nameless pangs.-- + Perish dismally + The fiend who fails + To cherish friends, turning the guileless key + Of candor's gate! Such friend be far from me! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[28] Copyright, 1893, by Robert Clarke and Company. + + + + +WILLIAM E. BARTON + + +William Eleazar Barton, novelist and theologian, was born at Sublette, +Illinois, June 28, 1861. He reached Kentucky for the first time on +Christmas Day of 1880, and matriculated as a student in Berea College, +where he spent the remainder of the college year of 1880-1881, and four +additional years. During two summers and autumns he taught school in +Knox county, Kentucky, then without a railroad, taking long rides to +Cumberland Gap, Cumberland Falls and other places which have since +appeared in his stories. The two remaining vacations he spent in travel +through the mountains, journeying by Ohio river steamer along the +northern counties, and by horseback far into the Kentucky hills in +various directions. In 1885 Mr. Barton graduated from Berea with the B. +S. degree; and three years later the same institution granted him M. S., +and, in 1890, A. M. He was ordained to the Congregational ministry at +Berea, Kentucky, June 6, 1885, and he preached for two years in southern +Kentucky and in the adjacent hills of east Tennessee, living at Robbins, +Tennessee. Mr. Barton's first book was a Kentucky mountain sketch, +called _The Wind-Up of the Big Meetin' on No Bus'ness_ (1887), now out +of print. This was followed by _Life in the Hills of Kentucky_ (1889), +depicting actual conditions. He became pastor of a church at Wellington, +Ohio, in 1890, and his next two works were church histories. Berea +College conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity upon Mr. +Barton in 1895; and he has been a trustee of the college for the last +several years. He was pastor of a church in Boston for six years, but +since 1899, he has been in charge of the First Congregational Church of +Oak Park, Illinois. Dr. Barton's other books are: _A Hero in Homespun_ +(New York, 1897), a Kentucky story, the first of his books that was +widely read and reviewed; _Sim Galloway's_ _Daughter-in-Law_ (Boston, +1897), the Kentucky mountains again, which reappear in _The Truth About +the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897); _The Story of a Pumpkin Pie_ +(Boston, 1898); _The Psalms and Their Story_ (Boston, 1898); _Old +Plantation Hymns_ (1899); _When Boston Braved the King_ (Boston, 1899); +_The Improvement of Perfection_ (1900); _The Prairie Schooner_ (Boston, +1900); _Pine Knot_ (New York, 1900), his best known and, perhaps, his +finest tale of Kentucky; _Lieut. Wm. Barton_ (1900); _What Has Brought +Us Out of Egypt_ (1900); _Faith as Related to Health_ (1901); +_Consolation_ (1901); _I Go A-Fishing_ (New York, 1901); _The First +Church of Oak Park_ (1901); _The Continuous Creation_ (1902); _The Fine +Art of Forgetting_ (1902); _An Elementary Catechism_ (1902); _The Old +World in the New Century_ (1902); _The Gospel of the Autumn Leaf_ +(1903); _Jesus of Nazareth_ (1904); _Four Weeks of Family Worship_ +(1906); _The Sweetest Story Ever Told_ (1907); with Sydney Strong and +Theo. G. Soares, _His Last Week, His Life, His Friends, His Great +Apostle_ (1906-07); _The Week of Our Lord's Passion_ (1907); _The +Samaritan Pentateuch_ (1906); _The History and Religion of the +Samaritans_ (1906); _The Messianic Hope of the Samaritans_ (1907); _The +Life of Joseph E. Roy_ (1908); _Acorns From an Oak Park Pulpit_ (1910); +_Pocket Congregational Manual_ (1910); _Rules of Order for +Ecclesiastical Assemblies_ (1910); _Bible Classics_ (1911); and _Into +All the World_ (1911). Since 1900 Dr. Barton has been on the editorial +staff of _The Youth's Companion_. The _locale_ of his novels was down on +the Kentucky-Tennessee border, amid ignorance and poverty--a background +upon which no other writer has painted. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (November, 1900); _The Independent_ (July 7, 1910). + + +A WEARY WINTER[29] + +[From _The Truth About the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897)] + +The winter came and went, and the breach only widened with the +progress of the months. The men dropped all pretense of religious +observance. They grew more and more taciturn and sullen in their +homes. They cared less and less for the society of their neighbors, +and as they grew more miserable they grew more uncompromising. When +little Ike was sick and Jane going to the spring just before dinner +found a gourd of chicken broth, so fresh and hot that it had evidently +been left but a few minutes before, she knew how it had come there, +and hastened to the house with it. But Larkin saw the gourd and at a +glance understood it, and asked,-- + +"Whar'd ye git that ar gourd? Whose gourd is that?" and snatching it +from her, he took it to the door and flung it with all his might. +Little Ike cried, for the odor of the broth had already tempted his +fickle appetite, and Larkin bribed him to stop crying with promises of +candy and all other injurious sweetmeats known to children of the +Holler. But when the illness proved to be a sort of winter cholera +terminating in flux, he was glad to maintain official ignorance of a +bottle of blackberry cordial which also was left at the spring, and +which proved of material benefit in the slow convalescence of Ike. + +It was thought, at first, that Captain Jack Casey would be able to +effect a reconciliation between the men. He was respected in the +Holler, and was often useful in adjusting differences between +neighbors. He was a justice of the peace, for that matter, and had the +law behind him. But his military title and his reputation for fair +dealing gave him added authority. + +He was the friend of both men, and had known them both in the army. He +was Eph's brother-in-law, beside, and their wives' friendship, like +their own, dated from that prehistoric period, "before the war." + +But even Captain Jack failed to move either of the two enraged +neighbors. + +Brother Manus made several ineffectual attempts at a reconciliation, +but at last gave up all hope. + +"I'll pray fur 'em," he said, "but I cyant do no more." + +Great was his professed faith in prayer; it may be doubted whether +this admission did not indicate in his mind a desperate condition of +affairs. + +But there was one person who could never be brought to recognize the +breach between the families. Shoog made her frequent visits back and +forth unhindered. To be sure, Ephraim tried to prevent her. He scolded +her; he explained to her, and once he even whipped her. But while she +seemed to understand the words he spoke, and grieved sorely over her +punishments, she could not get through her mind the idea of an +estrangement, and at length they gave up trying to have her +understand. So, almost daily, when the weather permitted, Shoog +crossed the foot log, and wended her way across the bottoms to Uncle +Lark's. Larkin at first attempted to ignore her presence, but the +attempt failed, and she was soon as much in his arms and heart as she +had ever been; and many prayers and good wishes went with her back and +forth, as Jane and Martha saw her come and go, and often went a piece +with her, though true to their unspoken parole of honor to their +husbands, speaking no word to each other. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[29] Copyright, 1897, by the Author. + + + + +BENJ. H. RIDGELY + + +Benjamin Howard Ridgely, short-story writer, was born at Ridgely, +Maryland, July 13, 1861. In early childhood he was brought to Woodford +county, Kentucky, where he grew to manhood. He was educated in private +schools and at Henry Academy. He studied law but abandoned it for +journalism. Ridgely removed to Louisville in 1877 to accept a position +on _The Daily Commercial_, which later became _The Herald_. He went with +_The Courier-Journal_ and in a short time he was made city editor. +Ridgely left _The Courier-Journal_ to establish _The Sunday Truth_, of +which he was editor, with his friend, Mr. Young E. Allison, as +associate editor. President Cleveland, urged by Col. Henry Watterson and +other leading Democrats, appointed Ridgely consul to Geneva, +Switzerland, on June 20, 1892, which post he held for eight years. Being +able to speak French and Spanish fluently, he was well fitted for the +consular service. On May 8, 1900, President McKinley transferred Ridgely +to Malaga, Spain, where he remained for two years, when he was again +transferred, this time going to Nantes, France, where he also staid for +two years. President Roosevelt sent Ridgely to Barcelona, Spain, on +November 3, 1904, as consul-general. He resided at that delightful place +until March, 1908, when he was made consul-general to Mexico, with his +residence at Mexico City. Ridgely died very suddenly at Monterey, +Mexico, on October 9, 1908. His body was brought back to Kentucky and +interred in Cave Hill cemetery, Louisville; and there he sleeps to-day +with no stone to mark the spot. Ridgely's reports to the state +department are now recognized as papers of importance, but is upon his +short-stories and essays that he is entitled to a place in literature. +His stories of consular life, set amid the changing scenes of his +diplomatic career, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's +Magazine_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, _Scribner's_, _The Strand_, _The +Pall Mall Magazine_, and elsewhere. Writing a miniature autobiography in +1907 he set himself down as the author of a volume of short-stories, +which, he said, bore the imprint of The Century Company, New York, were +entitled _The Comedies of a Consulate_, and, strangest thing of all, +were published two years prior to the time he was writing, or, in 1905! +It is indeed too bad that his alleged publishers fail to remember having +issued his book, for one would be worth while. What a castle in Spain +for this spinner of consular yarns! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1908-1909); _The + Courier-Journal_ (Louisville, October 10, 1908). + + +A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT[30] + +[From _The Man the Consul Protected_ (_Century Magazine_, January, +1905)] + +Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield of Kentucky was an amiable and +kindly man of fifty, with the fluent speech and genial good breeding +of a typical Blue-grass gentleman. In appearance and dress he was +still an ante-bellum Kentuckian, with a weakness for high-heeled +boots, long frock-coats, and immaculate linen. When he said, "Yes, +sah," or "No, sah," it was like a breath right off the old plantation. +It should be added that he was a bachelor and a Mugwump. + +Being a Kentuckian, he was naturally a colonel; though, as a matter of +fact, it was due solely to the courtesy of the press and the amiable +custom of the proud old commonwealth that he possessed his military +title. Nor had the genial colonel been otherwise a brilliant success +in life. Indeed, I am pained to recite that he had achieved in his +varied professional career only a sort of panorama of failures. He had +failed at the bar, failed in journalism, failed as a real-estate +broker, and, having finally taken the last step, had failed as a +life-insurance agent. In this emergency his relatives and friends +hesitated as to whether they should run him for Congress or unload him +on the consular service. His younger brother, who was something of a +cynic, insisted that Gillespie was fitted by intelligence to be only a +family physician; but it was finally decided at a domestic council +that he would particularly ornament the consular service. In pursuance +of this happy conclusion, an organized onslaught was made upon the +White House. The President yielded, and one day the news came that +Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield had been appointed consul of +the United States to Esperanza. + +It is needless to suggest that Colonel Warfield took himself very +seriously in his new official capacity. It had not occurred to him, +however, that his consular mission was rather a commercial than a +patriotic one: he believed that he was going abroad to see that the +flag of his country was treated with respect, and to protect those of +his fellow-countrymen who in any emergency might have need of the +services of an astute and fearless diplomat. In fact, the feeling +that his chief official function was to be that of a sort of +diplomatic protecting angel took such possession of him that he +assumed a paternal attitude toward the whole country. Thus, bursting +with patriotism, he set sail one day from New York for Gibraltar, and +was careful during the voyage to let it be understood on shipboard +that if anybody needed protection he stood ready to run up the flag +and make the eagle scream violently. + +Esperanza lies just around the corner from Gibraltar, and nowhere along +all the Iberian littoral of the Mediterranean is the sky fairer or the +sun more genial. The fertile _vega_ stretches back to the foot-hills of +the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Across the blue-sea way lies Morocco. It +is a picturesque and beautiful spot, and if the consul be a dreamer, he +may find golden hours for reverie. But I fear that neither the poetry +nor the picturesqueness of the entourage appealed to Consul Warfield as +he reached Esperanza that blazing September morning. He was more +impressed with the shrill noises of the foul and shabby streets; with +the dust that was upon everything, giving even to the palm-trees in the +_parque_ a gray and dreary look; with the flies that seemed to be +hunting their prey in swarms like miniature vultures; with the +uncompromising mosquitos singing shrilly for blood, and the bold, busy +fleas that held no portion of his official person sacred. + +The colonel was a buoyant man, but his exuberant soul felt a certain +sinking that hot morning. It was a busy moment at Esperanza, and not +much attention was paid to the new consul at the crowded Fonda +Cervantes, whither, after a turbulent effort, he had persuaded his +_cochero_ to conduct him. He had been much disappointed that the +vice-consul was not on hand to receive him at the railway station. The +fact is, the consul had thought rather earnestly of a committee and a +brass band at the depot, and the complete lack of anything akin to a +reception had been something of a shock to his official and personal +vanity. However, he was not easily discouraged, and after having +convinced the proprietor of the fonda that he was the new American +consul, and therefore entitled to superior consideration, he set out +to find the consulate. + +He found it in a narrow little street that went twisting back from +the quay toward the great dingy cathedral, and certainly it was not +what his imagination had fondly pictured it. He had thought of a fine +old Moorish-castle sort of house, with a great carved door opening +into a spacious _patio_, splendid with Arabic columns, and in the +background a broad marble staircase leading up to the consulate. He +had expected to see the flag of his country flying in honor of his +arrival, and a uniformed soldier on duty at the entrance, ready to +present arms and stand at attention when the new consul appeared. + +As a matter of fact, there was a very narrow little door opening into +a very narrow little hallway that ran through the center of a very +narrow, squalid little house. Over the doorway was perched the +consular coat of arms. It was the poorest, dingiest, dustiest little +escutcheon that ever bore so pretentious a device. + +The dingy gilt letters were almost invisible, but the colonel managed +to make them out. He could also see that the figure in the center of +the shield was intended to represent a proud and haughty eagle-bird in +the act of screaming; but the poor old eagle had been so rained upon +and so shone upon, and the dust had gathered so heavily upon him, that +he looked like a mere low-spirited reminiscence of the famous +_Haliaëtus leucocephalus_ which he was originally meant to represent. + +Colonel Warfield of Kentucky was not discouraged. Being, as I have +said, a buoyant man, he simply remarked to himself: "I'll have that +disreputable-looking fowl taken down and painted." Then he walked on +into the squalid little consulate. + +An old man with shifty little blue eyes; a thin, keen face; long, +straggling gray hair; and a long, thin tuft of gray beard, which +looked all the more straggling and wretched because of the absence of +an accompanying mustache, sat at a table reading a Spanish newspaper. +This was Mr. Richard Brown of Maine, "clerk and messenger" to the +United States consulate, who drew the allowance of four hundred +dollars a year, and was the recognized bulwark of official Americanism +at Esperanza. For forty years, during all the vicissitudes of war and +politics, Richard Brown had sat at his desk in the shabby little +consulate, watching the procession of American consuls come and go, +doing nearly all the clerical work of the office himself, and +contemplating with cynical delight the tortuous efforts of the +various untrained new officers to acquaint themselves with their +duties and the language of the post. + +In his affiliations he had become entirely Spanish, having acquired a +fluent knowledge of the language and a wide acquaintance with the +people and their ways. None the less, in his speech and appearance he +remained a typical down-east Yankee, and it is said at Esperanza that +his one conceit was to look like the popular caricature of Uncle Sam. +In this it is not to be denied that he succeeded. The "billy-goat" +beard; the lantern-jaw; the thin, long hair; the thin, long arms; and +the thin, long legs--these he had as if modeled from the caricature. +And the nasal twang and the down-east dialect--alas! it would have +filled the average melodramatic English novelist's devoted soul with +untold satisfaction and delight to hear Richard Brown say "Wal" and "I +gaiss," and otherwise mutilate the English language. + +To the Spaniards he was known as Don Ricardo. The small Anglo-American +colony at Esperanza referred to him as "old Dick Brown." He was a +cynical, crusty, sour old man, who had become a sort of consular +heirloom at Esperanza, and without whose knowledge and assistance no +new American consul could at the outset have performed the simplest +official duty. Knowing this, Richard Brown felt a very well-developed +sense of his own importance, and looked upon each of his newly arrived +superiors with ill-concealed contempt. + +There was also a vice-consul at Esperanza; but as he was a busy +merchant, who could find time to sign only such papers as old Brown +presented to him in the absence of the consul, he was seen little at +the consulate. He generally knew when a new consul was coming along or +an old consul going away, but in this instance Brown had failed to +advise him either of Major Ransom's departure or of Colonel Warfield's +arrival. Thus it happened that only the amiable Mr. Brown was on hand +when Colonel Warfield came perspiring upon the scene on the warm +morning in September of which we write. + +"Come in," he said sharply, as the consul hesitated upon the +threshold. "What's your business?" + +Colonel Warfield gave Mr. Brown a look that would have completely +withered an ordinary person, but which was entirely lost upon the old +man in question, and with magnificent dignity handed him the following +card: + + COLONEL G. WITHERSPOON WARFIELD, + Consul of the United States of America. + ESPERANZA. + +Mr. Richard Brown looked the card over carefully. + +"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a major; the +one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' but soldiers to +send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? Are you a real colonel or +jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a colonel on the governor's +staff? There's your office over there on the other side of the hall. +Kin you speak Spanish?" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[30] Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company. + + + + +ZOE A. NORRIS + + +Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born at +Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. Henry T. +Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky towns. She was +graduated from Daughters, now Beaumont, College, when she was +seventeen years of age, or in 1878; and two days later she married +Spencer W. Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, to +live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband and went to +New York to make a name for herself in literature. She began with a +Western story, _Georgiana's Mother_, which appeared in George W. +Cable's magazine, _The Symposium_. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris +went to England--"like an idiot," as she now puts it. In London she +"got swamped among the million thieving magazines, threw up the whole +job," and traveled for two years on the Continent, writing for +American periodicals. When she returned to New York she again wrote +for _McClure's_, _Cosmopolitan_, _The Smart Set_, _Everybody's_, and +several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's first novel, _The Quest of +Polly Locke_ (New York, 1902) was a story of the poor of Italy. It was +followed by her best known novel, _The Color of His Soul_ (New York, +1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, and suppressed +two weeks after its publication because of the earnest objections of a +young Socialist, who had permitted the author to make a type of him, +and, when the story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was +not sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, and +withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other publishers, and +she could not find any one to print her writings. A short time later +Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped dying as a charity patient in a New York +hospital. When she did recover she worked for two years on _The Sun_, +_The Post_, _The Press_, and several other newspapers in Manhattan. +_Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories_ (New York, 1905), which were +originally printed in _The Sun_, "describing scenes and incidents in a +Kentucky Colonel's life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by +Phil B. Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The stories have +enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to issue another set of them +shortly. Being badly treated by a well-known magazine, she became so +infuriated that she decided to establish--at the suggestion of Marion +Mills Miller--a magazine of her own. Thus _The East Side_, a little +thing not so large--speaking of its physical size--as Elbert Hubbard's +_The Philistine_, was born. That was early in 1909; and it has been +issued every other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not +original; her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The +four bound volumes of _The East Side_ lie before me now, and they are +almost bursting with love, sympathy, and understanding for the poor of +New York. She has been and is everything from printer's "devil" to +editor-in-chief, but she has made a success of the work. Her one +eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested all her +life. For the last seven years she has lived among them; and among +them she hopes to spend the remainder of her days. Her one best friend +has been William Oberhardt, the artist, who has illustrated _The East +Side_ from its inception until the present time. To celebrate the +little periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded--at the +suggestion of Will J. Lampton--The Ragged Edge Klub, which is composed +of her friends and subscribers, and which gave her an opportunity to +meet all of her "distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's +dinners delight the diners--and the newspapers! Mrs. Norris's latest +novel, _The Way of the Wind_ (New York, 1911), is a story of the +sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, and is generally regarded as her +finest work. So long as _Zoe's Magazine_--which is the sub-title of +_The East Side_--continues to come from the press, the pushcart +people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood +women, the homeless of New York's great East Side will have a voice in +the world worth having. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (September, 1909); + _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1910). + + +THE CABARET SINGER[31] + +[From _The East Side_ (September, 1912)] + +For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and violin, +held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret singer +stepped out upon the soft, red carpet. + +Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap with his +wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring glances at the +singer. + +She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her long, soft +glance, selecting her victim for the chorus. + +She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband, pressed her +rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to sing. + +The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in this +delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret singer, leaving +him, went from one to the other of the men, some bald, some young, +singing the chorus of "Daddy." + +The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed the +singer. + +"Shall we go home?" she asked presently. + +"Not yet!" he implored. + +"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying +for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home." + +The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw +herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began +to cry softly. + +The negress patted her white shoulder. + +"What's de mattah, honey," she purred. + +"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am +sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to +go home!" + + +IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS + +[From the same] + + I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life, + I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife, + I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain, + If I could go back and be little again, + I'd like it. + + I'm tired of the day that must end in the night, + I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light, + I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain, + If I could be rocked in a cradle again, + I'd like it. + + But tired or not, we must keep up the fight, + We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night, + Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain, + Be brave in the dark and endure the pain; + For we'll never, never be little again, + And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again, + Tho we'd most of us like it. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[31] Copyright, 1912, by the Author. + + + + +LUCY CLEAVER McELROY + + +Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very +characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on +Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W. +Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the +schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married +to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs. +McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to +become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a +success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to _The +Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and other +newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, _Answered_ +(Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics. +The first book she published that won a wide reading was _Juletty_ (New +York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners, +fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with +"whiskey-colored eyes," make the _motif_. _Juletty_ was followed by _The +Silent Pioneer_ (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent +pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out +of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy +died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she +called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (May, 1901); _Library of Southern + Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv). + + +OLD ALEC HAMILTON[32] + +[From _Juletty_ (New York, 1901)] + +"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a +curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts. + +"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle +at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the +brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a +dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect +it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and +snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion +they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of +some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of +college training and after association with negroes and illiterate +neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities, +and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my +grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had +expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm--three thousand +broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres +always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the +heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever +flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession +for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit +as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little +natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead +a few weeks and--well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of +conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was +not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was +midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes, +outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly: + +"'Who are you?' + +"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly. + +"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered. + +"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his +lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing +daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news: + +"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!' + +"'What yer want here?' + +"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered quiveringly. + +"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared. + +"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than ever +before or since, I turned and ran from him. + +"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong arms, his +tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops on my face, while +he mumbled through his sobs: + +"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? Eliza's +son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome than sunshine +after a storm. Never mind what grandfather says, little man; just +always remember he loves you like a son.' + +"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all at once +his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, he cried: 'Thar, +yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter carry yer eround like +er nigger? Use yer own legs and find yer grandmother.' + +"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I had seen his +heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a gentleman, do what +he might to hide it." + +The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my rambling, +reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my grandsire. + +"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried. + +"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren County came +out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, 'My God, man, don't +you wish ugliness was above par? You'd be er Croesus.'" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[32] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +MARY F. LEONARD + + +Miss Mary Finley Leonard, maker of many tales for girls, was born at +Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 11, 1862, but she was brought to +Louisville, Kentucky, when but a few months old. Louisville has been her +home ever since. Miss Leonard was educated in private schools, and at +once entered upon her literary labors. She has published ten books for +girls from fourteen to sixteen years of age, but several of them may be +read by "grown-ups." The style of all of them is delightfully simple and +direct. _The Story of the Big Front Door_ (New York, 1898), was her +first story, and this was followed by _Half a Dozen Thinking Caps_ (New +York, 1900); _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901); _The Spectacle +Man_ (Boston, 1901); _Mr. Pat's Little Girl_ (Boston, 1902); _How the +Two Ends Met_ (New York, 1903); _The Pleasant Street Partnership_ +(Boston, 1903); _It All Came True_ (New York, 1904); _On Hyacinth Hill_ +(Boston, 1904); and her most recent book, _Everyday Susan_ (New York, +1912). These books have brought joy and good cheer to girls in many +lands, and they have been read by many mothers and fathers with pleasure +and profit. Miss Leonard has made for herself a secure place in the +literature of Kentucky, a place that is peculiarly her own. She has a +novel of mature life in manuscript, which is said to be the finest thing +she has done so far, and which will be published in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (March, 1900); _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +GOODBY[33] + +[From _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901)] + +Trolley sat on the gate-post. If possible he was handsomer than ever, +for the frosty weather had made his coat thick and fluffy, besides +this he wore his new collar. His eyes were wide open to-day, and he +looked out on the world with a solemn questioning gaze. + +He had been decidedly upset in his mind that morning at finding an +open trunk in Caro's room, and clothes scattered about on chairs and +on the bed. Of course he did not know what this meant, but to the cat +mind anything unusual is objectionable, and it made him unhappy. +Finally he stretched himself in the tray, where Caro found him. + +"You darling pussie!" she cried, "Mamma do look at him. I believe he +wants to go home with us. I wish we could take him." + +But Mrs Holland said one little girl was all the traveling companion +she cared for. "It wouldn't do dear, he would be unhappy on the +train," she added. + +"I don't know what I should have done without him. He and my candle +were my greatest comforts--except grandpa," and Caro put her cheek +down on Trolley's soft fur. + +"What am I to do without my little candle?" her grandfather asked. + +"Why, you can have the cat," Caro answered merrily. + +No wonder Trolley's mind was disturbed that morning with such a coming +and going as went on,--people running in to say goodby, and Aunt +Charlotte thinking every few minutes of something new for the traveler's +lunch, tickling his nose with tantalizing odors of tongue and chicken. + +It was over at last, trunks and bags were sent off, Aunt Charlotte was +hugged and kissed and then Trolley had his turn, and the procession +moved, headed by the president. + +"Goodby Trolley; don't forget me!" Caro called, walking backwards and +waving her handkerchief. + +When they were out of sight Trolley went and sat on the gate-post and +thought about it. After a while he jumped down and trotted across the +campus with a businesslike air as if he had come to an important +decision. He took his way through the Barrows orchard to the Grayson +garden where there was now a well-trodden path through the snow. + +Miss Grayson and her brother were sitting in the library. They had +been talking about Caro when Walter glancing toward the window saw a +pair of golden eyes peering in at him. "There is Trolley," he said, +and called Thompson to let him in. + +Trolley entered as if he was sure of a welcome, and walking straight +to Miss Elizabeth, sprang into her lap; and from this on he became a +frequent visitor at the Graysons' dividing his time in fact about +evenly between his two homes. + +And thus an unfortunate quarrel which had disturbed the peaceful +atmosphere of Charmington and separated old friends, was forgotten, +and as the president often remarked, it was all owing to the candle +and the cat. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[33] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER + + +Joseph Alexander Altsheler, the most prolific historical novelist +Kentucky has produced, was born at Three Springs, Kentucky, April 29, +1862. He was educated at Liberty College, Glasgow, Kentucky, and at +Vanderbilt University. His father's death compelled him to leave +Vanderbilt without his degree, and he entered journalism at Louisville, +Kentucky. Mr. Altsheler was on the Louisville _Evening Post_ for a year, +when he went with _The Courier-Journal_, with which paper his remained +for seven years. During his years on _The Courier-Journal_ he filled +almost every position except editor-in-chief. He later went to New York, +and, since 1892, has been editor of the tri-weekly edition of _The +World_. Mr. Altsheler was married, in 1888, to Miss Sara Boles of +Glasgow, Kentucky, and they have an attractive home in New York. He +began his literary career with a pair of "shilling shockers," entitled +_The Rainbow of Gold_ (New York, 1895), and _The Hidden Mine_ (New York, +1896), neither of which did more than start him upon his real work. The +full list of his tales hitherto is: _The Sun of Saratoga_ (New York, +1897); _A Soldier of Manhattan_ (New York, 1897); _A Herald of the West_ +(New York, 1898); _The Last Rebel_ (Philadelphia, 1899); _In Circling +Camps_ (New York, 1900), a story of the Civil War and his best work so +far; _In Hostile Red_ (New York, 1900), the basis of which was first +published in _Lippincott's Magazine_ as "A Knight of Philadelphia;" _The +Wilderness Road_ (New York, 1901); _My Captive_ (New York, 1902); +_Guthrie of the Times_ (New York, 1904), a Kentucky newspaper story of +success, one of Mr. Altsheler's finest tales; _The Candidate_ (New York, +1905), a political romance. The year 1906 witnessed no book from the +author's hand, but in the following year he began the publication of a +series of books for boys, as well as several other novels. His six +stories for young readers are: _The Young Trailers_ (New York, 1907); +_The Forest Runners_ (New York, 1908); _The Free Rangers_ (New York, +1909); _The Riflemen of the Ohio_ (New York, 1910); _The Scouts of the +Valley_ (New York, 1911); and _The Border Watch_ (New York, 1912). "All +the six volumes deal with the fortunes and adventures of two boys, Henry +Ware and Paul Cotter, and their friends, Shif'less Sol Hyde, Silent Tom +Ross and Long Jim Hart, in the early days of Kentucky." Mr. Altsheler's +latest historical novels are: _The Recovery_ (New York, 1908); _The Last +of the Chiefs_ (New York, 1909); _The Horsemen of the Plains_ (New York, +1910); and _The Quest of the Four_ (New York, 1911). He is at the +present time engaged upon a trilogy dealing with the Texan struggle for +independence against Mexico, the first of which has recently appeared, +_The Texan Star_ (New York, 1912). This tale, with the other two that +are to be issued in 1913, to be entitled, _The Texan Scouts_, and _The +Texan Triumph_, are written chiefly for the young. He will also publish +in 1913 a story to be called _Apache Gold_. "Joseph A. Altsheler has +made a fictional tour of American history," one of his keenest critics +has well said; and his work has been linked with James Fenimore Cooper's +by no less a judge of literary productions than the late Richard Henry +Stoddard. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Independent_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (February, 1903). + + +THE CALL OF THE DRUM[34] + +[From _In Circling Camps_ (New York, 1900)] + +Then I listened to the call of the drum. + +Fort Sumter was fired upon, and the first cannon shot there set this +war drum to beating in every village; it was never silent; its steady +roll day after day was calling men up to the cannon mouth; it was +persistent, unsatisfied, always crying for more. + +Its beat was heard throughout a vast area, over regions whose people +knew of each other as part of the same nation but had never met, calling +above this line to the North, calling below it to the South, summoning +up the legions for a struggle in which old jealousies and old quarrels, +breeding since the birth of the Union, were to be settled. + +The drum beat its martial note in the great cities of the Atlantic, +calling the men away from the forges and the shops and the +wharves--clerks, moulders, longshoremen, the same call for all; it +passed on, and its steady beat resounded among the hills and mountains +of the North, calling to the long-limbed farmer boys to drop the +plough and take up the rifle, sending them on to join the moulders, +and clerks, and longshoremen, and putting upon all one stamp, the +stamp of the soldier, food for the cannon--and this food supply was to +be the largest of its time, though few yet dreamed it. + +The roll of the drum went on, through the fields, along the rivers, +by the shores of the Great Lakes, out upon the plains, where the +American yet fought with the Indian for a foothold, and into the +interminable forests whose shades hid the pioneers; over levels and +acres and curves of thousands of miles, calling up the deep-chested +Western farmers, men of iron muscles and no pleasures, to whom +unbroken hardship was the natural course of life, and sending them to +join their Eastern brethren at the cannon mouth. + +It was an insistent drum, beating through all the day and night, over +the mountains, through the sunless woods and on the burnt prairies, +never resting, never weary. The opportunity was the greatest of the +time, and the drum did not neglect a moment; it was without +conscience, and had no use for mercy, calling, always calling. + +Another drum and yet the same was beating in the South, and those who +came at its call differed in little from the others who were marching +to the Northern beat, only the clerks and the mill hands were much +fewer; the same long-limbed and deep-chested race, spare alike of +figure and speech, brown-faced men from the shores of the Gulf, men of +South Carolina in whom the original drop of French blood still +tinctured the whole; brethren of theirs from Louisiana, gigantic +Tennesseans, half-wild horsemen from the Texas plains--all burning +with enthusiasm for a cause that they believed to be right. + +This merciless drum rolling out its ironical chuckle noted that these +Northern and Southern countrymen gathering to their standards were alike +in their lack of pleasure; they were a serious race; life had always +been a hard problem for them, a fight, in fact, and this fight into +which they were going was merely another kind of battle, with some +advantages of novelty and change and comradeship that made it +attractive, especially to the younger, the boys. They had been hewers of +wood and drawers of water in every sense of the word, though for +themselves; generations of them had fought Indians, some suffering +torture and death; they had endured bitter cold and burning heat, eaten +at scanty tables, and lived far-away and lonely lives in the wilderness. +They were a rough and hard-handed race, taught to work and not to be +afraid, knowing no masters, accustomed to no splendours either in +themselves or others, holding themselves as good as anybody and thinking +it, according to Nature; their faults those of newness and never of +decay. These were the men who had grown up apart from the Old World, and +all its traditions, far even from the influence which the Atlantic +seaboard felt through constant communication. This life of eternal +combat in one form or another left no opportunity for softness; the +dances, the sports, and all the gaieties which even the lowest in Europe +had were unknown to them, and they invented none to take their place. + +They knew the full freedom of speech; what they wished to say they +said, and they said it when and where they pleased. But on the whole +they were taciturn, especially in the hour of trouble; then they made +no complaints, suffering in silence. They imbibed the stoicism of the +Indians from whom they won the land, and they learned to endure much +and long before they cried out. This left one characteristic patent +and decisive, and that characteristic was strength. These men had +passed through a school of hardship, one of many grades; it had +roughened them, but it gave them bodies of iron and an unconquerable +spirit for the struggle they were about to begin. + +Another characteristic of those who came at the call of the drum was +unselfishness. They were willing to do much and ask little for it. +They were poor bargain-drivers when selling their own flesh and bones, +and their answer to the call was spontaneous and without price. + +They came in thousands, and scores of thousands. The long roll +rumbling from the sea to the Rocky Mountains and beyond cleared +everything; the doubts and the doubters were gone; no more committees; +an end to compromises! The sword must decide, and the two halves of +the nation, which yet did not understand their own strength, swung +forward to meet the issue, glad that it was obvious at last. + +There came an exultant note into the call of the drum, as if it +rejoiced at the prospects of a contest that took so wide a sweep. Here +was long and happy work for it to do; it could call to many battles, +and its note as it passed from village to village was resounding and +defiant; it was cheerful too, and had in it a trick; it told the +long-legged boys who came out of the woods of victories and glory, of +an end for a while to the toil which never before had been broken, of +new lands and of cities; all making a great holiday with the final +finish of excitement and reasonable risk. It was no wonder that the +drum called so effectively when it mingled such enticements with the +demands of patriotism. Most of those who heard were no strangers to +danger, and those who did not know it themselves were familiar with it +in the traditions of their fathers and forefathers; every inch of the +land which now swept back from the sea three thousand miles had been +won at the cost of suffering and death, with two weapons, the rifle +and the axe, and they were not going to shun the present trial, which +was merely one in a long series. + +The drum was calling to men who understood its note; the nation had +been founded as a peaceful republic, but it had gone already through +the ordeal of many wars, and behind it stretched five generations of +colonial life, an unbroken chain of combats. They had fought +everybody; they had measured the valour of the Englishman, the +Frenchman, the Spaniard, the Hessian, the Mexican, and the red man. +Much gunpowder had been burned within the borders of the Union, and +also its people had burned much beyond them. Those who followed the +call of the drum were flocking to no new trade. By a country with the +shadow of a standing army very many battles had been fought. + +They came too, without regard to blood or origin; the Anglo-Saxon +predominated; he gave his characteristics to North and South alike, +all spoke his tongue, but every race in Europe had descendants there, +and many of them--English, Irish, Scotch, French, German, Spanish, and +so on through the list--their blood fused and intermingled, until no +one could tell how much he had of this and how much of that. + +The untiring drumbeat was heard through all the winter and summer, and +the response still rolled up from vast areas; it was to be no common +struggle--great armies were to be formed where no armies at all +existed before, and the preparations on a fitting scale went on. The +forces of the North and South gathered along a two-thousand-mile line, +and those trying to look far ahead saw the nature of the struggle. + +The preliminary battles and skirmishes began, and then the two +gathered themselves for their mightiest efforts. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[34] Copyright, 1900, by D. Appleton and Company. + + + + +OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD + + +Oscar Wilder Underwood, orator and magazine writer, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, May 6, 1862. He is the grandson of Joseph Rogers +Underwood, a celebrated Kentucky statesman of the old _regime_. Mr. +Underwood was prepared for the University of Virginia at the Rugby +School of Louisville. In 1884 he was admitted to the bar and entered +upon the practice of his profession at Birmingham, Alabama, his +present home. He was prominent in Alabama politics prior to his +election to the lower house of Congress, in 1895, as the +representative of the Ninth Alabama district; and he has been +regularly returned to that body ever since. Mr. Underwood is chairman +of the committee on ways and means of the Sixty-second Congress, as +well as majority leader of the House. In the Democratic pre-convention +presidential campaign of 1912, the South almost unanimously endorsed +Mr. Underwood for the nomination. Led by Alabama he was hailed in many +quarters as the first really constructive statesman the South has sent +to Congress in more than twenty years; further, his friends said, he +has devoted his life to the study of the tariff and is now the +foremost exponent of the subject living; his tariff policy is simply +this: stop protecting the profits of the manufacturers; and that +Underwood is Democracy's best asset. Earlier in the year, Mr. +Underwood had been attacked by William J. Bryan, and his retorts in +the House were so severe and unanswerable, he being the only man up to +that time able to cope with the Colonel, that, of course, he had that +distinguished gentleman's influence against him at the Baltimore +convention. Nevertheless, every roll-call found him in third place, +just behind Champ Clark, who was also born in Kentucky, and Woodrow +Wilson, governor of New Jersey. He was running so strong as the +convention neared its close, that at least one Kentucky editor came +home and wrote a long editorial calling upon the Kentucky delegation +to change its vote from Clark to Underwood; but on the following day +the governor of New Jersey was nominated. A few of Mr. Underwood's +contributions to periodicals may be pointed out: two articles in _The +Forum_ on "The Negro Problem in the South;" "The Corrupting Power of +Public Patronage;" "What About the Tariff?" (_The World To-day_, +January, 1912); "The Right and Wrong of the Tariff Question" (_The +Independent_, February 1, 1912); and "High Tariff and American Trade +Abroad" (_The Century_, May, 1912). By friend and foe alike Mr. +Underwood is admitted to be the greatest living student of the tariff; +and his speeches in Congress and out of it on this subject have given +him a national reputation. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The World's Work_ (March, 1912); _Harper's Weekly_ + (June 1, 1912); _North American Review_ (June, 1912). + + +THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS + +[Delivered before the Southern Society of New York City (December 16, +1911)] + +The kaleidoscope of political issues must and will continually change +with the changing conditions of our Republic but there is one question +that was with us in the beginning and will be in the end, and that is +the most effective, efficient and fairest way of equalizing the +burdens of taxation that are levied by the National Government. Of all +the great powers that were yielded to the Federal Government by the +States when they adopted the Constitution of our country, the one +indispensable to the administration of public affairs is the right to +levy and collect taxes. Without the exercise of that power we could +not maintain an army and navy; we could not establish the courts of +the land; the government would fail to perform its function if the +power to tax were taken away from it. The power to tax carries with it +the power to destroy, and it is, therefore, a most dangerous +governmental power as well as a most necessary one. + +There is a very clear and marked distinction between the position of +the two great political parties of America as to how power to tax +should be exercised in the levying of revenue at the custom houses. + +The Republican party has maintained the doctrine that taxes should not +only be levied for the purpose of revenue, but also for the purpose of +protecting the home manufacturer from foreign competition. Of +necessity protection from competition carries with it a guarantee of +profits. In the last Republican platform this position of the party +was distinctly recognized when they declared that they were not only +in favor of the protection of the difference in cost at home and +abroad but also a reasonable profit to American industries. + +The Democratic party favors the policy of raising its taxes at the +custom house by a tariff that is levied for revenue only, which clearly +excludes the idea of protecting the manufacturer's profits. In my +opinion, the dividing line between the positions of the two great +parties on this question is very clear and easily ascertained in theory. +Where the tariff rates balance the difference in cost at home and +abroad, including an allowance for the difference in freight rates, the +tariff must be competitive, and from that point downward to the lowest +tariff that can be levied it will continue to be competitive to a +greater or less extent. Where competition is not interfered with by +levying the tax above the highest competitive point, the profits of the +manufacturer are not protected. On the other hand, when the duties +levied at the custom house equalizes the difference in cost at home and +abroad and in addition thereto they are high enough to allow the +American manufacturer to make a profit before his competitor can enter +the field, we have invaded the domain of the protection of profits. Some +men assert that the protection of reasonable profits to the home +manufacturer should be commended instead of being condemned, but in my +judgment, the protection of any profit must of necessity have a tendency +to destroy competition and create monopoly, whether the profit protected +is reasonable or unreasonable. + +You should bear in mind that to establish a business in a foreign +country requires a vast outlay both in time and capital. Should the +foreigner manufacturer attempt to establish himself in this country he +must advertise his goods, establish selling agencies and points of +distribution before he can successfully conduct his business. After he +has done so, if the home producer is protected by a law that not only +equals the difference in cost at home and abroad, but also protects a +reasonable or unreasonable profit, it is only necessary for him to +drop his prices slightly below the point that the law has fixed to +protect his profits and his competitor must retire from the country or +become a bankrupt, because he would then have to sell his goods at a +loss and not a profit, if he continued to compete. The foreign +competitor having retired, the home producer could raise his prices to +any level that home competition would allow him and it is not probable +that the foreigner who had already been driven out of the country +would again return, no matter how inviting the field, as long as the +law remained on the Statute Books that would enable his competitor to +again put him out of business. + +Thirty or forty years ago, when we had numbers of small manufacturers, +when there was honest competition without an attempt being made to +restrict trade and the home market was more than able to consume the +production of our mills and factories, the danger and the injury to the +consumer of the country was not so great or apparent as it is to-day, +when the control of many great industries has been concentrated in the +hands of a few men or a few corporations, because domestic competition +was prohibited. When we cease to have competition at home and the law +prohibits competition from abroad by protecting profits, there is no +relief for the consumer except to cry out for government regulation. To +my mind, there is no more reason or justice in the government attempting +to protect the profits of the manufacturers and producers of this +country than here would be to protect the profits of the merchant or the +lawyer, the banker or the farmer, or the wages of the laboring man. In +almost every line of industry in the United States we have as great +natural resources to develop as that of any country in the world. It is +admitted by all that our machinery and methods of doing business are in +advance of the other nations. By reason of the efficient use of American +machinery by American labor, in most of the manufactures of this +country, the labor cost per unit of production is no greater here than +abroad. It is admitted, of course, that the actual wage of the American +laborer is in excess of European countries, but as to most articles we +manufacture the labor cost in this country is not more than double the +labor cost abroad. When we consider that the average _ad valorem_ rate +of duty levied at the custom house on manufactures of cotton goods is +53% of the value of the article imported and the total labor cost of the +production of cotton goods in this country is only 21% of the factory +value of the product, that the difference in labor cost at home and +abroad is only about as one is to two, and that ten or eleven per cent +of the value of the product levied at the custom house would equal the +difference in the labor wage, it is apparent that our present tariff +laws exceed the point where they equalize the difference in cost at home +and abroad, and we realize how far they have entered into the domain of +protecting profits for the home manufacturer. This is not only true of +the manufacture of cotton goods, but of almost every schedule in the +tariff bill. To protect profits of necessity means to protect +inefficiency. It does not stimulate industry because a manufacturer +standing behind a tariff wall that is protecting his profits is not +driven to develop his business along the lines of greatest efficiency +and greatest economy. This is clearly illustrated in a comparison of the +wool and the iron and steel industries. Wool has had a specific duty +that when worked out to an _ad valorem_ basis amounts to a tax of about +90% of the average value of all woolen goods imported into the United +States, and the duties imposed have remained practically unchanged for +forty years. During that time the wool industry has made comparatively +little progress in cheapening the cost of its product and improving its +business methods. On the other hand, in the iron and steel industry the +tariff rate has been cut every time a tariff bill has been written. +Forty years ago the tax on steel rails amounted to $17.50 a ton, to-day +it amounts to $3.92. Forty years ago the tax on pig iron was $13.60 a +ton, to-day it is $2.50. The same is true of most of the other articles +in the iron and steel schedule, and yet the iron and steel industry has +not languished; it has not been destroyed and it has not gone to the +wall. It is the most compact, virile, fighting force of all the +industries of America to-day. It has long ago expanded its productive +capacity beyond the power of the American people to consume its output +and is to-day facing out towards the markets of the world, battling for +a part of the trade of foreign lands, where it must meet free +competition, or, as is often the case, pay adverse tariff rates to enter +the industrial fields of its competitor. + +Which course is the wiser for our government to take? The one that +demands the protection of profits the continued policy of hot-house +growth for our industries? The stagnation of development that follows +where competition ceases, or, on the other hand, the gradual and +insistent reduction of our tariff laws to a basis where the American +manufacturer must meet honest competition, where he must develop his +business along the best and most economic lines, where when he fights +at home to control his market he is forging the way in the economic +development of his business to extend his trade in the markets of the +world. In my judgment, the future growth of our great industries lies +beyond the seas. A just equalization of the burdens of taxation and +honest competition, in my judgment, are economic truths; they are not +permitted to-day by the laws of our country; we must face toward them, +and not away from them. + +What I have said does not mean that I am in favor of going to free +trade conditions or of being so radical in our legislation as to +injure legitimate business, but I do mean that the period of exclusion +has passed and the era of honest competition is here. + +Let us approach the solution of the problem involved with the +determination to do what is right, what is safe, and what is reasonable. + + + + +ELIZABETH ROBINS + + +Mrs. Elizabeth Robins Parkes, the well-known novelist of the +psychological school, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, August 6, +1862. She was taken from Louisville as a young child by her parents +for the reason that her father had built a house on Staten Island, +where she lived until her eleventh year, when she went to her +grandmother's at Zanesville, Ohio, to attend Putnam Female Seminary, +an institution of some renown, where her aunts on both sides of the +house had received their training. _Mrs. Gano_, the one fine character +of Miss Robins's first successful novel, _The Open Question_, is none +other than her own grandmother, Jane Hussey Robins, to whom she +dedicated the story; and the house in which she lived is faithfully +described in that story. In 1874, when she was twelve years of age, +Miss Robins made her first visit to Kentucky since having left the +State some years before; and she has been back many times since, her +latest visit being made in 1912. Her mother and many of her kinsfolk +are buried in Cave Hill cemetery; and her brother, uncle, and other +relatives, including Charles Neville Buck, the young Kentucky +novelist, reside at Louisville. She is, therefore, a Kentuckian to the +core. On January 12, 1885, she was married to George Richmond Parkes, +of Boston, who died some years ago. While passing through London, in +1889, Mrs. Parkes decided it was the most pleasing city she had seen, +and she established herself there. She now maintains Backset Town +Farm, Henfield, Sussex; and a winter home at Chinsegut, Florida. Mrs. +Parkes won her first fame as an actress, appearing in several of +Ibsen's plays, and attracting wide attention for her work in _The +Master Builder_, especially. While on the stage she began to write +under the pen-name of "C. E. Raimond," so as not to confuse the public +mind with her work as an actress; and this name served her well until +_The Open Question_ appeared, at which time it became generally +understood that the actress and author were one and the same person. +She soon after began to write under her maiden name of Elizabeth +Robins--and thus confounded herself with the wife of Joseph Pennell, +the celebrated American etcher. With her long line of novels Miss +Robins takes her place as one of the foremost writers Kentucky has +produced. A full list of them is: _George Mandeville's Husband_ (New +York, 1894); _The New Moon_ (New York, 1895); _Below the Salt_ +(London, 1896), a collection of short-stories, containing, among +others, _The Fatal Gift of Beauty_, which was the title of the +American edition (Chicago, 1896); _The Open Question_ (New York, +1898). Miss Robins was friendly with Whistler, the great artist, and +he designed the covers for _Below the Salt_ and _The Open Question_, a +morbid but powerful novel. She has been especially fortunate in +seizing upon a subject of vital, timely importance against which to +build her books; and that is one of the real reasons for her success. +What the public wants is what she wants to give them. When gold was +discovered in the Klondike, and all the world was making a mad rush +for those fields, Miss Robins wrote _The Magnetic North_ (New York, +1904). That fascinating story was followed by _A Dark Lantern_ (New +York, 1905), "a story with a prologue;" _The Convert_ (New York, +1907), a novel based upon the suffragette movement in London, with +which the author has been identified for seven years, and for which +she has written more, perhaps, than any one else; _Under the Southern +Cross_ (New York, 1907); _Woman's Secret_ (London, 1907); _Votes for +Women: A Play in Three Acts_ (London, n. d. [1908]), a dramatization +of _The Convert_, produced by Granville Barker at the Court Theatre, +London, with great success. The title of this play, if not the +contents, has gone into the remotest corners of the world as the +accepted slogan of the suffragette cause. _Come and Find Me!_ (New +York, 1908), another story of the Alaska country, originally +serialized in _The Century Magazine_; _The Mills of the Gods_ (New +York, 1908); _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909); _Under His Roof_ +(London, n. d. [1910]), yet another short-story of the suffragette +struggle in London, printed in an exceedingly slender pamphlet; and +_Why?_ (London, 1912), a brochure of questions and answers concerning +her darling suffragettes. Upon these books Elizabeth Robins has taken +a high place in contemporary letters. Her very latest story is _My +Little Sister_, based upon a background of the white slave traffic in +London, the shortened version of which appeared in _McClure's +Magazine_ for December, 1912, concluded in the issue for January, +1913, after which it will be published in book form in America under +the original title; but the English edition will bear this legend, +"Where Are You Going To?" When the first part of this strong story was +printed in _McClure's_ it attracted immediate and very wide attention, +and again illustrated the ancient fact concerning the author's novels: +her ability to make use of one of the big questions of the day as a +scene for her story. Another book on woman's fight for the ballot, to +be entitled _Way Stations_ may be published in March, 1913. Miss +Robins is the ablest woman novelist Kentucky has produced; but her +short-stories are not comparable to Mrs. Andrew's. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1904); _The Bookman_ (November, + 1907); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1910); _Harper's Magazine_ + (August, 1911). + + +A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT[35] + +[From _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909)] + +Mrs. Roscoe invoked the right manager. _The Man at the Wheel_ was not +only accepted, it was announced for early production. Special scenery +was being painted. The rehearsals were speedily in full swing. The play +had been slightly altered in council--one scene had been rewritten. + +Generously, Keith made his acknowledgements. "I should not have gone +at it again, but for you," he told Mrs. Roscoe. "It had got stale--I +hated it, till that day I read it to you." + +She smiled. "Nobody needs an audience so much as a dramatist. I was +audience." + +"You brought the fresh eye, you saw how the _scène à faire_ could be +made more poignant. Do you know," he said in that way he was getting +into, re-envisaging with this companion some old outlook, "I sometimes +feel the only difference between the poor thing and the good thing is +that in one, the hand fell away too soon, and in the other it was able +to give the screw just one more turn. You practically helped me to +give the final turn that screwed the thing into shape." + +She shook her head, and then he told her that after a dozen rebuffs he +had made up his mind to abandon the play that very day he and the +Professor had talked of cinque cento ivories. + +It was not unnatural that the scant cordiality of Mrs. Mathew, +whenever Keith encountered that lady at her sister's house, was +insufficient to make him fail in what he acknowledged to Fanshawe as a +sort of duty. This was: keeping Mrs. Roscoe fully informed of all the +various stages in the contract-negotiation, the cast decisions, and +the checkered fortunes of rehearsal. + +It is only fair to Mrs. Mathew to admit that she had one reason more +cogent even than she quite realized for objecting to the new addition +to a circle that had, as Genie complained, grown very circumscribed +during the days of mourning. + +If keeping Mrs. Roscoe _au courant_ with the fortunes of the play had +appeared to Keith in the light of an obligation imposed by common +gratitude, Mrs. Mathew conceived it as no less her duty not to allow +dislike of the new friend's presence to interfere with the sisterly +relation--a relation which on the older woman's part had always had in +it a touch of the maternal. If that young man was "getting himself +accepted upon an intimate footing"--all the more important that +Isabella's elder sister should be there at least as much as usual, if +only to prevent the curious from "talking." + +In pursuance to this conception of her duty, one evening during the +later rehearsals, Mrs. Mathew stood just inside the door of the cloak +room that opened out of the famous gray and white marble entrance hall +of the Roscoe house. Engaged in the homely occupation of depositing +her "artics" in a corner where they would not be mixed up with other +people's, Mrs. Mathew was arrested by a slight noise. Upon putting out +her head she descried Miss Genie creeping down the stairs with a +highly conspiratorial air. The girl, betraying every evidence of +suppressed excitement, came to a halt before the closed doors of the +drawing-room. The sound of Keith's voice reading aloud came softened +through the heavy panels, and seemed to reassure the eavesdropper. She +ran on noiseless feet to the low seat, where a man's hat showed black +against the soft tone of the marble. She lifted the hat and appeared +to be fumbling with the coat that was lying underneath. + +Suddenly the flash of a small square envelope on its way to the +recesses of the visitor's overcoat! + +"What are you doing?" demanded Aunt Josephine, coming down the hall. + +"Oh! How you startled me! I'm not doing anything in particular--just +waiting about till that blessed reading's over." She left the letter +concealed in the folds of the coat, and for an instant she held the +hat in front of her perturbed face: "Don't men's things have a nice +Russia-leathery smell?" she remarked airily. + +"Genie Roscoe, what pranks are you playing?" As Mrs. Mathew took hold +of the coat, the girl's self-possession failed her a little. She clung +to the garment, sending anxious glances toward the door, whispering +her nervous remonstrances and begging Aunt Josephine not to talk so +loud. "You'll interrupt them." + +"What is going on?" demanded Aunt Josephine, relaxing her hold on the +coat. + +"He's reading." + +"Your poor mother!" + +"Oh, she likes it." + +"Humph! And that young man--does he never get tired of his own works?" + +"It isn't _his_ works that he's reading. It's other people's--to make +him forget the way they murder the play at rehearsal. It's French +things they read, usually." Genie hurried on with a nervous attempt to +be diverting. "There's a new poet, did you know? I like the new ones +best, don't you? What I can't stand is when they are so ancient, that +they're like that decayed old Ronsard--" + +The form Mrs. Mathew's literary criticism took was a violent shake of +the visitor's coat. Out of the folds dropped a note. It was addressed +in Genie's hand to Mr. Chester Keith. + +"What foolishness is this--" + +"Don't tell mother," prayed the girl, trying in vain to recover the +envelope. + +Mrs. Mathew's face grew graver as she took in the girl's feverish +anxiety. + +"Dear Aunt Josephine!" Genie slipped her hand coaxingly through the +arm of the forbidding-looking lady. "I know you wouldn't be so unkind. +For all mother seems so gentle and you sometimes look so severe, +you're ten times as forgiving, really, as mother is. You're more +broadminded," said the unblushing flatterer. + +"Oh, really"--Mrs. Mathew smiled a little grimly--but she had ere now +proved herself as accessible to coaxing as the cast-iron seeming +people often are. They betray, on occasion, a touching gratitude at +not being taken at their own grim word. + +"Why should I hesitate to tell what you don't hesitate to do?" + +But Genie's arm was round her. "Oh, _you_ know why. Mother has such +extravagantly high ideas about what people ought to do." + +In the other hand Mrs. Mathew still held the note, out of the girl's +reach. "You make a practice of this?" + +"No, no. It's the first time, and I'll never do it again, if you'll +promise not to tell on me." + +Mrs. Mathew hesitated. + +"Dearest auntie, _be nice_! If you tell," the girl protested, "I'll have +no character to keep up and I'll write him real--well, real letters." + +"What do you mean? Isn't this a real letter?" + +"No. It doesn't say half. It's _nothing_ to what I could--" + +"Very well, if it's nothing--" Mrs. Mathew tore open the note. + +Before she could so much as unfold it, Genie had plucked it out of her +hand and fled upstairs. + +Half way to the top she leaned over the bannisters. "If you tell I'll +remember it all my life. If you don't I'll love you for ever and ever." + +"You're a very silly child. And I'm not at all sure I won't speak to +your mother." + +"But I am!" the coppery head was hung ingratiatingly over the hand rail. + +Aunt Josephine was already thinking of matters more important than a +school girl's foolishness. "How long has that man been here?" + +"Oh, hours and hours!" said Genie, accepting the diversion with due +gratitude. "He stays longer and longer." + +"Humph! that's what I think!" Aunt Josephine stalked into the +drawing-room. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[35] Copyright, 1909, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE + + +Miss Ellen Churchill Semple, Kentucky's distinguished +anthropo-geographer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 1863. Vassar +College conferred the degree of Bachelor of Arts upon her in 1882, and +the Master of Arts in 1891. She then studied for two years at the +University of Leipzig. Miss Semple has devoted herself to the new +science of anthropo-geography, which is the study of the influence of +geographic conditions upon the development of mankind. Since 1897 she +has contributed articles upon her subject to the New York _Journal of +Geography_, the London _Geographical Journal_, and to other scientific +publications. Miss Semple's first book, entitled _American History and +Its Geographic Conditions_ (Boston, 1903), proclaimed her as the +foremost student of the new science in the United States. A special +edition of this work was published for the Indiana State Teachers' +Association, which is said to be the largest reading circle in the +world. In 1901 Miss Semple prepared an interesting study of _The +Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains_, which was issued in 1910 as a +bulletin of the American Geographical Society. Miss Semple's latest +work is an enormous volume, entitled _Influences of Geographic +Environment on the Basis of Ratzel's System of Anthropo-Geography_ +(New York, 1911). This required seven long years of untiring research +to prepare, and with its publication she came into her own position, +which is quite unique in the whole range of American literature. +Although scientific to the last degree, her writings have the real +literary flavor, which is seldom found in such work. Miss Semple +lectured at Oxford University in 1912, and in the late autumn of that +year she discussed Japan, in which country she had experienced much of +value and interest, before the Royal British Geographical Society in +London, and later before the Royal Scottish Geographical Society in +Edinburgh. Between various lectures in Scotland and England she +continued her researches in the London libraries, returning to the +United States as the year closed. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (December 31, 1903); _Political Science + Quarterly_ (September, 1904). + + +MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE[36] + +[From _Influences of Geographic Environment_ (New York, 1911)] + +Man is a product of the earth's surface. This means not merely that he +is a child of the earth, dust of her dust; but that the earth has +mothered him, fed him, set him tasks, directed his thoughts, +confronted him with difficulties that have strengthened his body and +sharpened his wits, given him his problems of navigation or +irrigation, and at the same time whispered hints for their solution. +She has entered into his bone and tissue, into his mind and soul. On +the mountains she has given him leg muscles of iron to climb the +slope; along the coast she has left these weak and flabby, but given +him instead vigorous development of chest and arm to handle his paddle +or oar. In the river valley she attaches him to the fertile soil, +circumscribes his ideas and ambitions by a dull round of calm, +exacting duties, narrows his outlook to the cramped horizon of his +farm. Up on the windswept plateaus, in the boundless stretch of the +grasslands and the waterless tracts of the desert, where he roams with +his flocks from pasture to pasture and oasis to oasis, where life +knows much hardship but escapes the grind of drudgery, where the +watching of grazing herds gives him leisure for contemplation, and the +wide-ranging life a big horizon, his ideas take on a certain gigantic +simplicity; religion becomes monotheism, God becomes one, unrivalled +like the sand of the desert, and the grass of the steppe, stretching +on and on without break or change. Chewing over and over the cud of +his simple belief as the one food of his unfed mind, his faith becomes +fanaticism; his big spacial ideas, born of that ceaseless regular +wandering, outgrow the land that bred them and bear their legitimate +fruit in wide imperial conquests. + +Man can no more be scientifically studied apart from the ground which +he tills, or the lands over which he travels, or the seas over which +he trades, than polar bear or desert cactus can be understood apart +from its habitat. Man's relation to his environment are infinitely +more numerous and complex than those of the most highly organized +plant or animal. So complex are they that they constitute a legitimate +and necessary object of special study. The investigation which they +receive in anthropology, ethnology, sociology and history is piecemeal +and partial, limited as to the race, cultural development, epoch, +country or variety of geographic conditions taken into account. Hence +all these sciences, together with history so far as history undertakes +to explain the causes of events, fail to reach a satisfactory solution +of their problems, largely because the geographic factor which enters +into them all has not been thoroughly analyzed. Man has been so noisy +about the way he has "conquered Nature," and Nature has been so silent +in her persistent influence over man, that the geographic factor in +the equation of human development has been overlooked. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[36] Copyright, 1911, by Henry Holt and Company. + + + + +MRS. ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON + + +Mrs. Annie Fellows Johnston, creator of the famous "Little Colonel +Series," was born at Evansville, Indiana, May 15, 1863, the daughter +of a clergyman. Miss Fellows was educated in the public schools of +Evansville, and then spent the year of 1881-1882 at the State +University of Iowa. She was married at Evansville, in 1888, to William +L. Johnston, who died four years later, leaving her a son and +daughter. Mrs. Johnston's first arrival in Kentucky as a resident +(though not as a visitor), was in 1898, and then she stayed only three +years. Her son's quest of health led her first to Walton, New York, +then to Arizona, where they spent a winter on the desert in sight of +Camelback mountain, which suggested the legend of _In the Desert of +Waiting_. From Arizona they went to California and then, in 1903, +decided to try the climate of Texas, up in the hill country, north of +San Antonio. Mrs. Johnston called her home "Penacres," and she lived +there until her son's death in the fall of 1910. She and her daughter +returned to Pewee Valley, Kentucky, in April, 1911, and purchased "The +Beeches," the old home of Mrs. Henry W. Lawton, the widow of the +famous American general. The house is situated in a six acre grove of +magnificent beech-trees, and is a place often mentioned in "The Little +Colonel" stories. Mrs. Johnston's books are: _Big Brother_ (Boston, +1893); _The Little Colonel_ (Boston, 1895); _Joel: A Boy of Galilee_ +(Boston, 1895; Italian translation, 1900); _In League with Israel_ +(Cincinnati, 1896), the second and last of Mrs. Johnston's books that +was not issued by L. C. Page and Company, Boston; _Ole Mammy's +Torment_ (1897); _Songs Ysame_ (1897), a book of poems, written with +her sister, Mrs. Albion Fellows Bacon, the social reformer of +Evansville, Indiana; _The Gate of the Giant Scissors_ (1898); _Two +Little Knights of Kentucky_ (1899), written in Kentucky; _The Little +Colonel's House Party_ (1900); _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (1901); +_The Little Colonel's Hero_ (1902); _Cicely_ (1902); _Asa Holmes, or +At the Crossroads_ (1902); _Flip's Islands of Providence_ (1903); _The +Little Colonel at Boarding-School_ (1903), the children's "Order of +Hildegarde" was founded on the story of _The Three Weavers_ in this +volume; _The Little Colonel in Arizona_ (1904); _The Quilt that Jack +Built_ (1904); _The Colonel's Christmas Vacation_ (1905); _In the +Desert of Waiting_ (1905; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1906); _The +Three Weavers_ (1905), a special edition of this famous story; +_Mildred's Inheritance_ (1906); _The Little Colonel, Maid of Honor_ +(1906); _The Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding_ (1907); _Mary Ware_ +(1908); _The Legend of the Bleeding Heart_ (1908); _Keeping Tryst_ +(1908); _The Rescue of the Princess Winsome_ (1908); _The Jester's +Sword_ (1909; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1910); _The Little +Colonel's Good Times Book_ (1909); _Mary Ware in Texas_ (1910); and +_Travellers Five_ (1911), a collection of short-stories for grown +people, previously published in magazines, with a foreword by Bliss +Carman. The little Kentucky girl--called the "Little Colonel" because +of her resemblance to a Southern gentleman of the old school--has had +Mrs. Johnston's attention for seventeen years, and she has recently +announced that she is at work upon the twelfth and final volume of the +"Little Colonel Series," as she feels that work for grown-ups is more +worth her while. This last story of the series was published in the +fall of 1912, entitled _Mary Ware's Promised Land_; and needless to +say her "promised land" is Kentucky. There are "Little Colonel Clubs" +all over the world, as Mrs. Johnston has learned from thousands of +letters from children, and when she rings down the curtain upon her +heroine many girls and boys in this and other countries will be sad. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (April, 1901); _The Century_ + (September, 1903). + + +THE MAGIC KETTLE[37] + +[From _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (Boston, 1901)] + +Once upon a time, so the story goes (you may read it yourself in the +dear old tales of Hans Christian Andersen), there was a prince who +disguised himself as a swineherd. It was to gain admittance to a +beautiful princess that he thus came in disguise to her father's +palace, and to attract her attention he made a magic caldron, hung +around with strings of silver bells. Whenever the water in the caldron +boiled and bubbled, the bells rang a little tune to remind her of him. + + "Oh, thou dear Augustine, + All is lost and gone," + +they sang. Such was the power of the magic kettle, that when the water +bubbled hard enough to set the bells a-tinkling, any one holding his +hand in the steam could smell what was cooking in every kitchen in the +kingdom. + +It has been many a year since the swineherd's kettle was set a-boiling +and its string of bells a-jingling to satisfy the curiosity of a +princess, but a time has come for it to be used again. Not that +anybody nowadays cares to know what his neighbor is going to have for +dinner, but all the little princes and princesses in the kingdom want +to know what happened next. + +"What happened after the Little Colonel's house party?" they demand, +and they send letters to the Valley by the score, asking "Did Betty +go blind?" "Did the two little Knights of Kentucky ever meet Joyce +again or find the Gate of the Giant Scissors?" "Did the Little Colonel +ever have any more good times at Locust, or did Eugenia ever forget +that she too had started out to build a Road of the Loving Heart?" + +It would be impossible to answer all these questions through the +post-office, so that is why the magic kettle has been dragged from its +hiding-place after all these years, and set a-boiling once more. +Gather in a ring around it, all you who want to know, and pass your +curious fingers through its wreaths of rising steam. Now you shall see +the Little Colonel and her guests of the house party in turn, and the +bells shall ring for each a different song. + +But before they begin, for the sake of some who may happen to be in +your midst for the first time, and do not know what it is all about, +let the kettle give them a glimpse into the past, that they may be +able to understand all that is about to be shown to you. Those who +already know the story need not put their fingers into the steam, +until the bells have rung this explanation in parenthesis. + +(In Lloydsboro Valley stands an old Southern mansion, known as "Locust." +The place is named for a long avenue of giant locust-trees stretching a +quarter of a mile from house to entrance gate in a great arch of green. +Here for years an old Confederate colonel lived all alone save for the +negro servants. His only child, Elizabeth, had married a Northern man +against his wishes, and gone away. From that day he would not allow her +name to be spoken in his presence. But she came back to the Valley when +her little daughter Lloyd was five years old. People began calling the +child the Little Colonel because she seemed to have inherited so many of +her grandfather's lordly ways as well as a goodly share of his high +temper. The military title seemed to suit her better than her own name +for in her fearless baby fashion she won her way into the old man's +heart and he made a complete surrender. + +Afterward when she and her mother and "Papa Jack" went to live with +him at Locust, one of her favorite games was playing soldier. The old +man never tired of watching her march through the wide halls with his +spurs strapped to her tiny slipper heels, and her dark eyes flashing +out fearlessly from under the little Napoleon cap she wore. + +She was eleven when she gave her house party. One of the guests was +Joyce Ware, whom some of you have met, perhaps, in "The Gate of the +Giant Scissors," a bright thirteen-year-old girl from the West. +Eugenia Forbes was another. She was a distant cousin of Lloyd's, who +had no home-life like other girls. Her winters were spent in a +fashionable New York boarding-school, and her summers at the +Waldorf-Astoria, except the few weeks when her busy father could find +time to take her to some seaside resort. + +The third guest, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, or Betty, as every one lovingly +called her, was Mrs. Sherman's little god-daughter. She was an orphan, +boarding on a backwoods farm on Green River. She had never been on the +cars until Lloyd's invitation found its way to the Cuckoo's Nest. Only +these three came to stay in the house, but Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre +(the two little Knights of Kentucky) were there nearly every day. So was +Rob Moore, one of the Little Colonel's summer neighbors. + +The four Bobs were four little foxterrier puppies named for Rob, who +had given one to each of the girls. They were so much alike they could +only be distinguished by the colour of the ribbons tied around their +necks. Tarbaby was the Little Colonel's pony, and Lad the one that +Betty rode during her visit. + +After six weeks of picnics and parties, and all sorts of surprises and +good times, the house party came to a close with a grand feast of +lanterns. Joyce regretfully went home to the little brown house in +Plainsville, Kansas, taking her Bob with her. Eugenia and her father +went to New York, but not until they had promised to come back for +Betty in the fall, and take her abroad with them. It was on account of +something that had happened at the house party, but which is too long +a tale to repeat here. + +Betty stayed on at Locust until the end of the summer in the House +Beautiful, as she called her god-mother's home, and here on the long +vine-covered porch, with its stately white pillars, you shall see them +first through the steam of the magic caldron). + +Listen! Now the kettle boils and the bells begin the story! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[37] Copyright, 1901, by L. C. Page and Company. + + + + +EVA A. MADDEN + + +Miss Eva Anne Madden, author of a group of popular stories for children, +was born near Bedford, Kentucky, October 26, 1863, the elder sister of +Mrs. George Madden Martin, creator of _Emmy Lou_. Miss Madden was +educated in the public schools of Louisville, Kentucky, after which she +took a normal course. At the mature age of fourteen she was writing for +_The Courier-Journal_; two years later she was doing book reviews for +_The Evening Post_; and when eighteen years of age she became a teacher +in the public schools. Miss Madden taught for more than ten years, or +until 1892, when she went to New York and engaged in newspaper work. Her +first book, _Stephen, or the Little Crusaders_ (New York, 1901), was +published only a few months before she sailed for Europe, where she has +resided for the last eleven years. Miss Madden's _The I Can School_ (New +York, 1902), was followed by her other books, _The Little Queen_ +(Boston, 1903); _The Soldiers of the Duke_ (Boston, 1904); and her most +recent story, _Two Royal Foes_ (New York, 1907). Miss Madden has been +the Italian representative of a London firm since 1907; and since 1908 +she has been the correspondent of the Paris edition of the _New York +Herald_ for the city in which she lives, Florence, Italy. She had a very +good short-story in _The Century_ for February, 1911, entitled _The +Interrupted Pen_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL."[38] + +[From _The I Can School_ (New York, 1902)] + +"Good-bye, Miss Ellison," she said, putting up her little mouth to be +kissed. "I'm sorry that it's the end of the 'I Can School.'" + +Then Miss Ellison was all smiles. + +"You sweet little thing," she said, which was exactly what she had +done ten months before. + +How long ago that seemed to Virginia. How stupid she had been about +learning to spell that easy "cat." + +Now she could read a whole page about a black cat which got into the +nest of a white hen, and she could add numbers, and "write vertical." +She had painted in a book, and modeled a lovely half-apple, made real +by a stem and the seeds of a russet she had had for lunch one day. She +knew the name of all the birds about Fairview, and she could tell +about the wild flowers. + +Altogether she felt very learned and scornful of a certain small +person who had thought Kentucky the name of a little girl, and who had +known nothing of George Washington, and who had called C-A-T +kitten-puss. + +Virginia's mamma was very proud of all her little girl knew. She did +not wait for Virginia to get her work from the janitor. She took it +all carefully home to show her husband. + +"Papa," said Virginia, the moment Mr. Barton entered the house that +evening, "it's vacation!" + +"Vacation!" said her father. "My! my! I remember that there was a +time, Miss Barton, when I loved it better than school; do you?" + +Virginia hesitated. + +"Ten months," she said at last, "is a lot of school. Lucretia and +Catherine seem just as tired, papa. Their lessons don't interest them +now that it's so hot. I love the 'I Can School,' papa; but it's nice +to stay at home and play 'Lady come to see.'" + +This was a very long speech for Virginia, the longest that she ever +had made. + +Her papa laughed. + +"Miss Barton," he said, "profound student that you are, I see that in +some things you are not altogether different from your parent. But let +me remind you, Miss Barton, when you feel at times a little tired of +vacation, that the 'I Can' will begin again on the tenth of +September." + +"And Miss Ellison will be so glad to see me!" said Virginia +confidently. + +Her papa laughed. + +"As for that, Miss Barton--" + +"Now don't, Edward," interrupted his wife. "I am sure, Virginia, that +Miss Ellison will be glad to see you in the fall. If I were you I +would write her a little letter in the vacation. I have her address." + +"And I'll tell Billy and Carter and Harry and all the children, and +we'll all write so that she won't forget us. And she'll answer them, +mamma, won't she?" + +"I think she will," answered her mother. "It will be very nice for you +to write to her." + +But her husband said in a low voice, "Poor Miss Ellison." + +"Good Miss Ellison, papa," said Virginia. "She's nice and I love her." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[38] Copyright, 1902, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +JOHN FOX, Jr. + + +John Fox, Junior, Kentucky's master maker of mountain myths, was born +at Stony Point, near Paris, Kentucky, December 16, 1863, the son of a +schoolmaster. He was christened "John William Fox, Junior," but he +early discarded his middle name. By his father he was largely fitted +for Kentucky, now Transylvania, University, which institution he +entered at the age of fifteen, spending the two years of 1878-1880 +there, when he left and went to Harvard. Mr. Fox was graduated from +Harvard in 1883, the youngest man in his class. Though he had written +nothing during his collegiate career, upon quitting Cambridge he +joined the staff of the New York _Sun_ and later entered Columbia Law +School. He soon abandoned law and went with the _New York Times_, +where he remained several months, when illness--blind and blessed +goddess in disguise!--compelled him to go south in search of health. +At length he found himself high up in the Cumberland Mountains, +associated with his father and brother in a mining venture. He also +taught school for a time, but the mountaineers of Kentucky were upon +him, and he began to weave romances about them. Mr. Fox's first story, +_A Mountain Europa_ (New York, 1894), originally appeared in two parts +in _The Century Magazine_ for September and October, 1892. It was +dedicated to James Lane Allen, whom its author had to thank for +encouragement when he stood most in need of it. _On Hell-fer-Sartain +Creek_, which followed fast upon the heels of his first book, made Mr. +Fox famous in a fortnight. Written in a day and a half, _Harper's +Weekly_ paid him the munificent sum of six dollars for it, and printed +it back with the advertisements in the issue for November 24, 1894. +The ending was transposed just a bit and a word or two discarded for +apter words before it was published in book form; and these revisions +were very fine, greatly improving the tale. In its most recent dress +it counts less than five small pages; and it may be read in as many +minutes. The mountain dialect prevails throughout. It "admits an epic +breadth," the biggest thing Mr. Fox has done hitherto, and now +generally regarded as a very great short-story. + +_A Cumberland Vendetta and Other Stories_ (New York, 1895), contained, +besides the title-story, first published in _The Century_, a +reprinting of _A Mountain Europa_--which made the third time it had +been printed in three years--_The Last Stetson_, and _On +Hell-fer-Sartain Creek_. This volume was followed by Mr. Fox's finest +work, entitled _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_ (New York, 1897). +Of the ten stories in this little volume but four of them are in +correct English, the others, the best ones, being in dialect. The last +and longest story, _A Purple Rhododendron_, originally appeared in +_The Southern Magazine_, a now defunct periodical of Louisville, +Kentucky. _The Kentuckians_ (New York, 1897), was published a short +time after _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_. This novelette +pitted a man of the Blue Grass against a man of the Kentucky hills, +and the struggle was not overly severe; the reading world did little +more than remark its appearance and its passing. + +When the Spanish-American war was declared Mr. Fox went to Cuba as a +Rough Rider, but left that organization to act as correspondent for +_Harper's Weekly_. He witnessed the fiercest fighting from the firing +lines, and his own experiences were largely written into his first +long novel, entitled _Crittenden_ (New York, 1900). This tale of love +with war entwined was well told; and its concluding clause: "God was +good that Christmas!" has become one of his most famous expressions. +After the war Mr. Fox returned to the South. _Bluegrass and +Rhododendron_ (New York, 1901), was a series of descriptive essays +upon life in the Kentucky mountains, in which Mr. Fox did for the +hillsmen what Mr. Allen had done for the customs and traditions of his +own section of the state in _The Bluegrass Region of Kentucky_. It +also embodied his own personal experiences as a member of the police +guard in Kentucky and Virginia. The word "rhododendron" is Mr. Fox's +shibboleth, and he seemingly never tires of writing it. + +_The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come_ (New York, 1903), is his best long +novel so far. The boy, Chad, is, perhaps, his one character-contribution +to American fiction; and the boy's dog, "Jack," stands second to the +little hero in the hearts of the thousands who read the book. The +opening chapters are especially fine. The love story of _The Little +Shepherd_ is most attractive; and the Civil War is presented in a manner +not wholly laborious. After _Hell-fer-Sartain_ this novel is far and +away the best thing Mr. Fox has done. + +_Christmas Eve on Lonesome and Other Stories_ (New York, 1904), +contained the title-story and five others, including _The Last +Stetson_, which had appeared many years before in _Harper's Weekly_, +and later in _A Cumberland Vendetta_. Mr. Fox attempted to reach the +theatre of the Russian-Japanese War, as a correspondent for +_Scribner's Magazine_, but he was not allowed to join the ever +advancing armies. His experiences may be read in _Following the +Sun-Flag_ (New York, 1905), with its tell-tale sub-title: "a vain +pursuit through Manchuria." His next work was a novelette, _A Knight +of the Cumberland_ (New York, 1906), first published as a serial in +_Scribner's Magazine_. It was well done and rather interesting. + +Mr. Fox spent the greater part of the year of 1907 in work upon _The +Trail of the Lonesome Pine_ (New York, 1908), a story that must be +placed beside _The Little Shepherd_ when any classification of the +author's work is made. The heroine, June, is none other than Chad in +feminine garb. The book contains some of the most excellent writing +Mr. Fox has done, the descriptions being especially fine. It was +dramatized by Eugene Walter and successfully produced. A few months +after the publication of _The Trail_, the author married Fritzi +Scheff, the operatic star, to whom he had inscribed his story. They +have a home at Big Stone Gap, in the Virginia mountains. + +In April, 1912, Mr. Fox's most recent novel, _The Heart of the Hills_, +began as a serial in _Scribner's_, to be concluded in the issue for +March, 1913. It is red with recent happenings in Kentucky, happenings +which are, at the present time, too hackneyed to be of very great +interest to the people of that state.[39] It must be remembered always +that Mr. Fox is a story-teller pure and simple, and that he seemingly +makes little effort to arrive at the stage of perfection in the mere +matter of writing that characterizes the work of a group of his +contemporaries. That he is a wonderful maker of short-stories in the +mountain dialect is certain; but that he is a great novelist is yet to +be established. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature Magazine_ (New York, September, + 1903); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous + Books_, by E. F. Harkins, (Boston, 1903, Second Series); _Library + of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. iv). + + +THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON[40] + +[From _Collier's Weekly_ (December 11, 1909)] + +The sun of Christmas poured golden blessings on the head of the valley +first; it shot winged shafts of yellow light through the great Gap and +into the month of Pigeon; it darted awakening arrows into the coves +and hollows on the Head of Pigeon, between Brushy Ridge and Black +Mountain; and one searching ray flashed through the open door of the +little log schoolhouse at the forks of Pigeon and played like a smile +over the waiting cedar that stood within--alone. + +Down at the mines below, the young doctor had not waited the coming of +that sun. He had sprung from his bed at dawn, had built his own fire, +had dressed hurriedly, and gone hurriedly on his rounds, leaving a +pill here, a powder there, and a word of good cheer everywhere. That +was his Christmas tree, the cedar in the little schoolhouse--his and +_hers_. And _she_ was coming up from the Gap that day to dress that +tree and spread the joy of Christmas among mountain folks, to whom the +joy of Christmas was quite unknown. + +An hour later the passing mail-carrier, from over Black Mountain, +stopped with switch uplifted at his office door. + +"Them fellers over the Ridge air comin' over to shoot up yo' Christmas +tree," he drawled. + +The switch fell and he was gone. The young doctor dropped by his +fire--stunned; for just that thing had happened ten years before to the +only Christmas tree that had ever been heard of in those hills except +his own. From that very schoolhouse some vandals from the Crab Orchard +and from over Black Mountain had driven the Pigeon Creek people after a +short fight, and while the surprised men, frightened women and children, +and the terrified teacher scurried to safety behind rocks and trees, had +shot the tree to pieces. That was ten years before, but even now, though +there were some old men and a few old women who knew the Bible from end +to end, many grown people and nearly all of the children had never heard +of the Book, or of Christ, or knew that there was a day known as +Christmas Day. That such things were so had hurt the doctor to the +heart, and that was why, as Christmas drew near, he had gone through the +out-of-the-way hollows at the Head of Pigeon, and got the names and ages +of all the mountain children; why for a few days before Christmas there +had been such a dressing of dolls in the sweetheart's house down in the +Gap as there had not been since she herself was a little girl; and why +now the cedar tree stood in the little log schoolhouse at the forks of +Pigeon. Moreover, there was as yet enmity between the mountaineers of +Pigeon and the mountaineers over the Ridge and Black Mountain, who were +jealous and scornful of any signs of the foreign influence but recently +come into the hills. The meeting-house, courthouse, and the schoolhouse +were yet favorite places for fights among the mountaineers. There was +yet no reverence at all for Christmas, and the same vandals might yet +regard a Christmas tree as an imported frivolity to be sternly rebuked. +The news was not only not incredible, it probably was true; and with +this conclusion some very unpleasant lines came into the young doctor's +kindly face and he sprang from his horse. + +Two hours later he had a burly mountaineer with a Winchester posted on +the road leading to the Crab Orchard, another on the mountainside +overlooking the little valley, several more similarly armed below, +while he and two friends, with revolvers, buckled on, waited for the +coming party, with their horses hitched in front of his office door. +This Christmas tree was to be. + +It was almost noon when the doctor heard gay voices and happy +laughter high on the ridge, and he soon saw a big spring wagon drawn +by a pair of powerful bays--Major, the colored coachman, on the seat, +the radiant faces of the Christmas-giving party behind him, and a big +English setter playing in the snow alongside. + +Up Pigeon then the wagon went with the doctor and his three friends on +horseback beside it, past the long batteries of coke-ovens with +grinning darkies, coke-pullers, and loaders idling about them, up the +rough road through lanes of snow-covered rhododendrons winding among +tall oaks, chestnuts, and hemlocks, and through circles and arrows of +gold with which the sun splashed the white earth--every cabin that +they passed tenantless, for the inmates had gone ahead long ago--and +on to the little schoolhouse that sat on a tiny plateau in a small +clearing, with snow-tufted bushes of laurel on every side and snowy +mountains rising on either hand. + +The door was wide open and smoke was curling from the chimney. A few +horses and mules were hitched to the bushes near by. Men, boys, and +dogs were gathered around a big fire in front of the building; and in +a minute women, children, and more dogs poured out of the schoolhouse +to watch the coming cavalcade. + +Since sunrise the motley group had been waiting there: the women +thinly clad in dresses of worsted or dark calico, and a shawl or short +jacket or man's coat, with a sunbonnet or "fascinator" on their heads, +and men's shoes on their feet--the older ones stooped and thin, the +younger ones carrying babies, and all with weather-beaten faces and +bare hands; the men and boys without overcoats, their coarse shirts +unbuttoned, their necks and upper chests bared to the biting cold, +their hands thrust in their pockets as they stood about the fire, and +below their short coat sleeves their wrists showing chapped and red; +while to the little boys and girls had fallen only such odds and ends +of clothing as the older ones could spare. Quickly the doctor got his +party indoors and to work on the Christmas tree. Not one did he tell +of the impending danger, and the Colt's .45 bulging under this man's +shoulder or on that man's hip, and the Winchester in the hollow of an +arm here and there were sights too common in these hills to arouse +suspicion in anybody's mind. The cedar tree, shorn of its branches at +the base and banked with mosses, towered to the angle of the roof. +There were no desks in the room except the one table used by the +teacher. Long, crude wooden benches with low backs faced the tree, +with an aisle leading from the door between them. Lap-robes were hung +over the windows, and soon a gorgeous figure of Santa Claus was +smiling down from the very tiptop of the tree. Ropes of gold and +silver tinsel were swiftly draped around and up and down; enmeshed in +these were little red Santas, gaily colored paper horns, filled with +candy, colored balls, white and yellow birds, little colored candles +with holders to match, and other glittering things; while over the +whole tree a glistening powder was sprinkled like a mist of shining +snow. Many presents were tied to the tree, and under it were the rest +of the labeled ones in a big pile. In a semicircle about the base sat +the dolls in pink, yellow, and blue, and looking down the aisle to the +door. Packages of candy in colored Japanese napkins and tied with a +narrow red ribbon were in another pile, with a pyramid of oranges at +its foot. And yet there was still another pile for unexpected +children, that the heart of none should be sore. Then the candles were +lighted and the door flung open to the eager waiting crowd outside. In +a moment every seat was silently filled by the women and children, and +the men, stolid but expectant, lined the wall. The like of that tree +no soul of them had ever seen before. Only a few of the older ones had +ever seen a Christmas tree of any kind and they but once; and they had +lost that in a free-for-all fight. And yet only the eyes of them +showed surprise or pleasure. There was no word--no smile, only +unwavering eyes mesmerically fixed on the wonderful tree. + +The young doctor rose, and only the sweetheart saw that he was nervous, +restless, and pale. As best he could he told them what Christmas was and +what it meant to the world; and he had scarcely finished when a hand +beckoned to him from the door. Leaving one of his friends to distribute +the presents, he went outside to discover that one vandal had come on +ahead, drunk and boisterous. Promptly the doctor tied him to a tree, +shouldered a Winchester, and himself took up a lonely vigil on the +mountainside. Within, Christmas went on. When a name was called a child +came forward silently, usually shoved to the front by some relative, +took what was handed to it, and, dumb with delight, but too shy even to +murmur a word of thanks, silently returned to its seat with the presents +hugged to its breast--presents that were simple, but not to those +mountain mites; colored pictures and illustrated books they were, red +plush albums, simple games, fascinators and mittens for the girls; +pocket-knives, balls, firecrackers, and horns, mittens, caps, and +mufflers for the boys; a doll dressed in everything a doll should wear +for each little girl, no one of whom had ever seen a doll before, except +what was home-made from an old dress or apron tied in several knots to +make the head and body. Twice only was the silence broken. One boy quite +forgot himself when given a pocket-knife. He looked at it suspiciously +and incredulously, turned it over in his hand, opened it and felt the +edge of the blade, and, panting with excitement, cried: "Hit's a shore +'nough knife!" + +And again when, to make sure that nobody had been left out, though all +the presents were gone, the master of ceremonies asked if there was any +other little boy or girl who had received nothing, there arose a bent, +toothless old woman in a calico dress and baggy black coat, her gray +hair straggling from under her black sunbonnet, and her hands gnarled +and knotted from work and rheumatism. Simply as a child, she spoke: + +"I hain't got nothin'." + +Gravely the giver of the gifts asked her to come forward, and, +nonplussed, searched the tree for the most glittering thing he could +find. Then all the women pressed forward and then the men, until all +the ornaments were gone, even the half-burned candles with their +colored holders, which the men took eagerly and fastened in their +coats, clasping the holders to their lapels or fastening the bent wire +in their button-holes, and pieces of tinsel rope, which they threw +over their shoulders--so that the tree stood at last just as it was +when brought from the wild woods outside. + +Straightway then the young doctor hurried the departure of the +merry-makers from the Gap. Already the horses stood hitched, and, +while the laprobes were being carried out, a mountaineer, who had +brought along a sack of apples, lined up the men and boys, and at a +given word started running down the road, pouring out the apples as he +ran, while the men and boys scrambled for them, rolling and tussling +in the snow. As the party moved away, the mountaineers waved their +hands and shouted good-by to the doctor, too shy still to pay much +heed to the other "furriners" in the wagon. The doctor looked back +once with a grateful sigh of relief but no one in the wagon knew that +there had been any danger that day. How great the danger had been not +even the doctor knew then. For the coming vandals had got as far as +the top of the Dividing Ridge, had there quarreled and fought among +themselves, so that, as the party drove away, one invader was at that +minute cursing his captors, who were setting him free, and high upon +the ridge another lay dead in the snow. + +In time there was a wedding at the Gap, and long afterward the doctor, +riding by the little schoolhouse, stopped at the door, and from his +horse shoved it open. The Christmas tree stood just as he had left it +on Christmas Day, only, like the evergreens on the wall and over the +windows, it, too, was brown, withered and dry. Gently he closed the +door and rode on. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[39] When Mr. Fox followed the trail of the Goebel tragedy he was +poaching upon the especial preserves of Miss Eleanor Talbot Kinkead, +whose romance of the "autocrat," _The Courage of Blackburn Blair_ (New +York, 1907), was widely read and reviewed. Miss Kinkead was born in +Kentucky, and, besides the story mentioned above, is the author of +_'Gainst Wind and Tide_ (Chicago, 1892); _Young Greer of Kentucky_ +(Chicago, 1895); _Florida Alexander_ (Chicago, 1898); and _The +Invisible Bond_ (New York, 1906). + +[40] Copyright, 1909, by P. F. Collier and Son. + + + + +FANNIE C. MACAULAY + + +Mrs. Fannie Caldwell Macaulay ("Frances Little"), "the lady of the +Decoration," was born at Shelbyville; Kentucky, November 22, 1863, the +daughter of a jurist. She was educated at Science Hill Academy, +Shelbyville, a noted school for girls. Miss Caldwell was married to +James Macaulay of Liverpool, England, but her marriage proved unhappy. +From 1899 to 1902 Mrs. Macaulay was a kindergarten teacher in +Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1902 to 1907 she was engaged as +supervisor of kindergarten work at Hiroshima, Japan. From Japan she +wrote letters home which were so charming and clever that her niece, +Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, the Louisville novelist, insisted that she make +them into a book. The result was _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York, +1906), for more than a year the most popular book in America. This +little epistolary tale of heroic struggle for one's work and one's love, +was read in all parts of the English-speaking world. It set the +high-water mark, probably, for even the "six best sellers." Mrs. +Macaulay's second book, _Little Sister Snow_ (New York, 1909), was the +tender love story of a young American and a Japanese girl. The lad +sailed away to his American sweetheart, leaving "Little Sister Snow" +blowing him kisses from her native shore. Mrs. Macaulay's latest story, +_The Lady and Sada San_ (New York, 1912), was published in London under +the title of _The Lady Married_, which was clearer, as it is the sequel +to _The Lady of the Decoration_. The Lady's husband, Jack, sails away to +China in pursuit of his scientific duties, leaving her lonely in +Kentucky. She decides to make another journey to Japan; and on the way +over she falls in with a charming young American-Japanese girl, Sada +San, whom she subsequently saves from a most cruel fate. She then finds +her husband, ill and exhausted with his long trip, and returns with him +to Kentucky. The descriptions of the countries through which she passes +are very fine: the best writing the author has shown hitherto. The +little volume was reported as the best selling book in America at +Christmas time of 1912. Mrs. Macaulay has spent much of her life during +the last several years in Japan, but her home is at Louisville. She is a +prominent club woman, and a charming lecturer upon the beauties of +Nippon. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (June, 1906); _Who's Who in America_ + (1912-1913). + + +APPROACHING JAPAN[41] + +[From _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York, 1906)] + + Still on Board. August 18th. + + DEAR MATE: + +I am writing this in my berth with the curtains drawn. No I am not a +bit sea-sick, just popular. One of the old ladies is teaching me to +knit, the short-haired missionary reads aloud to me, the girl from +South Dakota keeps my feet covered up, and Dear Pa and Little Germany +assist me to eat. + +The captain has had a big bathing tank rigged up for the ladies, and I +take a cold plunge every morning. It makes me think of our old days at +the cottage up at the Cape. Didn't we have a royal time that summer +and weren't we young and foolish? It was the last good time I had for +many a long day--but there, none of that! + +Last night I had an adventure, at least it was next door to one. I was +sitting up on deck when Dear Pa came by and asked me to walk with him. +After several rounds we sat down on the pilot house steps. The moon +was as big as a wagon wheel and the whole sea flooded with silver, +while the flying fishes played hide and seek in the shadows. I forgot +all about Dear Pa and was doing a lot of thinking on my own account +when he leaned over and said: + +"I hope you don't mind talking to me. I am very, very lonely." Now I +thought I recognized a grave symptom, and when he began to tell me +about his dear departed, I knew it was time to be going. + +"You have passed through it," he said. "You can sympathize." + +I crossed my fingers in the dark. "We are both seeking a life work in +a foreign field--" he began again, but just here the purser passed. He +almost stumbled over us in the dark and when he saw me and my elderly +friend, he actually smiled! + +Don't you dare tell Jack about this, I should never hear the last of it. + +Can you realize that I am three whole weeks from home! I do, every +second of it. Sometimes when I stop to think what I am doing my heart +almost bursts! But then I am so used to the heartache that I might be +lonesome without it; who knows? + +If I can only do what is expected of me, if I can only pick up the +pieces of this smashed-up life of mine and patch them into a decent +whole that you will not be ashamed of, then I will be content. + +The first foreign word I have learned is "Alohaoe," I think it means +"my dearest love to you." Anyhow I send it laden with the tenderest +meaning. God bless and keep you all, and bring me back to you a wiser +and a gladder woman. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[41] Copyright, 1906, by the Century Company. + + + + +JAMES D. BRUNER + + +James Dowden Bruner, editor of many masterpieces of French literature, +as well as an original critic of that literature, was born near +Leitchfield, Kentucky, May 19, 1864. He was graduated from Franklin +College, Franklin, Indiana, in 1888, and then taught French and German +at Franklin for two years. Professor Bruner studied a year in Paris +and Florence and, on his return to this country, in 1893, he was +elected professor of Romance languages in the University of Illinois. +Johns Hopkins University conferred the degree of Ph. D. upon him, in +1894, his dissertation being _The Phonology of the Pistojese Dialect_ +(Baltimore, 1894, a brochure). From 1895 to 1899 Dr. Bruner was +professor of Romance languages and literatures in the University of +Chicago; from 1901 to 1909 he held a similar chair in the University +of North Carolina; and since 1909 he has been president of Chowan +College, Murfreesboro, North Carolina. Dr. Bruner has edited, with +introductions and critical notes, _Les Adventures du Dernier +Abencerage_, par Chateaubriand (New York, 1903); _Le Roman d'un Jeune +Homme Pauvre_, par Octave Feuillet (Boston, 1904); _Hernani_, par +Victor Hugo (New York, 1906); and _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New +York, 1908), his finest critical edition of any French classic +hitherto. His _Studies in Victor Hugo's Dramatic Characters_ (Boston, +1908), announced the advent of a new critic of the great Frenchman's +plays. It is an excellent piece of work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA[42] + +[From _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New York, 1908)] + +Corneille in the _Cid_ founded the French classical drama. Before the +appearance of this masterpiece, a transition drama containing +characteristics of the tragi-comedy as well as of the regular +classical tragedy, of which Corneille's next three plays, _Horace_, +_Cinna_, and _Polyeucte_, were to be perfect examples, the +tragi-comedy prevailed in France. This tragi-comedy, or irregular +drama, was a Renaissance product, having a history and characteristics +of its own, being largely influenced by the tragedies of Seneca. Its +most important characteristics are non-historic subjects, serious or +tragic plots, the mixture of comic and tragic elements or tones, the +high rank of the leading characters, the _style noble_, looseness of +structure, the disregard of the minor or Italian unities of time and +place, the classical form of verse and number of acts, romanesque +elements, and a happy ending. + +The most striking characteristic of the French classical drama of the +seventeenth century, as of the modern short story, is that of +compression. This statement is true both as to its form and its +content. The accidental accessories of splendid decorations, +magnificent costumes, subsidiary plots, and secondary characters that +might detract from the main situation or obscure the general +impression, are, as far as possible, sacrificed to the essential or +necessary interests of dramatic art. Improbable and irrational +elements are reduced to a minimum. Digressions, episodes, long +soliloquies, oratorical tirades, minute descriptions of external +nature, and complicated machinery that would encumber the plot or +destroy proportion, are largely eliminated. The classical dramatist is +too sensitive to the beautiful, the sublime, the essential, and the +universal to admit into his conception of fine art either moral and +physical deformity or the accidental and particular aspects of life. +Classical tragedy is furthermore narrow in its choice of subject and +form, in its number and range of characters, in its representation of +material and physical action on the stage, and in its number of +events, incidents, and actions. Its subjects and materials are taken +almost wholly from ancient classical and Hebrew sources. Mediaeval, +national, and modern foreign raw material, whether life, history, +legend, or literature, is seldom utilized. Its manners and ideas are +those of the court and the _salons_, and its religion is pagan. Its +language is general, cold, regular, and conventional, and its +versification is confined to rimed Alexandrine couplets, with the +immovable caesura and little _enjambement_. + +The Frenchman's love of proportion, symmetry, restraint, and logical +order led him to the cult of form. In striving after perfection of form, +he naturally adopted compression as the best method of expressing this +innate artistic reserve. This compactness and concentration of form, +this compressed brevity, which the Frenchman inherited from the Latins, +is well illustrated by the following lines from Wordsworth: + + To see a world in a grain of sand, + And a heaven in a wild flower; + Hold infinity in the palm of hand, + And eternity in an hour. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[42] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + + + + +MADISON CAWEIN + + +Madison Cawein, whom English critics name the greatest living American +poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865. He was +christened "Madison Julius Cawein," but he had not gotten far in the +literary lane before his middle name was dropped, though the "J." may be +found upon the title-pages of his earlier books. After some preparatory +work he entered the Louisville Male High School, in 1881, at the age of +sixteen years. At high school Madison Cawein began to write rhymes which +he read to the students and teachers upon stated occasions, and he was +hailed by them as a true maker of song. He was graduated in 1886 in a +class of thirteen members. Being poor in purse, Mr. Cawein accepted a +position in a Louisville business house, and he is one of the few +American poets who wrote in the midst of such commercialism. His was the +singing heart, not to be crushed by conditions or environment of any +kind. The year after his graduation he collected the best of his school +verse and published them as his first book, _Blooms of the Berry_ +(Louisville, 1887). In some way William Dean Howells and Thomas Bailey +Aldrich saw this volume, praised it, and fixed the future poet in his +right path. _The Triumph of Music_ (Louisville, 1888), sounded after +_The Blooms of the Berry_, and since that time hardly a year has passed +without the poet putting forth a slender volume. The next few years saw +the publication of his _Accolon of Gaul_ (Louisville, 1889); _Lyrics and +Idyls_ (Louisville, 1890); _Days and Dreams_ (New York, 1891); _Moods +and Memories_ (New York, 1892); _Red Leaves and Roses_ (New York, 1893); +_Poems of Nature and Love_ (New York, 1893); _Intimations of the +Beautiful_ (New York, 1894), one of his longest poems; _The White Snake_ +(Louisville, 1895), metrical translations from the German poets; +_Undertones_ (Boston, 1896), which contained some of the finest lyrics +he has done so far; _The Garden of Dreams_ (Louisville, 1896); _Shapes +and Shadows_ (New York, 1898); _Idyllic Monologues_ (Louisville, 1898); +_Myth and Romance_ (New York, 1899); _One Day and Another_ (Boston, +1901), a lyrical eclogue; _Weeds by the Wall_ (Louisville, 1901); _A +Voice on the Wind_ (Louisville, 1902). A glance at these titles, +following fast upon each other, convinces the reader that Mr. Cawein was +writing and publishing far too much, that he was not sufficiently +critical of his work. Edmund Gosse, the famous English critic, has +always been one of Mr. Cawein's most ardent admirers, and, in 1903, he +selected the best of his poems, wrote a delightful introduction for +them, and they were published in London under the title of _Kentucky +Poems_. This volume brought the poet many new friends, as it assembled +the best of his work from volumes long out of print and rather difficult +to procure. _The Vale of Tempe_ (New York, 1905), contained the best of +Mr. Cawein's work written since the publication of _Weeds by the Wall_ +in 1901. _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906), a collection +of poems and prose-pastels, was especially notable for the fact that it +contained the first and only short-story the poet has written, entitled +"Woman or--What?" + +_The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, five volumes), +charmingly illustrated by Mr. Eric Pape, the Boston artist, with Mr. +Gosse's introduction, brought together all of Mr. Cawein's work that +he cared to rescue from many widely scattered volumes. He made many +revisions in the poems, some of which (in the judgment of the writer) +tend to mar their original beauty. But it is a work of which any poet +may be proud; and it is not surpassed in quality or quantity by any +living American. + +Mr. Cawein's _Ode in Commemoration of the Founding of the +Massachusetts Bay Colony_ (Louisville, 1908), which he read at +Gloucester in August, 1907, was rather lengthy, but it contained many +strong and fine lines; and a group of New England sonnets, some of the +best he has done, appeared at the end of the ode. His _New Poems_ +(London, 1909), was followed by _The Giant and the Star_ (Boston, +1909), a small collection of children's verse, dedicated to his little +son, who furnished their inspiration. _Let Us Do the Best that We Can_ +(Chicago, 1909), was a beautiful brochure; and _The Shadow Garden and +Other Plays_ (New York, 1910), was four chamber-dramas which have been +highly praised, and which contain some of the most delicate work the +poet has done. _So Many Ways_ (Chicago, 1911), was another +pamphlet-poem; and it was followed by _Poems_ (New York, 1911), +selected from the whole range of his work by himself, with a foreword +by William Dean Howells. Mr. Cawein's latest volume is entitled _The +Poet, the Fool and the Faeries_ (Boston, 1912). It brings together his +work of the last two or three years, both in the field of the lyric +and of the drama. And from the mechanical aspect it is his most +beautiful book. The poet will publish two books through a Cincinnati +firm in 1913, to be entitled _The Republic--a Little Book of Homespun +Verse_, and _Minions of the Moon_. + +In March, 1912, literary Louisville celebrated the twenty-fifth +anniversary of the publication of _Blooms of the Berry_, and the +forty-seventh birthday of its author, Madison Cawein, the city's most +distinguished man of letters. This was the first public recognition Mr. +Cawein has received in the land of his birth, though it is now proposed +to place a bust of him in the public library of Louisville. He is better +known in New York or London than he is in Kentucky, but it will not be +long before the people of his own land realize that they have been +entertaining a world-poet, possibly, unawares. He is so far removed from +any Kentucky poet of the present school that to mention him in the same +breath with any of them is to make one's self absurd. Looking backward +to the beginnings of our literature and coming carefully down the slope +to this time, but two poets rise out of the mist of yesterday to greet +Cawein and challenge him for the laureateship of Kentucky makers of +song: Theodore O'Hara with his immortal elegy, and Daniel Henry Holmes +with his sheaf of tender lyrics. These three are the nearest approach to +the ineffable poets--who left the earth with the passing of +Tennyson--yet nurtured upon Kentucky soil. + +Mr. Cawein is, of course, a poet of Nature, a landscape poet in +particular who paints every color on the palette into his work. Had he +been an artist he would have exhausted all colors conceived thus far +by man, and would fain have originated new ones. There are literally +hundreds of his poems in which every line is as surely a stroke as if +done with the brush of a painter. Color, color, is his +shibboleth-scheme, and he who would woo Nature in her richest robes +may read Cawein and be content. + +Amazing as it may seem Mr. Cawein has thirty-four volumes to his +credit--almost one for every year of his life. This statement stamps +him as one of the most prolific poets of modern times, if not, indeed, +of all time. And that it is not all quantity, may be seen in the +recent declaration of _The Poetry Review_ of London: "He appears quite +the biggest figure among American poets; his _return to nature_ has no +tinge of affectation; it is genuine to the smallest detail. If he +suffers from fatigue, it is in him, at least, not through that +desperate satiety of town life which with so many recent poets has +ended in impressionism and death." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poets of the Younger Generation_, by William Archer + (London, 1901); _The Younger American Poets_, by Jessie B. + Rittenhouse (Boston, 1904); _History of American_ _Literature_, + by R. P. Halleck (New York, 1911); _The Poetry Review_ (London, + October, 1912). + + +CONCLUSION[43] + +[From _Undertones_ (Boston, 1896)] + + The songs Love sang to us are dead: + Yet shall he sing to us again, + When the dull days are wrapped in lead, + And the red woodland drips with rain. + + The lily of our love is gone, + That touched our spring with golden scent; + Now in the garden low upon + The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent. + + Our rose of dreams is passed away, + That lit our summer with sweet fire; + The storm beats bare each thorny spray, + And its dead leaves are trod in mire. + + The songs Love sang to us are dead; + Yet shall he sing to us again, + When the dull days are wrapped in lead, + And the red woodland drips with rain. + + The marigold of memory + Shall fill our autumn then with glow; + Haply its bitterness will be + Sweeter than love of long ago. + + The cypress of forgetfulness + Shall haunt our winter with its hue; + The apathy to us not less + Dear than the dreams our summer knew. + + +INDIAN SUMMER[44] + +[From _Kentucky Poems_ (London, 1903)] + + The dawn is warp of fever, + The eve is woof of fire; + And the month is a singing weaver + Weaving a red desire. + + With stars Dawn dices with Even + For the rosy gold they heap + On the blue of the day's deep heaven, + On the black of the night's far deep. + + It's--'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'-- + The season's a prince who burns + With the teasing lusts that harry + His heart for a wench who spurns. + + It's--'Crown us a beaker with sherry, + To drink to the doxy's heels; + A tankard of wine o' the berry, + To lips like a cloven peel's. + + ''S death! if a king be saddened, + Right so let a fool laugh lies: + But wine! when a king is gladdened, + And a woman's waist and her eyes.' + + He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, + And left but a leaf that flits, + He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever + Of mist and of frost is its. + + He hath tippled the buxom beauty, + And gotten her hug and her kiss-- + The wide world's royal booty + To pile at her feet for this. + + + +HOME[45] + +[From _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906)] + + A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees. + A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red. + Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines + Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape. + Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows, + Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud; + Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough, + Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time. + Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees, + The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads, + Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells, + Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep. + Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods. + A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn + Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms. + And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk, + And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom, + A woman with a wild-rose in her hair. + + +LOVE AND A DAY[46] + +[From _The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)] + + I + + In girandoles and gladioles + The day had kindled flame; + And Heaven a door of gold and pearl + Unclosed, whence Morning,--like a girl, + A red rose twisted in a curl,-- + Down sapphire stairways came. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All on a summer's morning?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + If she be milking, follow, O! + And in the clover hollow, O! + While through the dew the bells clang clear, + Just whisper it into her ear, + All on a summer's morning." + + II + + Of honey and heat and weed and wheat + The day had made perfume; + And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, + Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed-- + A sunflower withering at her waist-- + Within a crystal room. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All in the summer nooning?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + If she be 'mid the rakers, O! + Among the harvest acres, O! + While every breeze brings scents of hay, + Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,' + All in the summer nooning." + + III + + With song and sigh and cricket cry + The day had mingled rest; + And Heaven a casement opened wide + Of opal, whence, like some young bride, + The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed, + A moonflower on her breast. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All in the summer gloaming?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + Go meet her at the trysting, O! + And 'spite of her resisting, O! + Beneath the stars and afterglow, + Just clasp her close and kiss her--so, + All in the summer gloaming." + + +IN A SHADOW GARDEN[47] + +[From _The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays_ (New York, 1910)] + + Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks. + The place is most propitious and the time.-- + See how they trip it!--There one rides a snail. + And here another teases at a bee.-- + In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.-- + Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon, + 'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.-- + We never knew, or cared, once.--Would we had!-- + Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy, + That comes with beautiful belief in everything + That makes for childhood, had then touched us young + And kept us young forever; young in heart-- + The only youth man has. But man believes + In only what he contacts; what he sees; + Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch + And vision are his all. The loveliness, + That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts, + Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams + And counts for nothing that he reckons real; + But is, in fact, less insubstantial than + The world he builds of matter-of-fact and stone. + That great inhuman world of evidence, + Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old + With what it christens wisdom.--Did it know, + The wise are only they who keep their minds + As little children's, innocent of doubt, + Believing all things beautiful are true. + + +UNREQUITED[48] + +[From _Poems_ (New York, 1911)] + + Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: + One hand among the deep curls of her brow, + I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: + She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. + + So have I seen a clear October pool, + Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere + Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, + Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. + + Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; + Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer. + Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat + Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair! + + So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head + Sung to and sung to by a longing bird; + And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, + No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. + + +A TWILIGHT MOTH + +[From the same] + + Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state + Of gold and purple in the marbled west, + Thou comest forth like some embodied trait, + Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed; + Or of a rose the visible wish; that, white, + Goes softly messengering through the night, + Whom each expectant flower makes its guest. + + All day the primroses have thought of thee, + Their golden heads close-harmed from the heat; + All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly + Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet, + Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;-- + Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last, + Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. + + Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's + Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks + The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays + Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links + In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith, + O bearer of their order's shibboleth, + Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. + + What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear + That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,-- + A syllabled silence that no man may hear,-- + As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? + What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, + Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, + Some specter of some perished flower of phlox? + + O voyager of that universe which lies + Between the four walls of this garden fair,-- + Whose constellations are the fireflies + That wheel their instant courses everywhere,-- + Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees + Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades, + Thou steerest like some faery ship of air. + + Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer, + Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest + Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her + His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.-- + Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, + That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! + And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[43] Copyright, 1896, by Copeland and Day. + +[44] Copyright, 1903, by the Author. + +[45] Copyright, 1906, by the Author. + +[46] Copyright, 1907, by the Author. + +[47] Copyright, 1910, by the Author. + +[48] Copyright, 1911, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN + + +Mrs. George Madden Martin, the mother of _Emmy Lou_, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. She is the sister of Miss Eve Anne +Madden, who has also written several delightful books for children. +She was educated in the public schools of Louisville, but on account +of ill-health her training was concluded at home. In 1892 Miss Madden +was married to Mr. Attwood R. Martin, and they have made their home at +Anchorage, Kentucky, some miles from Louisville, ever since. Mrs. +Martin's first book was _The Angel of the Tenement_ (New York, 1897), +now out of print, which she seemingly regards with so little favor +that it is seldom found in the list of her works. _Emmy Lou--Her Book +and Heart_ (New York, 1902), made her famous throughout the +English-reading world. It ran serially in _McClure's Magazine_ during +1900. It is a masterpiece and, though she has published several +stories since, this remains as her best book hitherto. Little "Emmy +Lou" gets into the reader's heart in the most wonderful way, and, once +there, she will not be displaced. She is the most charming child in +Kentucky literature, a genuine creation. Mrs. Martin's short novel, +_The House of Fulfillment_ (New York, 1904) won her praise from people +who could not care for her child, though the heroine was none other +than "Emmy Lou" in long skirts. This was followed by _Abbie Ann_ (New +York, 1907); _Letitia: Nursery Corps, U. S. A._ (New York, 1907), was +a very winsome little girl, who causes the men of the army many +trials and vexations at various military posts where her parents +happened to be stationed. _Emmy Lou_ and _Letitia_, as has been +pointed out by one of Mrs. Martin's keenest critics, regard childhood +through the eyes of age and are best appreciated, perhaps, by adults; +while _Abbie Ann_ sees childhood through a child's eyes, and is +certainly more appreciated by children than by grown-ups. Two of Mrs. +Martin's most recent stories, _When Adam Dolve and Eve Span_, appeared +in _The American Magazine_ for October, 1911; and _The Blue +Handkerchief_, in _The Century_ for December, 1911. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (February, 1903); _The Outlook_ + (October 1, 1904); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1904). + + +EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE[49] + +[From _Emmy Lou--Her Book and Heart_ (New York, 1902)] + +About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it was +February, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth. +At recess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The +echoes reached Emmy Lou. + +The Valentines must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing. +And to get no valentine was a dreadful thing--dreadful thing. And even +the timidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats. + +Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was +she to survive the contumely and shame? + +You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on your +valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was to +prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These things +reached Emmy Lou. + +Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so +grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine. + + +And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on the +Fourteenth day of February. The drug-store window was full of +valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to see +them. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten a +valentine. And she would have to say, No. + +She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she +went to her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her +wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through +the crack of the door from Miss Clara's dressing-room. + +Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay something +square and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, all +over flowers and scrolls. + +Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink. + +She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it. + +Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened. +Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, for +since you must not--she would never show her valentine--never. + +The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and +Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being +able to say it. + +Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but +no one else might see it. + +It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading +on it. She studied surreptitiously. The reading was made up of +letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She +knew some of the letters. She would ask someone the letters she did +not know by pointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was +learning. It was the first time since she came to school. + +But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying +the valentine again. + +Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia +was busy. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou. + +Aunt Cordelia listened. + +"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?" + +"Be," said Aunt Cordelia. + +If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were +strange. + +Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith. + +After dinner she approached Aunt Katie. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?" + +"My," said Aunt Katie. + +The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to +copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom +was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the +other boy was gone. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the +slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her. + +Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little +girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou. + +Now she was alone, so she stopped. + +"Get any valentines?" + +"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's +friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it." + +"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been +reading the long verses inside to me." + +"Can you show them--valentines?" asked Emmy Lou. + +"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl. + +The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and +the aunties, sitting around, reading. + +"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou. + +They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it +came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to +come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been +forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing +because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled. + +But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee. +In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's +forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands. + +"I can read it," said Emmy Lou. + +They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked +over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder. + +"B," said Emmy Lou, "e--Be." + +The aunties nodded. + +"M," said Emmy Lou, "y--my." + +Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, +e--Valentine. Be my Valentine." + +"There!" said Aunt Cordelia. + +"Well!" said Aunt Katie. + +"At last!" said Aunt Louise. + +"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[49] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + + + + +MARY ADDAMS BAYNE + + +Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, Kentucky, +in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, she made her home with her +brother, Mr. William Addams of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an +aspirant for the gubernatorial chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was +married to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad, +Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story writer for some +years before she became a novelist. Her first book, _Crestlands_ +(Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial story of the famous Cane Ridge +meeting-house, near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or +Reformed church. _Crestlands_ is important as history and +entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by _Blue Grass and +Wattle_ (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of which is more +illuminating, "The Man from Australia." This novel relates the +religious life of a young Australian, educated in Kentucky, and his +many fightings within and without form an interesting story. From the +literary standpoint _Blue Grass and Wattle_ is an advance over +_Crestlands_, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in Mrs. +Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall of 1912 Mrs. Bayne +purchased the old Burnett place at Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she +has converted into the most charming home of that town. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; _The Christian + Standard_ (December, 1907). + + +THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER[50] + +[From _Crestlands_ (Cincinnati, 1907)] + +The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze, +pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing +minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its +summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a +fallen log a red-bird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the +lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home; +but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when +mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of +squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild +turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush. +At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but +scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again. +For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a +startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the +depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from +their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the +squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of +the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, undisturbed, +went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm +of his song to fear any intruder. + +The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed +by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing. +He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy +complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay +across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags. +He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun +of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the +period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was +short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim +of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray +traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a +waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same +color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black +cloth band with silver buckles. + +He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged +into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched, +quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much +a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the +trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an +open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging +sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro +doffed his cap and bowed humbly. + +"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke +off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped +off somewhars." + +"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is +to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region." + +"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin' +whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by +de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to +Marstah Gilcrest's, suh." + +"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers' +house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest." + +"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse +Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah +same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest +bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah +he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick." + +The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile. + +"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward +with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid all de shettahs +barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods +all roun' it--dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you +comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore +white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a +orchid. Den you's dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble +rumpus, but you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and +some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter +Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e +bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way." + +With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer. +Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another +half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than +any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[50] Copyright, 1907, by the Standard Publishing Company. + + + + +ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ + + +Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of _Pa Gladden_, was born at +Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols +Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was +graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter +she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the +breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff +of the _Cincinnati Tribune_, which she left after two years for the +Springfield, Ohio, _Republic-Times_, with which she was connected for +a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz, +a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a +position on _The Courier-Journal_. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor +of _The Courier-Journal_, and this position she held until her death. +Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester +Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's +literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the +ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was +a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after +a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and +iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on +her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the +street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!" +Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known +character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by _The Century +Magazine_ in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being +brought together in a charming book, entitled _Pa Gladden--The Story +of a Common Man_ (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden" +is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind, +and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of +goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great +amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is +the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said +throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death +occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook," +September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her +book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked. +_The Ancient Landmark_ (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a +vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn +out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer +of real achievement and greater promise. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 5, 1903); _Who's Who in + America_ (1903-1905). + + +PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN[52] + +[From _Pa Gladden_ (New York, 1903)] + +In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the +barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had +sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness +to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times +unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and +again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she +turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that, +setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards +and prayed fervently: + +"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when +redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye +sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal +'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy +love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let +Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life." + +When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep +meaning. + +"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your +goodness. I am not"--her voice rose to a shriek--"I am not wicked. You +can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be +here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell +me your name, sir." + +"Pa Gladden." + +"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?" + +"No"--with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the +folks." + +"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up." + +"Prubable." + +"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side, +like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She +ended with a sob. + +"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make +it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart." + +"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry, +Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If +you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet." + +He sat by her for a few moments longer. + +"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said +cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll +soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye +down. Doc Briskett knows his business." + +She held out her hand to him. + +"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in +the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps." + +Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's +cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate. + +"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the +barn road. Yer patient air out thar." + +"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me +'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!" + +Pa climbed in beside him. + +"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his +story for the doctor's amazed ears. + +"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an +illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have +any disease traveling." + +A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it +and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look +over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the +shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born. +Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago: + + Carol, carol, Christians, + Carol joyfully, + Carol for the coming + Of Christ's nativity! + +Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost +tumbled down the ladder: + +"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is +at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here; +bring some woman, for the love of God!" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[51] Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic +Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be +gathered from the files of _The Courier-Journal_. Mr. Aroni's fame has +lingered in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never +published a book or wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial +writer on _The North American_, Philadelphia. + +[52] Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company. + + + + +REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH + + +Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy that has come +down to posterity with a deal of the perfume of permanency, was born +at Louisville, Kentucky, February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter +of Reuben Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of New York +State, the feminine form of whose name she bore. Her father was the +well-known novelist, Mansfield Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her +mother and sister were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a +glance that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately. +She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, but her one-act +comediette, entitled _Where was Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies_ (New +York, 1888), written before she was of age, made her widely known. +This little comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce. +Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in 1896, being poet of +the class, and one of the editors of _The Vassarian_. She then taught +in a woman's college for a time, when the war with Spain was declared +and she determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss +Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. The last months +of her life were spent at the detention hospital, Montauk, New York, +where she rendered noble service in her country's cause. She was +stricken with fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken +to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried with military +honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics should be republished. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New + York, 1889, v. vi); _A Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F. + Adams (Boston, 1905). + + +THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES + +[From _Where was Elsie?_ (New York, 1888)] + +Act I, Scene IV. _Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper._ + +_Elsie._ Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern? + +_Jack._ Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take +you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince--[_Stops_]. + +_Elsie._ Prince! what Prince? + +_Jack._ Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the +King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to +dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due +reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey +her commands. [_Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door._] +Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [_Exit._] + +_Elsie._ That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [_Looks at +flask in her hand._] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so +fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I +did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever. +I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have +a long train. [_Struts up and down, but stops suddenly._] Well, I don't +care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [_Looking about her._] I +don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [_Catches sight of something +shining on the wall._] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be +fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going +to see what it is. [_Stops._] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask! +[_Brightening up._] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take +the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is +over there. I wonder what will happen. [_Drinks._] + +Curtain. + + + + +CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT + + +Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867, +the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden, +the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's +biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr. +Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss +Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future +novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the +two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public +school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent +two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the +Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to +resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville +where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid +Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and +removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently +went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott +joined the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_, and acted as +representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to +South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the +interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to +his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby +county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news +reporter for _The Tribune_, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr. +Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite +cruiser _Nictheroy_. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby +county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he +married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper +correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly +afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at +Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago _Record_. When the +now defunct Louisville _Dispatch_ was established, Mr. Marriott became +telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898. +Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the _Dispatch_, he +regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several +times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in +1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott +has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the +United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to +surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr. +Marriott's first book, _Uncle Sam's Business_ (New York, 1908), was an +excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans." +It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the +Sargasso Sea, _The Isle of Dead Ships_ (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene +of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the +world. _How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City_ (New +York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book, +fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader. +Mr. Marriott's second novel, _Out of Russia_ (Philadelphia, 1911), a +story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than _The Isle of +Dead Ships_. From June to October, 1912, his _Sally Castleton, +Southerner_, a Civil War story, ran in _Everybody's Magazine_, and it +will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of +a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian, +who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr. +Marriott has done--one of the best of the recent war novels. In the +past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some +fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is +certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky +stories, one for _Gunter's Magazine_, the other for _The Pocket +Magazine_ (which periodical was swallowed up by _Leslie's Weekly_); +and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls +_One Night in Kentucky_, and which will appear in _The Red Book +Magazine_ sometime in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; _Who's Who + in America_, (1912-1913). + + +THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY[53] + +[From _Sally Castleton, Southerner_ (_Everybody's Magazine_, June, +1912)] + +With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the +door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror, +must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to +the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her. + +Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one +addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps +holding his horse's bridle--a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking, +with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a +boy--not an enemy. + +"Well, sir?" she faltered. + +The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood +swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General +Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience, +but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will +be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen, +who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the +valley with field-glasses. + +Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at +General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I +have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should." + +The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh, +that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking +out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only +wants a place to rest for a few hours." + +"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there +were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well +to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle +Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer +supper to him and his staff?" + +Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear; +now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow +less. + +The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table, +with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general." +He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps. + +Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp +on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!" +she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they +are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to +meet her guests. + +On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty +cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a +few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with +mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed, +and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other +strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles +in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the +sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny +hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the +flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires, +and his hammer clanked noisily. + +The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of +hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no +little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and +the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted. + +It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the +Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with +unconscious interest. + +The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General +Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten +convention. "General Haverhill--Miss--?" He paused interrogatively. + +The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said. + +"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose +Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?" + +"Yes, general. Will you come in?" + +The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper, +general," he said. + +The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar +of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his +smile was pleasant. "You are--loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The +question seemed unnecessary. + +"Yes--to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily. + +"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy +brows. "And this is--" he turned toward the younger girl. + +"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton." + +"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal--to Virginia, +Miss Eugenia?" he said. + +Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched +'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause, +she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small +foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!" + +The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration. +"Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling. + +Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked +after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its +chairs and lounge--the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately +lain--and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor +her sister could help glancing at that stove. + +It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please +sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see +about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie +following rather sullenly. + +In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted +her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion +that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he +search--and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded, +suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very +long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would +they consider him a spy and--and---- + +A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside +her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted. + +"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect? +Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!" + +Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You +didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too +friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious." + +"But--but--he'll starve!" + +"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,' +that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get +supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them +occupied--when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!" + +'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed. +"Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip +starving right under their noses." + +The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are +worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for +him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that +ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a +good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got +to feed the brutes, let's do it." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[53] Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company. + + + + +ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE + + +Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at +Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls' +High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor +of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in +studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States +Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a +resident ever since. Her first book, _Antinous_ (Philadelphia, 1891), a +blank verse tragedy, was followed by _College Girls_ (New York, 1895), +an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss +Goodloe's first novel, _Calvert of Strathore_ (New York, 1903), was +set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. _At the Foot of the +Rockies_ (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's +best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest, +one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The +author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the +Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the +romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for +the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other +writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel, +_The Star-Gazers_ (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late +president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together +with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of +narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no +way does this work rank with _At the Foot of the Rockies_. The +short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field +she should go far. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the + _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. v); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (January, April, 1910; July, 1911). + + +A COUNTESS OF THE WEST[54] + +[From _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905)] + +She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a +wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and +irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with +brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry +her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that. +The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded +garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew +from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring. +With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held +it out to him. + +"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to +some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll +enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!" + +As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly +saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following +the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand +gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and +following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age. +The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his +complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was +most immaculately got up in riding things. + +"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper +incredulously to himself. + +The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of +the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The +Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son. + +"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too +fit, you know." + +"Thanks, father--yes, I know it. When did you get here?" + +"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train." + +"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?" + +"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't seen you for a +long while. May--may I--the Earl of Rigby, Miss Ogden." + +The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again--it had fallen out when he +had shaken his son's hand--and stared at the young woman before him. + +"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. "I--I had +always understood that this country was an Eveless paradise. I'm glad +to see I'm mistaken." + +Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably. Not one of +the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed necessarily +attendant on an introduction to a noble earl now disturbed her +composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite compliment left her perfectly +cool. He simply seemed to her an extremely handsome man, a good deal +cleverer and stronger-looking than his son. + +"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss Ogden," said +Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in Port Highwood and +she'll help St. John show you the country, my lord." + +"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing the white, +even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she turned to the Earl +of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you the country--specially as +Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in two or three days." + +"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction. + +"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable Arthur. + +"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two weeks, I suppose." + +"Yes--father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood House. I fancy +he'll wish he were back in England!" + +"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl. + +A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes. + +"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the two weeks, +and at the end of the time I am sure you could not decide which to +call the prettiest," she asserted. + +"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to try." + +"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. "And now, as +you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I think I won't go on into +Highwood. Your lordship's things will be sent over early in the +morning. His lordship was so anxious to see you, St. John, that we +couldn't even persuade him to mess with us to-night," he remarked, +jocularly, to the Honorable Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I +think. Good-bye!" He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse +set off at an easy canter for the fort. + +A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, which Miss +Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, and riding on +slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur and his father. The earl gazed +admiringly at her slim back. + +"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits her horse +perfectly." + +"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively. + +"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, warmly. He +spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The Honorable Arthur +rather sulkily closed up on the left. + +"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go on the +round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised to show me the +country. I am most deeply interested in our Canadian possessions, you +know," said the earl. + +She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray eyes +which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp. + +"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored while Mr. +St. John is away," she said, sweetly. + +It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks and four +days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the Morgan round-up, +twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a telegram for St. John. The +Honorable Arthur was so dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the +half-breed had difficulty in picking him out from the rest of the +dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt round-up crew. + +The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable +fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand like a withered +leaf on a windshaken bough. + +"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. Most +important. + + RIGBY." + + +His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and tanned +skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly a joyous thought +came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, and wants me to go back with +him," he told himself over and over. He thrust his few things into the +one portmanteau he had brought with him and made such good time going +the twenty-five miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down +the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in. + +The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule rail of the +observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially grasped his +son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was struck afresh by the good looks +and youthfulness of his aristocratic father. + +"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and I'm glad +you got here in time. What? No, you won't need your portmanteau. The +truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, "the Countess of Rigby--she +was Miss Lily Ogden until last night, my deah boy--and I are on our +way to England, and we couldn't leave the country without seeing you +again. Won't you step into the coach and speak to her?" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[54] Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +GEORGE LEE BURTON + + +George Lee Burton, magazinest, was born at Danville, Kentucky, April +17, 1868. He was fitted at the Louisville Rugby School for the +University of Virginia, from which he was graduated, after which he +returned to Louisville, and studied law in the University of +Louisville. Upon his graduation from that institution he was admitted +to the bar, and he has since practiced his profession at Louisville +with success. Mr. Burton began to write some years ago, contributing +short-stories and sketches to the eastern periodicals. _The Century_ +published his clever story, _As Seen By His Bride_; and _Ainslee's +Magazine_ printed his _The Training of the Groom_, _The Deferred +Proposal_, _Cupid's Impromptu_, and several other stories. His work +for _The Saturday Evening Post_, however, has been his most noteworthy +performance. For that great weekly he has written: _Getting a Start at +Sixty_ (published anonymously); _The Making of a Small Capitalist_, _A +Fresh Grip_, _A Rebuilt Life_, and _Tackling Matrimony_, the last of +which titles appeared in two parts in _The Post_ for November 23 and +November 30, 1912, was exceedingly well done. He has recently +re-written _Tackling Matrimony_, greatly developing the story-part, +and more than doubling its length, for the Harper's, who will issue it +in book form early in the spring of 1913. Mr. Burton is a bachelor who +has won wide reputation as a writer upon various phases of matrimonial +mixups. He also has a certain sympathy with those who waste their +youth in riotous living, but who win their true positions in the world +after all seems lost. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Burton to the Author; _Outing_ + (May, 1900). + + +AFTER PRISON--HOME[55] + +[From _A Rebuilt Life_ (_Saturday Evening Post_, March 23, 1912)] + +"Well, sir, when I got out I was shipped back to my own town, or +rather the town from which I had been sent up. I was born five hundred +miles from there; but my people had died when I was young and I had +drifted in there when I was only sixteen years old--I guess that makes +it my town after all. Now, at thirty-five I was back there from the +pen and I stayed there. + +"Maybe that was a mistake. I guess it was harder for me; but I had that +much fight left in me. I wanted to show people that there was still some +man in me, even if I had spent ten years in the pen that I deserved to +spend there. Besides, I wouldn't like to start off fresh in a new place +and build up a little, and just as I got to going have somebody from my +home town come along and tell everybody that respected me that I was a +murderer and an ex-convict and a lowdown sort of nobody. + +"I believe after all I'd rather start in as I did, back where they +thought that about me to begin with, and build up fresh from that. I +wanted to live down the killing and those ten years--and I believe +I've sorter done it. It may sound foolish, but--though I don't excuse +all that, remember--I have got to sorter respect myself again, and I +tell you it feels good! + +"They didn't have prison reform in that state then, with an employment +officer and a job all ready to help a poor devil start out again when +he got back to freedom. They gave me a suit of clothes and five +dollars and shipped me back to the town I came from, then turned me +loose as an ex-convict to hump for myself like the other "exes," +branded by those years of living in there. + +"It certainly seemed strange to see the place again. There had been +many changes in those years. I put up at one of these +twenty-five-cents-a-night men's hotels, and took fifteen-cent +meals--skipping one every day to make my five dollars last longer; and +I commenced looking for a job. + +"There didn't seem any need of more help anywhere. I tried many of my +old acquaintances to see if I could get a place--I did not seem to +have any friends left! I found ten years in the pen seemed to wipe out +the claim of being even an acquaintance with most of them. They all +looked at me curiously, as if I was a different brand of man--a +cannibal, or Eskimo, or something. + +"I'd rather they wouldn't have showed so plain they thought me +dangerous or worse; yet I'd have swallowed that if they had only given +me work. They didn't though; some of them weren't as cold with me as +others, but none of them had anything for me. + +"Of course I tackled all sorts of strangers, too, for work; but +usually they didn't have any--and when they had they wanted +references. I couldn't blame them; I guess I had a sort of pasty face +and hangdog look. + +"They had such a habit of asking: 'Where did you work last?' + +"'I've been away a long time--have not worked here for several years,' +I would say. + +"'Where did you work while you were away?' came next. + +"'I worked at broom-making part of the time,' I got to answering. + +"Then, like as not, the boss would look at me suspiciously and say: +'No, I don't believe I need you just now; if I do I will let you know. +Where do you live?" + +"When I gave the number of the bum lodging house he would look as if +that settled it; he had known all along I wasn't any good. And I felt +so shamed and low down all the time I looked like he was right. + +"Five dollars don't last very long, even with two meals a day. I got +work one day on a wrecker's force, tearing down an old building; but +the foreman drove his men hard and I wasn't used to real work anyway. +I couldn't stand up to it, and--I'm ashamed to tell it even now--I +fainted about four o'clock that afternoon. + +"Another day I got a place with the gang working repairs on the +street-railroad tracks; but the man in charge said I was too slow and +not strong enough--had better get some different kind of work. As if I +hadn't tried everything I could! He didn't pay me for a full day +either--said I wasn't worth it; and the worst was that I knew he was +right. I was about at the end of my rope when my money gave out, and I +was looking so weak and shamefaced that I didn't stand any sort of a +chance. I got to feeling desperate. + +"I remember that about this time I went in to answer an ad--'Man +wanted as porter in well-established wholesale drug house.' The head +of the place was a mild-mannered old man, who sat in the back office, +but who always looked over the new men before they were employed. He +began as usual: + +"'Where did you work last?' + +"'With the street-railroad gang,' I answered. + +"'U-um! How long?' + +"'One day,' I told him. + +"'Ah!' he said, as if he had discovered something--'and before that?' + +"'With a house-wrecking gang on Flint Street.' + +"'Yes--how long there?' + +"'Part of a day,' I said. 'I couldn't stand up to the work.' + +"I thought he looked a little sympathetic then, but was not sure until +he sniffed and asked the next question in a hard, thin voice: + +"'And where before that?' + +"I hesitated a moment; he looked at me more closely and said in that +same tone: + +"'Where?' + +"I had been looked at and questioned so much that way and had got so +raw about it that now I almost shouted: 'In the penitentiary!' + +"'Why, bless my soul!' the mild little man gasped. 'No, I don't need +you. Good day! Good day!' + +"He looked so shocked and I felt so desperate that I could not help +adding, while I looked at him hard: + +"'I was put in for manslaughter too--voluntary manslaughter!' + +"There wasn't any clerk in the room at the time. + +"Oh, oh, indeed!' he gulped out, rising and backing away, big-eyed and +trembly. He almost got to the back window before I turned and left. + +"Maybe I didn't feel bitter and like 'what's the use--what's the use +of anything!' I don't know what would have happened--I guess I'd have +starved to death or worse--if it hadn't been for the hoboes' +hotel--Welcome Hall--'Headquarters for the Unemployed,' as it's +advertised. + +"You don't know about the place? Well, sir, it's a dandy!--at least, +that's the way I think about it--and a good many others do too. The +worst of the hoboes won't go there if they can help it--they'd rather +bum a dime and get a bed for the night in one of those ten-cent places. + +"This Welcome Hall is a sort of industrial kindling-splitting joint. +You blow in there and saw and split kindling for a bed and meals--you +give them six hours' work. + +"You see, in that way you can live off six hours' work a day and have +some time left to look for a job. It's a good thing, and it's been a +moneymaker too; it's the only charity I know of that's not a charity +but a moneymaking concern. Of course people had to give it a place and +start it; but it more than pays expenses, and at the same time helps +to build up a man instead of making him a pauper or a deadbeat bum. + +"I certainly was glad to find some place where I could at least earn +my lodging and meals. I rested up some there and was glad I could just +stay somewhere. Though I looked about for work a little, nearly every +day, I lived along there for three weeks on my six hours a day of +work--still out of a job. At last I guess my fighting blood got up +again, I determined I would get a job of some kind, even if it was +cleaning vaults. I decided no honest work was beneath me when it all +seemed so far above me as to be out of reach. + +"'If I keep my eyes open and am not too choosy I must find something +to do,' I said to myself, and set out to look for it in earnest. It +was Saturday morning, I remember, for I thought of the next day being +Sunday, when I could not even hunt for work. I had walked a good way +and asked for work at a lot of places without getting anything to do, +when I saw an old negro man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk and +washing off the front steps of a plain two-story house with a bucket +of water and a cloth. + +"'I may not be much account but I sure can do that,' I thought, and +asked him how much he got for it. + +"'For dese here, boss, I gits ten cents; but when I wuks all de way +roun' to de back do' I gits some dinner th'owed in,' he said with a +grin. + +"That wasn't so bad; and 'boss'!--how good that sounded! I went on +down the street feeling almost like a man again and not a down-and-out +ex-convict. + +"About a square away I began to ask at every house if they didn't want +the leaves swept off and the front steps washed. Maybe I looked too +much like a tramp or too much above one with that 'boss' still ringing +in my ears--the first time I had been spoken to that way for more than +ten years! Anyway I got turned down at first. + +"At the tenth place, however, a two-story-and-attic red brick, they +gave me a job. The woman asked me in a sharp voice, as if she were +defending herself from being overcharged: + +"'How much?' + +"'Ten cents,' I answered, as meekly as I could. + +"She seemed to think that was reasonable; and after waiting a minute, as +if she wanted the work done and couldn't find any excuse for not letting +me do it, she handed me a bucket and mop and broom and set me at it. + +"I finished the job in about an hour; and I tell you I enjoyed that +work! Beneath me? Why, it couldn't get beneath me--I was that low down +in mind and living and even hope. I was just about all in, you +understand; and I wasn't a plumb out-and-out fool. + +"I have got that dime yet; see here," he said, holding out a brightly +polished dime surrounded by a narrow gold band, which he wore as a charm +on his watch-chain; "whenever I begin to feel ashamed of my work I look +at that and get thankful, and remember how proud and happy I felt when +that sharp-looking woman handed it to me. I had done a little extra work +in cleaning up the yard, and she said as she gave it to me: + +"'That looks a whole lot better! You certainly earned that dime.' + +"I wouldn't have spent that money if I had had to go without food for +two days! It seemed to put springs in my feet and I went down the +street hustling for another job of the same kind. I found it before +dinner; it was another ten cent job with twenty cents' worth of work; +but I sure was glad to get it. + +"I felt that, so long as Welcome Hall was making money, I was earning +my way by those six hours of work a day, and I stayed on there for +some time longer." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[55] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +JAMES TANDY ELLIS + + +James Tandy Ellis, "Shawn's" father, was born at Ghent, Kentucky, June +9, 1868. He spent his boyhood days in one of the most romantically +beautiful sections of Kentucky, on the Ohio river between Cincinnati and +Louisville. He was educated at Ghent College and the State College of +Kentucky at Lexington. Mr. Ellis has always been a great lover of Nature +and his leisure-hours are usually spent with dog and gun or in angling. +He engaged in newspaper work in Louisville and his character sketches +soon made him well-known throughout the State. His first book, _Poems by +Ellis_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1898), contained some very clever verse. +_Sprigs o' Mint_ (New York, 1906), was an attractive little volume of +pastels in prose and verse. Mr. Ellis next issued three pamphlets: +_Peebles_ (Carrollton, Kentucky, 1908); _Awhile in the Mountains_ +(Lexington, Kentucky, 1909); and _Kentucky Stories_ (Lexington, 1909). +His latest book, entitled _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911), is a +novelette of river life in northern Kentucky, and the simple, direct +manner of the little tale was found "refreshing" by the "jaded" +reviewers. Colonel Ellis is now assistant Adjutant-General of Kentucky, +and he resides at Frankfort, the capitol of the Commonwealth. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Ellis to the Author; _Lexington + Leader_ (December 24, 1911). + + +YOUTHFUL LOVERS[56] + +[From _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911)] + +The winter had passed away. Shawn had been working hard in school, and +under the encouragement of Mrs. Alden, was making fair progress, but +Sunday afternoons found him in his rowboat, wandering about the stream +and generally pulling his boat out on the beach at Old Meadows, for +Lallite was there to greet him, and already they had told each other +of their love. What a dream of happiness, to wander together along the +pebbled beach, or through the upland woods, tell each other the little +incidents of their daily life, and to pledge eternal fidelity. Oh, +dearest days, when the rose of love first blooms in youthful hearts, +when lips breathe the tenderest promises, fraught with such transports +of delight; when each lingering word grows sweeter under the spell of +love-lit eyes. Oh, blissful elysium of love's young dream! + +They stood together in the deepening twilight, when the sun's last +bars of gold were reflected in the stream. + +"Oh, Shawn, it was a glad day when you first came with Doctor Hissong +to hunt." + +"Yes," said Shawn, as he took her hand, "and it was a hunt where I +came upon unexpected game, but how could you ever feel any love for a +poor river-rat?" + +"I don't know," said Lallite, "but maybe, it is that kind that some +girls want to fall in love with, especially if they have beautiful +teeth, and black eyes and hair, and can be unselfish enough to kill a +bag of game for two old men, and let them think they did the shooting." + +"Lally, when they have love plays on the show-boats, they have all +sorts of quarrels and they lie and cuss and tear up things generally." + +"Well, Shawn, there's all sorts of love, I suppose, but mine is not +the show-boat kind." + +"Thank the Lord," said Shawn. + +He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of cotton, was +the pearl given to him by Burney. + +"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way of jewelry, +and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it for my sake?" + +"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing girl. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[56] Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company. + + + + +GEORGE HORACE LORIMER + + +George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. George C. Lorimer +(1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist clergyman and author, who held +pastorates at Harrodsburg (where he married a wife), Paducah, and +Louisville, but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple, +Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at Yale. Since Saint +Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer has been editor-in-chief of _The +Saturday Evening Post_. He resides with his family at Wyncote, +Pennsylvania, but he may be more often found near the top of the +magnificent new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in +Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is known for his popular +_Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902), which +was one of the "six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually +translated into Japanese. Its sequel, _Old Gorgon Graham_ (New York, +1904), was more letters from the same to the same. The original of +_Old Gorgon Graham_ was none other than Philip Danforth Armour, the +Chicago packer, under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both +of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is doubtful if many +women cared for either of them. _The False Gods_ (New York, 1906), is +a newspaper story in which "the false gods" are the faithless _flares_ +which lead a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything +turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's latest story, _Jack +Spurlock--Prodigal_ (New York, 1908), an adventurous young fellow who +is expelled from Harvard, defies his father, and finds himself in the +maw of a cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny--for the +reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the _Poor Richard_ +brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in the habit of "serving +up" weekly for the readers of _The Post_. That he is certainly an +editor of very great ability, and that he has exerted wide influence +in his field, no one will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper +call him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly the +highest salaried one in this country to-day. _The Post_, which was +nothing before he assumed control of it, is one of the foremost +weeklies in the English-reading world at the present time; and its +success is due to the longheadedness and hard common sense of its +editor, George Horace Lorimer. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1903); _The Bookman_ (October, + November, 1904); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have + Written Famous Books_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1903, Second + Series). + + +HIS SON'S SWEETHEART[57] + +[From _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902)] + + NEW YORK, November 4, 189-. + +_Dear Pierrepont_: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are your intentions +there? She knows a heap more about you than she ought to know if they're +not serious, and I know a heap less about her than I ought to know if +they are. Hadn't got out of sight of land before we'd become acquainted +somehow, and she's been treating me like a father clear across the +Atlantic. She's a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a +mighty sensible girl--in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like +to see you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it. + +Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy a whole +lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you have the right +sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And while I don't go much +on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with fifty a week as a starter, +is just about right, if the girl is just about right. If she isn't, it +doesn't make any special difference how you start out, you're going to +end up all wrong. + +Money ought never to be _the_ consideration in marriage, but it ought +always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think +enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think +altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at +home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his +wife on his lap. + +There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A +good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and +that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest. +I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but +they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might +add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives' +expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our +business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes +a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife. + +An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real +estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any +particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of +these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few +feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their +daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a +proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to +solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got +something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without +any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to +crack and tumble about their ears. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company. + + + + +SISTER IMELDA + + +Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson, +Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native +of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went +to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of +Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was +Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the +Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years, +entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the +next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman +Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now +connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts. +Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent +critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her +pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first +published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the +late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a +woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life +has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters + from Sister Imelda to the Author. + + +A JUNE IDYL[58] + +[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)] + + Every glade sings now of summer-- + Songs as sweet as violets' breath; + And the glad, warm heart of nature + Thrills and gently answereth. + + Answers through the lily-lyrics + And the rosebud's joyous song, + Faintly o'er the valley stealing, + As the June days speed along. + + And we, pausing, fondly listen + To their tuneful minstrelsy, + Floating far beyond the wildwood + To the ever restless sea. + + Till the echoes, softly, lowly, + Trembling on the twilight air-- + Tells us that each rose and lily + Bows its scented head in prayer. + + + +HEART MEMORIES + +[From the same] + + In fancy's golden barque at eventide + My spirit floateth to the Far Away, + And dreamland faces come as fades the day. + They lean upon my heart. We gently glide + Adown the magic shores of long ago, + While memories, like silver lily bells, + Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells + And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low. + + When eventide has slowly winged its flight, + And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light, + Ah, then there swiftly come again to me, + Like echoes of some song-bird melody, + Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height, + Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee. + + +A NUN'S PRAYER + +[From the same] + + When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells, + And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea, + I wander silently o'er the scented lea + By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells, + And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells + Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee, + Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny + Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells + For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace + Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest. + Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease, + Until Death's angel makes the melody + That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee, + Then only will it know eternal rest. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author. + + + + +HARRISON CONRARD + + +Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21, +1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892 +until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when +he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff, +his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book +of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now +out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse, +called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics +of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far +published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my +bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will +be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume +of his verse is to be issued shortly. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_ + (Boston, Fall Issue, 1907). + + +IN OLD TUCSON[59] + +[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)] + + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + What cared I how the days ran on? + A brown hand trailing the viol-strings, + Hair as black as the raven's wing, + Lips that laughed and a voice that clung + To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue + Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime + Till all life shone, in that golden clime, + With the tender glow of the morning-time. + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + How swift the merry days ran on! + + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + How soon the parting day came on! + But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams, + And the low adobe a palace seems, + Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings + To the notes that throb from her viol-strings. + Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand! + And a soul that glows like the desert sand-- + The golden fruit of a golden land! + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + The long, lone days, O Time, speed on! + + +A KENTUCKY SUNRISE + +[From the same] + + Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet + Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray + Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat; + Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay: + And the red Sun brings forth the Day. + + +A KENTUCKY SUNSET + +[From the same] + + The great Sun dies in the west; gold + And scarlet fill the skies; the white + Daisies nod in repose; the fold + Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight: + The long shadows come, and then--Night. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger. + + + + +ALICE HEGAN RICE + + +Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at +Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton +College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale +Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of +several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable +attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice +Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New +York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its +admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any +rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the +"six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh +edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most +exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not +greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials +and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey +Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the +one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville, +Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The +'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very +slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little +Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related +the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York, +1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky +journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty, +Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp, +his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs. +Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912), +was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and +high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion +made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder, +that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both +good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one +will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat +Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of +course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more +than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many +people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_ + (May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904). + + +THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES[61] + +[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)] + +Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All +the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his +heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had +been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His +town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face! + +With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling +Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his +latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room. + +The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white, +spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness. + +"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety. + +From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, +peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that +was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!" + +At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with +shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with +papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of +charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had +incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of +paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him +from Coreyville. + +As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon +something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the +light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the +girl's clear, round hand: + + Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the + asylum. + +Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly; +"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down +on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be +afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for +me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into +the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, +calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking +skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current. + +Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for +the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat +had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the +town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little +woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying +her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show +her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found +unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the +doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable. + +"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not +to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack +coming on, and wanted to be taken care of." + +He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one +who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of +insanity. + +"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. +Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that +won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all +winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a +number of cities on the geographical atlas." + +"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never +be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should +never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we +understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly." + +"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked +Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow +up in any way?" + +The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. + +"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent +institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your +family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her +stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will +be." + +Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his +hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off +for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat +anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain. +Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the +one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a +future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged +self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, +at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of +Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; +of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running +accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of +the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a +moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium. + +After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief +across his brow. + +"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath +of a man who has been under water. + +In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined. + +As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a +moment dizzily against the wall. + +"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the +doctor, who had noted his exhaustion. + +Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old +professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he +said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; +and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody +knows, a complete teetotaler." + +At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a +slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned +fiercely upon the attendant. + +"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?" + +"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman, +reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants +it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her. +She has been crying about it ever since she came." + +In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy +darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on +the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down? +Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you." + +She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion +of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet +with her tears. + +As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into +her little bedroom. + +"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her +hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice, +hot supper all waiting for us." + +But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth +into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and +looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!" +But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born +under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was a-tremble with +eagerness to go home to see them. + +An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited +for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A +curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had +gone the rounds. + +Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in +front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering. +Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about +her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his. + +"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown +up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?" + +Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, with all the +gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up +at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You +see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then +finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I +wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day. +You and me will just have to take care of each other." + +She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was +ready for her with a smile. + +"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[60] _Mr. Opp_ was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor, +and presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly +sent to the store-house. _Mrs. Wiggs_ was put into play-form by Mrs. +Anne (Laziere) Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the +title-role. Mrs. Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at +Vassar; married Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at +Louisville until June, 1905, since which time she has spent a year in +Cambridge, Mass., and a year abroad; now residing in New York City. +She has written two original plays: _A Man's Woman_, in four acts; and +_A Lucky Star_, the fount of inspiration being a novel by C. N. and A. +M. Williamson, entitled _The Motor Chaperon_, which was produced by +Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller part, at the +Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. W. +Mason's story, _Miranda of the Balcony_ (London, 1899), which was +produced in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only +successful woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real +pity that none of her plays have been published. _Mrs. Wiggs_ has held +the "boards" for eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever. + +[61] Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company. + + + + +RICHARD H. WILSON + + +Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist and educator, was +born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 6, 1870. He received the degrees +of B. A. and M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns +Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe studying at +universities in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and he married a +Frenchwoman. He has been a great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen +languages fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of Romantic +languages at the University of Virginia. All the appointments of his +home are in the French style, and French is the language of the family. +Professor Wilson is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the +land and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia what +Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His first book, _The +Preposition A_, is now out of print. His novel, _Mazel_ (New York, +1902), takes rather the form of a satire upon life at the University of +Virginia. Professor Wilson's next story, _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, +1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life at Cadiz, +Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued under his pen-name of +"Richard Fisguill"--"Fisguill" being bastard French for "Wilson." +Professor Wilson contributes much to the magazines. Four of his +short-stories were printed in _Harper's Weekly_ between April and +October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the order of their +appearance: _Orphanage_, _The Nymph_, _Seven Slumbers_, and _The +Princess of Is_. Another story, _The Waitress at the Phoenix_, was +published in _Collier's_ for September 7, 1912. A collection of his +short-stories may be issued in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +SUSAN--THE VENUS OF CADIZ[62] + +[From _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905)] + +Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his address. +He had written four letters in twelve years. + +"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain Malepeste. "His +letter was addressed to me, and he knows I always count in francs." + +"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. "He +began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' and I don't believe +Colonel Norris would think in francs when he had me in mind." + +"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't you think +it would be more natural for him to count and think in dollars--a +million dollars?" + +"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you are wrong. +The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations are doubtless with +English houses. And in my opinion he means pounds, English money--a +million pounds sterling." + +"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed Gertrude. + +"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig. + +"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste. + +"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that is what the +Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. Norris is a man of +remarkable business instincts. He is as cool and collected on the floor +of a stock exchange as he was on the field of battle. Then he had every +incentive to make a fortune. And he has made one, take my word for it." + +"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will all go to +Paris, and buy a hôtel on the Champs-Elysees!" + +"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. "Your modern +Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live in." + +Captain Malepeste retorted: + +"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more than one +'Dutchman,' and live in Germany--God forbid!" + +Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music Room that +they might settle with swords the question of the respective merits of +Germany and France. Gertrude followed in the capacity of second and +surgeon to both men. Susan and Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine +had retired to her bedroom. + +"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin, +affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to do--give a +ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?" + +"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere to study +art," replied Susan. + +The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled. + +Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had crossed +the threshold of womanhood. + +"Study art ... be an artist, when a girl is as pretty as you are, and +heiress to five million dollars!" cried Doctor Alvin, laying aside the +mask he had worn so long. + +It was Susan's turn to be astonished. She looked at her guardian +fixedly, expressing pain in her look. + +At length, in a low voice, she said: + +"I do not see why." + +"Susan!" began Doctor Alvin. + +Then he hesitated, as if in doubt as to whether he should continue. + +"I do not see why," repeated Susan, in the same low voice. + +Doctor Alvin passed his hand over his forehead. He resumed: + +"Susan, your father is coming back shortly. My guardianship is ended. +Your father made me swear on Julia's coffin, that I would discourage +in you all thoughts of marriage until he returned. He was afraid you +might follow in Julia's footsteps. I was to represent sentiment as +sentimentality, substitute art for love, and prevent your fancy +crystallizing into some man-inspired desire. I have kept my promise. +Your father will find you fancy-free, will he not?" + +"Yes." + +"But, Susan--" and Doctor Alvin's voice again expressed excitement. +"But--" + +Doctor Alvin's voice trembled so that he was obliged to start over +again: + +"Susan, you do not know what you are. You--you--are a beautiful woman. +You are more beautiful than Julia was at the height of her beauty. You +are more beautiful than your mother was--" + +Doctor Alvin's voice echoed mournfully as if he were calling upon the +dead. + +"Susan, you have only to look upon men to conquer them. You can +achieve with a gesture what artists accomplish with a masterpiece. +What can artists do, other than quicken the pulse of sluggard +humanity? But, Susan--God guide your power--you will make blood boil, +heads reel, hearts throb until they burst, if so you will it. +Art--artists! There is no need of you studying art. Artists will study +you. Have you never looked at yourself in the glass, child? Have you +never, when--when--You have studied art with Malepeste, and you know +what lines are. Have you never thought of studying your own lines? +None of the great statues or paintings, of which Malepeste has the +photographs, is so harmoniously perfect as you. Art!--You are the +genius of art. I have influenced you into taking up various lines of +work, that I might keep you from the pitfalls of love, until the +proper time. But, now, my guardianship is ended. I have played a part. +I must lay aside my mask. Susan, I have been deceiving you. Love is by +all odds the greatest thing in the world. You must love. And you must +let some one love you--some one of the many who will be ready to lay +down their lives for you--" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[62] Copyright, 1905, by Henry Holt and Company. + + + + +LUCY FURMAN + + +Miss Lucy Furman, short-story writer, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, +in 1870, the daughter of a physician. Her parents died when she was +quite young, and she was brought up by her aunt. Miss Furman attended +public and private schools at Henderson, and at the age of sixteen +years, graduated from Sayre Institute at Lexington, Kentucky. The +three years following her graduation were spent at Henderson and at +Shreveport, Louisiana, the home of her grandparents, in both of which +places she was a social leader. At the age of nineteen, it became +necessary for her to make her own way in the world, and for about four +years she was court stenographer at Evansville, Indiana. Miss Furman's +earliest literary work was done at Evansville. The first stories she +ever wrote were accepted by _The Century Magazine_ when she was but +twenty-three years of age. These were some of the _Stories of a +Sanctified Town_ (New York, 1896), one of the most charming books yet +written by a Kentucky woman. At the age of twenty-five, when her +prospects were exceedingly bright, Miss Furman's health failed +entirely, and during the next ten years she was an invalid, seeking +health in Florida, southern Texas, on the Jersey coast, and elsewhere, +but without much success, and being always too feeble to do any +writing. In 1907 she went up into the mountains of her native State to +become a teacher in the W. C. T. U. Settlement School at Hindman, +Knott county, Kentucky. She did very little at first, but gradually +her strength came back, and for the last two years she has been +writing stories and sketches of the Kentucky mountains for _The +Century Magazine_. In 1911 _The Century_ published a series of stories +under the title of _Mothering on Perilous_, which will be brought out +in book form. In 1912 Miss Furman had several stories in the same +magazine, one of the best of which was _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_. +Her lack of physical strength has compelled her to work very slowly, +and it is only by living out-of-doors at least half the time that she +can live at all. "I have charge of the gardening and outdoor work at +the Settlement School," Miss Furman wrote recently, "but the happiest +part of my life is my residence at the small boys' cottage, about +which I have told in the 'Perilous' stories, and in which I find +endless pleasure and entertainment. Here I hope to spend the +remainder of my days." Very pathetic, reader, and very heroic! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Miss Furman to the Author; _The Century + Magazine_ (July, August, November, December, 1912). + + +A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE[63] + +[From _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_ (_The Century Magazine_, March, +1912)] + +Beneath the musket, on the "fire-board," lay a spindle-shaped, wooden +object, black with age. "A dulcimer," Aunt Polly Ann explained. "My +man made it, too, always-ago. Dulcimers used to be all the music there +was in this country, but banjos is coming in now." + +Miss Loring knew that the dulcimer was an ancient musical instrument +very popular in England three centuries ago. She gazed upon the +interesting survival with reverence, and expressed a wish to hear it +played. + +"Beldory she'll pick and sing for you gladly when she gets the dishes +done," promised Aunt Polly Ann. "Picking and singing is her strong +p'ints, and she knows any amount of song-ballads." + +At last Beldora came out on the porch and seated herself on a low +stool near the loom. Laying the dulcimer across her knees, she began +striking the strings with two quills, using both shapely hands. The +music was weird, but attractive; the tune she played, minor, +long-drawn, and haunting. Miss Loring received the second shock of the +day when she caught the opening words of the song: + + All in the merry month of May, + When the green buds they were swelling, + Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, + For the love of Barbary Allen. + +Often had she read and heard of the old English ballad "Barbara +Allen"; never had she thought to encounter it in the flesh. As she +listened to the old song, long since forgotten by the rest of the +world, but here a warm household possession; as she gazed at Beldora, +so young, so fair against the background of ancient loom and gray log +wall, she felt as one may to whom the curtain of the past is for an +instant lifted, and a vision of dead-and-gone generations vouchsafed. + + * * * * * + +Beldora went off to fetch the nag, and Aunt Polly Ann accompanied the +guest to the horse-block, laying an anxious hand on her arm. + +"You heared the song-ballad Beldory sung to you. She knows dozens, but +that's always her first pick. It's her favor_rite_, and why? Because +it's similar to her own manoeuvers. Light and cruel and leading poor +boys on to destruction is her joy and pastime, same as Barbary's. Did +you mind her eyes when she sung them words about + + As she were walking through the streets, + She heard them death-bells knelling, + And every stroke it seemed to say, + "Hard-hearted Barbary Allen!" + +like it was something to take pride in, instead of sorrow for? Yes, +woman, them words, 'Hard-hearted Barbary Allen,' is her living +description, and will be to the end of time." + +Ten days later the shocking news reached the school that Robert and +Adriance Towles had fought on the summit of Devon Mountain for Beldora +Wyant's sake, and Robert had fallen dead, with five bullets in him, +Adriance being wounded, though not fatally. It was said that Beldora, +pressed to choose between the two, had told them she would marry the +best man; that thereupon, with their bosom friends, they had ridden to +the top of Devon, measured off paces, and fired. Adriance had fled, but +word came the next day that, weak from loss of blood, he had been +captured and was on the way to jail in the county-seat near the school. + +In the weeks until court sat and the trial came off there was much +excitement. Sympathy for Adriance and blame for Beldora were +everywhere felt. Most of the county and all of the school-women +attended the trial, and interest was divided between the haggard, +harassed young face of Adriance and the calm, opulent loveliness of +Beldora. When she took the stand, people scarcely breathed. Yes, she +had told the Towles boys she would marry the best man of them. She had +had to tell them something,--they were pestering her to death,--and +the law didn't allow her to marry both. She had had no notion they +would be such fools as to try to kill each other. Miss Loring and the +other women watched anxiously for some sign of pity or remorse in her, +but there was not so much as a quiver of the lips or a tremor in her +voice. As she sat there in the lone splendor of her beauty, somewhat +scornfully enjoying the gaze of every eye in the court-room, one +phrase of her "favor_rite_" song rang ceaselessly through Miss +Loring's head--"Hard-hearted Barbary Allen." Her lack of feeling +intensified the sympathy for Adriance, and, to everybody's joy, the +light verdict of only one year in the penitentiary was brought in. + +Half an hour later, Aunt Polly Ann, tragic in face and air, and with +Beldora on the nag behind her, drew rein before the settlement school. + +"Women," she said with sad solemnity on entering, "for four year' you +have been bidding Beldory come and set down and partake of your feast +of learning and knowledge; for four year' she has spurned your invite. +At last she is minded to come. Here she is. Take her, and see what you +can accomplish on her. My raising of her has requited me naught but +tenfold tribulation. In vain have I watched and warned and denounced +and prophesied; her inordinate light-mindedness and perfidity has now +brung one pore boy to a' ontimely grave and another to Frankfort. Take +her, women, and see if you can learn her some little demeanor and +civility. Keep her under your beneficent and God-fearing roof, and +direct her mind off of her outward and on to her inward disabilities! +Women, I now wash my hands." + +Receiving Beldora into the school was felt to be a somewhat hazardous +undertaking, but affection and sympathy for Aunt Polly Ann moved the +heads to do it. To the general surprise, Beldora settled down very +adaptably to the new life, being capable enough about the industries, +and passably so about books. But it was in music that she excelled. +Miss Loring gave her piano lessons, and rarely had teacher a more +gifted pupil. + +Needless to say, when Beldora picked the dulcimer and sang +song-ballads at the Friday night parties, all the children and +grown-ups sat entranced. For three or four weeks, on these occasions, +she had the grace to choose other ballads than "Barbara Allen"; but +one night in early November, after singing "Turkish Lady" and "The +Brown Girl," she suddenly struck into the haunting melody and tragic +words of "Barbara Allen." A thrill and a shock went through all her +hearers. Miss Loring saw Howard Cleves start forward in his chair with +a look of horror, almost repulsion, on his fine, intelligent face. + +Howard was the most remarkable boy in the school. Five years before, +when not quite fifteen, he had walked over, barefoot, from his home on +Millstone, forty miles distant, and presented himself to "the women" +with this plea: "I hear you women run a school where boys and girls +can work their way through. I am the workingest boy on Millstone, and +have hoed corn, cleared new-ground, and snaked logs since I turned my +fifth year. I have heard tell, over yander on Millstone, that there is +a sizable world outside these mountains, full of strange, foreign folk +and wonderly things. I crave to know about it. I can't set in darkness +any longer. My hunger for learning ha'nts me day and night, and burns +me like a fever. I'll pine to death if I don't get it. Women, give me +a chance. Hunt up the hardest job on your place, and watch me toss it +off." + +They gave him the chance; and never had they done anything that more +richly rewarded them. Not only were his powers of work prodigious, but +his eager, brilliant mind opened amazingly day by day, progressing by +leaps and bounds. The women set their chief hopes upon Howard, +believing that in him they would give a great man to the nation. +Promise of a scholarship in the law school of a well-known university +had already been obtained for him, and in one more year, such was his +astonishing progress, he would be able to enter it, if all went well. +Miss Loring had observed that, in common with every other boy, big or +little, in the school, Howard had been at first much taken with +Beldora's looks, and it was with relief that she beheld his expression +of repulsion at Beldora's complacent singing of "Barbara Allen." + +The first real warning came at the Thanksgiving party. During a game +of forfeits, Beldora was ordered to "claim the one you like the best." +Miss Loring saw her first approach Howard with a dazzling and tender +look in her splendid eyes, and even put out a hand to him; then +suddenly, with a wicked little smile, she turned and gave both hands +to Spalding Drake, a young man from the village. A deep flush sprang +to Howard's face, his jaws clenched, his eyes blazed tigerishly. It +might have been only chagrin at the public slight; still, it made Miss +Loring anxious enough to have a long talk with Beldora next day and +explain to her the hopes and plans for Howard's future and the tragedy +and cruelty of interfering with them in any way. + +One morning, three days before Christmas, Beldora's bed had not been +slept in at all, and under the front door was a note in Howard's +handwriting, as follows: + +DEAR FRIENDS: + +Beldora told me last week she aimed to marry Spalding Drake Christmas. +Though he is a nice boy and I like him, I knew, if she did, I would +kill him on the spot. Rather than do this, it is better for me to +marry her myself beforehand. I have hired a nag, and we will ride to +Tazewell by moonlight for a license and preacher. + +I know a man is a fool that throws away his future for a woman, that +Beldora is not worth it, and that I am doing what I will never cease +to regret. It is like death to me to know I will never accomplish the +things you set before me, and be the man you wanted me to be. I wish I +had never laid eyes on Beldora. I have agonized and battled and tried +to give her up; but she is too strong for me. I can fight no longer +with fate. It would be better if women like Beldora never was created. +She has cost the life of one boy, the liberty of another, and now my +future. But it had to be. + + Respectfully yours, + + HOWARD. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[63] Copyright, 1912, by the Century Company. + + + + +BERT FINCK + + +Edward Bertrand Finck ("Bert Finck"), prose pastelist and closet +dramatist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 16, 1870, the son +of a German father and American mother. His parents were fond of +traveling and much of his earlier life was spent in various parts of +this country and abroad. He was educated in the private schools of his +native city, finishing his academic training at Professor M. B. +Allmond's institution. Mr. Finck began to write at an early age, and +he has published four books: _Pebbles_ (Louisville, 1898), a little +volume of epigrams; _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900), being reveries and +essays in miniature; _Plays_ (Louisville, 1902), a group of +allegorical dramas; and _Musings and Pastels_ (Louisville, 1905). All +of these small books are composed of poetic and philosophical prose, +many passages possessing great truth and beauty. In 1906 Mr. Finck was +admitted to the bar of Louisville, and he has since practiced there +with success. He seemingly took Blackstonian leave of letters some +years ago, but the gossips of literary Louisville have been telling, +of late, of a new book of prose pastels that he has recently finished +and will bring out in the late autumn of 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Mr. Finck's letters to the Author; _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +BEHIND THE SCENES[64] + +[From _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900)] + +Could we but lift the countenance which pleases or repels, what seems +so sweet might thrust away, and what is repugnant charm or win our +sympathy and aid. Is not indifference often a net to catch or to +conceal? Modesty, diplomatic egotism? Wit, brilliant misery? +Contentment, wallowing despair? Langor, shrewd energy? Frivolity, woe +burlesquely masked by unselfishness or pride? Is not philosophy, at +times, resignation in delirium? The enthusiastic are ridiculed as +being self-conceited; the patient condemned for having no heart. We +stigmatize them as idle whose natures are toiling the noblest toil of +all, for not rarely do thought-gods drift through a spell of idleness; +a butterfly-fancy may breed a spirit that turns the way of an age's +career; there are sleeps that are awakenings; awakenings, sleeps; none +so worthless as many who are busy all the time. Smiles are sometimes +selfish triumphs; peace, the swine-heart's well-filled trough. Cheeks +rich with the fire of fever are envied as glow of health; steps, eager +to escape from a spectre, we laudingly call enthusiasm in work; and +the brain's desperate efforts to stifle bitter thoughts sharpen +tongues that fascinate with their brilliant gayety--the world dances +to the music of its sighs. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[64] Copyright, 1900, by the Author. + + + + +OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN + + +Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born at +Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She attended the +public schools, in which her parents were teachers, until she was ten +years of age, when they left Kentucky and established a school at +Donophan, Missouri. Three years later she was ready for college, but her +mother's health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark Mountains, +near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another school was conducted, this +time with the daughter as her father's assistant. For the following five +years she taught the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and +during these years she herself was always hoping and planning for a +college education, which hopes and plans seemed to crumble beneath her +feet when her mother died, in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with +her invalid father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and finally +obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to the University of +Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution she was graduated two years +later. Miss Tilford then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but +the climate so affected her health that she was forced to resign and +repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly afterwards took a +course in a business college and, for a brief period, held a position in +a bank. Teaching again called her and for two years she taught in the +schools of San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in English +and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and a +year later she turned again to teaching, holding a position in Acadia +Seminary, Wolfville, Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in +reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also worked as a +stenographer. Several of her articles were accepted by the magazines +about this time, which decided her to settle upon literature as her life +work. She worked too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way, +and she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in order to regain +her strength. Miss Tilford was married, in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan, +of Darlington, South Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at +Radcliffe. Not long after she went to New York, and there resumed her +literary labors with a high and serious purpose. Mrs. Dargan's first +volume of dramas, _Semiramis and Other Plays_, was published by +Brentano's in 1904, and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides +the title-play, _Semiramis_, founded on the life of the famous Persian +queen, this book contained _Carlotta_, a drama of Mexico in the days of +Maximilian, and _The Poet_, which is Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized. +Mrs. Dargan's second volume of plays bore the attractive title of _Lords +and Lovers and Other Dramas_ (New York, 1906), the second edition of +which appeared in 1908. This also contains three plays, the second +being _The Shepherd_, with the setting in Russia, and the third, _The +Siege_, a Sicilian play, the scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three +hundred and fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's _Lords and +Lovers_, set against an English background, is generally regarded as the +best work she has done hitherto. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised +this play highly, placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine +Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's foremost poetic +dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished may be considered +but an earnest of what she will ultimately produce. Her beautiful +masque, _The Woods of Ida_, appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for +August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest English work in +that branch of the drama. She has had lyrics in _Scribner's_, +_McClure's_, _The Century_, and _The Atlantic Monthly_, her most recent +poem, "In the Blue Ridge," having appeared in _Scribner's_ for May, +1911. Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three years she +has traveled abroad, spending much time in England, the background of +her greatest work. Her third and latest volume contains three dramas, +entitled _The Mortal Gods and Other Plays_ (New York, 1912). This was +awaited with impatience by her admirers on both sides of the Atlantic +and read with delight by them. + +"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it may seem premature +to pronounce a critical judgment on her work," wrote Dr. George A. +Wauchope, professor of English in the University of South Carolina, in +claiming her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued, +"that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this country, and +is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with all but the greatest in +English literature. One is equally impressed by the creative +inspiration and the mastery of technique displayed by the author. Each +of her plays reveals a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought +and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, also, with which +her plays are interspersed, yield a rich and haunting melody that is +redolent of the charming Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are +audacious in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling of +the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in the splendor +of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent of reflection, and, above +all, in their spiritual uplift and noble emotion, these dramas give +evidence of a remarkably gifted playwright who not only possesses a +deep feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has command +of all the varied resources of dramatic expression." + +It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of an author, +would it not? + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The University of Virginia Magazine_ (January, + 1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's + _The Poet_; _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. + iii); _The Writers of South Carolina_, by G. A. Wauchope + (Columbia, S. C., 1910). + + +NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS[65] + +[From _Lords and Lovers_ (New York, 1906)] + +Act IV, Scene I. _Henry, with lute, singing._ + + Ope, throw ope thy bower door, + And come thou forth, my sweet! + 'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er, + And mating hearts should meet. + The stars have fled and left their grace + In every blossom's lifted face, + And gentle shadows fleck the light + With tender memories of the night. + Sweet, there's a door to every shrine; + Wilt thou, as morning, open thine? + Hark! now the lark has met the clouds, + And rains his sheer melodious flood; + The green earth casts her mystic shrouds + To meet the flaming god! + Alas, for me there is no dawn + If Glaia come not with the sun. + +[_Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches._] + + _Gla._ 'Tis you! + + _Hen._ [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland, + Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned. + + _Gla._ How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false? + Nay, I'm too glad thou'rt come to question so. + 'Tis easy to forgive the treachery + That opes our gates to angels. + + _Hen._ O, I'm loved? + + _Gla._ Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you, + And I rose early, for I love to say + Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan + And loath to go away, as though they know + The fickle world is thinking of the sun + And all their gentle service of the night + Is quite forgot. + + _Hen._ And what didst think of me? + + _Gla._ That you could come and see this beauteous wood, + Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace, + You'd be content to live awhile with me, + Leave war's red step to follow living May + Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood + To each decaying root; and rest by springs + Where waters run to sounds less rude than song, + And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies. + + _Hen._ The only springs I seek are in your eyes + That nourish all the desert of myself. + Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews, + And start fair summer in this waste of me! + + _Gla._ Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love? + + _Hen._ See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose? + What do I know of it but that 'tis fair? + And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews + And goes to some sweet country of the sky, + So cloud-like dost thou move before my love, + From beauty coming that I may not see, + To beauty going that I can but dream. + O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand, + This miracle of warm, unmelting snow, + This lily bit of thee that in my clasp + Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote-- + Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows + And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown! + Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare + The darkest shadow of defeat that broods + O'er sceptres and unfriended kings. + + _Gla._ Why talk + Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry, + For if you love me you will stay with me. + + _Hen._ Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top + Review the sunny graces of the world, + Plucking the smilingest to dearer love, + Until the heart becomes the root and spring + Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet + As these bright children of the wedded sun + And dewy earth! + + _Gla._ I knew you'd stay, my brother! + You'll live with me! + + _Hen._ But there's a world not this, + O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch, + Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood, + Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop + That rims the forehead of a king,--a world + Where trampling armies and sedition's march + Cut off the flowers of descanting love + Ere they may sing their perfect word to man, + And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies, + Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths-- + + _Gla._ O, do not tell me, do not think of it! + + _Hen._ I must. There is my world, and there my life + Must grow to gracious end, if so it can. + If thou wouldst come, my living periapt, + With virtue's gentle legend overwrit, + I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek, + Pure lily cloister of a praying rose, + E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear + Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia? + + _Gla._ Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me. + Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah, + The whispering winds do never counsel false, + And senatorial trees droop not their state + To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be + Your minister, the seasons your envoys + And high ambassadors, bearing from His court + The mortal olive of immortal love. + + _Hen._ To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia, + To bind me here; and if you love me true, + You will not ask me where I go or stay, + But that your feet may stay or go with mine. + Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips + That all their life have ripened for this kiss. + [_Kisses her_] + O ruby purities! I would not give + Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran + Stored with the honey of a thousand suns + Through the slow measure of as many years! + + _Gla._ Do brothers talk like that? + + _Hen._ I think not, sweet + + _Gla._ But you will be my brother? + + _Hen._ We shall see. + + _Gla._ And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear + All that you love in me is born of these + Wild innocences that I live among, + And far from here, all such sweet value lost, + I'll be as others are in your mad world, + Or wither mortally, even as the sprig + A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough. + Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be + Dear playmates ever, never growing old,-- + Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace + Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us + To come at will. + + _Hen._ No, Glaia. Even now + I must be gone. I came for this----to say + I'd come again, and bid you watch for me. + A tear? O, love! One moment, then away! + + [_Exeunt. Curtain_] + +FOOTNOTE: + +[65] Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +HARRY L. MARRINER + + +Harry Lee Marriner, newspaper poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +March 24, 1871, the son of a schoolman. He was educated by his father +and in the public schools of his native city. He engaged in a dozen +different businesses before he suddenly discovered that he could +write, which discovery caused him to accept a position on the now +defunct _Chicago Dispatch_, from which he went to _The Evening Post_, +of Louisville, remaining with that paper for several years. In 1902 +Mr. Marriner went to Texas and became assistant city editor of the +_Dallas News_; and he has since filled practically all the editorial +positions, being at the present time Sunday editor of both the _Dallas +News_ and the _Galveston News_, which are under the same management. +In 1907 Mr. Marriner originated a feature consisting of a daily human +interest poem, printed on the front page of his two papers. For some +time he concealed his identity under the title of "The News Staff +Poet," but in 1909 he discarded his cloak and came out into the +sunlight of reality in order that his hundreds of admirers throughout +the Southwest might be content. Mr. Marriner's "poetry" is rather +homely verse based upon the everyday things and thoughts and +experiences of everyday people. This verse has had a wonderful vogue +in Texas and Oklahoma, and the surrounding States. Dealing with dogs +and "kids," with sore toes and sentiment, with joys and griefs, dolls +and ball gowns, country stores and city life, street cars and prairie +schooners, mint-fringed creeks and bucking bronchos, it is a medley of +everything human. The cream of his verse has been brought together in +three charming little books: _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, +1909); _Joyous Days_ (Dallas, 1910); and _Mirthful Knights in Modern +Days_ (Dallas, 1911). Mr. Marriner has written the lyrics for two +musical comedies; and he has had short-stories in the periodicals. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriner to the Author; _The Dallas + News_ (December 2, 1911). + + +WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR[66] + +[From _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, 1909)] + + How doth the mind of man go back to when he was a boy; + When feet were full of tan and dust, and life was full of joy; + But many a man looks back in fear, for in a time-worn chair, + He sees himself draped in a sheet, while Mother cuts his hair. + + The scissors drag, and sniffles rise when ears lop in the way, + And on the porch rain locks of hair like tufts of prairie hay, + 'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely hid, + Looks on himself and views with pain the job that Mother did. + + The mule may shed in summertime the felt that Nature grew, + The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, too; + But neither bears that patchwork look, that war map of despair, + That zigzags on the small boy's head when Mother cuts his hair. + + + +SIR GUMSHOO[67] + +[From _Mirthful Knights in Modern Days_ (Dallas, 1911)] + + Sir Gumshoo, known as Wot d'Ell, a noble Knight from Spain, + Was one who was so strong a Pro he'd water on the brain. + He would not drink a dram at all, or even sniff at it, + And just the sight of lager beer would throw him in a fit. + + It chanced one day Sir Gumshoo rode upon a noble quest-- + His lady had acquired a cold that settled on her chest, + And to the rural districts he repaired, for it was plain + He must secure some goosegrease that she might get well again. + + He found a rude, bucolic rube who had goosegrease to sell; + Sir Gumshoo bought about a quart, and all was going well + When he who rendered geese to grease made him a stealthy sign + And led him to a bottle filled with elderberry wine. + + The Knight declined; he was a Pro, which fact he did explain; + The farmer, sore disgusted, took his goosegrease back again, + Whereat the Knight in anguish sore gave up himself for lost + And took a fierce and fiery drink with all his fingers crossed. + + That night he rode as rides a pig upon a circus steed; + He clutched his charger 'round the neck, for he was stewed indeed, + And, bowing to his lady fair, as bows the wind-tossed pine, + He handed her part of a quart of elderberry wine. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[66] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + +[67] Copyright, 1911, by the Author. + + + + +LUCIEN V. RULE + + +Lucien V. Rule, poet, was born at Goshen, Kentucky, August 29, 1871. +He spent one year at State College, Lexington, when he went to Centre +College, Danville, from which he was graduated in 1893. Mr. Rule +studied for the ministry, but he later engaged in newspaper work, in +which he spent six or seven years. During the last few years he has +devoted his time to writing and speaking upon social and religious +subjects. His first book of poems, entitled _The Shrine of Love and +Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1898), is his best known work. He is also the +author of a small pamphlet of social and political satires, entitled +_When John Bull Comes A-Courtin'_ (Louisville, 1903). This contains +the title-poem, the sub-title of which reads: "Sundry Meditations on +the Rumored Matrimonial Alliance between J. Bull, Bart., and his +cousin, Lady Columbia;" and several shorter poems. Those inscribed to +Tolstoi, Whittier, and Walt Whitman are very strong. Mr. Rule's latest +book is _The House of Love_ (Indianapolis, 1910). In 1913 he will +probably publish a group of poetic dramas-in-cameo for young people, +and a brief collection of biographical studies. Mr. Rule resides at +his birthplace, Goshen, Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Southern Writers_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1905); + letters from Mr. Rule to the Author. + + +WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU?[68] + +[From _When John Bull Comes A Courtin'_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1903)] + + What right hast thou to more than thou dost need + While others perish for the want of bread? + What right hast thou upon a palace bed + To idly slumber while the homeless plead; + A vicious and voluptuous life to lead, + While millions struggle on in rags and shame? + What right hast thou thus vilely to inflame + Thy fellow men with hate, O fiend of greed? + What right hast thou to take the hallowed name + Of God upon thy lips, or Christ's, who came + To save the race from sorrows thou dost cause? + Not always helpless 'neath thy cruel paws, + O Beast of Capital, shall Labor lie; + Thy doom this day is thundered from the sky! + + +THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD + +[From the same] + + Arise, my soul, put off thy dark despair; + Say not the age of chivalry is gone; + For lo, the east is kindling with its dawn, + And bugle echoes bid thee wake to wear + Majestic moral armour, and to bear + A worthy part in truth's eternal fray. + Say not the muse inspires no more to-day, + Nor that fame's flowers no longer flourish fair. + Live thou sublimely and then speak thy heart, + If thou wouldst build an altar unto art. + Stand with the struggling and the stars above + Will shower celestial thoughts to thrill thy pen. + Put self away and walk alone with Love, + And thou shalt be the marvel of all men! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[68] Copyright, 1903, by the Author. + + + + +EVA WILDER BRODHEAD + + +Mrs. Eva Wilder (McGlasson) Brodhead, novelist and short-story writer, +was born at Covington, Kentucky, in 187-. Her parents were not of +Southern origin, her father having been born in Nova Scotia, and her +mother at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She was educated in New York City +and in her native town of Covington. She began to write when but +eighteen years of age, and a short time thereafter her first novel +appeared, _Diana's Livery_ (New York, 1891). This was set against a +background most alluring: the Shaker settlement at Pleasant Hill, +Kentucky, into which a young man of the world enters and falls in love +with a pretty Shakeress. Her second story, _An Earthly Paragon_ (New +York, 1892), which was written in three weeks, ran through _Harper's +Weekly_ before being published in book form. It was a romance of the +Kentucky mountains, laid around Chamouni, the novelist's name for +Yosemite, Kentucky. It was followed by a novelette of love set amidst +the salt-sea atmosphere of an eastern watering place, _Ministers of +Grace_ (New York, 1894). Hildreth, the scene of this little story, is +anywhere along the Jersey coast from Atlantic City to Long Branch. +_Ministers of Grace_ also appeared serially in _Harper's Weekly_, and +when it was issued in book form Col. Henry Watterson called the +attention of Richard Mansfield to it as a proper vehicle for him, and +the actor promptly secured the dramatic rights, hoping to present it +upon the stage; but his untimely death prevented the dramatization of +the tale under highly favorable auspices. It was the last to be +published under the name of Eva Wilder McGlasson, as this writer was +first known to the public, for on December 5, 1894, she was married in +New York to Mr. Henry C. Brodhead, a civil and mining engineer of +Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Brodhead's next novelette, _One of +the Visconti_ (New York, 1896), the background of which was Naples, +the hero being a young Kentuckian and the heroine of the old and +famous Visconti family, was issued by the Scribner's in their +well-known Ivory Series of short-stories. Her last Kentucky novel, +_Bound in Shallows_ (New York, 1896), originally appeared in _Harper's +Bazar_. That severe arbiter of literary destinies, _The Nation_, said +of this book: "No such work as this has been done by any American +woman since Constance Fenimore Woolson died." It was founded on +material gathered at Burnside, Kentucky, where Mrs. Brodhead spent two +summers. Her most recent work, _A Prairie Infanta_ (Philadelphia, +1904), is a Colorado juvenile, first published in _The Youth's +Companion_. Aside from her books, Mrs. Brodhead won a wide reputation +as a short-story writer and maker of dialect verse. More than fifty of +her stories have been printed in the publications of the house of +Harper, the publishers of four of her books; in _The Century_, +_Scribner's_, and other leading periodicals. Many of her admirers hold +that the short-story is her especial forte. Five of them may be +mentioned as especially well done: _Fan's Mammy_, _A Child of the +Covenant_, _The Monument to Corder_, _The Eternal Feminine_, and _Fair +Ines_. She has written much dialect verse which appeared in the Harper +periodicals, _The Century_, _Judge_, _Puck_, and other magazines. +Neither her short-stories nor her verse has been collected and issued +in book form. Since her marriage Mrs. Brodhead has traveled in Europe +a great deal, and in many parts of the United States, traveled until +she sometimes wonders whether her home is in Denver or New York, and, +although she is in the metropolis more than she is in the Colorado +capital, her legal residence is Denver, some distance from the mining +town of Brodhead, named in honor of her husband's geological +discoveries and interests. In 1906 she was stricken with a very +severe illness, followed by her physician's absolute mandate of no +literary work until her health should be reëstablished, which has been +accomplished but recently. She has published but a single story since +her sickness, _Two Points of Honor_, which appeared in _Harper's +Weekly_ for July 4, 1908. At the present time Mrs. Brodhead is quite +well enough to resume work; and the next few years should witness her +fulfilling the earnest of her earlier novels and stories, firmly +fixing her fame as one of the foremost women writers of prose fiction +yet born on Kentucky soil. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (September 3, 1892); _The + Book-buyer_ (September, 1896). + + +THE RIVALS[69] + +[From _Ministers of Grace_ (New York, 1894)] + +As the days merged towards the end of August, Hildreth was packed to +the very gates. The wiry yellow grasses along the neat walks were +trampled into powder. The very sands, for all the effacing fingers of +the tides, seemed never free of footprints, and by day and night the +ocean promenade, the interior of the town, lake-sides, hotels, and the +surf itself, were a press of holiday folk. + +In these times Mr. Ruley seldom went forth in his rolling-chair, +except early of a morning, when the beach was yet way-free, and the +sands unfrequented save for a few barelegged men, who, with long +wooden rakes, cleaned up the sea-verge for the day. + +Sometimes Wade pushed the chair. But since the night when he gave +Elizabeth the honeysuckles he had in some measure avoided the old +preacher's small circle. There had been, on that occasion, a newness +of impulse in his spirit which made him feel the advisability of +keeping himself out of harm's way, however sweet that way might seem. +Graham was the favored suitor. He, Wade, having no chance for the +rose, could at least withhold his flesh from the thorn. + +"So," said Gracie Gayle, "you're out of the running?" + +"Ruled off," smiled Wade. + +"Don't you make any mistakes," wisely admonished Miss Gayle. "I've +seen her look at him, and I've seen her look at _you_." + +"This is most surprising," indicated Wade, with a feigned accent. "You +will pardon me, Gracie, if I scarcely credit your statement." + +"Be sarcastic if you want to," said Gracie. "If you knew anything at +all, you'd know that straws show which way the wind blows. When a +woman regards a man with a kind of flat, frank sincerity, it's because +her heart's altogether out of his reach. When she looks _around_ him +rather than _at_ him, it's because----" Gracie lifted her shoulders +suggestively. + +"Grace," breathed Wade, gravely, "I am hurt to the quick to see you +developing the germs of what painfully resembles thought. For Heaven's +and your sex's sake, pause while there is yet time! Women who form the +pernicious habit of thinking lose in time the magic key which unlocks +the hearts of men." + +Grace sniffed. + +"Men's hearts are never locked," she said, sagaciously. "The heavier +the padlock the smoother the hinges." She shook her crisp curls as she +tripped away with her airy, mincing, soubrette tread. + +Notwithstanding the inconsequent nature of this talk, it set Wade to +thinking. Perhaps he had carried his principle of self-effacement too +far. At all events, when he next saw Miss Ruley, he went up to her and +stopped for a moment's conversation. + +It chanced to be on the sands. Elizabeth was sitting by herself under +the arch of a lace-hung sunshade, which cast shaking little shadows on +her face, sprigging it with such delicate darkness as lurk in the +misty milk of moss-agate. + +"You are going in, then?" she asked, smiling up rather uncertainly, +and noticing his flannel attire. "Mr. Graham is already very far out. +That is he, I think, taking that big breaker. What a stroke!" + +Wade, focussing an indulgent eye, saw a figure away beyond the other +bathers, rising to the lift of a great billow. The man swam with a +splendid motion. Whether he dived, or floated, or circled his arms in +that whirling stroke of his, he seemed in subtle sympathy with the sea, +possessed of a kinship with it, and in an element altogether his own. + +Wade expressed an appropriate sentiment of admiration. + +Just then Gracie Gayle came gambolling along, a childish shape, +kirtled to the knee in bright blue, and turbaned in vivid scarlet. +Among the loose-waisted figures on the sands she was like a +humming-bird scintillating in a staid gathering of barnyard fowls. +Bailey was with her, having returned after a fortnight's absence. + +The two paused beside Elizabeth, and Wade went on, confused by the +singular way in which that small fair face, shadow-streaked and +faintly smiling, lingered in his vision. He was still perplexed with a +half-pleasant, half-pained consciousness of it as he plunged into the +pushing surf and felt a dizzy world of water heave round him. The +surge was strong to-day, and the splashing and screaming of the shore +bathers sent him farther and still farther out. Gradually their cries +lessened in his ear, and there was with him presently only the hollow +thud of the waves and the rushing hiss of the crestling foam. + +Once, as he rose to a sea-lift, it seemed to him that he heard a sound +that was not the boom of the breakers nor the song of the slipping +froth. It came again, whatever it was, and as he gave ear he took in a +human intonation, sharp and agonized. It was a cry for help. + +Wade shook the brine from his hair, freeing his gaze for an outlook. In +the glassy mound of water to his right a face, lean and white with +alarm, gleamed and faded. That the sinking man was Graham came instantly +to Wade's mind--Graham, a victim to some one of the mischances which the +sea reserves for those who adventure too confidently with her. + +Wade struck out instantly for the spot where Graham's appalled +features had briefly glimpsed. Shoreward he could note an increasing +agitation among the multitudes. Evidently the people had noticed the +peril of the remote swimmer whose exploits had so lately won admiring +comment. The beachguard no doubt was buckling to his belt the +life-rope coiled always on the sands for such emergencies. Cries of +men and women rang stifled over the water--exclamations of fear and +advice and excitement, mingled in a long continuous wail. + +Graham's head rose in sight, a mere speck upon the dense green of the +bulging water. Wade, fetching nearer in wide strokes, suddenly felt +himself twisted violently out of his course, and whirled round in a +futile effort with some mysterious current. He was almost near enough +to lay hold of Graham when this new sensation explained lucidly the +cause of Graham's danger. They were both in the claws of an undertow, +which, as Wade realized its touch, appeared as if wrenching him +straight out to the purring distance of the farther sea. + +Even in the first consternation of this discovery he felt himself +thrust hard against a leaden body, and in the same instant Graham's +hands snatched at him in a desperate reach for life. + +"For God's sake don't hold me like this!" Wade expostulated. "Let go. +Trust me to do what I can. You're strangling me, man!" + +But Graham was past sanity. He only clutched with the more frenzy at +the thing which seemed to keep him from the ravenous mouth of the +snarling waters. + +Wade, in a kind of composed despair, sent a look towards the beach. +They were putting out a boat, a tiny sheel which frisked in the surf, +and seemed motionless in the double action of the waves. Men laid hard +at the oars. The little craft took the first big wave as a horse takes +a hurdle. It dropped from the glassy height, and Wade saw it sink into +a breach of the sea. Then flashing with crystal, it bore up again and +outward. + +The figures running and gesticulating on the beach had a marvellous +distinctness to Wade's submerging eyes. He noticed the blue sky, +flawed with scratches of white, the zigzag roof-lines of the great +town, the twisting flags and meshes of the dark wire. Everything +oppressed him with a sort of deadly clearness, as if a metal stamp +should press in melting wax. + +He was momently sinking, drawn ever outward by the undercurrent, and +downward by the weighty burden throttling him in its senseless grasp. +He looked once more through a blinding veil of foam, and saw the boat +dipping far to the left. A phantasm of life flickered before him. +Unsuspected trivialities shook out of their cells, and amazed him with +the pygmy thrift of memory. Then came a sense of confusion, as if the +spiritual and corporal lost each its boundary and ranged wild, and +Wade felt the sea in his eyes, stroking them down as gently as ever +any watcher by the dying. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[69] Copyright, 1894, by Harper and Brothers. + + + + +CORDIA GREER PETRIE + + +Mrs. Cordia Greer Petrie, a talented writer of very great promise and +of decided performance, was born near Merry Oaks, Kentucky, February +12, 1872. When she was a child her parents removed to Louisville, +Kentucky, and in the public schools of that city she was educated, +after which she spent a half-year at old Eminence College, Eminence, +Kentucky. In July, 1894, Miss Greer was married to Dr. Hazel G. +Petrie, of Fairview, Kentucky, who, for the past ten years, has been +mine physician in various sections of eastern Kentucky. At the present +time he is serving six mines and making his home at Chenoa, near +Pineville, Kentucky. In her writings Mrs. Petrie has created a +character of great originality in Angeline Keaton, an unlettered +inhabitant of a remote Kentucky hamlet. "Of the original Angeline," +Mrs. Petrie once wrote, "I know but little. She and her shiftless, +'no-erkount' husband, Lum, together with her son, Jeems Henry, lived +in Barren county, not far from Glasgow. Angeline supported the family +by working on the 'sheers,' 'diggin one half the taters fur tother +half!' She was very anxious for her boy to 'git an edjycation' and no +sooner would he get comfortably settled in a 'cheer' until she would +exclaim, 'Jeems Henry! Git up offen them britches, you lazy whelp! Git +yer book and be gittin some larnin in your head!' Without a word Jim +Henry would climb up the log wall and from under the rafters abstract +his blue back speller." Characterization is Mrs. Petrie's chief +strength; and she is a positive refutation of the masculine dictum +that women lack humor. With her friend, Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, the +short-story writer, she collaborated on an Angeline sketch, entitled +"When the Bees Got Busy," which was published in the _Overland +Monthly_ for August, 1904; and the prize story reprinted at the end of +this note is the only other Angeline story that has been published so +far. She has won several prizes with other stories, but a group of the +Angeline sketches are in manuscript, and they will shortly appear in +book form. _Angeline Keaton_, "with her gaunt angular form clad in its +scant calico gown," is sure to "score" when she makes her bow between +the covers of a book. She is every bit as cleverly conceived as _Mrs. +Wiggs_, _Susan Clegg_, or any of the other quaint women who have +recently won the applause of the American public. + +BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mrs. Petrie to the Author; Miss Leigh +Gordon Giltner's study in _The Southern Home Journal_ (Louisville). + + +ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR + +[From _The Evening Post_ (Louisville, Kentucky)] + +She sat upon the edge of the veranda, fanning herself with her "split" +sunbonnet, a tall, angular woman, whose faded calico gown "lost +connection" at the waist line. Her spring being dry, she came to our +well for water. Discovering that Angeline Keaton was a "character," I +invariably inveigled her to rest awhile on our cool piazza before +retracing her steps up the steep, rocky hillside to her cabin home. + +"I missed you yesterday," I said as a starter. + +"Yes'm," she answered in a voice harsh and strident, yet touched with +a peculiar sibilant quality characteristic of the Kentucky +backwoodsman, "and thar wuz others that missed me, too!" + +Settling herself comfortably, she produced from some hidden source a +box of snuff and plied her brush vigorously. + +"We-all have got inter a wrangle over at Zion erbout the church +music," she began. "I and Lum, my old man, has been the leaders ever +since we moved here from Lick-skillet. We wuz alluz on hand--Lum with +his tunin' fork and me with my strong serpraner. When it come to +linin' off a song, Lum wuz pintedly hard to beat. Why, folks come from +fur and near to hear us, and them city folks, at Mis' Bowles' last +summer, 'lowed thar warn't nothing in New York that could tech us. One +of 'em offered us a dollar to sing inter a phonygraf reckerd, but we +wuz afeerd to put our lives in jopperdy by dabblin' in 'lectricerty. +But even celebrerty has its drawbacks, and a 'profit is not without +honor in his own country,' as the saying is. A passel of 'em got +jellus, a church meeting was called, unbeknownst to us, and ermong 'em +they agreed to make a change in the music at old Zion. That +peaked-faced Betty Button wuz at the bottom of it. Ever since she tuk +that normal course at Bowling Green she's been endeverin' to push +herself inter promernence here at Bear Waller. Fust she got up a class +in delsarty, but even Bear Waller warn't dull ernough to take to that +foolishness! Then she canvassed the county with a cuttin' system and a +book called 'Law at a Glance.' Now she's teaching vokle culshure. She +orter know singers, like poits, is born, not made! Jest wantin' to +sing won't do it. It takes power. It's give up mine's the powerfullest +voice in all Bear Waller. I kin bring old Brindle in when she's +grazing in the woods, back o' Judge Bowles' medder, and I simply step +out on the portico and call Lum to dinner when he's swoppin' yarns +down to the store quarter o' mile away. Fur that matter, though, a +deef and dum man could fetch Lum to _vittles_. + +"Do you know Bear Waller owes its muserkil educashun to me? Mine wuz +the fust accordyon brought to the place, and I wuz allus ready to play +fur my nabers. I didn't hafter be _begged_. I orgernized the Zobo +band, I lent 'em my ballads, but whar's my thanks? At the battin' of +an eye they're ready to drop me for that quavery-voiced Button gal and +them notes o' hern that's no more'n that many peryids and commers. + +"When the committee waited on me and Lum we jest flew mad and 'lowed +we'd quit. Maybe we wuz hasty, but it serves 'em right. Besides, these +Bear Wallerites ain't compertent to appreshiate a voice like mine, +nohow. I decided I'd take my letter to Glasgow and jine that brag +choir of their'n. It did me good to think how it 'ud spite some folks +to see me leadin' the singin' at the county seat! + +"Lum wuz dead set ergin it, but armin' myself with the rollin' pin and +a skillet o' bilin grease, I finally pervailed on him to give in. Lum +is of a yieldin' dispersishun if a body goes at 'im right. + +"Jim Henry, that's my boy, an' I tuk a early start. We had tied up the +colt in the cow shed and I wuz congratulatin' myself on bein' shet of +the pesky critter when I heerd him nicker. Lookin' back, I saw him +comin' in a gallerp, his head turned to one side, while he fairly +obscured the landscape with great clouds o' pike dust! + +"We wuz crossin' the railroad when old Julie heered that nicker, an' +right thar she balked. Neither gentle persuasion from the peach tree +switch which I helt in my hand, nor well-aimed kicks of Jim Henry's +boots in her flanks could budge her till that colt come up pantin' +beside her. We jest did clear the track when the accomerdashun whizzed +by. Well, sir, when old Julie spied them kyars she began buck-jumpin' +in a manner that would'er struck terror to a less experienced +hosswoman. Jim Henry, who wuz gazin' at the train with childlike +pleasure, wuz tuk wholly by suprise, and before he knowed what wuz up +he wuz precippytated inter the branches o' a red-haw tree. He crawled +out, a wreck, his face and hands scratched and bleedin' and his +britches hangin' in shreds, and them his Sundays, too! I managed to +pin 'em tergether with beauty pins, and cautionin' him not to turn his +back to the ordiance, we finally resumed our journey. That colt alluz +tries hisself, and jest as we reached the square, in Glasgow, his +appertite began clammerin', and Julie refused to go till the pesky +critter's wants wuz appeased. Them Glasgowites is dear lovers of good +hoss flesh, and quite a crowd gethered to discuss the good pints of +the old mare and that mule colt. + +"Some boys mistook Jim Henry for somebody they knowed and hollered, +'Say, Reube!' 'Hey, Reube!' at him. Jim Henry wuz fur explainin' to +'em their mistake, till one of 'em began to sing, 'When Reuben comes +to town, he's shore to be done brown!' 'Jim Henry,' says I, sternly, +'you're no child o' mine ef you take _that_! Now, if you don't get +down and thrash him I'm agoin' to set you afire when I get you home.' + +"Jim Henry needed no second biddin'. He wuz off that nag in a jiffy, +and the way he did wallerp that boy wuz a cawshun! He sellerbrated his +victry by givin' the Bear Waller war-whoop. Then crawlin' up behind +me, he said he wuz _now_ ready fur meetin'. That boy's a born fiter. +He gets it honest, for me and Lum are both experts, but then practice +makes perfect, as the sayin' is. + +"Our arrival created considerable stir in meetin'. Why is it that when a +distinguished person enters a church it allus perduces a flutter? Owin' +to the rent in Jim Henry's britches, I shoved him inter the back seat. +Cautionin' him not to let me ketch him throwin' paper wads, I swept +merjestercally up the ile and tuk a seat by the orgin. A flood of +approvin' glances fastened themselves on my jet bonnet and fur-lined +dolman. I wuz sorry I didn't know the fust song. It must have been a new +one to that choir. Thar wuz four of 'em and each one wuz singin' it to a +different tune, and they jest couldn't keep tergether! The coarse-voiced +gal to my rear lagged dretfully. When the tall blonde, who wuz the only +one of 'em that knowed the tune, when she'd sing, + + "'Wake the song!' + +that gal who lagged would echo, + + "'Wake the song!' + +in a voice as coarse as Lum's. She 'peared to depend on the tall gal +for the words, for when the tall 'un would sing, + + "'Song of Ju-ber-lee,' + +the gal that lagged, and the two gents, would repeat, 'Of Ju-ber-lee.' + +"I passed her my book, thinkin' the words wuz tore out o' hern, but, +la! she jest glared at me, and she and them gents, if anything, +bellered louder'n ever. I looked at the preacher, expecting to see him +covered with shygrin, but, la! he wuz takin' it perfectly cam, with +his eyes walled up at the ceilin' and his hands folded acrost his +stummick like he might be havin' troubles of his own. + +"I kept hopin' that tryo would either ketch up with the leader or jest +have the curridge to quit. Goodness knows, I done what I could fur +'em, by beatin' time with my turkey wing. + +"Somebody must have give 'em a tip, for the next song which the +preacher give out as 'a solo,' that tryo jest pintedly giv it up and +set thar is silent as clambs. The tall gal riz and commenced singin' +and that tryo never pertended to help her out! My heart ached in +symperthy fur her as she stood thar alone, singin' away with her voice +quaverin', and not a human bein' in that house jined in, not even the +_preacher_! But she had _grit_, and kept right on! Most people +would'er giv right up. She's a middlin' good singer, but is dretfully +handercapt by that laggin' tryo and a passel o' church members that +air too triflin' to sing in meetin'. The song wuz a new 'un to me, but +havin' a nacheral year for music, I soon ketched the tune and jined in +on the last verse with a vim. Of course I could only hummit, not +knowin' the words, but I come down on it good and strong and showed +them folks that Angeline Keaton ain't one to shirk a duty, if they +wuz. After the sermon the preacher giv out 'Thar Is a Fountain Filled +with Blood.' Here wuz my chanct to show 'em what the brag-voice of +Bear Waller wuz like! + +"With my voice risin' and falling and dwellin' with extry force on the +fust syllerbles of foun-tin and sin-ners, in long, drawn-out meeter, I +fairly lost myself in the grand old melerdy. I wuz soarin' inter the +third verse when I discovered I wuz the only one in the house that +knowed it! The rest of 'em wuz singin' it to a friverlous tune like +them Mose Beasley plays on his fiddle! What wuz more, they wuz +titterin' like I wuz in errer! The very idy! That wuz too much fur me, +and beckernin' Jim Henry to foller, I marched outer meetin'! + +"We found the old mare had slipped the bridle and gone home, so thar +wuz nothin' left fur us to do but foot it. The last thing I heered as +we struck the Bear Waller pike and set out fur home wuz that +coarse-voiced gal, still lagging behind, as she sang, + + "'The Blood of the Lamb!'" + + + + +MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS + + +Miss Maria Thompson Daviess, author of _The Melting of Molly_, was born +at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in October, 1872, the descendant of the famous +Joseph Hamilton Daviess, the granddaughter of the historian of +Harrodsburg, whose full name she bears, and the niece of Mrs. H. D. +Pittman and Miss Annie Thompson Daviess, the Kentucky novelists. Miss +Daviess was graduated from Science Hill Academy, Shelbyville, Kentucky, +in 1891, after which she studied English for a year at Wellesley +College. She then went to Paris to study art at Julien's, and several of +her pictures have been hung in the Salon. As a miniature painter she +excelled. At the conclusion of her art course, Miss Daviess returned to +America, making her home at Nashville, Tennessee, where she resides at +the present time. She taught at Belmont College, Nashville, for a year +or more, and set up as a painter of miniatures for a public that +demanded values in their portraits that she could not see fit to grant, +so she finally decided to write. Miss Daviess's first book, and the one +that she is still best known by, was _Miss Selina Lue and the Soap-Box +Babies_ (Indianapolis, 1909). Miss Lue, spinster, tucks babies into a +row of soap-boxes, maintaining sort of a free day-nursery, and the +reader has much delicious humor from her duties. _Miss Selina Lue_ was +followed by _The Road to Providence_ (Indianapolis, 1910), dominated by +the character of Mother Mayberry, guide, philosopher, and friend to a +Tennessee town; _Rose of Old Harpeth_ (Indianapolis, 1911), was a love +story "as ingenuous and sweet as a boy's first kiss under a ruffled +sunbonnet." Selina Lue and Mother Mayberry were both past their bloom; +Rose possessed the power and glory of youth. _The Treasure Babies_ +(Indianapolis, 1911), was a delightful children's story, which has been +dramatized and produced, but Miss Daviess's most charming novel, _The +Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912), was "the saucy success of the +season," for eight months the best selling book in America. Molly must +melt from the plumpest of widows to the slenderest of maidens in just +three months because the sweetheart of her girlhood days, now a +distinguished diplomat, homeward bound, demands a glimpse of her in the +same blue muslin dress which she wore at their parting years ago. The +melting process, with the O. Henry twist at the end, is the author's +business to narrate, and she does it in the most fetching manner. The +little novel is "gay, irresistible, all sweetness and spice and +everything nice." Miss Daviess's latest story, _Sue Jane_ (New York, +1912), has for its heroine a little country girl who comes to Woodlawn +Seminary (which is none other than the author's _alma mater_, Science +Hill), is at first laughed at and later loved by the girls of that +school. She is as quaint and charming a child as one may hope to meet in +the field of juvenile fiction. _The Elected Mother_ (Indianapolis, +1912), the best of the three short-stories tucked in the back of the +Popular edition of _Miss Selina Lue_ (New York, 1911), was a rather +unique argument for woman's equal rights. It proves that motherhood and +mayoralties may go hand and hand--in at least one modern instance. +_Harpeth Roses_ (Indianapolis, 1912), were wise saws culled from the +pages of her first four books, made into an attractive little volume. +Just as the year of 1912 came to a close Miss Daviess's publishers +announced that her new novel, _Andrew the Glad_, a love story, would +appear in January, 1913. _Phyllis_, another juvenile, will also be +issued in 1913, but will first be serialized in _The Visitor_, a +children's weekly, of Nashville. That Miss Daviess has been an +indefatigable worker may be gathered at a glance. She has the "best +seller touch," which is the most gratifying thing a living writer may +possess. The present public demands that its reading shall be as light +as a cream puff and sparking as a brook, and, in order to qualify for +_The Bookman's_ monthly handicap, a writer must possess those two +requisites: deftness of touch and brightness. These Miss Daviess has. +And so, when the summer-days are over-long and the winter's day is dull, +Maria Thompson Daviess and her brood of books will be found certain +dispellers of earthly woes and bringers of good cheer. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (December, 1909); _The Bookman_ (July, + 1912). + + +MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES[70] + +[From _The Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912)] + +Why don't people realize that a seventeen-year-old girl's heart is a +sensitive wind-flower that may be shattered by a breath? Mine +shattered when Alfred went away to find something he could do to make +a living, and Aunt Adeline gave the hard green stem to Mr. Carter when +she married me to him. Poor Mr. Carter! + +No, I wasn't twenty, and this town was full of women who were aunts +and cousins and law-kin to me, and nobody did anything for me. They +all said with a sigh of relief, "It will be such a nice safe thing for +you, Molly." And they really didn't mean anything by tying up a gay, +dancing, frolicking, prancing colt of a girl with a terribly ponderous +bridle. But God didn't want to see me always trotting along slow and +tired and not caring what happened to me, even pounds and pounds of +plumpness, so he found use for Mr. Carter in some other place but this +world, and I feel that He is going to see me through whatever happens. +If some of the women in my missionary society knew how friendly I feel +with God, they would put me out for contempt of court. + +No, the town didn't mean anything by chastening my spirit with Mr. +Carter, and they didn't consider him in the matter at all, poor man. +Of that I feel sure. Hillsboro is like that. It settled itself here in +a Tennessee valley a few hundreds of years ago and has been hatching +and clucking over its own small affairs ever since. All the houses set +back from the street with their wings spread out over their gardens, +and mothers here go on hovering even to the third and fourth +generation. Lots of times young, long-legged, frying-size boys +scramble out of the nests and go off to college and decide to grow up +where their crow will be heard by the world. Alfred was one of them. + +And, too, occasionally some man comes along from the big world and +marries a plump little broiler and takes her away with him, but mostly +they stay and go to hovering life on a corner of the family estate. +That's what I did. + +I was a poor, little, lost chick with frivolous tendencies and they all +clucked me over into this empty Carter nest which they considered +well-feathered for me. It gave them all a sensation when they found out +from the will just how well it was feathered. And it gave me one, too. +All that money would make me nervous if Mr. Carter hadn't made Doctor +John its guardian, though I sometimes feel that the responsibility of me +makes him treat me as if he were my step-grandfather-in-law. But all in +all, though stiff in its knees with aristocracy, Hillsboro is lovely +and loving; and couldn't inquisitiveness be called just real affection +with a kind of squint in its eye? + +And there I sat on my front steps, being embraced in a perfume of +everybody's lilacs and peachblow and sweet syringa and affectionate +interest and moonlight, with a letter in my hand from the man whose +two photographs and many letters I had kept locked up in the garret +for years. Is it any wonder I tingled when he told me that he had +never come back because he couldn't have me and that now the minute he +landed in America he was going to lay his heart at my feet? I added +his honors to his prostrate heart myself and my own beat at the +prospect. All the eight years faded away and I was again back in the +old garden down at Aunt Adeline's cottage saying good-by, folded up in +his arms. That's the way my memory put the scene to me, but the word +"folded" made me remember that blue muslin dress again. I had promised +to keep it and wear it for him when he came back--and I couldn't +forget that the blue belt was just twenty-three inches and mine +is--no, I _won't_ write it. I had got that dress out of the old trunk +not ten minutes after I had read the letter and measured it. + +No, nobody would blame me for running right across the garden to +Doctor John with such a real trouble as that! All of a sudden I hugged +the letter and the little book up close to my breast and laughed until +the tears ran down my cheeks. + +Then before I went into the house I assembled my garden and had family +prayers with my flowers. I do that because they are all the family I've +got, and God knows that all His budding things need encouragement, +whether it is a widow or a snowball-bush. He'll give it to us! + +And I'm praying again as I sit here and watch for the doctor's light +to go out. I hate to go to sleep and leave it burning, for he sits up +so late and he is so gaunt and thin and tired-looking most time. +That's what the last prayer is about, almost always,--sleep for him +and no night call! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[70] Copyright, 1912, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. + + + + +CALE YOUNG RICE + + +Cale Young Rice, poet and dramatist, was born at Dixon, Kentucky, +December 7, 1872. He graduated from Cumberland University, in +Tennessee, and then went to Harvard University, where he received his +Bachelor of Arts degree in 1895, and his Master's degree in the +following year. In 1902 Mr. Rice was married to Miss Alice Caldwell +Hegan, whose _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ had been published the +year before. Mr. Rice has been busy for years as a lyric poet and +maker of plays for the study, though several of them, indeed, have +received stage presentation. His several books of shorter poems are: +_From Dusk to Dusk_ (Nashville, Tennessee, 1898); _With Omar_ +(Lebanon, Tennessee, 1900), privately printed in an edition of forty +copies; _Song Surf_ (Boston, 1901), in which _With Omar_ was +reprinted; _Nirvana Days_ (New York, 1908); _Many Gods_ (New York, +1910); and his latest book of lyrics, _Far Quests_ (New York, 1912). +Mr. Rice's plays have been published as follows: _Charles di Tocca_ +(New York, 1903); _David_ (New York, 1904); _Plays and Lyrics_ (London +and New York, 1906), a large octavo containing _David_, _Yolanda of +Cyprus_, a poetic drama, and all of his best work; _A Night in +Avignon_ (New York, 1907), a little one-act play based upon the loves +of Petrarch and Laura, which was "put upon the boards" in Chicago with +Donald Robertson in the leading _role_. It was part one of a dramatic +trilogy of the Italian Renaissance. Next came a reprinting in an +individual volume of his _Yolanda of Cyprus_ (New York, 1908); and +_The Immortal Lure_ (New York, 1911), four plays, the first of which, +_Giorgione_, is part two of the trilogy of one-act plays of which _A +Night in Avignon_ was the first part. The trilogy will be closed with +another one-act drama, _Porzia_, which is now announced for +publication in January, 1913. Mr. Rice has been characterized by the +_New York Times_ as a "doubtful poet," but that paper's recent and +uncalled for attack upon Madison Cawein, together with many other +seemingly absurd positions, makes one wonder if it is not a "doubtful +judge." After all is said, it must be admitted that Mr. Rice has done +a small group of rather pleasing lyrics, and that his plays, perhaps +impossible as safe vehicles for an actor with a reputation to sustain, +are not as turgid as _The Times_ often is, and not as superlatively +poor as some critics have held. Of course, Mr. Rice is not a great +dramatist, nor a great poet, yet the body of his work is considerable, +and our literature could ill afford to be rid of it. The Rices have an +attractive home in St. James Court, Louisville, Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1904); _The Atlantic + Monthly_ (September, 1904); _The Bookman_ (December, 1911); + _Lippincott's Magazine_ (January, 1912). + + +PETRARCA AND SANCIA[71] + +[From _A Night in Avignon_ (New York, 1907)] + + _Petrarca._ While we are in the world the world's in us. + The Holy Church I own-- + Confess her Heaven's queen; + But we are flesh and all things that are fair + God made us to enjoy-- + Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but sorrow. + You though would ban earth's beauty, + Even the torch of Glory + That kindled Italy once and led great Greece-- + The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all + The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born! + I love them! they are divine! + And so to-night--I-- + (_Voices._) + They! it is Lello! Lello! Lello! Sancia!-- + + +(_Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; then +Sancia singing:_) + + To the maids of Saint Rèmy + All the gallants go for pleasure; + To the maids of Saint Rèmy-- + Tripping to love's measure! + To the dames of Avignon + All the masters go for wiving; + To the dames of Avignon-- + That shall be their shriving! + +(_He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then Lello cries:_) + + _Lello._ Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in? + What! are you a sonnet-monger? + + _Petrarca._ Ai, ai, aih! + (_Motions_ Gherhardo--_who goes_.) + + _Lello._ Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in! + (_Rattles it._) + + _Petrarca._ No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill! + Look for it and ascend! + (Orso _enters_.) + Stay, here is Orso! + +(_The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet them. In a +moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter--_Lello_ between +them--singing_:) + + Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline! + Ehyo! ninni! onni! onz! + I went fishing on All Saints' Day + And--caught but human bones! + + I went fishing on All Saints' Day, + The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black! + I went fishing on All Saints' Day-- + But my love called me back! + + She called me back and she kissed my lips-- + Oh, my lips! Oh! onni onz! + "Better take love than--bones! bones! + (Sancia _kisses_ Petrarca.) + Better take love than bones." + +(_They scatter with glee and_ Petrarca _seizes_ Sancia _to him_.) + + _Petrarca._ Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends! + Warm love is better, better! + And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand! + And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips! + + _Sancia._ (_interposing_). Or--less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca! + You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night. + + _Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair! + + _Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine, + To pledge him in! + + _Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er! + (_They go to the table._) + And see, they are wreathed of April, + With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined. + We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals! + + _Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show + Out of your sallow books? + + _Petrarca._ Those books were writ + With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon + Papyri of the stars! + + _Sancia._ And--long ago? + Ha! long ago? + + _Petrarca._ Returnless centuries! + + _Sancia._ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past, + Loves mummies and their dust-- + And he will mould! + Who loves the future loves what may not be, + And feeds on fear. + Only one flower has Time--its name is Now! + Come, pluck it! pluck it! + + _Lello._ Brava, maid! the Now! + + _Sancia._ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it! + + _Petrarca._ By my soul, I will: + (_Seizes her again._) + It grows upon these lips--and if to-night + They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would. + (_She breaks from him._) + + _Flippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine! + + _Sancia._ O ever-thirsty + And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out! + (_She lifts a brimming cup._) + We'll drink to Messer Petrarca-- + Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude. + May he long revel in the courts of Venus! + + _All (drinking)._ Aih, long! + + _Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them! + + _Flippa._ I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath. + + _Sancia._ And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa! + Messer Petrarca, should not be made + High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil, + Whose breath of life is oaths?... + But, swear it!--by the Saints! + Who were great sinners all! + And by the bones of every monk or nun + Who ever darkened the world! + + _Lello._ Or ever shall! + (_A pause._) + + _Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing + Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia, + Like nightingales in the wood! + + _Sancia._ Pah! Messer Poet-- + Such words as those you vent without an end-- + To the Lady Laura! + + _Petrarca._ Stop! + (_Grows pale._) + Not _her_ name--here! + (_All have sat down; he rises._) + + _Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might + Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after? + (_To the rest--rising._) + Shall we depart, that he may still indite them? + "To Laura--On the Vanity of Passion?" + "To Laura--Unrelenting?" + "To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?" + (_Laughs._) + "To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?" + (Orso _enters_.) + Shall we depart? + +FOOTNOTE: + +[71] Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + + + + +ROBERT M. McELROY + + +Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent histories of +Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, December 28, 1872. He took +the three degrees conferred by Princeton University; and since 1901 he +has been assistant professor of American history in that institution. +For the _Metropolitan Magazine_ of New York Dr. McElroy wrote an +excellent _History of the Mexican War_, but this work has not yet +appeared in book form. His _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New +York, 1909), gave him an honorable place among the younger generation +of American historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky +literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy labored for many +years, no sacrifice was too great for him to make, no journey too long +for him to undertake, provided a better perspective were to be +obtained at the end of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel +Reuben T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and sitting +at his feet drinking from the well of Western history which the +Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was what so sadly mars his +work: he does in the discussion of several great questions, hardly +more than serve as amanuensis for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel +John Mason Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted +_carte-blanche_, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set aside. +Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon the Spanish Conspiracy, +and writes a single line concerning Thomas Marshall Green's great +work! He brings his narrative down to the commencement of the Civil +War, which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation +in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His work is most +scholarly, the latest historical procedure is sustained throughout, +and the pity is that he so slavishly followed one or two authorities, +though both of them were wholly excellent and profound, to the +exclusion of all others. Originality of opinion is what the work +lacks, a lack which it might have easily possessed with the author's +undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary Louisville. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Dr. McElroy to the Author; _Who's Who + in America_ (1912-1913). + + +GEORGE ROGERS CLARK[72] + +[From _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New York, 1909)] + +It was at this critical moment that George Rogers Clark, the future +conqueror of the Northwest territory, took up his permanent abode +among the Kentucky pioneers. Clark had visited Kentucky, on a brief +tour of inspection, during the previous autumn (Sept., 1775), and had +been placed in command of the irregular militia of the settlements. He +had returned to Virginia, filled with the importance of establishing +in Kentucky an extensive system of public defence, and with the firm +conviction that the claims of Henderson & Company ought to be +disallowed by Virginia. His return to Kentucky, in 1776, marks the +beginning of the end of the Transylvania Company. In spite of his +youth (he was only twenty-four) he was far the most dangerous opponent +that Henderson & Company had in the province. A military leader by +nature, he had served in Lord Dunmore's war with such conspicuous +success that he had been offered a commission in the British Army. +This honor he had declined, preferring to remain free to serve his +country in the event of a revolt from British tyranny. + +Shortly after his arrival, Clark proposed that, in order to bring +about a more certain connection with Virginia, and the more definitely +to repudiate the authority of the Transylvania Company, a regular +representative assembly should be held at Harrodsburg. His own views +he expressed freely in advancing his suggestion. Agents, he said, +should be appointed to urge once more the right of the region to be +taken under the protection of Virginia, and, if this request should +again be unheeded, we should "employ the lands of the country as a +fund to obtain settlers, and establish an independent state." + +The proposed assembly convened at Harrodsburg on the 6th of June. +Clark was not present when the session began, and when he arrived, he +found that the pressing question of the day had already been acted +upon, and that he himself, with Gabriel John Jones, had been elected a +delegate to represent the settlements in the Virginia Assembly. Clark +knew that such an election would not entitle them to seats, but he +agreed to visit Williamsburg, and present the cause of his fellow +pioneers. Provided with a formal memorial to the Virginia Assembly, he +started, with Jones, for Virginia and, after a very painful journey, +upon which, Clark declared, I suffered "more torment than I ever +experienced before or since," they reached the neighborhood of +Charlottesville, only to learn that the Assembly had adjourned. Jones +set off for a visit to the settlements on the Holston; but Clark, +intent upon his mission, pushed on to Hanover County, where he secured +an interview with Patrick Henry, then Governor of Virginia. + +After listening to Clark's report of the troubles of the frontier +colony, and doubtless enjoying his denunciation of the Transylvania +Company, Governor Henry introduced him to the executive Council of the +State, and he at once requested from them five hundred pounds of +powder for frontier defence. He had determined to accomplish the +object of his mission in any manner possible, and he knew that if he +could induce the authorities of Virginia to provide for the defence of +the frontier settlements, the announcement of her property rights in +them would certainly follow, to the destruction of the plans of +Henderson and his colleagues. + +The Council, however, doubtless also foreseeing these consequences, +declared that its powers could not be so construed as to give it +authority to grant such a request. But Clark was insistent, and urged +his case so effectively that, after considerable discussion, the +Council announced that, as the call appeared urgent, they would assume +the responsibility of lending five hundred pounds of powder to Clark, +making him personally responsible for its value, in case their +assumption of authority should not be upheld by the Burgesses. They +then presented him with an order to the keeper of the public magazine, +calling for the powder desired. + +This was exactly what Clark did not want, as the loan of five hundred +pounds of powder to George Rogers Clark, could in no sense be +interpreted as an assumption by Virginia, of the responsibility of +defending the western frontier, and his next act was most +characteristic of the man. He returned the order with a curt note, +declaring his intention of repairing at once to Kentucky, and exerting +the resources of that country to the formation of an independent +State, for, he frankly declared, "a country which is not worth +defending is not worth claiming." + +This threat proved instantly successful. The Council recalled Clark to +their presence and, on August 23, 1776, delivered him another order +calling for five hundred pounds of gunpowder, which was to be conveyed +to Pittsburg by Virginia officials, there "to be safely kept and +delivered to George Rogers Clark or his order, for the use of the said +inhabitants of Kentucky." + +With this concession Clark was completely satisfied, for he felt that by +it Virginia was admitting her obligation to defend the pioneers of the +West, and that an open declaration of sovereign rights over the +territory must soon follow. He accordingly wrote to his friends in +Kentucky, requesting them to receive the powder at Pittsburg, and convey +it to the Kentucky stations, while he himself awaited the opening of the +autumn session of the Virginia Assembly, where he hoped to procure a +more explicit verdict against the claims of Henderson's Company. + +At the time appointed for the meeting, Clark, accompanied by his +colleague, Gabriel John Jones, proceeded to Williamsburg and presented +his petition to the Assembly, where again his remarkable personality +secured a victory. In spite of the vigorous exertions of Henderson and +Campbell in behalf of the Transylvania Company, the Virginia Assembly +(December 7, 1776) passed an act dividing the vast, ill-defined +region, hitherto known as Fincastle County, into three sections, to be +known as Kentucky County, Washington County, and Montgomery County, +Virginia. The County of Kentucky, comprising almost the same territory +as is contained in the present State of Kentucky, was thus recognized +as a political unit of the Virginia Commonwealth, and as such was +entitled to representation. + +This statute decided the fate of the Transylvania Company, as there +could not be two Sovereign Proprietors of the soil of Kentucky County. +And so passed, a victim to its own lust of gain, the last attempt to +establish a proprietary government upon the free soil of the United +States; and George Rogers Clark, as founder of Kentucky's first +political organization, became the political father of the Commonwealth, +even as Daniel Boone had been the father of her colonization. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[72] Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER + + +Edwin Davies Schoonmaker, poet, was born at Scranton, Pennsylvania, +February 1, 1873. He removed from Ohio to Kentucky in 1886, and he +lived at Lexington almost continuously until 1904. Mr. Schoonmaker was +educated at old Kentucky (Transylvania) University; and in 1904 he +married a Kentucky woman, who has published a play and a novel. For +the last several years he and his wife have lived at Bearsville, New +York, high up in the Catskills. Mr. Schoonmaker's first book was a +verse play, entitled _The Saxons--a Drama of Christianity in the +North_ (Chicago, 1905). This was based upon the attempt on the part of +Rome to force the religion of Christ upon the pagans in the forests of +the North, and it was a very strong piece of work. His second work, +another verse drama, will appear in 1913, entitled _The Americans_. +It will be published by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, for whom Mr. +Schoonmaker is planning two other plays. Mr. Schoonmaker has had short +lyrics in many of the leading magazines. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Arena_ (May, 1906); _Hampton's Magazine_ (June, + 1910); _The Forum_ (August, 1912). + + +THE PHILANTHROPIST[73] + +[From _The American Magazine_ (October, 1912)] + + I neither praise nor blame thee, aged Scot, + In whose wide lap the shifting times have poured + The heavy burden of that golden hoard + That shines far off and shall not be forgot. + + I only see thee carving far and wide + Thy name on many marbles through the land, + Or flashing splendid from the jeweler's hand + Where medaled heroes show thy face with pride. + + Croesus had not such royal halls as thou, + Nor Timon half as many friends as crowd + Thy porches when thy largesses are loud, + Learning and Peace are stars upon thy brow. + + And still thy roaring mills their tribute bring + As unto Cæsar, and thy charities + Have borne thy swelling fame beyond the seas, + Where thou in many realms art all but king. + + Yet when night lays her silence on thine ears + And thou art at thy window all alone, + Pondering thy place, dost thou not hear the groans + Of them that bear thy burdens through the years? + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[73] Copyright, 1912, by the Phillips Publishing Company. + + + + +CREDO HARRIS + + +Credo Harris, novelist, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, January 8, +1874. He was educated in the schools of Louisville and finished at +college in the East. He settled in New York as a newspaper man and the +following ten years of his life were given to that work. In 1908 Mr. +Harris abandoned daily journalism in order to devote himself to +fiction. Only a few of his short-stories had gotten into the magazines +when his first book, entitled _Toby, a Novel of Kentucky_ (Boston, +1912), appeared. In spite of the fact that the author's literary +models were, perhaps, too manifest, _Toby_ was well liked by many +readers. Mr. Harris's second story, _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New +York, 1912), was cordially received by those very critics who assailed +his first volume with vehemence. It is both a book of travels and a +romance, the recital being in the form of love letters to his +sweetheart, Polly, and also descriptive of the country from +Baden-Baden to Rome seen from the tonneau of a big touring-car. Mr. +Harris has a new story well under way, which will probably appear in +1913. He resides at Glenview, Kentucky, with his father, but his work +on _The Louisville Herald_ takes him into town almost every day. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Harris to the Author; _The + Courier-Journal_ (November 30, 1912). + + +BOLOGNA[74] + +[From _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New York, 1912)] + +Bologna! Home of the sausage! Does not your mouth water at just the +thought of it! I can see your pretty nose turn up in a curve that +simply screams "Disgusting"--but you have never been quite fair to +this relic of menageries. + +To-day at luncheon our waiter first pranced up with a dish I did not +recognize. It has long been a rule of mine--especially in Italy--that +when I do not recognize a dish I wave it by. But rules are sent +broadcast before the Bolognese spirit of patriotism. Would I be +permitted to refuse this dish? No. He poked it still nearer and gave +me a polite look. "No," I said, "not any." He poked it still nearer +and his look became troubled. "No," I said again. This time his look +was indignant as he exclaimed: "But, signor, it is _mortadella_!" +Indeed, we found his persistence quite justifiable. + +I could be satisfied to linger here. It is a pleasant mixture of +cosmopolitan and mediaeval, blending a touch of geniality which adds +much to its charm. The people are happier, perhaps it would be best to +say more smiling, in Bologna than farther north. If one can be +reconciled to the incongruity of living in a hotel that was a +fifteenth century palace overlooking the solemn tombs of jurists, and +then stepping to the corner for a twentieth century electric car, he +can steel himself to put up with many other temperamental +contradictions to be found in this capital of the Emilia. + +But because of its cosmopolitanism I shall tell you little. In big +places like this there is so much to see, so much to digest, so much +to read out of guide books, that--what's the use? My letters are +permitted, you have threatened, only so long as I tell an occasional +thing which may serve you and the Dowager when you come through next +year by motor, and while I do not believe you quite mean this, or +would throw it down if you saw me heading toward the tender realms of +nothingness, your wish shall, nevertheless, constitute my aim. Should +I digress, it will be because my love for you is stronger than +myself--an assertion of doubtful value at the present time. + +So if you want to know Bologna, read your guide books. Here, you shall +have only the more untrodden paths, which, if you follow as I have +done, you may be fortunate. For you must know that all I have seen has +been discovered by your eyes alone. Many a day has passed since you +brought and taught me the things truly beautiful in this world. Great +sculptures, rich paintings, magnificent architecture, are in the well +worn paths of every one's progress which those who pass cannot help +seeing, but a changing leaf, the sweep of a bird, a child's laugh at +the roadside, ah, those are the bounties your hands have poured into +my lap! Thousands pass along this way, piled high with perishable +treasures, and never dream that they are trampling a masterpiece with +every crunch of their bourgeoise boots. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[74] Copyright, 1912, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES + + +Mrs. Hallie Erminie Rives-Wheeler, maker of mysteries, was born near +Hopkinsville, Kentucky, May 2, 1874, the daughter of Colonel Stephen +T. Rives. She is a cousin of Princess Troubetzkey, the celebrated +Virginia novelist. Miss Rives, to give her her old name, was educated +in Kentucky schools, after which she went to New York with her mother. +In 1896 Miss Rives's mother died and she and her father moved to +Amherst county, Virginia, which is her present American home. Her +literary labors fall naturally into two periods: the first, which +included five "red-hot" books, as follows: _The Singing Wire and Other +Stories_ (Clarksville, Tennessee, 1892), the "other stories" being +four in number and nameless here; _A Fool in Spots_ (St. Louis, 1894); +_Smoking Flax_ (New York, 1897); _As the Hart Panteth_ (New York, +1898); and _A Furnace of Earth_ (New York, 1900). Miss Rives's second +period of work began with _Hearts Courageous_ (Indianapolis, 1902), a +romance of Revolutionary Virginia, and continues to the present time. +This was followed by _The Castaway_ (Indianapolis, 1904), based upon +the career of Lord Byron; and the great poems of the Englishman are +made to swell the length of the story. In _Tales from Dickens_ +(Indianapolis, 1905), Miss Rives did for the novelist what Lamb did +for Shakespeare--made him readable for children. _Satan Sanderson_ +(Indianapolis, 1907), a wild and thrilling tale of today, one of the +"six best sellers" for many months, was followed by what is, perhaps, +her best book, a story set in Japan, entitled _The Kingdom of Slender +Swords_ (Indianapolis, 1910). Her latest novel is _The Valiants of +Virginia_ (Indianapolis, 1912), the action of which begins in New +York, but is transferred to Virginia. Miss Rives was married in Tokyo, +Japan, December 29, 1906, to Mr. Post Wheeler, writer and diplomat, +now connected with the American embassy at Rome. While none of her +novels is set against Kentucky backgrounds, several of her short +stories published in the magazines are Kentucky to the core. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The American Review of Reviews_ (October, 1902); + _The Nation_ (August 11, 1904). + + +THE BISHOP SPEAKS[75] + +[From _Satan Sanderson_ (Indianapolis, 1907)] + +Inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting Harry Sanderson. He +had officiated at his ordination and liked him. His eyes took in the +simple order of the room, lingering with a light tinge of disapproval +upon the violin case in the corner, and with a deeper shade of question +upon the jewel on the other's finger--a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting +curiously twisted of the two initial letters of his name. + +There came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early prodigalities +and wildness which he had heard. For the lawyer who had listened to +Harry Sanderson's recital on the night of the making of the will had +not considered it a professional disclosure. He had thought it a "good +story," and had told it at his club, whence it had percolated at +leisure through the heavier strata of town-talk. The tale, however, +had seemed rather to increase than to discourage popular interest in +Harry Sanderson. The bishop knew that those whose approval had been +withheld were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could not +have denied that he possessed desirable qualities--a manner by turns +sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, and the +unteachable tone of blood--and had infused new life into a generally +sleepy parish. He had dismissed the whisper with a smile, but oddly +enough it recurred to him now at sight of the ruby ring. + +"I looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "I've just +come from David Stires--he has a letter from Van Lennap, the great +eye-surgeon of Vienna. He disagrees with the rest of them--thinks +Jessica's case may not be hopeless." + +The cloud that Hugh's call had left on Harry's countenance lifted. + +"Thank God!" he said. "Will she go to him?" + +The bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed to hold +more than a conventional relief. + +"He is to be in America next month. He will come here to examine, and +perhaps to operate. An exceptional girl," went on the bishop, "with a +remarkable talent! The angel in the chapel porch, I suppose you know, +is her modelling, though that isn't just masculine enough in feature +to suit me. The Scriptures are silent on the subject of woman-angels +in Heaven; though, mind you, I don't say they're not common on earth!" + +The bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram. + +"Poor child!" he continued more soberly. "It will be a terrible thing +for her if this last hope fails her, too! Especially now, when she and +Hugh are to make a match of it." + +Harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen it suddenly +startled. "To make a match of it!" To hide the flush he felt staining +his cheek, Harry bent to close the safe. A something that had darkled in +some obscure depth of his being, whose existence he had not guessed, was +throbbing now to a painful resentment. Jessica to marry Hugh! + +"A handsome fellow--Hugh!" said the bishop. "He seems to have returned +with a new heart--a brand plucked from the burning. You had the same +_alma mater_, I think you told me. Your influence has done the boy +good, Sanderson!" He laid his hand kindly on the other's shoulder. +"The fact that you were in college together makes him look up to +you--as the whole parish does," he added. + +Harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. But through the +turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating: + +"No, they don't call me 'Satan' now!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[75] Copyright, 1907, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. + + + + +EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY + + +Edwin Carlile Litsey, author of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_, was +born at Beechland, Kentucky, June 3, 1874. He was educated in public +and private schools, but he did not go to college. At the age of +seventeen years Mr. Litsey entered the banking business, and he is now +connected with the Marion National Bank, of his present home, Lebanon, +Kentucky. His first novel, _The Princess of Gramfalon_ (Cincinnati, +1898), was a daring piece of imagination, creating impossible lands +and peoples, and it has been forgotten by author and public alike. Mr. +Litsey's strongest and best work so far is a beautiful tale of Nature, +entitled _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ (New York, 1902). This +novelette made the author many friends, as it is a charming story. In +1904 he won first prize in _The Black Cat_ story-contest, over ten +thousand competitors, with _In the Court of God_. His stories of wild +animals in their haunts were brought together in _The Race of the +Swift_ (Boston, 1905). This contains some of his best work, the first +story being especially fine and strong. Mr. Litsey's latest novel, +_The Man from Jericho_ (New York, 1911), was not up to the standard +set in his earlier works, and in no sense is it a noteworthy +production. It shows a decided falling off, and it brought +disappointment to many admirers of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ and +_The Race of the Swift_. In 1912 Mr. Litsey contributed several +short-stories to _The Cavalier_, and next year he will issue another +novel, to be entitled _A Maid of the Kentucky Hills_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (July, 1902); _Munsey's Magazine_ + (April, 1903). + + +THE RACE OF THE SWIFT[76] + +[From _The Race of the Swift_ (Boston, 1905)] + +The next morning, near midday, her merciless offsprings teased and +worried her so that the she-fox crept forth in spite of the warning of +the day before, and set her sharp muzzle towards the crest of the +range, with the intention of invading territory which hitherto her +feet had never pressed. There were wild turkeys back in the hills, and +wary and suspicious as she knew them to be, they were no match for her +wily woodcraft. But scarcely had her noiseless feet gone over the top +of the knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind her caused her to +jump and turn quickly. They were there--her enemies--and their noses +were smelling out her trail, for as yet they had not seen her. Even as +she leaped for the nearest cover like a yellow flash, her first +thought was of the little ones biding at home. She must lead her foes +away from that cleft in the rocks where her love-children lay awaiting +her return. And though her life should be given up, yet would she die +alone, and far away, before she would sacrifice her young. + +It was a hard and stubborn race which she ran for the next six hours. +At times her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to burst from the strain +she thrust upon it. At times fleet feet were pattering almost at her +heels, and pitiless jaws were held wide to grasp her; then again only +the echo of the stubborn cry of her pursuers reached her. She had +doubled time and again. Once a brief respite was granted her when she +dashed up a slanting tree-trunk which, in falling, had lodged in the +branches of another tree. Eight tawny forms dashed hotly, furiously +by, then she descended and took the back track. Only for a moment, +however, were the cunning dogs deceived. They discovered the artifice +almost as soon as it was perpetrated, and came harking back themselves +with redoubled zeal. So the long hours of the afternoon wore away. Not +a moment that was free from effort; not an instant that death did not +hover over the mother fox, awaiting the least misstep to descend. Back +and forth, around and across, and still the subtlety of the fox eluded +the haste and fury of the hounds. All were tired to the point of +exhaustion, but none would give up. The sun went down; tremulous +shadows, like curtains hung, were draped among the trees. The timid +stars came out again and the halfed moon arose, a little larger than +the night before. And still, with inveterate hate on the one side, and +the undying strength of despair on the other, the grim chase swept +through the night. At last the blood-rimmed eyes of the reeling quarry +saw familiar landmarks. Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had +come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps the love within her heart +had guided her back. She found her strength quickly failing, and with +a realization of this her scheming brain awoke as from a trance, and +drove her to deeper guile. Two rods away was the creek. To it she +staggered, splashed through the low water for a dozen yards, and hid +herself beneath the gnarled roots of a tree from the base of which the +stream had eaten away the soil. She listened intensely. She heard the +pack lose the scent, search half-heartedly for a few minutes, for +they, too, were weary to dropping, then withdraw one at a time, +beaten. But for half an hour the brave animal lay against the tree +roots, waiting and resting. Then she came out cautiously, looked +around her, and with difficulty gained the mouth of her den. Casting +one keen glance over her shoulder through the checkered spaces of the +forest, she glided softly within, and lying down, curled her tired +body protectingly around her sleeping little ones. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[76] Copyright, 1905, by Little, Brown and Company. + + + + +MILTON BRONNER + + +Milton Bronner, literary critic and journalist, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, November 10, 1874. He was graduated from the +University of Virginia, in 1895, when he returned to his home to join +the staff of the old _Louisville Commercial_. In 1900 Mr. Bronner +removed to Covington, Kentucky, to become city editor of _The Kentucky +Post_, of which paper he is now editor-in-chief. Mr. Bronner's first +book, called _Letters from the Raven_ (New York, 1907), was a work +about Lafcadio Hearn with many of Hearn's hitherto unpublished +letters. His second and most important volume so far, _Maurice +Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910), is the first adequate discussion of the +novels and poems of the celebrated English author. His method was to +treat the works in the order of their publication, together with a +brief word upon Mr. Hewlett's life. His little book must have pleased +the novelist as much as it did the public. Mr. Bronner seems to have a +_flair_ for new writers who later "arrive." Thus years ago _Poet-Lore_ +published his paper on William Ernest Henley, before Henley's fame was +so firmly established. Some years later _The Independent_ had his +essay on Francis Thompson, whom all the world now declares to have +been a great and true poet. Still later _The Forum_ printed his +criticism of John Davidson, in which high estimates were set upon the +unfortunate fellow's works; and _The Bookman_ has printed a series of +his critical appreciations of such men as John Masefield, Ezra Pound, +Wilbur Underwood, W. H. Davies, W. W. Gibson, and Lionel Johnson, +which introduced these now celebrated poets to the American public. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Forum_ (September, 1910); _The Bookman_ + (August; November, 1911); _The Bookman_ (April; October, 1912). + + +MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN[77] + +[From _Maurice Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910)] + +Mr. Hewlett is mainly interested in his women. They are the pivots +about whom his comedies and tragedies move. And his treatment of them +differs from all the great contemporary novelists. Kipling gives +snapshot photographs of women. He shows them in certain brief moments +of their existence, in vivid blacks and whites, caught on the instant +whether the subjects were laughing or crying. Stevenson's few women +are presented in silhouette. Barrie and Hardy give etchings in which +line by line and with the most painstaking art, the features are +drawn. But Meredith and Mr. Hewlett give paintings in which brush +stroke after brush stroke has been used. The reader beholds the +finished work, true not only in features, but in colouring. + + * * * * * + +Now Mr. Hewlett is purely medieval. The Hewlett woman is forever the +plaything of love. She is always in the attitude of the pursuing who +is pursued. She is forever the subject of passion, holy or unholy. Men +will fight for her, plunge kingdoms and cities in war or ruin for her, +die for her. Sometimes, as in "The Stooping Lady," she is the willing +object of this love and stoops to enjoy its divine benison; sometimes +she flees from it when it displays a satyr face as in "The Duchess of +Nona;" sometimes she is caught up in its tragic coil as in "The +Queen's Quair," and destroyed by it. Hewlett's women, like Hardy's, +are stray angels, but like Meredith's they are creatures of the chase. +And, note the difference from Meredith!--this, according to the gospel +of Mr. Hewlett, is as it should be. + +Since it is woman's proper fate to be loved, it would seem to be +impossible for Mr. Hewlett to write a story in which there is not some +romantic love interest. And in each case there is a stoop on the part +of one. The stoop may be happy or the reverse, but it is there. He +recurs to the idea again and again, but each time with a difference +that prevents monotony. + +In the main, Mr. Hewlett's women are good women. They are loyal and +loving, ready alike to take beatings or kisses. There is no ice in +their bosoms which must needs be thawed. Nor are Mr. Hewlett's women +"kind" after the manner of the Stendhal characters. They are not women +who make themselves common. For the most part, they are Rosalinds and +Perditas of an humbler sort, with the beauty of those immortal girls, +but without their supreme wit and high spirits. They are girls who are +stricken down with love's dart and who make no effort to remove the +dear missiles. They are true dwellers in romance-land, beautiful +creatures who give themselves to their chosen lords without thought of +sin or of the future. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[77] Copyright, 1910, by L. E. Bassett. + + + + +A. ST. CLAIR MACKENZIE + + +Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, author of _The Evolution of Literature_, +was born at Inverness, Scotland, February 17, 1875. "Blue as a molten +sapphire gleams the Moray Firth below Culloden Moor, under whose +purple heather sleep some of the warrior ancestors of Alastair St. +Clair Mackenzie, near which he was born." The University of Glasgow +conferred the degree of Master of Arts upon him in 1892. He then did +graduate work in English at the University of Edinburgh for a year, +after which he studied for some months under Sir Richard C. Jebb of +the University of Cambridge, and Edward Caird of Oxford University. +Mackenzie met S. R. Crockett, Henry Drummond, William Black, Alfred +Tennyson, and many other distinguished men of letters, before he came +to America. After a brief residence in Philadelphia he came to the +State University of Kentucky, at Lexington, in September, 1899, as +head of the department of English, and under his supervision the +curriculum has been extended from three courses to thirty. Among +Kentucky educators he has been the pioneer in introducing Journalism, +Comparative Philology, and Comparative Literature. In 1911 he +received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Kentucky Wesleyan +College, the only degree of the kind ever conferred by that +institution. In 1912 Dr. Mackenzie was Ropes Foundation lecturer at +the University of Cincinnati. He is now dean of the Graduate School of +the University of Kentucky. Besides contributing many articles to +periodicals, Dr. Mackenzie wrote, in 1904, the first history of +Lexington Masonic Lodge, No. 1, the earliest in the West; and, in +1907, the article on Hew Ainslie, the Scottish-Kentucky poet, +published in the _Library of Southern Literature_, and pronounced by +many competent critics to be the finest essay in that great +collection. His _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911), the +English edition of which was issued by John Murray, London, deals with +the origins of literature, as its title indicates, and it has placed +Dr. Mackenzie at the head of Southern students of this subject. Into +this work went the researches and deliberate judgments of a lifetime; +and that a scholar should produce such a work in the West or South, +without a great library near at hand, is in itself remarkable. Dr. +Mackenzie has done what will probably come to be regarded as the most +scholarly production of a Kentucky hand, although the work is more +suggestive than it is conclusive. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A KELTIC TALE[78] + +[From _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911)] + +Here is an old Keltic tale of farewell. It was a night of mist, a low +moon brooding over the braes, the heathery braes. The man sat by the +seashore, as he sang quaint ballads of a land across the water, where +men never see death. There was none to reveal the secrets of the +glens, nor could any one tell him what the eagle cried to the stag at +the corrie, while the burn wimpled on with its song of sobbing. He sat +and listened, but he was knowing naught of sadness. To his ears came +only the accents of the fairies of joy, and they called him to seek +the fountain where song had its birth. Away from the sea he climbed +till its voice came faint, faint across the bracken. At last, full +weary, he slept. The night passed, and a leveret stood up, gazing upon +his face without fear. A deer came to the stream, beheld the sleeping +figure, and fled not. A grey linnet perched upon the pale hand lying +across the bosom; it looked the sun in the face, and sang, but the man +did not awake. Again the shadows melted into the night of stars, and +the hills said to one another, "He has found Death and Life. For we +know, and God knows, all his dreams. He has found the secret of the +sea, the message of all the streams, and the fountain-head of song." + +In quest of literary strivings and achievements, lowly as well as +exalted, we have journeyed through all the principal lands of the globe. +The forests of Africa have shaded us from the scorching sun, and the +tang of the salt sea has smitten us off Cape Horn. Visions of scenes +familiar have mingled with sights and sounds of cities that flourished +forty centuries ago. Wherever we have gone, we have noticed that +vitality is the quality which gives permanent value to all true art. +Popular opinion, blind perhaps to the qualities of art as art, caring +nothing about the more elusive charms of verse and prose, is quick to +detect the presence or absence of a vital relationship between +literature and humanity. Literary art voices life and gives life. The +higher the art the more effectively does it fill the onlooker with a +sense of life, personal and racial, dignified, wholesome, inexhaustible. +Apparently it is the ideal within the real that becomes ever more +manifest in the course of the evolution of literature. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[78] Copyright, 1911, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + + +LAURA SPENCER PORTOR + + +Miss Laura Spencer Portor, poet and short-story writer, was born at +Covington, Kentucky, in 1875. She lived at Covington until ten years +old, when she was taken to Paris, France, where she attended private +schools for two years. She returned to Kentucky, and attended school +at Cincinnati, but she afterwards entered the old Norwood Institute, +Washington. Her education being finished, Miss Portor again made her +home at Covington, where she resided until a few years ago, when she +went to New York, her home at the present time. She has worked in many +literary fields. Children's work; essays; short-stories; feature and +editorial work of all kinds; and verse for children and "grown-ups." +Miss Portor is now children's editor of _The Woman's Home Companion_. +She has been so very busy with her magazine work that she has found +time to publish but one book, _Theodora_ (Boston, 1907), a little tale +for children, done in collaboration with Miss Katharine Pyle, sister +of the famous American artist, the late Howard Pyle, and herself an +artist and author of ability and reputation. The next few years will +certainly see several of Miss Portor's manuscripts published in book +form. Among her magazine stories and verse that have attracted +attention may be mentioned her purely Kentucky tales, such as "A +Gentleman of the Blue Grass," published in _The Ladies' Home Journal_; +"The Judge," which appeared in _The Woman's Home Companion_; "Sally," +a Southern story, printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_; and "My French +School Days," an essay, also printed in _The Atlantic_, are thought to +be the best things in prose Miss Portor has written so far. Her poems, +"The Little Christ" (_Atlantic Monthly_), and "But One Leads South" +(_McClure's Magazine_), are her most characteristic work in verse. She +has written much for children in both prose and poetry. Miss Portor +is one of Kentucky's proudest hopes in fiction or verse, and the books +that are to be published from her pen will bring together her work in +a manner that will be highly pleasing to her admirers. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (August, 1900); _St. Nicholas + Magazine_ (October, 1912). + + +THE LITTLE CHRIST[79] + +[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1905] + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Why weepest thou? + + _Hush! for I see a crown of thorns, + A bleeding brow._ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Why dost thou sigh? + + _Hush! for the shadow of the years + Stoopeth more nigh!_ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Oh, smile on me. + The birds sing blithe, the birds sing gay, + The leaf laughs on the tree. + + _Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore + That tree whereon they grow, + I see it hewn, and bound, to bear + The weight of human woe!_ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + The Night comes on apace-- + When all God's waiting stars shall smile + On me in thy embrace. + + _Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night! + Oh, could'st thou slip away + Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,-- + And get to God by Day!_ + + +BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH[80] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_, December, 1909] + + So many countries of the earth, + So many lands of such great worth; + So stately, tall, and fair they shine,-- + So royal, all,--but one is mine. + + So many paths that come and go, + Busy and freighted, to and fro; + So many that I never see + That still bring gifts and friends to me; + So many paths that go and come, + But one leads South,--and that leads home. + + Oh, I would rather see the face + Of that dear land a little space + Than have earth's richest, fairest things + My own, or touch the hands of kings.-- + I'm homesick for it! When at night + The silent road runs still and white,-- + Runs onward, southward, still and fair, + And I know well it's going there, + And I know well at last 'twill come + To that old candle-lighted home,-- + Though all the candles of heaven are lit, + I'm homesick for the sight of it! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[79] Copyright, 1905, by Houghton, Mifflin Company. + +[80] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + + + + +LEIGH GORDON GILTNER + + +Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, poet and short-story writer, was born at +Eminence, Kentucky, in 1875. She is the daughter of the Rev. W. S. +Giltner, who was for many years president of Eminence College, from +which the future writer was graduated. She later pursued a course in +English at the University of Chicago, and studied Shakespeare and +dramatic art with Hart Conway of the Chicago School of Acting. Miss +Giltner's book of lyrics, _The Path of Dreams_ (Chicago, 1900), brought +her many kind words from the reviewers. This little book contained some +very excellent verse, but, shortly after its appearance, the author +abandoned poesy for the short-story. Her stories and sketches have +appeared in the _New England Magazine_, _The Century_, _Munsey's +Overland Monthly_, _The Reader_, _The Era_, and several other +periodicals. Within the last year or so she has had quite a number of +short-stories in _Young's Magazine_ "of breezy stories." At the present +time Miss Giltner has a Kentucky novel and a comedy in preparation, both +of which should appear shortly. She is one of the most beautiful of +Kentucky's writers: her frontispiece portrait in _The Path of Dreams_ is +said to have disarmed many carping critics who untied the little volume +with malice aforethought. But back of her personal loveliness, is a mind +of much power, cleverness, and originality. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (September 6, 1900); _Munsey's + Magazine_ (October, 1902); _The Overland_ (October, 1910). + + +THE JESTING GODS[81] + +[From _Munsey's Magazine_ (July, 1904)]. + +From the first it had been, in the nature of things, perfectly patent +to every member of the party gathered at Grantleigh for the shooting +that Tompkins' bride cared not a whit for Tompkins--which, if one +happened to know the man, was scarcely a matter for surprise. + +Tompkins, though a good fellow on the whole, was an unmitigated idiot. +Not a mere insignificant unit in the world's noble army of fools, but +a fool so conspicuous and of so infinite a variety as to be at all +times the cynosure of the general gaze. + +When a man is a fool and knows it, his folly not infrequently attains +the measure of wisdom. Let him but conceal his motley beneath a cloak +of weighty silence and he will presently acquire a reputation for +solid intelligence and a wise conservatism. But Tompkins was not one +of these. He joyously jangled his bells and flourished his bauble, +wholly unaware the while of the spectacle he was making of himself. If +he could have been persuaded to take on a neutral tint and keep +himself well in the background, inanity might, in time, have assumed +the dignity of intellectuality: but he lacked the sense of proportion, +of values. He was always in the foreground and always a more or less +inharmonious element in the _ensemble_. + +Tompkins had published an impossible volume of prose, followed by a +yet more impossible volume of verse: his crudely impressionistic +essays at art made the judicious grieve: he dabbled in music and posed +as a lyric tenor, though he had neither voice nor ear. A temperament +essentially histrionic kept him constantly in the centre of the stage. +With no remote realization of his limitations, he aspired to play +leads and heavies, when Fate had inexorably cast him for a line of low +comedy. He contrived to make divers and sundry kinds and degrees of an +idiot of himself on all possible occasions--and even when there was no +possible occasion therefor. He had a faculty for doing the wrong thing +which amounted to inspiration. + +We had been wont to speculate at the Club as to whether Tompkins would +ever find a woman the measure of whose folly should so far exceed his +own as to impel her to marry him. We wondered much when we heard that +he had at last achieved this feat. We wondered more when we saw the +woman who had made it a possibility. + +"_Titania_ and _Bottom_, by Jove!" whispered Ronalds to me as Tompkins +followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening of their arrival +at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked everywhere on account of his +relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) My fancy, which I had allowed to +play freely about the lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his +marriage, had wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had +accepted him as a _dernier resort_ and a simpering school girl too young +to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride--and gasped. + +She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so compelling, +as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It quite took away +one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping at her, but she bore +the ordeal with all grace and calm, though she was the daughter of a +struggling curate in some obscure locality remote from social +advantages. She was of a singularly striking type: the beauty of her +face was almost tragic in its intensity: the ghost of some immemorial +sorrow seemed to lurk in the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too +sombre expression was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare +smile, she was positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to +"promulgate rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial +indifference to feminine charm should endorse me.) + + * * * * * + +As the days passed--we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight--I found +myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some inaccuracy in +her interpretation of her _role_. But I watched in vain. There was +always a perfect appreciation of the requirements of the situation, +always the perfection of taste in its treatment. Evidently she had +thrown herself into the part and was playing it--would play it, +perhaps, to the end--with artistic _abandon_, tempered by a fine +discretion and discrimination. If her yoke galled, this proud woman +made no sign. But even the subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment, +and it was in such a moment that I chanced to see her the night before +the last of our stay. + +The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the moors and were +on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. Tompkins had gone up +stairs just ahead of me (his apartments were next mine) and had +carelessly left a door opening on the corridor slightly ajar. In +passing I unconsciously glanced that way and my eyes fell full upon +the mirrored face of Elinor Tompkins as her husband crossed toward +where she sat at her dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed +her countenance held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an +unbelievable complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and +self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash it came +and went. The next instant she had forced herself to smile and was +lifting her face for her husband's caress, while Tompkins, physically +and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined his lips to hers. I +caught my breath sharply. A choking sensation in my throat paid +tribute to her art. Not even Duse was more a mistress of emotional +control, expression, and repression. But this was something more than +the perfection of acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance +long drawn out--a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's +mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering. + +That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for the day, +and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to open his budget. +He had had the satisfaction of surprising us with the rumored +engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the scapegrace son of an +impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately at a scandal in high +official life: and had made his climax with the announcement of the +sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton and the consequent succession of +Delmar to his title and estates--when I glanced, by purest chance, at +Mrs. Tompkins. (I had fallen into a way of looking at her often--she +was certainly an interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the +lips. Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant she +had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered her wonted +perfect poise and calm. + +That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the subject. +Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps at the moment. +In his unconscious egotism he never spared her: there was seldom a +moment when she might drop her smiling mask: the essence of his +personality pervaded her whole atmosphere. + +"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying, +"and--_apropos_ of Delmar's succession to the title--he mentioned that +there had been a serious affair of the heart between him and our +fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. It seems one of +Ilverton's innumerable country places was near the village where the +Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl there last Autumn. The affair +soon assumed serious proportions: Ilverton heard of the engagement: +cut up an awful shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him +off to India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her +compliments to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have +given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused his son +and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should occasion +arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a bit, chuckled +mightily over the message and vowed that had it only been one of his +younger sons, she should have had him, by Jupiter!... But things +weren't easy for the girl at home. She had an invalid mother, a +nervous, nagging creature, who dinned it into her ears that she'd lost +the chance of a lifetime: that she was standing in the light of three +marriageable younger sisters: that with her limited social advantages +few matrimonial opportunities might be expected to come her way--and +more to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic." + +"Why not have tried the stage--with her voice and presence any manager +would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested. + +"She considered it, they say, but her reverend father turned a fit at +the bare suggestion. At this juncture, Tompkins presented himself as a +suitor: it was duly pointed out to Miss Barton by her loving parents +that he was rather an eligible _parti_: rich, not bad looking, and a +nephew of Wrexford's, and that she would better take the goods the +gods provided, which, in sheer desperation, she ultimately did. You +can see she loathes him, but she's evidently made up her mind to be +decent to him--and by Jove, she doesn't do it by halves! She's got +sand, all right, and I honor her for the way she makes the best of a +bad bargain--though it's not a pleasant thing to see." + +"It's a beastly pity!" broke in Ronalds warmly. "It makes me ill to see +her wasting herself and her subtleties on a dolt like Algy. What a +splendid pair she and Del would have made, and what a shame his Lordship +didn't obligingly die a few months sooner--since it had to be!" + +At this precise moment I caught sight of Tompkins standing just +without the parted portierres. How long he had been there I could not +guess, but doubtless quite long enough. He looked like a man who had +had a facer and was a bit dazed in consequence. I think I gasped, for +on the instant he looked my way with a glance that held an appeal, +which I must somehow have answered. In an instant he was gone and the +other men, all unaware of his proximity, pursued their theme. + +I did not see Tompkins at our hurried buffet breakfast next morning, and +I began to hope he would not go out with the guns that day, thus sparing +me the awkward necessity of meeting him again. But he presently appeared +on the terrace in his shooting togs, and I knew I was in for it. His +manner, however, which was entirely as usual, reassured me. Either he +had heard less than I had feared or the callousness of stupidity +protected him. He chatted with his wonted gayety with the men: he made +the ladies at hand to see us off a labored compliment or two, and met my +eye without consciousness or embarassment. I wondered if it were +stolidity or stoicism? All day he was in the best of spirits: he was +positively hilarious when we gathered at the gamekeeper's cottage for +luncheon--and I decided upon the former with a sense of relief, for the +thing had somehow got on my nerves. + +But later, as we returned to the field, he so palpably waited for me +to come up with him (we always put Tompkins in the van for safety's +sake--he did such fearful and wonderful things with his gun) that I +was forced to join him. After a moment he said, with an effort: + +"Sibley, I want to ask, as a very great personal favor, that you will +never, under any circumstances, mention to anyone--to _any one_," he +repeated, with a curious effect of earnestness, "about--last night." + +I hastened to give him my assurance. It was the least I could do. + +"Thank you," he said simply. "I felt I might depend upon you." Then, +because we were men--and Englishmen--we spoke of other things. + +Late that afternoon, as we bent our steps homeward, Tompkins and I +found ourselves again together. We had somehow strayed from the rest, +and under the guidance of a keeper, striding ahead, laden with +trappings of the hunt, were making our way toward Grantleigh. +Tompkins' manner was entirely simple and unconstrained. A respect I +had not previously accorded him was growing upon me. We were both dead +tired, and when we spoke at all it was of the day's sport. + +As we neared the Manor, the keeper, far in the lead, vaulted lightly +over a stile in a hedgerow. I followed less lightly (my enemies aver +that I am growing stout) with Tompkins in the rear.... Suddenly a shot, +abnormally loud and harsh in the twilight hush, rang out at my back. +Blind and deaf--fatally blind and deaf as I had been--I realized its +import on the instant. Even before I turned I knew what I should see. + +Tompkins was lying in a huddled heap at the foot of the stile, and as +I bent over him I saw that it was a matter of moments. He had bungled +things all his life, poor fellow, but he had not bungled this. + +"An accident, Sibley," he gasped, as I knelt beside him. "I +was--always--awkward--with a gun, you know. _An accident_--you'll +remember, old man? Elinor must not--" + +Speech failed him for an instant. An awful agony was upon him, but no +moan escaped his lips. His life had been a farce, a failure, but if he +had not known how to live, assuredly he knew how to die.... The +shadows were closing round him. He put out a groping hand for mine. + +"I think I'm--going, Sibley," he whispered. "Tell Elinor--" And with +her name upon his lips, he went out into the dark. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[81] Copyright, 1904, by the Frank A. Munsey Company. + + + + + +MARGARET S. ANDERSON + + +Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated in the public schools, +with a short special course at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss +Anderson has been literary editor of _The Evening Post_, of +Louisville, having a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in +the Saturday edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" for +_McClure's Magazine_; and since quitting _McClure's_, she has been a +public lecturer upon literature and art in New York, Philadelphia, +Pittsburg, Memphis, and Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems +have appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, +but the greater number of them have been published in _The American +Magazine_. She has also contributed considerable verse to the minor +magazines. The next year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought +together in a charming volume, entitled _The Flame in the Wind_, which +form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky woman of the present time +has done better work in verse than has she. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (August, 1902); _The Century_ + (September, 1904). + + +THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK[82] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1909)] + + Lord of all strength--behold, I am but frail! + Lord of all harvest--few the grapes and pale + Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord, + Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword, + Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die, + Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry: + Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one + Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun; + Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed + Let me lift up my sapling like a blade; + Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine! + Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine! + + +NOT THIS WORLD[83] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_ (November, 1909)] + + Shall I not give this world my heart, and well, + If for naught else, for many a miracle + Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?-- + _Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go + When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow + Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Shall I not give this world my heart, who find + Within this world the glories of the mind-- + That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?-- + _Nay, by the little footways it hath trod, + And smiles to see, when thou art under sod, + And by its very gaze across the abyss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold + One figure here above myself, my gold, + My life and hope, my joy and my intent?-- + _Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent, + That fragile garment that shall soon be rent, + By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain? + Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain, + And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot? + _Thou child and thankless! On this little spot_ + _Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not; + Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + +WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM)[84] + +[From _The Atlantic Monthly_ (August, 1910)] + + So sharp the sword, so airy the defense! + As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense; + So fine and strange--so subtly-poisèd, too-- + The egoist that looks forever through! + + That winged spirit--air and grace and fire-- + A-flutter at the frame, is your desire; + Nay, it is you--who never knew the net, + Exquisite, vain--whom we shall not forget! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[82] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + +[83] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + +[84] Copyright, 1910, by the Atlantic Monthly Company. + + + + +ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH + + +Mrs. Abby Meguire Roach, "the very cleverest of the Louisville school +of women novelists," was born at Philadelphia in 1876. She was +educated in the schools of her native city, finishing her training +with a year at Wellesley College. In 1899 she was married to Mr. Neill +Roach, of Louisville, Kentucky, and that city has been her home since. +Mrs. Roach wrote many stories of married life for the New York +magazines, which were afterwards collected and published as _Some +Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906). These have been singled out by +the reviewers as "charming" and "most beautiful"; and her work has +been compared to Miss May Sinclair's, the famous English novelist. One +of Mrs. Roach's most recent stories was published in _The Century +Magazine_ for July, 1907, entitled "Manifest Destiny," but this has +not been followed by any others in the last year or so. +"Unremembering June," one of the best of the tales in _Some Successful +Marriages_, relates the love of Molly-Moll for her invalid husband, +after whose death she falls in love with Reno, the father of Lola, +"who had been his salvage from the wreck of his marriage." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (May, 1907); _Library of + Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. xv), contains Miss Marilla + Waite Freeman's excellent study of Mrs. Roach. + + +UNREMEMBERING JUNE[85] + +[From _Some Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906)] + +"And you will let me have word of you? Surely? And give me a chance to +be of use? Won't you?" he persisted, taking leave. She swept his face +swiftly with a glance of inquiry, intelligence. "Won't you?" + +"O-h--perhaps," with just the faintest puckering of the mouth. + +But spring passed without word from her, until there were times when +Reno's impatience seethed like a colony of bees at hiving-time. + +At last he wrote. + +With unpardonable deliberation a brief answer came: Molly's son was a +couple months old, but not yet finished enough to be much to look at. + +He wrote again: Lola was pale from the city, and bored with herself +and her maid; a farm with other children on it sounded like fairyland +to her. Could some arrangement be made...? + +Lola had been there a month before he had any word but her own +hard-written and naturally not very voluminous love-letters, letters in +which the homesickness was an ever fainter and fainter echo of the first +wild cry, and in which the references to "Dandie" made it plain that she +had adopted the other children's auntie into a peculiar relationship +with herself. At last a postscript from Mrs. Loring herself: + +"Wouldn't you like to come to see her? It's worth a longer trip." + +"Of course I would. You're uncommon slow asking me. What kind of +father, and man, do you think me?" + +Molly was standing with the baby in her arms, chewing its chub of +fist. In the warm wind soft wisps of blown brown hair curled all +around forehead and neck. Her flesh was firm, transparent, aglow; her +skin as clear, satiny, pink as the baby's. And what generous, sweet +plumpness! She was at perhaps the most beautiful time of a woman's +life--in the glamour of first young motherhood, with the beauty of +perfect health and uncoarsened maturity. + +And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was no more +suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter in full +June--rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering June," the present +and future tenses of the year's declension. + +As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look devoured +her. + +Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed his to +the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile in front of +her. One particular occupant of one particular pair of overalls spied +him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, rosy. "Why, who is +this? Whose little girl--or boy--are you?" + +Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped flower. + +"Whose little girl _are_ you?" coached a rich voice with an +undercurrent of laughter. + +Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that elemental +nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small voice. At sight of +the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of many significances. And +with a flood of recollected loyalty, "_Papa's!_" gasped the child, and +smothered him with remorse. + +"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all at once?" + +("Well! I like that!") + +"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?" + +"I think you can." + +("Oh, you do?") + +"No?" His grip on her wrist hurt, and forced her to look up. ("Is it +only a mother you want for Lola--and yourself?"); and, looking, she +was satisfied; and, looking, she flushed slowly from head to foot, +answering him. + +"The most loyal, affectionate woman in the world!" he added, after a +little. + +"Oh, never mind the fairy tales!" she scoffed, pleased, waiting. + +He spoke none of the time-honored commonplaces that belittle or +dignify or mask the real individual feeling under the stereotype of +what it is assumed love ought to be. He could foresee her amusement. +Besides, it would have been about as appropriate as trying to capture +a bird with a smile. + +"But I would never marry any woman that I wasn't sure would be kind to +Lola and fond of her." + +"Oh, Lola!" Her whole look was soft and sweet. "I am fond of her now." +Then a mischievous laugh bubbled in her throat. "And could be of you, +too, if you insist." Even with the laugh her eyes were deeper than +words, grave and tender. + +"As to that, also, Molly-Moll, what you will be to me I am quite +satisfied, quite." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[85] Copyright, 1906, by Harper and Brothers. + + + + +IRVIN S. COBB + + +Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb, humorist and short-story writer, was born at +Paducah, Kentucky, June 23, 1876. He was educated in public and +private schools, but the newspaper field loomed large before him, and +at the age of nineteen he became editor of the Paducah _Daily News_. +For three years he conducted the "Sour Mash" column in the Louisville +_Evening Post_, when he returned to Paducah to become managing editor +of the _News-Democrat_, which position he held from 1901 to 1904. Late +in the year of 1904 Mr. Cobb went to New York, and for a year he was +editor of the humorous section and special writer for _The Evening +Sun_. In 1905 he became staff humorist for _The World_, and for the +following six years he remained with that paper. Mr. Cobb has written +several plays, none of which have been published in book form, but +they have been produced upon the stage. They include: _The +Campaigner_, _Funabashi_, _Mr. Busybody_, _The Gallery God_, _The +Yeggman_, and _Daffy-Down-Dilly_. He has written many humorous +stories, among which may be mentioned: _New York Through Funny +Glasses_, _The Hotel Clerk_, _Live Talks with Dead Ones_, _Making +Peace at Portsmouth_, _The Gotham Geography_, and _The Diary of Noah_. + +Then, one day, the daily grind racked his nerves, he rebelled and +bethought himself of the good old days in Kentucky years agone. Ah, what +a fine chapter was added to the history of our native letters when Cobb +looked backward! Now, when he was but twenty-four years of age, he had +written a story, a horror tale of Reelfoot Lake, which he named +"Fishhead" and immediately forgot, but which he had brought on East with +him. On this he made some minor revisions and started it on its round of +the magazine editors. But Cobb didn't wait for the fate of "Fishhead"; +and it's a good thing that he didn't! He wrote what he now regards as +his first fiction story, The Escape of Mr. Trimm; and _The Saturday +Evening Post_ accepted it so quickly, printing it in the issue for +November 27, 1909, that Cobb gleefully cashed the cheque and sent them +another shortly thereafter. The editor of _The Post_, George Horace +Lorimer, whom many competent judges considered the greatest editor in +the United States, realized that a new literary planet had swam into his +ken; and in 1911 he asked Cobb to become a staff contributor, which the +Kentuckian was delighted to do. All of his stories have appeared in that +publication, all save _Fishhead_, which Mr. Lorimer regarded as a bit +too strong medicine for his subscribers. Mr. Cobb's next big story in +_The Post_ was one that he has come to regard as the best thing he has +done hitherto, "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," which appeared in the +issue for January 21, 1911. This was a real horror tale, a "thriller," +making one couple the name of Cobb with Poe, a comparison which has +gathered strength with the passing of the months. For _The Post_ Mr. +Cobb created Judge Priest, a character that has made him famous. He did +a group of tales about and around this leading citizen of a certain +Southern town--which town was none other than his own Paducah; and which +character was none other than old Judge Bishop, whom many Kentuckians +recall with pleasure. Cobb is a great realist and he has never had any +patience with the romanticists. He painted the old town and the old +judge and the judge's friends and enemies--if he had any--just as he +remembered them. The best of these yarns, perhaps, was "Words and +Music," printed in the issue for October 28, 1911; and when they were +collected the other day and published under the title of _Back Home_ +(New York, 1912), that story, in which the old judge "rambles," was the +first of the ten tales the book contained. Some reviewers of this work +have rather loosely characterized it as a novel, and in a certain big +sense it is; but the sub-title is a better description: "the narrative +of Judge Priest and his people." The book is really a series of +pictures; and what Francis H. Underwood did so well in his Kentucky +novel, _Lord of Himself_, and what William C. Watts did much better in +his _Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement_, Irvin S. Cobb has done in a +manner superior to either of them in his _Back Home_. Judge Priest is a +worthy and welcome addition to the gallery of American heroes of prose +fiction, hung next to Bret Harte's highest heroes. Cohan and Harris have +acquired the dramatic rights of his book, and it is to be made into +play-form by Bayard Veiller, author of _Within the Law_, the great +"hit" of the 1912 New York season, in collaboration with the Kentuckian, +who once wrote of his original plays, which have already been listed: +"One was accidentally destroyed, one was lost, and one was loaned out +and never returned." Let us hope that none of these things may overtake +the present work; and that, when Thomas Wise struts across the boards in +the autumn of 1913 as Judge Priest he may receive a bigger "hand" than +he ever drew in _The Gentleman from Mississippi_. + +Besides these tales of Judge Priest, Cobb wrote several detached +short-stories, and many humorous articles for _The Post_ during 1912. +The best of this humor appeared simultaneously with _Back Home_, in a +delightful little book, called _Cobb's Anatomy_ (New York, 1912). This +contained four essays on the following subjects: "Tummies," perhaps +the funniest thing he has done so far; "Teeth;" "Hair;" "Hands and +Feet." The only adverse criticism to make of the work was its length: +it was too short. Its sequel will appear in 1913 under the title of +_Cobb's Bill of Fare_, containing four humorous skits. Aside from his +Judge Priest yarns, which began in _The Post_ in the autumn of 1911 +and ran throughout the year of 1912, and his humorous papers which +also appeared from time to time, Cobb wrote the greatest short-story +ever written by a Kentuckian (save that first book of stories by James +Lane Allen), entitled "The Belled Buzzard" (_The Post_, September 28, +1912). This, with "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," and "Fishhead," +which is to be published in _The Cavalier_ for January 11, 1913, after +having been rejected by almost every reputable magazine in America, +form a trio of horror tales of such power as to compel comparison with +the best work of Edgar Poe, with the "shade" going to the Kentuckian +in many minds. All three of them, together with "The Escape of Mr. +Trimm"; "The Exit of Anse Dugmore," a Kentucky mountain yarn; and +four unpublished stories, called "Another of Those Cub Reporter +Stories"; "Smoke of Battle"; "To the Editor of the Sun;" and "Guilty +as Charged," will appear in book form in the autumn of 1913, entitled +_The Escape of Mr. Trimm_. + +In summing up Cobb's work for the New York _Sun_, Robert H. Davis, +editor of the Munsey magazines, wrote: "Gelett Burgess, in a lecture +at Columbia College, said that Cobb was one of the ten great American +humorists. Cobb ought to demand a recount. There are not ten humorists +in the world, although Cobb is one of them.... Thus in Irvin Cobb we +find Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and Edgar Allan Poe at their best.... If +he uses his pen for an Alpine stock, the Matterhorn is his." And +George Horace Lorimer holds that Cobb is "the biggest writing-man ever +born in Kentucky; and he's going to get better all the time." This is +certainly high praise, but that it voices the opinions of many people +is beyond all question. "The great 'find' of 1912" may be the +trade-mark of his future. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (April, 1911); _Hampton's + Magazine_ (October, 1911); _The American Magazine_ (November, + 1912); _Who's Cobb and Why_, by R. H. Davis (New York, 1912, a + brochure). + + +THE BELLED BUZZARD[86] + +[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, September 28, 1912)] + +There was a swamp known as Little Niggerwool, to distinguish it from +Big Niggerwool, which lay nearer the river. It was traversable only by +those who knew it well--an oblong stretch of yellow mud and yellower +water, measuring, maybe four miles its longest way and two miles +roughly at its widest; and it was full of cypress and stunted swamp +oak, with edgings of cane-break and rank weeds; and in one place, +where a ridge crossed it from side to side, it was snaggled like an +old jaw with dead tree-trunks, rising close-ranked and thick as teeth. +It was untenanted of living things--except, down below, there were +snakes and mosquitoes, and a few wading and swimming fowl; and up +above, those big woodpeckers that the country people called +logcocks--larger than pigeons, with flaming crests and spiky +tails--swooping in their long, loping flight from snag to snag, always +just out of gunshot of the chance invader, and uttering a strident cry +which matched those surroundings so fitly that it might well have been +the voice of the swamp itself. + +On one side Little Niggerwool drained its saffron waters off into a +sluggish creek, where summer ducks bred, and on the other it ended +abruptly at a natural bank of high ground, along which the county +turnpike ran. The swamp came right up to the road, and thrust its +fringe of reedy, weedy undergrowth forward as though in challenge to +the good farm lands that were spread beyond the barrier. At the time I +am speaking of it was midsummer, and from these canes and weeds and +waterplants there came a smell so rank as almost to be overpowering. +They grew thick as a curtain, making a blank green wall taller than a +man's head. + +Along the dusty stretch of road fronting the swamp nothing living had +stirred for half an hour or more. And so at length the weedstems +rustled and parted, and out from among them a man came forth silently +and cautiously. He was an old man--an old man who had once been fat, +but with age had grown lean again, so that now his skin was by odds +too large for him. It lay on the back of his neck in folds. Under the +chin he was pouched like a pelican and about the jowls was wattled +like a turkey-gobbler. + +He came out upon the road slowly and stopped there, switching his legs +absently with the stalk of a horseweed. He was in his shirtsleeves--a +respectable, snuffy old figure; evidently a man deliberate in words +and thoughts and actions. There was something about him suggestive of +an old staid sheep that had been engaged in a clandestine transaction +and was afraid of being found out. + +He had made amply sure no one was in sight before he came out of the +swamp, but now, to be doubly certain, he watched the empty road--first +up, then down--for a long half minute, and fetched a sighing breath of +satisfaction. His eyes fell upon his feet and, taken with an idea, he +stepped back to the edge of the road and with a wisp of crabgrass +wiped his shoes clean of the swamp mud, which was of a different color +and texture from the soil of the upland. All his life Squire H. B. +Gathers had been a careful, canny man, and he had need to be doubly +careful on this summer morning. Having disposed of the mud on his +feet, he settled his white straw hat down firmly upon his head, and, +crossing the road, he climbed a stake-and-rider fence laboriously and +went plodding sedately across a weedfield and up a slight slope toward +his house, half a mile away, upon the crest of the little hill. + +He felt perfectly natural--not like a man who had just taken a +fellowman's life--but natural and safe, and well satisfied with +himself and his morning's work. And he was safe--that was the main +thing--absolutely safe. Without hitch or hindrance he had done the +thing for which he had been planning and waiting and longing all these +months. There had been no slip or mischance; the whole thing had +worked out as plainly and simply as two and two make four. No living +creature except himself knew of the meeting in the early morning at +the head of Little Niggerwool, exactly where the squire had figured +they should meet; none knew of the device by which the other man had +been lured deeper and deeper in the swamp to the exact spot where the +gun was hidden. No one had seen the two of them enter the swamp; no +one had seen the squire emerge, three hours later, alone. The gun, +having served its purpose, was hidden again, in a place no mortal eye +would ever discover. Face downward, with a hole between his +shoulderblades, the dead man was lying where he might lie undiscovered +for months or for years, or forever. His pedler's pack was buried in +the mud so deep that not even the probing crawfishes could find it. He +would never be missed probably. There was but the slightest likelihood +that inquiry would ever be made for him--let alone a search. He was a +stranger and a foreigner, the dead man was, whose comings and goings +made no great stir in the neighborhood, and whose failure to come +again would be taken as a matter of course--just one of those +shiftless, wandering dagoes, here to-day and gone to-morrow. That was +one of the best things about it--these dagoes never had any people in +this country to worry about them or look for them when they +disappeared. And so it was all over and done with, and nobody the +wiser. The squire clapped his hands together briskly with the air of a +man dismissing a subject from his mind for good, and mended his gait. + +He felt no stabbings of conscience. On the contrary, a glow of +gratification filled him. His house was saved from scandal; his present +wife would philander no more--before his very eyes--with these young +dagoes, who came from nobody knew where, with packs on their backs and +persuasive, wheedling tongues in their heads. At this thought the squire +raised his head and considered his homestead. It looked pretty good to +him--the small white cottage among the honey locusts, with beehives and +flowerbeds about it; the tidy whitewashed fence; the sound outbuildings +at the back, and the well-tilled acres roundabout. + +At the fence he halted and turned about, carelessly and casually, and +looked back along the way he had come. Everything was as it should +be--the weedfield steaming in the heat; the empty road stretching +along the crooked ridge like a long gray snake sunning itself; and +beyond it, massing up, the dark, cloaking stretch of swamp. Everything +was all right, but----. The squire's eyes, in their loose sacs of +skin, narrowed and squinted. Out of the blue arch away over yonder a +small black dot had resolved itself and was swinging to and fro, like +a mote. A buzzard--hey? Well, there were always buzzards about on a +clear day like this. Buzzards were nothing to worry about--almost any +time you could see one buzzard, or a dozen buzzards if you were a mind +to look for them. + +But this particular buzzard now--wasn't he making for Little +Niggerwool? The squire did not like the idea of that. He had not +thought of the buzzards until this minute. Sometimes when cattle +strayed the owners had been known to follow the buzzards, knowing +mighty well that if the buzzards led the way to where the stray was, +the stray would be past the small salvage of hide and hoofs--but the +owner's doubts would be set at rest for good and all. + +There was a grain of disquiet in this. The squire shook his head to +drive the thought away--yet it persisted, coming back like a midge +dancing before his face. Once at home, however, Squire Gathers +deported himself in a perfectly normal manner. With the satisfied +proprietorial eye of an elderly husband who has no rivals, he +considered his young wife, busied about her household duties. He sat +in an easy-chair upon his front gallery and read his yesterday's +Courier-Journal which the rural carrier had brought him; but he kept +stepping out into the yard to peer up into the sky and all about him. +To the second Mrs. Gathers he explained that he was looking for +weather signs. A day as hot and still as this one was a regular +weather-breeder; there ought to be rain before night. + +"Maybe so," she said; "but looking's not going to bring rain." + +Nevertheless the squire continued to look. There was really nothing to +worry about; still at midday he did not eat much dinner, and before +his wife was half through with hers he was back on the gallery. His +paper was cast aside and he was watching. The original buzzard--or, +anyhow, he judged it was the first one he had seen--was swinging back +and forth in great pendulum swings, but closer down toward the +swamp--closer and closer--until it looked from that distance as though +the buzzard flew almost at the level of the tallest snags there. And +on beyond this first buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards. +Were there four of them? No; there were five--five in all. + +Such is the way of the buzzard--that shifting black question-mark +which punctuates a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or a sheep or a +horse lies down to die. At once, coming seemingly out of nowhere, +appears a black spot, up five hundred feet or a thousand in the air. +In broad loops and swirls this dot swings round and round and round, +coming a little closer to earth at every turn and always with one +particular spot upon the earth for the axis of its wheel. Out of space +also other moving spots emerge and grow larger as they tack and jibe +and drop nearer, coming in their leisurely buzzard way to the feast. +There is no haste--the feast will wait. If it is a dumb creature that +has fallen stricken the grim coursers will sooner or later be +assembled about it and alongside it, scrouging ever closer and closer +to the dying thing, with awkward outthrustings of their naked necks +and great dust-raising flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; lifting their +feathered shanks high and stiffly like old crippled grave-diggers in +overalls too tight--but silent and patient all, offering no attack +until the last tremor runs through the stiffening carcass and the eyes +glaze over. To humans the buzzard pays a deeper meed of respect--he +hangs aloft longer; but in the end he comes. No scavenger shark, no +carrion crab, has chambered more grisly secrets in his digestive +processes than this big charnel bird. Such is the way of the buzzard. + + * * * * * + +The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing that had not happened in +years. He stayed on the front gallery and kept count. Those moving +distant black specks typified uneasiness for the squire--not fear +exactly, or panic or anything akin to it, but a nibbling, nagging kind +of uneasiness. Time and again he said to himself that he would not +think about them any more; but he did--unceasingly. + +By supper-time there were seven of them. + + * * * * * + +He slept light and slept badly. It was not the thought of that dead +man lying yonder in Little Niggerwool that made him toss and fume +while his wife snored gently alongside him. It was something else +altogether. Finally his stirrings roused her and she asked drowsily +what ailed him. Was he sick? Or bothered about anything? + +Irritated, he answered her snappishly. Certainly nothing was bothering +him, he told her. It was a hot-enough night--wasn't it? And when a man +got a little along in life he was apt to be a light sleeper--wasn't +that so? Well, then? She turned upon her side and slept again with her +light, purring snore. The squire lay awake, thinking hard and waiting +for day to come. + +At the first faint pink-and-gray glow he was up and out upon the +gallery. He cut a comic figure standing there, in his shirt in the +half light, with the dewlap at his throat dangling grotesquely in the +neck-opening of the unbuttoned garment, and his bare bowed legs +showing, splotched and varicose. He kept his eyes fixed on the skyline +below, to the south. Buzzards are early risers too. Presently, as the +heavens shimmered with the miracle of sunrise, he could make them +out--six or seven, or maybe eight. + +An hour after breakfast the squire was on his way down through the +weed field to the country road. He went half eagerly, half +unwillingly. He wanted to make sure about those buzzards. It might be +that they were aiming for the old pasture at the head of the swamp. +There were sheep grazing there--and it might be that a sheep had died. +Buzzards were notoriously fond of sheep, when dead. Or, if they were +pointed for the swamp he must satisfy himself exactly what part of the +swamp it was. He was at the stake-and-rider fence when a mare came +jogging down the road, drawing a rig with a man in it. At sight of the +squire in the field the man pulled up. + +"Hi, squire!" he began. "Goin' somewheres?" + +"No; jest knockin' about," the squire said--"jest sorter lookin' the +place over." + +"Hot agin--ain't it?" said the other. + +The squire allowed that it was, for a fact, mighty hot. Commonplaces of +gossip followed this--county politics, and a neighbor's wife sick of +breakbone fever down the road a piece. The subject of crops succeeded +inevitably. The squire spoke of the need of rain. Instantly he regretted +it, for the other man, who was by way of being a weather wiseacre, +cocked his head aloft to study the sky for any signs of clouds. + +"Wonder whut all them buzzards are doin' yonder, squire," he said, +pointing upward with his whipstock. + +"Whut buzzards--where?" asked the squire with an elaborate note of +carelessness in his voice. + +"Right yonder, over Little Niggerwool--see 'em there?" + +"Oh, yes," the squire made answer. "Now I see 'em. They ain't doin' +nothin, I reckin--jest flyin' round same as they always do in clear +weather." + +"Must be somethin' dead over there!" speculated the man in the buggy. + +"A hawg probably," said the squire promptly--almost too promptly. +"There's likely to be hawgs usin' in Niggerwool. Bristow, over the +other side from here--he's got a big drove of hawgs." + +"Well, mebbe so," said the man; "but hawgs is a heap more apt to be +feedin' on high ground, seems like to me. Well, I'll be gittin' along +towards town. G'day, squire." And he slapped the lines down on the +mare's flank and jogged off through the dust. + +He could not have suspected anything--that man couldn't. As the squire +turned away from the road and headed for his house he congratulated +himself upon that stroke of his in bringing in Bristow's hogs; and yet +there remained this disquieting note in the situation, that buzzards +flying, and especially buzzards flying over Little Niggerwool, made +people curious--made them ask questions. + +He was halfway across the weedfield when, above the hum of insect +life, above the inward clamor of his own busy speculations, there came +to his ear dimly and distantly a sound that made him halt and cant his +head to one side the better to hear it. Somewhere, a good way off, +there was a thin, thready, broken strain of metallic clinking and +clanking--an eery ghost-chime ringing. It came nearer and became +plainer--tonk-tonk-tonk; then the tonks all running together briskly. + +A cowbell--that was it; but why did it seem to come from overhead, +from up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so abruptly from one +quarter to another--from left to right and back again to left? And how +was it that the clapper seemed to strike so fast? Not even the +breachiest of breachy young heifers could be expected to tinkle a +cowbell with such briskness. The squire's eye searched the earth and +the sky, his troubled mind giving to his eye a quick and flashing +scrutiny. He had it. It was not a cow at all. It was not anything that +went on four legs. + +One of the loathly flock had left the others. The orbit of his swing had +carried him across the road and over Squire Gathers' land. He was +sailing right toward and over the squire now. Craning his flabby neck +the squire could make out the unwholesome contour of the huge bird. He +could see the ragged black wings--a buzzard's wings are so often ragged +and uneven--and the naked throat; the slim, naked head; the big feet +folded up against the dingy belly. And he could see a bell too--an +ordinary cowbell--that dangled at the creature's breast and jangled +incessantly. All his life nearly Squire Gathers had been hearing about +the Belled Buzzard. Now with his own eye he was seeing him. + +Once, years and years and years ago, some one trapped a buzzard, and +before freeing it clamped about its skinny neck a copper band with a +cowbell pendent from it. Since then the bird so ornamented has been +seen a hundred times--and heard oftener--over an area as wide as half +the continent. It has been reported, now in Kentucky, now in Florida, +now in North Carolina--now anywhere between the Ohio River and the +Gulf. Crossroads correspondents take their pens in hand to write to +the country papers that on such and such a date, at such a place, +So-and-So saw the Belled Buzzard. Always it is the Belled Buzzard, +never a belled buzzard. The Belled Buzzard is an institution. + +There must be more than one of them. It seems hard to believe that one +bird, even a buzzard in his prime, and protected by law in every +Southern state and known to be a bird of great age, could live so long +and range so far, and wear a clinking cowbell all the time! Probably +other jokers have emulated the original joker; probably if the truth +were known there have been a dozen such; but the country people will +have it that there is only one Belled Buzzard--a bird that bears a +charmed life and on his neck a never-silent bell. + + * * * * * + +Squire Gathers regarded it a most untoward thing that the Belled Buzzard +should have come just at this time. The movements of ordinary, unmarked +buzzards mainly concerned only those whose stock had strayed; but almost +anybody with time to spare might follow this rare and famous visitor, +this belled and feathered junkman of the sky. Supposing now that some +one followed it to-day--maybe followed it even to a certain thick clump +of cypress in the middle of Little Niggerwool! + +But at this particular moment the Belled Buzzard was heading directly +away from that quarter. Could it be following him? Of course not! It +was just by chance that it flew along the course the squire was +taking. But, to make sure, he veered off sharply, away from the +footpath into the high weeds. He was right; it was only a chance. The +Belled Buzzard swung off, too, but in the opposite direction, with a +sharp tonking of its bell, and, flapping hard, was in a minute or two +out of hearing and sight, past the trees to the westward. + +Again the squire skimped his dinner, and again he spent the long, +drowsy afternoon upon his front gallery. In all the sky there were now +no buzzards visible, belled or unbelled--they had settled to earth +somewhere; and it served somewhat to soothe the squire's pestered +mind. This does not mean, though, that he was by any means easy in his +thoughts. Outwardly he was calm enough, with the ruminative judicial +air befitting the oldest justice of the peace in the county; but, +within him, a little something gnawed unceasingly at his nerves like +one of those small white worms that are to be found in seemingly sound +nuts. About once in so long a tiny spasm of the muscles would contract +the dewlap under his chin. The squire had never heard of that play, +made famous by a famous player, wherein the murdered victim was a +pedler, too, and a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable remorse in +the murderer's ear. As a strict church goer the squire had no use for +players or for play-actors, and so was spared that added canker to his +conscience. It was bad enough as it was. + +That night, as on the night before, the old man's sleep was broken and +fitful, and disturbed by dreaming, in which he heard a metal clapper +striking against a brazen surface. This was one dream that came true. +Just after daybreak he heaved himself out of bed, with a flop of his +broad bare feet upon the floor, and stepped to the window and peered +out. Half seen in the pinkish light, the Belled Buzzard flapped directly +over his roof and flew due south, right toward the swamp--drawing a +direct line through the air between the slayer and the victim--or, +anyway, so it seemed to the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous. + + * * * * * + +Kneedeep in yellow swamp water the squire squatted, with his shotgun +cocked and loaded and ready, waiting to kill the bird that now +typified for him guilt and danger and an abiding great fear. Gnats +plagued him and about him frogs croaked. Almost overhead a logcock +clung lengthwise to a snag, watching him. Snake-doctors, insects with +bronze bodies and filmy wings, went back and forth like small living +shuttles. Other buzzards passed and repassed, but the squire waited, +forgetting the cramps in his elderly limbs and the discomfort of the +water in his shoes. + +At length he heard the bell. It came nearer and nearer, and the Belled +Buzzard swung overhead not sixty feet up, its black bulk a fair target +against the blue. He aimed and fired, both barrels bellowing at once +and a fog of thick powder smoke enveloping him. Through the smoke he +saw the bird careen, and its bell jangled furiously; then the buzzard +righted itself and was gone, fleeing so fast that the sound of its +bell was hushed almost instantly. Two long wing feathers drifted +slowly down; torn disks of gunwadding and shredded green scraps of +leaves descended about the squire in a little shower. + +He cast his empty gun from him, so that it fell in the water and +disappeared; and he hurried out of the swamp as fast as his shaky legs +would take him, splashing himself with mire and water to his eyebrows. +Mucked with mud, breathing in great gulps, trembling, a suspicious +figure to any eye, he burst through the weed curtain and staggered into +the open, his caution all gone and a vast desperation fairly choking +him--but the gray road was empty and the field beyond the road was +empty; and, except for him, the whole world seemed empty and silent. + +As he crossed the field Squire Gathers composed himself. With plucked +handfuls of grass he cleaned himself of much of the swamp mire that +coated him over; but the little white worm that gnawed at his nerves +had become a cold snake that was coiled about his heart, squeezing it +tighter and tighter! + + * * * * * + +This episode of the attempt to kill the Belled Buzzard occurred in the +afternoon of the third day. In the forenoon of the fourth, the weather +being still hot, with cloudless skies and no air stirring, there was a +rattle of warped wheels in the squire's lane and a hail at his yard +fence. Coming out upon his gallery from the innermost darkened room of +his house, where he had been stretched upon a bed, the squire shaded +his eyes from the glare and saw the constable of his own magisterial +district sitting in a buggy at the gate waiting for some one. + +The old man came down the dirtpath slowly, almost reluctantly, with +his head twisted up sidewise, listening, watching; but the constable +sensed nothing strange about the other's gait and posture; the +constable was full of the news he brought. He began to unload the +burden of it without preamble. + +"Mornin', Squire Gathers. There's been a dead man found in Little +Niggerwool--and you're wanted." + +He did not notice that the squire was holding on with both hands to +the gate; but he did notice that the squire had a sick look out of his +eyes and a dead, pasty color in his face; and he noticed--but attached +no meaning to it--that when the Squire spoke his voice seemed flat and +hollow. + +"Wanted--fur--whut?" The squire forced the words out of his throat. + +"Why, to hold the inquest," explained the constable. "The coroner's +sick abed, and he said you bein' the nearest jestice of the peace +should serve." + +"Oh," said the squire with more ease. "Well, where is it--the body?" + +"They taken it to Bristow's place and put it in his stable for the +present. They brought it out over on that side and his place was the +nearest. If you'll hop in here with me, squire, I'll ride you right +over there now. There's enough men already gathered to make up a jury, +I reckin." + +"I--I ain't well," demurred the squire. "I've been sleepin' porely +these last few nights. It's the heat," he added quickly. + +"Well, such, you don't look very brash, and that's a fact," said the +constable; "but this here job ain't goin' to keep you long. You see +it's in such shape--the body is--that there ain't no way of makin' out +who the feller was, nor whut killed him. There ain't nobody reported +missin' in this county as we know of, either; so I jedge a verdict of +a unknown person dead from unknown causes would be about the correct +thing. And we kin git it all over mighty quick and put him underground +right away, suh--if you'll go along now." + +"I'll go," agreed the squire, almost quivering in his newborn +eagerness. "I'll go right now." He did not wait to get his coat or to +notify his wife of the errand that was taking him. In his shirtsleeves +he climbed into the buggy, and the constable turned his horse and +clucked him into a trot. And now the squire asked the question that +knocked at his lips demanding to be asked--the question the answer to +which he yearned for and yet dreaded. + +"How did they come to find--it?" + +"Well, suh, that's a funny thing," said the constable. "Early this +mornin' Bristow's oldest boy--that one they call Buddy--he heared a +cowbell over in the swamp and so he went to look; Bristow's got cows, +as you know, and one or two of 'em is belled. And he kept on followin' +after the sound of it till he got way down into the thickest part of +them cypress slashes that's near the middle there; and right there he +run acrost it--this body. + +"But, suh, squire, it wasn't no cow at all. No, suh; it was a buzzard +with a cowbell on his neck--that's whut it was. Yes, suh; that there +same old Belled Buzzard he's come back agin and is hangin' round. They +tell me he ain't been seen round here sence the year of the yellow +fever--I don't remember myself, but that's whut they tell me. The +niggers over on the other side are right smartly worked up over it. +They say--the niggers do--that when the Belled Buzzard comes it's a +sign of bad luck for somebody, shore!" + +The constable drove on, talking on, garrulous as a guinea-hen. The +squire didn't heed him. Hunched back in the buggy he harkened only to +those busy inner voices filling his mind with thundering portents. +Even so, his ear was first to catch above the rattle of the buggy +wheels the faraway, faint tonk-tonk! They were about halfway to +Bristow's place then. He gave no sign, and it was perhaps half a +minute before the constable heard it too. + +The constable jerked the horse to a standstill and craned his neck +over his shoulder. + +"Well, by doctors!" he cried, "if there ain't the old scoundrel now, +right here behind us! I kin see him plain as day--he's got an old +cowbell hitched to his neck; and he's shy a couple of feathers out of +one wing. By doctors, that's somethin' you won't see every day! In all +my born days I ain't never seen the beat of that!" + +Squire Gathers did not look; he only cowered back farther under the +buggy-top. In the pleasing excitement of the moment his companion took +no heed, though, of anything except the Belled Buzzard. + +"Is he followin' us?" asked the squire in a curiously flat voice. + +"Which--him?" answered the constable, still stretching his neck. "No, +he's gone now--gone off to the left--jest a-zoonin', like he'd forgot +somethin'." + +And Bristow's place was to the left! But there might still be time. To +get the inquest over and the body underground--those were the main +things. Ordinarily humane in his treatment of stock, Squire Gathers +urged the constable to greater speed. The horse was lathered and his +sides heaved wearily as they pounded across the bridge over the creek +which was the outlet to the swamp and emerged from a patch of woods in +sight of Bristow's farm buildings. + +The house was set on a little hill among cleared fields, and was in +other respects much like the squire's own house, except that it was +smaller and not so well painted. There was a wide yard in front with +shade trees and a lye-hopper and a well-box, and a paling fence with a +stile in it instead of a gate. At the rear, behind a clutter of +outbuildings--a barn, a smokehouse and a corncrib--was a little peach +orchard; and flanking the house on the right there was a good-sized +cowyard, empty of stock at this hour, with feeding racks ranged in a +row against the fence. A two-year-old negro child, bareheaded and +barefooted, and wearing but a single garment, was grubbing busily in +the dirt under one of these feedracks. + +To the front fence a dozen or more riding horses were hitched, flicking +their tails at the flies; and on the gallery men in their shirtsleeves +were grouped. An old negro woman, with her head tied in a bandanna and a +man's old slouch hat perched upon the bandanna, peeped out from behind a +corner. There were hound dogs wandering about, sniffing uneasily. + +Before the constable had the horse hitched the squire was out of the +buggy and on his way up the footpath, going at a brisker step than the +squire usually traveled. The men on the porch hailed him gravely and +ceremoniously, as befitting an occasion of solemnity. Afterward some +of them recalled the look in his eye; but at the moment they noted +it--if they noted it at all--subconsciously. + +For all his haste the squire, as was also remembered later, was almost +the last to enter the door; and before he did enter he halted and +searched the flawless sky as though for signs of rain. Then he hurried +on after the others, who clumped single file along a narrow little hall, +the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly under their heavy farm shoes, +and entered a good-sized room that had in it, among other things, a +high-piled feather bed and a cottage organ--Bristow's best room, now to +be placed at the disposal of the law's representatives for the inquest. +The squire took the largest chair and drew it to the very center of the +room, in front of a fireplace, where the grate was banked with withering +asparagus ferns. The constable took his place formally at one side of +the presiding official. The others sat or stood about where they could +find room--all but six of them, whom the squire picked for his coroner's +jury, and who backed themselves against the wall. + +The squire showed haste. He drove the preliminaries forward with a +sort of tremulous insistence. Bristow's wife brought a bucket of fresh +drinking water and a gourd, and almost before she was out of the room +and the door closed behind her the squire had sworn his jurors and was +calling the first witness, who it seemed likely would also be the only +witness--Bristow's oldest boy. The boy wriggled in confusion as he sat +on a cane-bottomed chair facing the old magistrate. All there, barring +one or two, had heard his story a dozen times already, but now it was +to be repeated under oath; and so they bent their heads, listening as +though it were a brand-new tale. All eyes were on him; none were +fastened on the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head, +listening--listening. + +The witness began--but had no more than started when the squire gave a +great, screeching howl and sprang from his chair and staggered +backward, his eyes popped and the pouch under his chin quivering as +though it had a separate life all its own. Startled, the constable +made toward him and they struck together heavily and went down--both +on all fours--right in front of the fireplace. + +The constable scrambled free and got upon his feet, in a squat of +astonishment, with his head craned; but the squire stayed upon the +floor, face downward, his feet flopping among the rustling asparagus +greens--a picture of slavering animal fear. And now his gagging +screech resolved itself into articulate speech. + +"I done it!" they made out his shrieked words. "I done it! I own up--I +killed him! He aimed fur to break up my home and I tolled him off into +Niggerwool and killed him! There's a hole in his back if you'll look +fur it. I done it--oh, I done it--and I'll tell everything jest like +it happened if you'll jest keep that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy! +Don't you hear it? It's a-comin' clos'ter and clos'ter--it's a-comin' +after me! Keep it away----" His voice gave out and he buried his head +in his hands and rolled upon the gaudy carpet. + +And now they heard what he had heard first--they heard the +tonk-tonk-tonk of a cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them along +the hallway without. It was as though the sound floated along. There was +no creak of footsteps upon the loose, bare boards--and the bell jangled +faster than it would dangling from a cow's neck. The sound came right to +the door and Squire Gathers wallowed among the chairlegs. + +The door swung open. In the doorway stood a negro child, barefooted and +naked except for a single garment, eying them with serious, rolling +eyes--and, with all the strength of his two puny arms, proudly but +solemnly tolling a small, rusty cowbell he had found in the cowyard. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[86] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +ISAAC F. MARCOSSON + + +Isaac Frederick Marcosson, editor and author, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, September 13, 1876, of Jewish ancestry. He was educated in the +public schools of Louisville, and attended High School for a year. In +1894 he entered journalism, joining the staff of the Louisville _Times_, +of which he was subsequently literary and city editor. In 1903 Mr. +Marcosson went to New York, and became associate editor of _The World's +Work_; and in connection with this work he served its publishers, +Doubleday, Page and Company, as literary adviser. While with _The +World's Work_ he wrote many articles on topics of vital interest. From +March, 1907, to 1910, Mr. Marcosson was financial editor of _The +Saturday Evening Post_ of Philadelphia. For _The Post_ he conducted +three popular departments: "Your Savings"; "Literary Folks"; and "Wall +Street Men." Every other week he had a signed article upon some subject +of general interest. Some of his articles upon "Your Savings" have been +collected and published in a small book, called _How to Invest Your +Savings_ (Philadelphia, 1907). Mr. Marcosson's latest book, _The +Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910), written upon an unusual +subject, attracted wide attention. A part of it was originally published +anonymously as a serial in _The Post_, and the response it evoked +encouraged Mr. Marcosson to make a little book of his hero, who was none +other than Jules Turnour, the famous Ringling clown. Jules furnished the +facts, or part of them, perhaps, but Mr. Marcosson made him more +attractive in cold type than he had ever been under the big tent. _The +Autobiography of a Clown_ deserved all the kind things that were said +about it. Since 1910 Mr. Marcosson has been associate editor of +_Munsey's Magazine_ and the other periodicals that are owned by Mr. +Munsey. His articles usually lead the magazine. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (April; June; December, 1910). + + +THE WAGON CIRCUS[87] + +[From _The Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910)] + +All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from town to +town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the hotel in 'buses or +snatched what sleep they could in specially built vans. The start for +the next town was usually made about three o'clock in the morning. No +"run" from town to town was more than twenty miles, and more often it +was considerably less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader, +on horseback, with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the +wagons, and cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles, +neighing horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it +wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their seats. The +elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy groom alongside. +The route was indicated by flaming torches left at points where the +roads turned. Sometimes these torches went out, and the show got lost. +More than once a farmer was rudely aroused from his slumbers, and +nearly lost his wits when he poked his head out of his window and saw +the black bulk of an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the +picturesque day of the circus. + +My first engagement was with the Burr Robbins circus, which was a big +wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was new to me, and at +first strange. But I got to like it very much. It was a great relief to +lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and feel the sweet breath of the +country. Often the nights were so still that the only sounds were the +creaking of the wagons, and occasionally the words, "Mile up," that the +elephant driver always used to urge his patient, plodding beast. + +The circus arrangement then was much different from now. Then the whole +outfit halted outside the town, which was never reached until after +daylight. The canvas men would hurry to the "lot" to put up the tents +while we remained behind to spruce up for the parade. Gay flags were +hoisted over the dusty wagons; the tired and sleepy performers turned +out of tousled beds to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous +howdah was placed on the elephant's back, and a dark-eyed beauty, +usually from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and +to be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter how +long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, everybody, +man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of course, by this time +we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping countrymen. Often the triumphant +parade of the town was made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no +let-up until the people of the community had had every bit of "free +doing" that the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in +the parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers changed +clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. If there +was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But sleep and the circus man +are strangers during the season. Ask any circus man when he sleeps, and +he will say, "In the winter time." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[87] Copyright, 1910, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +GERTRUDE KING TUFTS + + +Mrs. Gertrude King Tufts, author of _The Landlubbers_, was born in +Boone county, Kentucky, in 1877, the daughter of Col. William S. King. +She was educated in Kentucky and at private schools in Philadelphia, +after which she took a library course and went to New York to work. +The property she had inherited had been squandered, so she was +compelled to seek her own fortune. For a while she did well, but her +struggle for success was most severe. For nearly two years Miss King +knew "physical pain and the utter want of money." Finally, however, in +1907, she became editor of the educational department of the Macmillan +Company, and then she set to work upon her novel, _The Landlubbers_ +(New York, 1909), which was first conceived as a short story, and was +finished in the hot summer of 1908. Polly, heroine, is a school +teacher out West, who hates her job, saves her money, and decides to +see the world. On the trip across the Atlantic, she falls in with +Flossie, confidence queen, and she is soon "broke." Suicide seems to +be the only way out of her predicament and, at midnight, she quits her +state-room to silently slip into the ocean. She is no sooner on deck, +however, than she is confronted with cries from the crew and captain +that the ship has struck an iceberg and is sinking. The next day Polly +finds herself and Dick, hero-lover, on the old battered ship and +alone. They, then, are "the landlubbers," and their experiences on the +drifting, water-soaked craft, is the story. Miss King dramatized her +novel, as she is anxious to become famous as a playwright, "not as a +mere yarn-spinner." She also prepared a wonderful human document of +her struggles in New York that was most interesting as an excellent +piece of writing, and as an advertisement for her book. At the present +time Miss King is said to be engaged upon a "long novel----a +leisurely, picturesque thing into which I want to put a good deal of +life." Miss King was married on February 26, 1912, to Mr. Walter B. +Tufts, a New York business man. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Credo +Harris, the Kentucky novelist. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (May, 1909); _Lexington Leader_ (May + 16, 1909). + + +SHIPWRECKED[88] + +[From _The Landlubbers_ (New York, 1909)] + +I woke, not roused by any unusual sound or motion, but disturbed by a +sense of hovering evil, a horror imminent and unescapable. I sat up, +looked at my watch--for I had not turned off the light--and saw that +it was toward half-past eleven o'clock. The great ship was silent, +save for the throbbing of her iron pulses. As I listened, the fog-horn +moaned out its warning, and as the deep note died away seven bells +rang faintly from above. My watch, then, was right--and it was time! + +I remembered what I had to do, and obeyed the decision of my more +wakeful self, though I was far more influenced by the sense of vague, +impersonal fear. Still muffled in the stupor of sleep, and shaken from +head to foot by a nervous trembling, I rose, put on my long cloak, and +flung a scarf over my disordered hair, for if I were to meet anyone I +must seem merely a restless passenger seeking a breath of fresh air. I +moved rapidly as I grew more wakeful, and tried not to think. From +habit I folded my rugs neatly, and plumped up the pillow on which I +had been lying. My throat and lips were dry, and I drank a glass of +water before I unlocked my door and stepped out into the passage. + +There rose above me a long, horrible cry, a shout blent discordantly +of the voices of two-score men, a fearful sound as of the essence of +brute fear. Many feet pattered upon the deck. There were wordless +shouts, shrieked oaths, sharp commands, the boatswain's whistle +piercing through the whole mass of confused sound. The great horn +boomed just once more--I heard it through my hands upon my ears as I +cowered against the wall. + +Then the deck quivered under my feet as a horrible, grinding, rending +crash shut out every other sound, and the great ship trembled +throughout her length, and began to reel drunkenly from side to side, +settling over, with every swing, further and further to port. + +A new, more deafening clamour arose all about me, as the sleepers were +aroused, and in half a minute the corridor was filled with whitefaced +people in all sorts of dress and undress, carrying all kinds of queer +treasures, weeping, shrieking, cursing; there was even laughter, +hysterical and uncontrollable, and strange stammered words of +blasphemy, prayer, reassurance, were shaken out between chattering +teeth. A fat steward ran by, shoving rudely aside those whom till now +he had lovingly tended as the source of tips. Now he struck away the +trembling hands which clutched at his white jacket, ignoring the +shivering inquiries as to "What was the matter?" The rapid passage of +him gave the excited crowd the impulse it needed, and as one man they +surged toward the stair--I with the rest. + +But at the foot of the stair reason returned to me, and I reflected +that it was absurd for me to join in the struggle for that life which +I had just prepared to renounce. Here was death held out to me in the +cold hand of Fate, as I could not doubt--and here was I pitiably +trying to thrust away the gift! + +I wrenched myself out of that frantic crowd, and made my way back to +my stateroom with some difficulty, owing to the ship's unusual motion +and the increasing list to port. She quivered no longer, indeed, but +there passed through her from time to time a long, waving shudder, +like the throe of a dying thing, unspeakably fearful and very +sickening. As I passed beyond the close-packed crowd the sounds of +their terror became more awful. I could discern the cries of little +children, the quavering clamour of the very old. The pity of it +overcame me, and I staggered into my stateroom and closed the door +upon it all. But overhead there was still the swift tramp of feet, the +harsh sound of voices--steadier now, and less multiplied, the tokens +of a brave and awful preparation. + +The next quarter of an hour--for I am sure that the time could not +have been as much as twenty minutes, though it seemed that I sat with +clenched hands for several days--was spent in a struggle with myself +which devoured all my strength. I had heard much, and, in the folly of +my peaceful, untempted youth, had often spoken of the cowardice of +suicide. But now it required more courage and strength of will than I +had ever believed myself capable of just to sit upon that divan, +passively waiting to give back my warm, vigorous life to the infinity +whence it came. Several times I gave in, and rose and laid my hand +upon the doorknob--and conquered myself and went back to the divan and +sat down again. Meanwhile, the noise went on above and about me; the +fat steward, his face green with fear, flung my door open without +knocking. "To the boats, Miss--captain's orders--no luggage----" He +went on to the next room: "To the boats, sir!" The room was empty, and +he passed to the next: "To the boats----" His teeth knocked against +each other, tears of fright glittered down his broad face, but I +heard him open doors faithfully the length of the starboard passage. +It was, I suppose, his great hour. + +I went to close the door, and found myself confronted by a man, +barefooted, clad in shirt and trousers. It was Champion. "You awake, +miss? I came to call you--All right? I'm going to get Mr. Darragh on +deck," and he vanished. + +His friendly, anxious look broke down something in me, and I was on a +sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity awoke again, and +I longed for life, for life however stern, painful, hardwrung from peril +and deprivation, for life snatched with bleeding hands out of the fanged +jaws of the universe. I stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my +hand, for I know not how long. The swaying of the ship became less +regular, and the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened +me. I stepped over the threshold--the ship gave a last long trembling +lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there rose a +mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the hold, louder +cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled in the dark and +fell, striking my head, and something warm and wet trickled down my face +as a huge silence settled down upon me, swift and gentle as the wing of +a great brooding bird, and I was very peaceful and very happy, for was I +not being rocked--no, I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the +big backyard at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that--I +was dying, for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing +and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed quietly, +gently away. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[88] Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page and Company. + + + + +CHARLES HANSON TOWNE + + +Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided life, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, the son of Professor Paul +Towne. He left Kentucky before he was five years old, and he has been +living in New York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in +the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at the College +of the City of New York. He was editor of _The Smart Set_ for several +years, but he resigned this position to become literary editor of _The +Delineator_. At the present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of _The +Designer_, one of the Butterick publications. With H. Clough-Leighter +he published two song-cycles, entitled _A Love Garden_, and _An April +Heart_; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden he collaborated in the +preparation of three song-cycles, entitled _A Lover in Damascus_, +_Five Little Japanese Songs_, and _A Dream of Egypt_. His original and +independent work is to be found in his three volumes of verse, the +first of which was _The Quiet Singer and Other Poems_ (New York, +1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted from various magazines; +_Manhattan: a Poem_ (New York, 1909), an epic of New York City; and +_Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of +domestic happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems. +_Manhattan_ is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The poem is +the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich and the poor, the +famous and the infamous, from many points of view. The poet has turned +the most commonplace events of every-day life into verse of +exceptional quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing +show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (March, 1910); _The Forum_ (June, + 1911); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (December, 1912). + + +SPRING[89] + +[From _Manhattan, a Poem_ (New York, 1909)] + + Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs + With silver feet upon the Avenue, + And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines + The first young blossoms--purple violets + And golden daffodils. These are enough-- + These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom-- + To make the monster City feel the Spring! + One dash of color on her dun-grey hood, + One flash of yellow near her pallid face, + And she and April are the best of friends-- + Benighted town that needs a friend so much! + How she responds to that first soft caress, + And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart, + And thrills and sings, and for one little time + Forgets the foolish panic of her sons, + Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade, + And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring-- + A wise old crone upon a holiday! + + +SLOW PARTING[90] + +[From _Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911)] + + There was no certain hour + Wherein we said good-bye; + But day by day, and year by year + We parted--you and I; + And ever as we met, each felt + The shadow of a lie. + + It would have been too hard + To say a swift farewell; + You could not goad your tongue to name + The words that rang my knell; + But better that quick death than this + Glad heaven and mad hell! + + +OF DEATH + +(To Michael Monahan) + +[From the same] + + Why should I fear that ultimate thing-- + The Great Release of clown and king? + + Why should I dread to take my way + Through the same shadowed path as they? + + But can it be a shadowy road + Whereon both Youth and Genius strode? + + Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod + Its unknown length, to meet our God; + + Since Shelley, with his valiant youth, + Fared forth to learn the final Truth; + + Since Milton in his blindness went + With wisdom and a high content; + + And Angelo lit with white flame + The pathway when God called his name; + + And Dante, seeking Beatrice, + Marched fearless down the deep abyss? + + Where Plutarch went, and Socrates, + Browning and Keats, and such as these, + + Homer, and Sappho with her song + That echoes still for the vast throng; + + Lincoln and strong Napoleon, + And calm, courageous Washington; + + Great Alexander, Nero--names + That swept the world with deathless flames-- + + I need not fear that I shall fall + When the Lord God's great Voice shall call; + + For I shall find the roadway bright + When I go forth some quiet night. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[89] Copyright, 1909, by Mitchell Kennerley. + +[90] Copyright, 1911, by Mitchell Kennerley. + + + + +WILLIAM E. WALLING + + +William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. When twenty years of age he was +graduated from the University of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he +subsequently did graduate work in economics and sociology for a year at +the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling has been a resident at the +University Settlement in New York. He has contributed to many of the +high-class magazines, but he is best seen as a writer in his two books, +entitled _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908); and _Socialism As It Is_ +(New York, 1912). The first title, _Russia's Message_, is one of the +authoritative works upon that race; and it has been received as such in +many quarters. And the same statement may be made of his excellent +discussion of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political and +social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, Long Island. +In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan Company will issue another +book for Mr. Walling, entitled _The Larger Aspects of Socialism_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 6, 1908); _Review of Reviews_ + (August, 1908); _The Independent_ (May 16, 1912). + + +RUSSIA AND AMERICA[91] + +[From _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908)] + +Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more than +a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world forms an +almost complete economic whole, embracing under a single government +nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all the raw products used in +modern life; both countries are large exporters of agricultural +products, both are devoted more to agriculture than to manufacturing +industry. Both of these worlds are composed largely of newly acquired +and newly settled territory; though both are inhabited by very many +races, in each a single race prevails numerically and in most other +respects over all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole. +As the result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large +parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture, +unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic tendencies of +England, Germany, or France. We may look, according to a great German +publicist, Kautsky, to America for the great economic experiments of the +near future and to Russia for the new (social) politics. + +America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, while +Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. America +is the country of economic genius, a nation whose conceptions of +material development have reached even a spiritual height. The great +American qualities, the American virtues, the American imagination, +have thrown themselves almost wholly into business, the material +development of the country. Americans are the first of modern peoples +that have learned to respect the repeated failures of enterprising +individuals with a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures +often lead to greater heights of success. They have learned how to +excuse enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying +in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of persons +who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, know how to +wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing the +brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated, are +satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes until the time is +ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements in architecture, +in which we so clearly lead. All three of these types of men we admire +are true revolutionists, who prefer to wait, to waste, or to fail, +rather than to accept the lesser for the greater good. + +So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason for +doubting that the near future will show that the political failures +now being made by the Russians are the failures of political genius, +that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later a +hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with which the +Russians are looking forward and working to a great social +transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent results when +that transformation is achieved. Already the political revolution of +the Russian people, though not yet embodied in political institutions, +is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, as the economic +revolution of the United States. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[91] Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday, Page and Company. + + + + +THOMPSON BUCHANAN + + +Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City, +June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled +at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male +High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the +Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University +of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the +little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated +in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and +returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became +police court reporter for the now defunct _Louisville Commercial_. Mr. +Buchanan was connected with the _Commercial_ until 1900, save six +months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer +Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto +Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared, +returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr. +Buchanan went with _The Courier-Journal_; and during the same year he +was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left +Colonel Watterson's paper for _The Louisville Herald_, of which he was +dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr. +Buchanan in New York on _The Evening Journal_, with which he was +connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to +devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book, +_The Castle Comedy_ (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of +Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's _Monsieur +Beaucaire_, was followed by _Judith Triumphant_ (New York, 1905), +another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of +the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of _The Castle Comedy_ +was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of +fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, _Nancy Don't +Care_, was met with a like response from the public, and the young +playwright presented _The Intruder_, which certainly justified belief +in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The +play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done +hitherto was _A Woman's Way_, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace +George created the character of the wife with convincing power. +_Marion Stanton_ is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly +rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of +other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is +wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows" +are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details--which +desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the +size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of +the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is +called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South +is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a +very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of +her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been +well-worn long before _Marion_ made it famous. The drama was one of +the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its +author's reputation. A novelization of _A Woman's Way_ (New York, +1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but +how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as +produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time +one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and +death of Charles Lamb. _The Cub_, produced in 1910, a comedy with a +mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville +newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in +the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations, +pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called +_The Cub_ "one of the wittiest of plays"--which opinion was shared by +many who saw it. _Lula's Husbands_, a farce from the French, was also +produced in 1910. _The Rack_, produced in 1911, was followed by +_Natalie_, and _Her Mother's Daughter_, all of which were given stage +presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and +rehearsing his new play, _The Bridal Path_, a matrimonial comedy in +three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his +plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two +romances and the novelization of _A Woman's Way_, two other novels +have appeared, entitled _The Second Wife_ (New York, 1911); and +_Making People Happy_ (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the +ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious +discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is, +indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists +almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach +his audience across the footlights, is a _rara avis_. Augustus Thomas, +the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a +short time, and his finest drama, _The Witching Hour_, is set wholly +at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon +him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has +done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn +his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!" + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Theatre Magazine_ (April; May, 1909); _The + American Magazine_ (November, 1910); _The Green Book_ (January, + 1911). + + +THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP[92] + +[From _A Woman's Way_ (_Current Literature_, New York, June, 1909)] + +_Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General +Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all +of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow._ + + _General Livingston._ I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you, + sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion + any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible. + + _Lynch._ General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since + three o'clock. + + _General Livingston._ (_Sharp._) What! + + _Lynch._ And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall + certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the + story spread on the front page, sure--"Famous old soldier fined + for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man." + + +(_General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands +twitching, quivering with rage._) + + _General Livingston._ (_Gasps almost tearfully._) Have you + newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity? + + _Lynch._ Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours, + our associations are very bad. + + _General Livingston._ What do you mean? + + _Lynch._ We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in + his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the + trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr. + Stanton a---- + + _General Livingston._ (_Interrupting._) Would the papers print + that? + + _Lynch._ Would they print it? Well--(_Smiles significantly._) + + _General Livingston._ Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers + will take action. + + _Lynch._ They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters + up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say + anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the + car with him at the time of his automobile accident + was----(_Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis._) Mrs. Elizabeth + Blakemore. + + _General Livingston._ (Starting back in amazement.) Good + gracious!! + + _Bob and Morris._ (_Turn, face each other, absolute amazement + showing on their faces, speak together._) Well, what do you think + of that? (_Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a + moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first._) + + _Stanton._ (_As he comes on._) General, I wish to + apologize----(_Stops short, seeing Lynch._) + + _General Livingston._ (_Whirling on Stanton._) Apologize! + Apologize! How dare you, sir! (_Losing his self-control._) My + great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult---- + +[_Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a +moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave +the house at once. Marion demurs._] + + _Marion._ Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must + settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you + cannot coerce me in my own house. (_Walks past him to the door and + opens it._) Good evening, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ (_Sincere tone._) I hope you will believe me, Mrs. + Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to + come on this errand. + + _Marion._ Thank you, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton. + + _Marion._ Sorry, but----(_Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but + firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts + situation._) + + _Lynch._ Then please understand my position, and how I regret + personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put. + (_Marion bows._) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that + woman. + + _Marion._ Yes. + + _Lynch._ And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven + wrong. + + _Marion._ I'd expect that. Who is she? + + _Lynch._ Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (_Lynch pronounces the name + regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then + throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men + on the stage stare at Marion amazed._) + + _Marion._ Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch. + (_Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men._) + Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke! + (_The men try awkwardly to back her up._) + + _General Livingston._ Splendid! Haw! Haw! + + _Bob._ Fine, he, he! + + _Morris._ (_At head of table._) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like + it. + + _Whitney._ I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail. + + _Lynch._ (_Grimly._) You can't laugh me off. + + _Marion._ (_Struggling for self-control._) Of course not. But you + must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial + proof. (_Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's + talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had + looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most + dulcet tone._) Elizabeth! + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Her voice heard off stage._) Yes, Marion, + dear. (_An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the + door._) + + _Marion._ Come in! (_Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly, + almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's + waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving + Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm._) Don't say a + word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (_Mrs. + Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come + down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most + affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and + Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily._) Mr. + Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore? + + _Lynch._ (_In amazement._) Mrs. Blakemore! + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Bowing pleasantly._) Glad to meet you, Mr. + Lynch. + + _Lynch._ (_Repeating, dazed._) Mrs. Blakemore! + + _Marion._ (_Gaily._) And you see she's not lame a bit from her + broken leg. + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ What's the joke? + + _Marion._ (_Taunting._) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find + plaintiff and corespondent so friendly. + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Gasping._) Plaintiff! Corespondent! + + _Marion._ Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town + to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard, + naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (_She + keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist._) + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Taking the cue._) This is awful! Horrible! + + _Marion._ Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (_To Lynch._) + Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch? + + _Lynch._ Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded + clever you might run in a "ringer." (_Reaches in his pocket, + brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with + Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up._) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton. + + _Marion._ Thanks. (_Bows satirically._) + + _Lynch._ Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put + your arm about the _other woman_. (_A suppressed, gasping + exclamation from the men._) + + _Marion._ That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night! + + _All._ (_With relief._) Good night. + + [_The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her + arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had + forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs. + Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed + by the others._ "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks, + "you'll get all that is coming to you." _Stanton calls back Marion + who has also deserted the room._] + + _Stanton._ Marion! Marion! + + _Marion._ (_Enters._) Has she gone? + + _Stanton._ Who? + + _Marion._ Puss? + + _Stanton._ Oh, she's not my Puss. + + _Marion._ Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she? + + _Stanton._ God knows--maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time. + I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you + forgive me and take me back? + + _Marion._ Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you + think I could stand for that cat--Puss, I mean--in this house and + me off to Reno? + +CURTAIN. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[92] Copyright, 1909, by the Current Literature Publishing Company. + + + + +WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT + + +Will Levington Comfort, "the new style novelist," was born at +Kalamazoo, Michigan, January 17, 1878. He was educated in the grammar +and high schools of Detroit, and was at Albion College, Albion, +Michigan, for a short time. Mr. Comfort was a newspaper reporter in +Detroit for a few months, but, in 1898, he did his first real +reporting on papers in Cincinnati, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. +During the Spanish-American War he served in the Fifth United States +Cavalry; and in 1899 he was war correspondent in the Philippines and +China for the "Detroit Journal Newspaper Syndicate;" and in 1904 he +was in Russia and Japan during the war for the "Pittsburgh Dispatch +Newspaper Syndicate." Thus he followed the war-god almost around the +world; and out of his experiences he wrote his anti-war novel, +_Routledge Rides Alone_ (Philadelphia, 1909). This proved to be one of +the most popular of recent American novels, now in its ninth edition. +It was followed by _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911), his +quasi-Kentucky novel. In order to get the local color for this book, +Mr. Comfort spent some months at Danville, Kentucky, the _Danube_ of +the story, and of his stay in the little town, together with his +opinion of the Kentucky actress in the book, Selma Cross, he has +written: "I always considered Selma Cross the real thing. I had quite +a wonderful time doing her, and she came to be most emphatically in +Kentucky. It was a night in Danville when some amateur theatricals +were put on, that I got the first idea of a big crude woman with a +handicap of beauty-lack, but big enough to win against every law. She +had to go on the anvil, hard and long. I was interested to watch her +in the sharp odor of decadence to which her life carried her. She +wabbles, becomes tainted a bit, but rises to shake it all off. I did +the Selma Cross part of _She Buildeth Her House_ in the Clemons +House, Danville.... I also did a novelette while I was in Kentucky. +The Lippincotts published it under the caption, _Lady Thoroughbred, +Kentuckian_." No critic has written nearer the truth of Selma Cross +than the author himself: "She was a bit strong medicine for most +people." Mr. Comfort has made many horseback trips through Kentucky, +and he has "come to feel authoritative and warmly tender in all that +concerns the folk and the land." His latest novel, _Fate Knocks at the +Door_ (Philadelphia, 1912), is far and away the strongest story he has +written. Mr. Comfort has created a style that the critics are calling +"new, big, but crude in spots;" and it certainly does isolate him from +any other American novelist of today. Whatever may be said for or +against his style, this much is certain: he who runs may read it--some +other time! His work is seldom clear at first glances. Mr. Comfort +devoted the year 1912 to the writing of a new novel, _The Road of +Living Men_, which will be issued by his publishers, the Lippincotts, +in March, 1913. He has an attractive home and family at Detroit. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lippincott's Magazine_ (March, 1908); _Lippincott's + Magazine_ (March; April; August, 1912). + + +AN ACTRESS'S HEART[93] + +[From _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911)] + +Selma Cross was sick for a friend, sick from containing herself. On +this night of achievement there was something pitiful in the need of +her heart. + +"New York has turned rather too many pages of life before my eyes, +Selma, for me to feel far above any one whose struggles I have not +endured." + +The other leaned forward eagerly. "I liked you from the first moment, +Paula," she said. "You were so rounded--it seemed to me. I'm all +streaky, all one-sided. You're bred. I'm cattle.... Some time I'll tell +you how it all began. I said I would be the greatest living +tragedienne--hurled this at a lot of cat-minds down in Kentucky fifteen +years ago. Of course, I shall. It does not mean so much to me as I +thought, and it may be a bauble to you, but I wanted it. Its +far-away-ness doesn't torture me as it once did, but one pays a ghastly +price. Yes, it's a climb, dear. You must have bone and blood and +brain--a sort of brain--and you should have a cheer from below; but I +didn't. I wonder if there ever was a fight that can match mine? If so, +it would not be a good tale for children or grown-ups with delicate +nerves. Little women always hated me. I remember one restaurant cashier +on Eighth Avenue told me I was too unsightly to be a waitress. I have +done kitchen pot-boilers and scrubbed tenement-stairs. Then, because I +repeated parts of plays in those horrid halls--they said I was crazy.... +Why, I have felt a perfect lust for suicide--felt my breast ache for a +cool knife and my hand rise gladly. Once I played a freak part--that was +my greater degradation--debased my soul by making my body look worse +than it is. I went down to hell for that--and was forgiven. I have been +so homesick, Paula, that I could have eaten the dirt in the road of that +little Kentucky town.... Yes, I pressed against the steel until +something broke--it was the steel, not me. Oh, I could tell you +much!"... + +She paused but a moment. + +"The thing so dreadful to overcome was that I have a body like a great +Dane. It would not have hurt a writer, a painter, even a singer, so +much, but we of the drama are so dependent upon the shape of our +bodies. Then, my face is like a dog or a horse or a cat--all these I +have been likened to. Then I was slow to learn repression. This a part +of culture, I guess--breeding. Mine is a lineage of Kentucky poor +white trash, who knows, but a speck of 'nigger'? I don't care now, +only it gave me a temper of seven devils, if it was so. These are some +of the things I have contended with. I would go to a manager and he +would laugh me along, trying to get rid of me gracefully, thinking +that some of his friends were playing a practical joke on him. +Vhruebert thought that at first. Vhruebert calls me _The Thing_ now. I +could have done better had I been a cripple; there are parts for a +cripple. And you watch, Paula, next January when I burn up things +here, they'll say my success is largely due to my figure and face!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[93] Copyright, 1911, by J. B. Lippincott Company. + + + + +FRANK WALLER ALLEN + + +Frank Waller Allen, novelist, was born at Milton, Kentucky, September +30, 1878, the son of a clergyman. He spent his boyhood days at +Louisville, and, in the fall of 1896, he entered Kentucky (Transylvania) +University, Lexington, Kentucky. While in college he was editor of _The +Transylvanian_, the University literary magazine; and he also did +newspaper work for _The Louisville Times_, and _The Courier-Journal_. +Mr. Allen quit college to become a reporter on the Kansas City +_Journal_, later going with the Kansas City _Times_ as book editor. He +resigned this position to return to Kentucky University to study +theology. He is now pastor of the First Christian (Disciples) church, at +Paris, Missouri. Mr. Allen's first stories were published in _Munsey's_, +_The Reader_, and other periodicals, but it is upon his books that he +has won a wide reputation in Kentucky and the West. The first title was +a sketch, _My Ships Aground_ (Chicago, 1900), and his next work was an +exquisite tale of love and Nature, entitled _Back to Arcady_ (Boston, +1905), which has sold far into the thousands and is now in its third +edition. A more perfect story has not been written by a Kentuckian of +Mr. Allen's years. _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, 1907), was so +slight that it attracted little attention, yet it is exceedingly +well-done; and in his latest book, _The Golden Road_ (New York, 1910), +he just failed to do what one or two other writers have recently done so +admirably. His Nature-loving tinker falls a bit short, but some +excellent writing may be found in this book. Mr. Allen has recently +completed another novel, _The Lovers of Skye_, which will be issued by +the Bobbs-Merrill Company in the spring of 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Reader Magazine_ (October, 1905); _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +A WOMAN ANSWERED + +[From _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, Missouri, 1907)] + +At this moment the servant lifted the tapestries and announced: "The +lady, sir." + +This time, before he could stop her, she took his hand and kissed it. + +"There was little use in my coming today," she said, "except to thank +you." + +"Why, I do not quite understand you. What for?" asked the rector in +surprise. + +"For answering my question." + +"Tell me?" he replied. + +"You've known me a long time," she answered, "and being Jimmy Duke, it +isn't necessary for me to tell you how I've lived. But you and +me--once youth is gone, sir, and people are a long time old. I've +thought of this a great deal lately, and I've been trying to decide +what's right and what's wrong.... Then I read in the papers about you. +About the things you preach and the like, and I knew you could tell +me. I knew you'd know whether good people are faking, and which life +is best. You see, I'd never thought of it in all my life before until +just a little while ago. Just a month or such a matter." + +"And now?" asked the Shepherd of St. Mark's. + +"I could have left the old life years ago if I had wanted to," she +continued, ignoring his question. "There is a man--well, there's several +of them--but this a special one, who, for years, has wanted me to marry +him. I always liked him better than anybody I knew, but I just couldn't +give up the life. He is a plain man in a little village in Missouri, and +I thought I'd die if I went. He offered to move to the city and I was +afraid for him. You see I just didn't know what was good and what was +bad, yet I didn't want this man to become like other men I knew." + +"Tell me, what are you going to do?" he asked eagerly. He had almost +said, "Tell me what to do." + +"Well," she answered, "since I have been thinking it all over, things +as they are have become empty. There is no joy in it, and I am weary +of it all.... Yesterday I came to you. I wanted to ask you whether it +was best or not to leave the old life. But I did not have to ask you. +I saw how it was when you told me what you had done. And O, how I +thank you for straightening it all out for me. Besides," she added +with hesitancy, "after I left you last night I telegraphed for the man +in the little village out west." + +When she had gone he gazed out of the window after her as she walked +buoyant and happy through the night. + +"Perhaps," softly said the Maker of Joys, "it is the memory of the old +days that is sweetest after all." + + + + +VENITA SEIBERT + + +Miss Venita Seibert, whose charming stories of German-American child +life have been widely read and appreciated, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, December 29, 1878. Miss Seibert was educated in the +Louisville public schools, and almost at once entered upon a literary +career. She contributed short stories and verse to the leading +periodicals, her first big serial story being published in _The +American Magazine_ during 1907 and 1908, entitled _The Different +World_. This dealt with the life and imaginings of a little +German-American girl, a dreamy, sensitive child, and showing the +poetry of German home life and the originality of childhood. The story +was highly praised by Miss Ida M. Tarbell and other able critics. +Under the title of _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910), Miss Seibert +brought these tales together in one volume. There "the chronicles of +Velleda, who understood about 'the different world,'" may be read to +the heart's desire. Miss Seibert, who resides at Louisville, Kentucky, +promises big for the future, and her next book should bring her a +wider public, as well as greater growth in literary power. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1903); _Library of + Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv). + + +THE ORIGIN OF BABIES[94] + +[From _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910)] + +Oh, it was a puzzling world. Not the least puzzling thing was babies. +Mrs. Katzman had come several times with a little brown satchel and +brought one to Tante--a little, little thing that had to be fed catnip +tea and rolled in a shawl and kept out of draughts. The advantage of +having a new baby in the house was that it meant a glorious period of +running wild, for of course one did not pretend to obey the girl who +came to cook. Also, there was much company who brought nice things to +eat for Tante, who naturally left the biggest part for the children. + +Of course God sent the little babies, but how did he get them down to +Mrs. Katzman? She averred that she got them out of the river, but this +Velleda knew to be a fib, for of course they would drown in the river. +Tante said they fell down from Heaven, but of course such a fall would +kill a little baby. Gros-mamma Wallenstein said a stork brought them, +and for a time Velleda thought Mrs. Katzman must be a stork; but when +she saw a picture of one she knew that it was only a bird. Then she +decided that the stork carried the babies to Mrs. Katzman's and she +divided them around; but Mrs. Katzman's little boy, questioned in the +most searching manner, declared that he had never seen a sign of any +stork about the premises. + +Just after Baby Ernest's coming, Velleda and Freddy went all the way +to Mrs. Katzman's house--and it was quite a long way, fully three +blocks--to beg her to exchange him for a girl. + +"We've only used him two days and he's just as good as new," stated +Velleda, guiltily concealing the fact that he cried a great deal. But +Mrs. Katzman said she really couldn't think of it, as God settled all +those matters himself. It was on this occasion that Velleda had +cross-examined Mrs. Katzman's little boy regarding the stork. There +was no doubting the truth of Georgie's statements, for he told Velleda +dolefully that he himself had long desired a brother or a sister, but +never a baby had he seen in that house. Evidently Mrs. Katzman fetched +them from somewhere else in the brown satchel. + +"You might have had ours," said Velleda. "We didn't want him. We +prayed for a girl." + +"Oh, you'll soon find out _that_ don't do any good." Georgie kicked +gloomily at a stone. "I used to pray, too, but God's awful stubborn +when it comes to babies." + +Velleda wondered at the strangeness of things. All the little girls +and some of the little boys who had no baby brother or sister to take +care of, thought it a great treat to be allowed to wheel the +baby-buggy up and down the square, really a most irksome task, as +Velleda could testify. At Velleda's house they believed with the poet +that "Time's noblest offspring is the last," so the baby reigned king, +which was not always pleasant for his smaller slaves. Therefore she +wondered at Georgie's taste. However, since he evidently regarded his +brotherless state as a deep misfortune, she was full of sympathy and +would do what she could for him. + +"You just pray a little harder," she advised; "and," struck by a +brilliant thought, "look in the brown satchel every night! Maybe +you'll find one left over." + +She and Freddy went home feeling very sorry for Georgie. He was only +another illustration of the old saying which Onkel often commented +on--the shoemaker's children wear ragged shoes, the painter's own +house is the last to receive a fresh coat, and the stork woman has no +baby of her own. + +Regarding this great question there was one point upon which everybody +agreed. Velleda had her own system of deciding questions; she sifted +the versions of her various informants, retained those points upon +which all agreed, and upon this common ground proceeded to erect the +structure of her own reasoning. Grown-ups, she knew, had a weakness +for mild fibbing, which was not lying and not wrong at all, but was +naturally very disconcerting when one burned to learn the real truth +about a thing. The stork theory, the river theory, the falling from +Heaven theory--all possessed one mutual starting point: God sent the +little babies. There was of course no doubt in that regard, and +Velleda finally decided that God placed them in the woods in a certain +spot, marked where they were to go, and then vanished into Heaven (for +of course no one had ever seen God), whereupon Mrs. Katzman approached +with the brown satchel. + +This was a most satisfactory theory, with no flaws in its logic, +reasonable and probable, and conflicting with no known law. The +question was shelved. + +Velleda, going up to the third floor room of Nellie Johnson with a +pitcher of milk which the dairywoman had asked her to deliver, found the +girl huddled up before a small stove, looking so white and miserable +that Velleda's heart ached for her, although she knew that Nellie was a +very wicked person and nobody in the neighborhood spoke to her. Across +her knees lay a white bundle. Velleda considered the matter. + +"I guess God loves you anyway, Nellie," she concluded. "He has sent +you a little baby." + +The girl tossed the bundle upon the bed with a fierce gesture. + +"God?" she said bitterly. "It ain't God sent that baby. The Devil sent +him!" + +Velleda fled down the stairs. + +It is indeed a puzzling world. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[94] Copyright, 1910, by Small, Maynard and Company. + + + + +CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK + + +Charles Neville Buck, novelist and short-story writer, was born near +Midway, Kentucky, April 15, 1879. He spent the first fifteen years of +his life at his birthplace, save the four years he was in South +America with his father, the Hon. C. W. Buck, who was United States +Minister to Peru from 1885 to 1889, and the author of _Under the +Sun_, a Peruvian romance. At the age of fifteen years, Charles Neville +Buck went to Louisville to enter the high school; and, in 1898, he was +graduated from the University of Louisville. He studied art and joined +the staff of _The Evening Post_, of Louisville, as cartoonist, which +position he held for a year, when he became an editorial writer on +that paper. Mr. Buck studied law and was admitted to the bar, but he +did not practice. In 1908 he quit journalism for prose fiction. His +short-stories were accepted by American and English magazines, but he +won his first real reputation with a novel of mental aberration, +entitled _The Key to Yesterday_ (New York, 1910), the scenes of which +were set against Kentucky, France, and South America. Mr. Buck's next +novel, _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911), was an international love +romance in which a rich young American falls in love with the +princess, and about-to-be-queen, of a bit of a kingdom near Spain. +Benton, hero, has a rocky road to travel, but he, of course, +demolishes every barrier and proves again that love finds a way. _The +Lighted Match_ is a rattling good story, and it contains many purple +patches between the hiss of the revolutionist's bomb and lovers' +sighs. Mr. Buck's latest novel, _The Portal of Dreams_ (New York, +1912), was a very clever story. His first Kentucky novel, and the +finest thing he has done, he and his publisher think, is _The Strength +of Samson_, which will appear in four parts in _The Cavalier_, a +weekly magazine, for February, 1913, after which it will be almost +immediately published in book form under the title of _The Call of the +Cumberlands_. Mr. Buck's home is at Louisville, Kentucky, but he +spends much of his time in New York, where he lives at the Hotel +Earle, in Waverly Place, a stone's throw from the apartments of his +friend, Thompson Buchanan, the Kentucky playwright. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (October 8, 1910); _Cosmopolitan + Magazine_ (August, 1911); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY[95] + +[From _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911)] + +Despite the raw edge on the air, the hardier guests at "Idle Times" +still clung to those outdoor sports which properly belonged to the +summer. That afternoon a canoeing expedition was made up river to +explore a cave which tradition had endowed with some legendary tale of +pioneer days and Indian warfare. + +Pagratide, having organized the expedition with that object in view, had +made use of his prior knowledge to enlist Cara for the crew of his +canoe, but Benton, covering a point that Pagratide had overlooked, +pointed out that an engagement to go up the river in a canoe is entirely +distinct from an engagement to come down the river in a canoe. He cited +so many excellent authorities in support of his contention that the +matter was decided in his favor for the return trip, and Mrs. +Porter-Woodleigh, all unconscious that her escort was a Crown Prince, +found in him an introspective and altogether uninteresting young man. + +Benton and the girl in one canoe, were soon a quarter of a mile in +advance of the others, and lifting their paddles from the water they +floated with the slow current. The singing voices of the party behind +them came softly adrift along the water. All of the singers were young +and the songs had to do with sentiment. + +The girl buttoned her sweater closer about her throat. The man stuffed +tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and bent low to kindle it into a +cheerful spot of light. + +A belated lemon afterglow lingered at the edge of the sky ahead. +Against it the gaunt branches of a tall tree traced themselves +starkly. Below was the silent blackness of the woods. + +Suddenly Benton raised his head. + +"I have a present for you," he announced. + +"A present?" echoed the girl. "Be careful, Sir Gray Eyes. You played +the magician once and gave me a rose. It was such a wonderful +rose"--she spoke almost tenderly--"that it has spoiled me. No +commonplace gifts will be tolerated after that." + +"This is a different sort of present," he assured her. "This is a god." + +"A what!" Cara was at the stern with the guiding paddle. The man +leaned back, steadying the canoe with a hand on each gunwale, and +smiled into her face. + +"Yes," he said, "he is a god made out of clay with a countenance that +is most unlovely and a complexion like an earthenware jar. I acquired +him in the Andes for a few _centavos_. Since then we have been +companions. In his day he had his place in a splendid temple of the +Sun Worshipers. When I rescued him he was squatting cross-legged on a +counter among silver and copper trinkets belonging to a civilization +younger than his own. When you've been a god and come to be a souvenir +of ruins and dead things--" the man paused for a moment, then with the +ghost of a laugh went on "--it makes you see things differently. In +the twisted squint of his small clay face one reads slight regard for +mere systems and codes." + +He paused so long that she prompted him in a voice that threatened to +become unsteady. "Tell me more about him. What is his godship's name?" + +"He looked so protestingly wise," Benton went on, "that I named him +Jonesy. I liked that name because it fitted him so badly. Jonesy is +not conventional in his ideas, but his morals are sound. He has seen +religions and civilizations and dynasties flourish and decay, and it +has all given him a certain perspective on life. He has occasionally +given me good council." + +He paused again, but, noting that the singing voices were drawing +nearer, he continued more rapidly. + +"In Alaska I used to lie flat on my cot before a great open fire and +his god-ship would perch crosslegged on my chest. When I breathed, he +seemed to shake his fat sides and laugh. When a pagan god from Peru +laughs at you in a Yukon cabin, the situation calls for attention. I +gave attention. + +"Jonesy said that the major human motives sweep in deep channels, +full-tide ahead. He said you might in some degree regulate their floods +by rearing abutments, but that when you tried to build a dam to stop the +Amazon you are dealing with folly. He argued that when one sets out to +dam up the tides set flowing back in the tributaries of the heart it is +written that one must fail. That is the gospel according to Jonesy." + +He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward. There was +silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, the dripping of +the water from the lifted blades, and the song drifting down river. +Finally Benton added: + +"I don't know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give you +good advice--on those matters which the centuries can't change." + +Cara's voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears. + +"He has already given me good advice, dear--" she said, "good advice +that I can't follow." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[95] Copyright, 1911, by W. J. Watt and Company. + + + + +GEORGE BINGHAM + + +George Bingham ("Dunk Botts"), newspaper humorist, was born near +Wallonia, Kentucky, August 1, 1879. He quit school at the age of ten +years to become "the devil" in a printing office at Eddyville, +Kentucky. Two years later he removed to Mayfield, Kentucky, and +accepted a position on _The Mirrow_. Shortly afterwards he wrote his +first ficticious "news-letter" from an imaginary town called Boney +Ridge, Kentucky, and submitted it to the critical eye of a tramp +printer. This nomad at once saw the boy's design: to burlesque the +letters received from the _Mirrow's_ crossroad correspondents; and he +encouraged him. Mr. Bingham remained at Mayfield until he was twenty +years of age, at which time he felt important enough to go out and see +the world. Like most prodigals homesickness seized him for its very +own; and he started home perched high on a freight train. Homeward +bound he first had the name of his future paper suggested to him. +Battling through a tiny town in Tennessee he enquired of the brakeman +as to its name. + +"Walhalla," answered the "shack." + +"Hogwallow?" repeated the young Kentuckian. + +"Hell no! Who ever heard of a place called 'Hogwallow'?" + +Upon reaching home Mr. Bingham decided to put the village of +Hogwallow, Kentucky, on the map. His first letter from that town was +printed in the old _Mayfield Monitor_, under the pen-name of "Dunk +Botts," which he has retained hitherto. After having written several +Hogwallow letters, he was compelled to accept a position on a small +newspaper; then nothing more was heard of Hogwallow until 1901, when +he wrote a letter every few weeks, for a year, and then went to +California. He "arrived back home on June 1, 1905, had a chill a week +later, and launched _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ on July 15." He took +the public into his confidence, telling them that his object was to +conduct a burlesque newspaper, or, rather, a parody on one. He peopled +his imaginary town and its environs with forty or more characters +whose names summed them up without further ado; and he founded such +important places as Rye Straw, Tickville, Hog Hill church and +graveyard, Wild Onion schoolhouse, Gander Creek, and several other +necessary hamlets and institutions. On May 15, 1909, Mr. Bingham +suspended publication in order to make another trip to California. Two +years later he returned to Kentucky for the sole purpose of +resurrecting his paper. He resumed publication on June 17, 1911, at +Paducah, but Irvin Cobb's town seemingly got on his nerves and, after +three months, he tucked his "sheet" under his arm and returned to his +first love, Mayfield, where he has remained ever since. _The Hogwallow +Kentuckian_ is published every Saturday night, read in thirty-seven +states, and copied by the leading newspapers of America and England. +Mr. Bingham has written more than five thousand "news items" for the +paper, besides some five hundred short-stories, sketches, and +paragraphs. He contributes considerable Hogwallow news to Charles +Hamilton Musgrove's[96] page in _The Evening Post_ of Louisville; but +he is an "outside contributor," doing his work at Mayfield. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Bingham to the Author; the St. + Louis _Post-Dispatch_ (January 14, 1912). + + +HOGWALLOW NEWS + +[From _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ (December 21, 1912)] + +Atlas Peck can't see why his left shoe wears out so much quicker than +his right one, when his right one does just as much walking as his left. + +Until times get better and the financial questions of the nation gets +fully settled the Old Miser on Musket Ridge will live on two +hickorynuts per day. + +Sim Flinders has brought back with him from the Calf Ribs neighborhood +a feather bed made of owl feathers. While coming home with it on his +back the other night it was so soft and downy he fell to sleep while +walking along the road. + +Yam Sims appeared in public last Sunday with a new pair of pants and a +striped necktie. They have made a wonderful change in his appearance, +and until they wear out he will rank among our best people. + +A dawg fight attracted a lot of attention and broke up the +conversation at the Hog Ford moonshine still house the other day. One +of the dawgs belonged to Poke Eazley and the other to Jefferson +Potlocks, and the difficulty came up over some misunderstanding +between their owners. + +Ellick Hellwanger is fixing to celebrate his wooden wedding next week +with a quart of wood alcohol. + +Tobe Moseley's mule is able to walk around again after being propped +up against a persimmon tree for several days. + +Tobe Moseley took his jug over to the sorghum mill early Tuesday +morning of last week after some molasses, and has not yet returned. No +grave fears, however, are entertained on account of his protracted +absence, as sorghum molasses run slow in cold weather. + +Bullets have been falling in Hogwallow for the past few days. They are +thought to be those Raz Barlow fired at the moon a few nights ago. + +Luke Mathewsla has a good hawg pen for sale cheap. It would make a +good front yard, and Luke may move his house up behind it. + +Cricket Hicks has gone up to Tickville to get an almanac, as he is on +the program for a lot of original jokes at Rye Straw Saturday night. + +Isaac Hellwanger fell off of a foot lawg while watching a panel of +fence float down Gander creek the other morning. He says it don't pay +to get too interested in one thing. + +Slim Pickens has received through the mails a bottle of dandruff cure, +and he is taking two teaspoonfuls after each meal. + +Poke Eazley has been puny this week with lumbago, and had to be +excused from singing at the Dog Hill church Sunday, being too weak to +carry a tune, or lift his voice. + +Fit Smith is having his shoes remodeled, and will occupy them next week. + +Columbus Allsop's head has been itching for several days. He says that +is a sign Christmas is coming. + +The Dog Hill Preacher will be surprised by his congregation next +Sunday morning when they will give him a Christmas present, which they +have already bought. The preacher is greatly surprised every time his +congregation gives him anything. + +Fletcher Henstep's geese are being fattened for Christmas, and have +been turned loose in the Musket Ridge corn patches. They all wear +lanterns as it is late before they get in at night. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[96] Mr. Musgrove, who is to leave _The Post_ at the end of 1912 to +become humorist editor of _The Louisville Times_, was born in +Kentucky, and is the author of a charming volume of verse, _The Dream +Beautiful and Other Poems_ (Louisville; 1898). He is to issue in 1913 +another book of poems, through a Louisville firm, to be entitled _Pan +and Aeolus_. When Mr. Musgrove joins _The Times_ he will take _The +Post's_ clever cartoonist, Paul Plaschke, with him; and they will +occupy an office next to Colonel Henry Watterson's in the new +Courier-Journal and Times building. + + + + +MABEL PORTER PITTS + + +Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, Kentucky, +January 5, 1884. Her family removed to Seattle, Washington, when she was +a girl, and her education was received at the Academy of the Holy Names. +Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she now resides +at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories have appeared in several +of the eastern magazines, and they have been read with pleasure by many +people. Her first book of poems, _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other +Poems_ (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, five +thousand copies having been sold so far. This seems to show that there +are people in the United States who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is +well-known on the Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her +life, but she must be introduced to the people of her native State, +Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her poems, a collection +of them is promised for early publication, and she should have a +permanent place in the literature of Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Overland Monthly_ (January; December, 1904; April, + 1908). + + +ON THE LITTLE SANDY[97] + +[From _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems_ (Denver, 1907)] + + Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region + There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun, + On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion + And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done. + + There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its + border + Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door, + There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder, + And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore. + + From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling + Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate, + And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling + Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late. + + From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter + Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song, + And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter + For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng. + + Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning-- + Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams, + And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning + While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[97] Copyright, 1907, by the Author. + + + + +MARION FORSTER GILMORE + + +Miss Marion Forster Gilmore, the young Louisville poet and dramatist, +was born at Anchorage, Kentucky, November 27, 1887. She was educated +at Hampton College, Louisville, and at a private school in Washington, +D. C. At the age of fourteen years she wrote a poem while crossing the +Rocky Mountains that attracted the attention of Joaquin Miller and +Madison Cawein, and won her the friendship of both poets. When but +fifteen years old she had completed her three-act tragedy of +_Virginia_, set in Rome during the days of the Decemvirs. This is +purely a play for the study, and hardly fitted for stage presentation, +yet it has been praised by William Faversham, the famous actor. Miss +Gilmore contributed lyrics to the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ and +_Leslie's Weekly_, which, with her play, she published in a charming +book, entitled _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, +Kentucky, 1910). _The Cradle Song_, originally printed in the +_Cosmopolitan_ for May, 1908, is one of the best of her shorter poems. +Miss Gilmore has recently returned to her home at Louisville, after +having spent a year in European travel and study.[98] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1909); _Current + Literature_ (August, 1910). + + +THE CRADLE SONG[99] + +[From _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, +1910)] + + Adown the vista of the years, + I turn and look with silent soul, + As though to catch a muted strain + Of melody, that seems to roll + In tender cadence to my ear. + But, as I wait with eyes that long + The singer to behold--it fades, + And silence ends the Cradle Song. + + But when the shadows of the years + Have lengthened slowly to the West, + And once again I lay me down + To sleep, upon my mother's breast, + Then well I know I ne'er again + Shall cry to God, "How long? How long?" + For, to my soul, her voice will sing + A never-ending Cradle Song. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[98] There are two other young women poets of Louisville who should be +mentioned in the same breath with Miss Gilmore: Miss Ethel Allen +Murphy, author of _The Angel of Thought and Other Poems_ (Boston, +1909), and contributor of brief lyrics to _Everybody's Magazine_; and +Miss Hortense Flexner, on the staff of _The Louisville Herald_, whose +poems in the new _Mammoth Cave Magazine_ have attracted much +attention. Miss Flexner is to have a poem published in _The American +Magazine_ in 1913. + +[99] Copyright, 1910, by the Author. + + + + +APPENDIX + + + + +MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL + + +Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority for the +statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author of _When the Cows Come +Home_, one of the loveliest lyrics in the language, lived at +Louisville for some years, and that she wrote her famous poem within +the confines of that city. The date of its composition must have been +about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, but little else +is known of her life and literary labors. It is a real pity that her +career has not come down to us in detail. She certainly "lodged a note +in the ear of time," and firmly fixed her fame with it. + + +WHEN THE COWS COME HOME + +[From _The Humbler Poets_, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)] + + With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, + 'Way down the dusty dingle, + The cows are coming home; + Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, + The airy tinklings come and go, + Like chimings from some far-off tower, + Or patterings of an April shower + That makes the daisies grow; + Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle, + 'Way down the darkening dingle, + The cows come slowly home; + And old-time friends, and twilight plays + And starry nights and sunny days, + Come trooping up the misty ways, + When the cows come home. + + With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, + Soft sounds that sweetly mingle, + The cows are coming home; + Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, + DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell, + Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue, + Across the fields I hear her OO-OO, + And clang her silver bell; + Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle, + With faint far sounds that mingle, + The cows come slowly home; + And mother-songs of long-gone years, + And baby joys, and childish tears, + And youthful hopes, and youthful fears, + When the cows come home. + + With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle, + By twos and threes and single, + The cows are coming home; + Through the violet air we see the town, + And the summer sun a-slipping down; + The maple in the hazel glade + Throws down the path a longer shade, + And the hills are growing brown; + To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle, + By threes and fours and single, + The cows come slowly home. + The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, + The same sweet June-day rest and calm, + The same sweet scent of bud and balm, + When the cows come home. + + With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle, + Through fern and periwinkle, + The cows are coming home. + A-loitering in the checkered stream, + Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, + Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis + Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies + In a drowsy dream; + To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle, + O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, + The cows come slowly home; + And up through memory's deep ravine + Come the brook's old song--its old-time sheen, + And the crescent of the silver queen, + When the cows come home. + + With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, + With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle. + The cows are coming home; + And over there on Morlin hill + Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill; + The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, + And over the poplars Venus shines. + And over the silent mill; + Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle; + With a ting-a-ling and jingle, + The cows come slowly home; + Let down the bars; let in the train + Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, + For dear old times come back again + When the cows come home. + + + + + +INDEX + + + Ainslie, Hew, I, 87-91 + + Allen, Frank Waller, II, 366-368 + + Allen, James Lane, II, 4-17 + + Allison, Young E., II, 53-56 + + Altsheler, Joseph A., II, 144-149 + + Anderson, Miss Margaret S., II, 318-320 + + Andrews, Mrs. Mary R. S., II, 104-110 + + Aroni, Ernest, II, 206 + + Audubon, John J., I, 45-51 + + Audubon, John W., I, 185-187 + + + Badin, Stephen T., I, 30-34 + + Banks, Mrs. Nancy Huston, II, 17-20 + + Barnett, Mrs. Evelyn S., II, 119-122 + + Bartlett, Elisha, I, 147-150 + + Barton, William E., II, 126-129 + + Bascom, Henry B., I, 98-102 + + Baskett, James Newton, II, 1-4 + + Bayne, Mrs. Mary Addams, II, 202-205 + + Beck, George, I, 23-26 + + Betts, Mary E. W., I, 237-239 + + Bingham, George, II, 375-378 + + Bird, Robert M., I, 135-139 + + Birney, James G., I, 91-95 + + Blackburn, J. C. S., I, 232 + + Bledsoe, Albert T., I, 169-172 + + Bolton, Mrs. Sarah T., I, 228-230 + + Bradford, John, I, 5-7 + + Breckinridge, John C., I, 231-234 + + Breckinridge, Robert J., I, 112-114 + + Breckinridge, W. C. P., I, 319-323 + + Brodhead, Mrs. Eva Wilder, II, 267-273 + + Broadus, John A., I, 261-265 + + Bronner, Milton, II, 303-305 + + Brown, John Mason, I, 240 + + Browne, J. Ross, I, 200-204 + + Bruner, James D., II, 184-186 + + Buchanan, Thompson, II, 355-362 + + Buck, Charles Neville, II, 371-375 + + Burton, George Lee, II, 222-228 + + Butler, Mann, I, 59-62 + + Butler, William O., I, 84-87 + + + Caldwell, Charles, I, 34-37 + + Call, Richard E., I, 240 + + Cawein, Madison, II, 187-198 + + Childs, Mrs. Mary F., I, 356-359 + + Chivers, Thomas H., I, 152-156 + + Clay, Henry, I, 39-44 + + Clay, Mrs. Mary R., I, 240 + + Cobb, Irvin S., II, 323-342 + + Collins, Lewis, I, 104-106 + + Collins, Richard H., 244-247 + + Comfort, Will Levington, II, 363-366 + + Connelley, Wm. E., II, 63-67 + + Conrard, Harrison, II, 236-237 + + Corwin, Thomas, I, 95-98 + + Cosby, Fortunatus, Jr., I, 119-123 + + Cottell, Dr. Henry A., II, 384 + + Cotter, Joseph S., II, 115-116 + + Crittenden, John J., I, 71-74 + + Crittenden, William L., I, 238 + + Crockett, Ingram, II, 77-80 + + Cutter, George W., I, 176-179 + + + Dargan, Mrs. Olive Tilford, II, 255-262 + + Davie, George M., I, 363-364 + + Daviess, Miss Maria Thompson, II, 279-283 + + Davis, Jefferson, I, 156-160 + + Dazey, Chas. 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F., I, 258-261 + + Spalding, John L., I, 334-335 + + Spalding, Martin J., I, 181-184 + + Speed, Thomas, I, 240 + + Stanton, Henry T., I, 297-302 + + + Taylor, Zachary, I, 62-65 + + Tevis, Mrs. Julia A., I, 107-111 + + Towne, Charles Hanson, II, 350-353 + + Tufts, Mrs. Gertrude King, II, 345-349 + + + Underwood, Francis H., I, 250-254 + + Underwood, Oscar W., II, 150-155 + + + Verhoeff, Miss Mary, I, 241 + + Vest, George G., I, 285-287 + + Visscher, William L., I, 342-344 + + + Walling, W. E., II, 353-355 + + Waltz, Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry, II, 205-209 + + Walworth, Miss Reubena H., II, 209-211. + + Warfield, Mrs. Catherine A., I, 197-200 + + Warfield, Ethelbert D., II, 116-118 + + Watterson, Henry, I, 325-331 + + Watts, William C., I, 279-282 + + Webber, Charles W., I, 211-215 + + Weir, James, Senior, I, 234-237 + + Welby, Mrs. Amelia B., I, 207-211 + + Whitsitt, William H., I, 240 + + Willson, Forceythe, I, 313-319 + + Wilson, Richard H., II, 244-247 + + Wilson, Robert Burns, II, 29-35 + + Winchester, Boyd, I, 307-310 + + Wood, Henry Cleveland, II, 60-63 + + Woods, William Hervey, II, 47-49 + + + Young, Bennett H., I, 344-348 + + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes + +Obvious punctuation and spelling errors fixed throughout. + +The oe ligature in this etext has been replaced with oe. + +Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. + +Page 106: The title and italicization has been changed from (... little +story, _With A Good Samaritan_ ...) to this (... little story, with _A +Good Samaritan_ ...) to match the title in the rest of the text. + +Page 392: In the Index Mulligan, Murphy and Musgrove are entered out +of alphabetic order as in the original. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2, by +John Wilson Townsend + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + +***** This file should be named 39407-8.txt or 39407-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/0/39407/ + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. 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+ text-decoration: none; +} + +/* Poetry */ + .poem { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + text-align: left; +} + + .poem br { display: none; } + + .poem .stanza { margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; } + + .signature { + text-align: right; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +li.pad { padding-top: 2.0%; } + + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 0.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i12 {display: block; margin-left: 6em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i13 {display: block; margin-left: 6.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i14 {display: block; margin-left: 7em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i17 {display: block; margin-left: 8.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i18 {display: block; margin-left: 9em; padding-left: 3em; 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padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i7 {display: block; margin-left: 3.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i9 {display: block; margin-left: 4.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2, by +John Wilson Townsend + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2 + 1784-1912 + +Author: John Wilson Townsend + +Release Date: July 6, 2012 [EBook #39407] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + + + + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. Alley, III and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images generously made +available by The Internet Archive/Million Book Project) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="figcenter" > + <a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a> + <img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Book Cover" title="Book Cover" /> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h1>KENTUCKY IN<br /> +AMERICAN LETTERS +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h1> + +<hr /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">OTHER WORKS BY MR. TOWNSEND</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Richard Hickman Menefee.</i> 1907<br /> +<i>Kentuckians in History and Literature.</i> 1907<br /> +<i>The Life of James Francis Leonard.</i> 1909<br /> +<i>Kentucky: Mother of Governors.</i> 1910<br /> +<i>Lore of the Meadowland.</i> 1911<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<hr /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> + + + +<h1>KENTUCKY IN <br /> +AMERICAN LETTERS<br /> +1784-1912 +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h1> + + + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h2>JOHN WILSON TOWNSEND +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h2> + + +<h4>WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY</h4> + +<h2>JAMES LANE ALLEN +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h2> + + + +<h3>IN TWO VOLUMES<br /> +VOL. II<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h3> + + +<h3>THE TORCH PRESS<br /> +CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA<br /> +NINETEEN THIRTEEN +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h3> +<hr /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center"><i>Of this edition one thousand sets have been printed, of which <br /> +this is number</i> +</p> +<h2>241<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h2> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright 1913 <br /> +By The Torch Press<br /> +Published September 1913</span> +</p> + +<div class="figcenter" > + <a name="illus_001.png" id="illus_001.png"></a> + <img src="images/illus_001.png" alt="Printer's Mark" title="Printer's Mark" /> +</div> + +<hr /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> +<h2 class="oldenglish"> +To<br /> +Mary Katherine Bullitt<br /> +and<br /> +Samuel Judson Roberts<br /> +and to their memories<br /> +</h2><hr /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a><br /><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h2> + +<table class="toc" summary="Contents"> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">James N. Baskett</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4">"<span class="smcap">I 'oves 'oo Best, 'Tause 'oo Beat 'em All</span>"</td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">James Lane Allen</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">King Solomon of Kentucky: an Address</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Last Christmas Tree</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Nancy Huston Banks</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Anvil Rock</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Old Fashioned Fiddlers</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">William B. Smith</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Southern View of the Negro Problem</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Merman and the Seraph</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Anderson C. Quisenberry</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Death of Crittenden</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Robert Burns Wilson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Lovingly to Elizabeth, My Mother</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">When Evening Cometh On</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Daniel Henry Holmes</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Bell Horses</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">My Lady's Garden</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Little Blue Betty</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Old Woman Under the Hill</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Margery Daw</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">William H. Woods</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Sycamores</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Andrew W. Kelley</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Old Scissors' Soliloquy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Late News</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Young E. Allison</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">On Board the Derelict</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Hester Higbee Geppert</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Gardener and the Girl</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Henry C. Wood</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Weaver</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_61">61</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">William E. Connelley</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Kansas History</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Charles T. Dazey</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Famous Knot-Hole</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">John P. Fruit</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Climax of Poe's Poetry</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Harrison Robertson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Two Triolets</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Story of the Gate</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Ingram Crockett</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Audubon</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Longing</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Dearest</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Eliza Calvert Obenchain</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4">"<span class="smcap">Sweet Day of Rest</span>"</td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Kate Slaughter McKinney</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Little Face</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Charles J. O'Malley</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Enceladus</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Noon in Kentucky</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Langdon Smith</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Evolution</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Will J. Lampton</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">These Days</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Our Castles in the Air</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Champagne</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mary Anderson de Navarro</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Lazy Louisville</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mary R. S. Andrews</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The New Superintendent</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Elvira Miller Slaughter</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The South and Song</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Sundown Lane</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Negro Love Song</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Ethelbert D. Warfield</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Christopher Columbus</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_117">117</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Evelyn S. Barnett</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Will</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">John Patterson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Cluster of Grapes</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Choral Ode from Euripides</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">William E. Barton</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Weary Winter</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Benj. H. Ridgely</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Kentucky Diplomat</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Zoe A. Norris</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Cabaret Singer</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">In a Moment of Weariness</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Lucy Cleaver McElroy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Old Alec Hamilton</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mary F. Leonard</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Goodby</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Joseph A. Altsheler</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Call of the Drum</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Oscar W. Underwood</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Protection of Profits</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Elizabeth Robins</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Promising Playwright</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Ellen Churchill Semple</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Man a Product of the Earth's Surface</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Annie Fellows Johnston</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Magic Kettle</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Eva A. Madden</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The End of "The I Can School"</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">John Fox, Jr.</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Christmas Tree on Pigeon</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Fannie C. Macaulay</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Approaching Japan</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">James D. Bruner</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The French Classical Drama</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Madison Cawein</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Conclusion</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Indian Summer</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Home</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_193">193</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Love and a Day</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">In a Shadow Garden</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Unrequited</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Twilight Moth</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">George Madden Martin</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Emmy Lou's Valentine</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mary Addams Bayne</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Coming of the Schoolmaster</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Elizabeth Cherry Waltz</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Pa Gladden and the Wandering Woman</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Reubena Hyde Walworth</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Underground Palace of the Fairies</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Crittenden Marriott</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Arrival of the Enemy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Abbie Carter Goodloe</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Countess of the West</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">George Lee Burton</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">After Prison—Home</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">James Tandy Ellis</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Youthful Lovers</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">George Horace Lorimer</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">His Son's Sweetheart</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Sister Imelda</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A June Idyl</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_234">234</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Heart Memories</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Nun's Prayer</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Harrison Conrad</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_236">236</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">In Old Tucson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_236">236</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Kentucky Sunrise</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Kentucky Sunset</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Alice Hegan Rice</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_238">238</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Oppressed Mr. Opp Decides</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Richard H. Wilson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Susan—Venus of Cadiz</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Lucy Furman</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Mountain Coquette</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Bert Finck</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Behind the Scenes</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_254">254</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Olive Tilford Dargan</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Near the Cottage in Greenot Woods</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_258">258</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Harry L. Marriner</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">When Mother Cuts His Hair</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Sir Gumshoo</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Lucien V. Rule</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">What Right Hast Thou?</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The New Knighthood</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Eva Wilder Brodhead</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Rivals</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_269">269</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Cordia Greer Petrie</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Angeline Jines the Choir</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Maria Thompson Daviess</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Molly Moralizes</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_281">281</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Cale Young Rice</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_284">284</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Petrarca and Sancia</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Robert M. McElroy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_289">289</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">George Rogers Clark</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_290">290</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Edwin D. Schoonmaker</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Philanthropist</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_294">294</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Credo Harris</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_295">295</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Bologna</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_295">295</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Hallie Erminie Rives</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_297">297</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Bishop Speaks</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_298">298</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Edwin Carlile Litsey</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_300">301</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Race of the Swift</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_301">301</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Milton Bronner</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_303">303</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Mr. Hewlett's Women</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">A. S. Mackenzie</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_305">305</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Keltic Tale</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_306">306</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Laura Spencer Portor</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_308">308</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Little Christ</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_309">309</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">But One Leads South</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_310">310</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Leigh Gordon Giltner</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_311">311</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Jesting Gods</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_311">311</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Margaret S. Anderson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_318">318</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Prayer of the Weak</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_318">318</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Not This World</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_319">319</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Whistler</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_320">320</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Abby Meguire Roach</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_320">320</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Unremembering June</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_321">321</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Irvin S. Cobb</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_323">323</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Belled Buzzard</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_324">324</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Isaac F. Marcosson</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_343">343</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Wagon Circus</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_344">344</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Gertrude King Tufts</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_345">345</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Shipwrecked</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_346">346</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Charles Hanson Towne</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_350">350</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Spring</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_351">351</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Slow Parting</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_351">351</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Of Death</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_352">352</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">William E. Walling</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_353">353</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Russia and America</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_354">354</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Thompson Buchanan</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_355">355</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Wife Who Didn't Give Up</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_358">358</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Will Levington Comfort</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_363">363</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">An Actress's Heart</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_364">364</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Frank Waller Allen</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_366">366</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">A Woman Answered</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_367">367</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Venita Seibert</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_368">368</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Origin of Babies</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_369">369</a></td> + </tr> + + <tr><td> </td></tr> + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Charles Neville Buck</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_371">371</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Doctrine According to Jonesy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_373">373</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">George Bingham</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_375">375</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">Hogwallow News</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_377">377</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mabel Porter Pitts</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_379">379</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">On the Little Sandy</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_379">379</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Marion Forster Gilmore</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_380">380</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">The Cradle Song</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_381">381</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Appendix</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_383">383</a></td> + </tr> + <tr><td> </td></tr> + + <tr> + <td class="c2"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Agnes B. Mitchell</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_385">385</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="c4"><span class="smcap">When the Cows Come Home</span></td> + <td class="c3"><a href="#Page_385">385</a></td> + </tr> + </tbody> +</table> + +<hr /> + +<h2><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="KENTUCKY_IN_AMERICAN_LETTERS" id="KENTUCKY_IN_AMERICAN_LETTERS">KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN LETTERS</a> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</h2> + + +<hr /> + + +<h2><a name="JAMES_NEWTON_BASKETT" id="JAMES_NEWTON_BASKETT">JAMES NEWTON BASKETT</a></h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<p>James Newton Baskett, novelist and scientist, was born +near Carlisle, Kentucky, November 1, 1849. He was +taken to Missouri in early life by his parents. He +was graduated from the University of Missouri in 1872, +since which time he has devoted himself almost exclusively +to fiction and to comparative vertebrate anatomy, with +ornithology as his particular specialty. At the world's +congress of ornithologists at the Columbian Exposition +in 1893, Mr. Baskett presented a paper on <i>Some Hints at +the Kinship of Birds as Shown by Their Eggs</i>, which won +him the respect of scientists from many lands. He has +published three scientific works and three novels: <i>The +Story of the Birds</i> (New York, 1896); <i>The Story of the +Fishes</i> (New York, 1899); <i>The Story of the Amphibians +and Reptiles</i> (New York, 1902); and his novels: <i>At You +All's House</i> (New York, 1898); <i>As the Light Led</i> (New +York, 1900); and his most recent book, <i>Sweet Brier and +Thistledown</i> (Boston, 1902). Of this trio of tales the +first one, <i>At You All's House</i>, is the best and the best +known, Mr. Baskett's masterpiece hitherto. For the +Texas Historical Society he wrote, in 1907, a series of +papers upon the <i>Early Spanish Expedition in the South +and Southwest</i>. With the exception of three years spent +in Colorado for the benefit of his health, Mr. Baskett has +resided at Mexico, Missouri, since leaving Kentucky.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Athenaeum</i> (July 28, 1900); <i>The Book Buyer</i> +(October, 1900); <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, +1909, v. i).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">"I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUS 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL"<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>As the Light Led</i> (New York, 1900)]</p> + +<p>They had been boy and girl together, not schoolmates nor +next-farm neighbors, but their homes were in the same region. +Her father's house was far enough away to make the boy's visits +not so frequent as to foster the familiarity which breeds contempt, +yet they gave him an occasional little journey out of the +humdrum of home lanes, and away from the monotonous sweep +of the prairie's flat horizon.</p> + +<p>Hers was rather a timber farm, located on the other side of +Flint Creek, where the woods began to fringe out upon the treeless +plain again; but his was high out eastward upon the prairie +swell, several miles from water. From his place the wooded +barrier between them seemed only a brown level brush-stroke +upon the sky's western margin.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when he was tired from his day's work afield, he +watched the sun sink behind this border, which the distance made +so velvety; and, if the day were clear, it looked to him as if the +great glowing ball were lying down upon a cushion for its comfort. +If it set in a bank of cloud or storm, it seemed to send up +long streaming, reaching stripes, as if it waved a farewell to the +sky, and stretched a last grasp at the day as it left it, or shot a +rocket of distress as it sank.</p> + +<p>When a child he had often sent her his good-will upon the +westering messenger, and he imagined that the beams, sometimes +shot suddenly out from beneath a low-hung cloudy curtain, were +answers to his greetings. Long after it was dreary at his place, +he fancied the light was still cuddling somewhere in the brush +near her and that it was cheery yet over there.</p> + +<p>When he was seven and she was three, he was visiting at her +house one day. She was sitting on a bench in the old, long porch, +shouting to him, her elder brother, and some others, as they came +toward her from a romp out in the orchard. Suddenly Bent +bantered the boys for a race to the baby; and, swinging their +limp wool hats in their hands, they sped toward her. The child +caught the jubilance of the race, and when Bent dropped first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +beside her, she grabbed him about the neck, laid the rose of her +cheek against the tan of his, and said:</p> + +<p>"I 'oves 'oo best, 'tause 'oo beat 'em all."</p> + +<p>The act was an infant tribute to prowess, a bound here in babyhood +of the heart which wants but does not weigh; of the body +which asks but does not question. The boy felt his heart go to +meet hers, so that the little girl stood ever after as his idol. As +time went on, his reverence for her as a lisper grew as she became +a lass; and though, out of the dawning to them of what the years +might bring, there came eras of pure embarrassment, wherein +their firmness and trust wavered a little, yet confiding companionship +came anew and stayed, till some new revelation of each +to self or other barred for a time again their ease and intimacy. +They were man and woman now, with a consciousness of much +that the grown-up state must finally mean to them, if this continued. +There was the freedom from embarrassment which experience +brings; but there came with all this a sort of proximity +of hopes and aims, which, burdened sweetly with its own importance, +persisted with a presage of a crisis down the line.</p> + +<p>He could no longer ride up to her side as she left the stile at +church, and, without a previous engagement or the lubricant of a +commonplace, open a conversation right into the heart of things. +When she responded to him now it was with a shy sort of confidence +which admits so much yet defines so little. Yet never +when they met did they fail to pick up the thread, which tended +to bind them closer and closer, and give it a conscious snatch of +greater strain, till, as either looked back at the skein of incidents, +there came a delightful feeling of hopeless entanglement in this +fibre of their fate. However, the ends of the filament were free +and floating yet, as the fray of a swirling gossamer in the autumn +wind. Day by day these two felt that these frayed ends would +meet sometime; and hold? or snap? and then? and then!</p> + +<p>Nothing had ever strongly tried their attachment. Yet there +was creeping now into the heart of each a sort of heaviness—a +wondering, at least—if the other was still holding true to the +childish troth; a definite sort of mental distrust was abiding +between them, along with a readiness to be equal to anything +which an emergency might bring. But in their hearts they were +lovers still.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="JAMES_LANE_ALLEN" id="JAMES_LANE_ALLEN">JAMES LANE ALLEN</a></h2> + + +<p>James Lane Allen, the foremost living American master +of English prose, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, +December 21, 1849. His home was situated some five +miles from Lexington, on the old Parker's Mill road, and +it was burned to the ground more than thirty years ago. +He was the seventh and youngest child of Richard Allen, +a Kentuckian, and his wife, Helen Foster Allen, a native +of Mississippi. Lane Allen, as he was known in Kentucky +until he became a distinguished figure in contemporary +letters, was interested in books and Nature when +a boy under his mother's tutelage. He was early at Kentucky +University, now rechristened with its ancient name, +Transylvania. Mr. Allen was valedictorian of the class +of 1872; and five years later the degree of Master of Arts +was granted him, after an amusing quibble with the faculty +regarding the length of his oration, <i>The Survival of the +Fittest</i>. He began his career as teacher of the district +school at the rural village of Slickaway, which is now +known as Fort Spring, about two miles from his birthplace. +He taught this school but one year, when he went +to Richmond, Missouri, to become instructor of Greek in +the high school there. A few years later he established +a school for boys at Lexington, Missouri. Mr. Allen returned +to Kentucky to act as tutor in a private family +near Lexington; and in 1878, he was elected principal of +the Kentucky University Academy. He resigned this +position, in 1880, to accept the chair of Latin and English +in Bethany College, Bethany, West Virginia, which he +occupied for two years, when he returned once more to +Lexington, Kentucky, to open a private school for boys +in the old Masonic Temple. In 1884 Mr. Allen discarded +the teacher's garb for that of a man of letters, and since +that time he has devoted his entire attention to literature.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<p>While his kinsfolk and acquaintances regarded him +with quiet wonder, if not alarmed astonishment, he carefully +arranged his traveling bags and set his face toward +the city of his dreams and thoughts—New York. Once +there he shortly discovered that it was a deal easier to get +into the kingdom of heaven than into the pages of the +great periodicals, yet he had come to the city to make a +name for himself in literature and he was not to be denied. +His struggle was most severe, but his victory has +been so complete that the bitterness of those days has +been blown aside. The first seven or eight years of his +life as a writer, Mr. Allen divided between New York, +Cincinnati, and Kentucky. He finally quit Kentucky in +1893, and he has not been in the state since 1898, at which +time his <i>alma mater</i> conferred the honorary degree of +LL. D. upon him. He now resides in New York.</p> + +<p>Mr. Allen began with short essays for <i>The Critic</i>, <i>The +Continent</i>, <i>The Independent</i>, <i>The Manhattan</i>, and other +periodicals; and he contributed some strong and fine +poems to <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, <i>The Interior</i>, <i>Harper's +Monthly</i>, <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i>, <i>The Independent</i>, and +elsewhere. But none of these represented the true beginning +of his work, of his career. His first short-story to +attract general attention was <i>Too Much Momentum</i>, published +in <i>Harper's Magazine</i> for April, 1885. It, however, +was naturally rather stiff, as the author was then +wielding the pen of a 'prentice. This was followed by a +charming essay, <i>The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky</i>, +in <i>Harper's</i> for February, 1886, and which really pointed +the path he was to follow so wonderfully well through +the coming years.</p> + +<p>His first noteworthy story, <i>Two Gentlemen of Kentucky</i>, +appeared in <i>The Century Magazine</i> for April, 1888. +Then followed fast upon each other's heels, <i>The White +Cowl</i>; <i>King Solomon of Kentucky</i>, perhaps the greatest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +short-story he has written; <i>Posthumous Fame</i>; <i>Flute and +Violin</i>; and <i>Sister Doloroso</i>, all of which were printed in +the order named, and in <i>The Century</i>, save <i>Flute and Violin</i>, +which was originally published in <i>Harper's Magazine</i> +for December, 1890. These "Kentucky tales and romances" +were issued as Mr. Allen's first book, entitled +<i>Flute and Violin</i> (New York, 1891; Edinburgh, 1892, two +volumes). Many of the author's admirers have come to +regard these stories as the finest work he has done. As +backgrounds for them he wrote a series of descriptive and +historical papers upon Kentucky, originally published +in <i>The Century</i> and <i>Harper's</i>, and collected in book form +under the title of the first of them, <i>The Blue Grass Region +of Kentucky</i> (New York, 1892). Up to this time Mr. +Allen had written nothing but short-stories, verses, and +sketches. While living at Cincinnati he wrote his first +novelette, <i>John Gray</i> (Philadelphia, 1893), which first appeared +in <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i> for June, 1892. This is +one of the author's strongest pieces of prose fiction, +though it has been well-nigh forgotten in its original form.</p> + +<p>These three books fitted Mr. Allen for the writing of an +American classic, <i>A Kentucky Cardinal</i> (New York, +1894), another novelette, which was published in two +parts in <i>Harper's Magazine</i> for May and June, 1894, +prior to its appearance in book form. This, with its +sequel, <i>Aftermath</i> (New York, 1895), is the most exquisite +tale of nature yet done by an American hand. It at once +defies all praise, or adverse criticism, being wrought out +as perfectly as human hands can well do. At the present +time the two stories may be best read in the large paper +illustrated edition done by Mr. Hugh Thomson, the celebrated +English artist, to which Mr. Allen contributed a +charming introduction. <i>Summer in Arcady</i> (New York, +1896), which passed through the <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> +as <i>Butterflies</i>, was a rather realistic story of love and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +Nature, and somewhat strongly drawn for the tastes of +many people. When his complete works appear in twelve +uniform volumes, in 1913 or 1914, this "tale of nature" +will be entitled <i>A Pair of Butterflies</i>.</p> + +<p><i>The Choir Invisible</i> (New York, 1897), Mr. Allen's first +really long novel, was an augmented <i>John Gray</i>, and it +placed him in the forefront of American novelists. Mr. +Orson Lowell's illustrated edition of this work is most +interesting; and it was dramatized in 1899, but produced +without success, as the author had prophesied. Later in the +same year <i>Two Gentlemen of Kentucky</i> appeared as a bit +of a book, and was cordially received by those of the author's +admirers who continued to regard it as his masterpiece. +<i>The Reign of Law</i> (New York, 1900), a tale of the +Kentucky hemp-fields, of love, and evolution, was published +in London as <i>The Increasing Purpose</i>, because of +the Duke of Argyll's prior appropriation of that title for +his scientific treatise. The prologue upon Kentucky hemp +strengthened Mr. Allen's reputation as one of the greatest +writers of descriptive prose ever born out of Europe. +It was widely read and discussed—in at least one quarter +of the country—with unnecessary bitterness, if not +with blind bigotry.</p> + +<p><i>The Mettle of the Pasture</i> (New York, 1903), which +was first announced as <i>Crypts of the Heart</i>, is a love +story of great beauty, saturated with the atmosphere of +Kentucky to a wonderful degree, yet it has not been sufficiently +appreciated. For the five years following the +publication of <i>The Mettle</i>, Mr. Allen was silent; but he +was working harder than ever before in his life upon +manuscripts which he has come to regard as his most vital +contributions to prose fiction. In the autumn of 1908 his +stirring speech at the unveiling of the monument to remember +his hero, King Solomon of Kentucky, was read; +and three months later <i>The Last Christmas Tree</i>, brief<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +prelude to his Christmas trilogy, appeared in <i>The Saturday +Evening Post</i>. <i>The Bride of the Mistletoe</i> (New +York, 1909), part first of the trilogy, is one of the finest +fragments of prose yet published in the United States. +It aroused criticism of various kinds in many quarters, +one declaring it to be one thing, and one another, but +all agreeing that it was something new and wonderful +under our literary sun. The critics of to-morrow may +discover that <i>The Bride</i> was the foundation-stone of the +now much-heralded <i>Chunk of Life School</i> which has of +late taken London by the ears. Yet, between <i>The Bride</i> +and <i>The Widow of the Bye Street</i> a great gulf is fixed. +Part two of the trilogy was first announced as <i>A Brood +of the Eagle</i>, but it was finally published as <i>The Doctor's +Christmas Eve</i> (New York, 1910). This, one of Mr. Allen's +longest novels, was met by adverse criticism based +on several grounds, but upon none more pointedly than +what was alleged to be the unnatural precocity of the +children, who do not appear to lightly flit through the +pages in a way that our old-fashioned conventions would +prescribe they should, but somewhat seem to clog the unfolding +of the tale. Whatever estimate one may place +upon <i>The Doctor</i>, he can scarcely be held to possess the +subtile charm of <i>The Bride</i>. The third and final part of +this much-discussed trilogy will hardly be published before +1914, or perhaps even subsequent to that date.</p> + +<p><i>The Heroine in Bronze</i> (New York, 1912), is Mr. Allen's +latest novel. It is an American love story with all +of the author's exquisite mastery of language again ringing +fine and true. For the first time Mr. Allen largely +abandons Kentucky as a landscape for his story, the action +being in New York. The phrase "my country," that +recurs throughout the book, succeeds the "Shield," which, +in <i>The Bride of the Mistletoe</i>, was the author's appellation +for Kentucky. The sequel to <i>The Heroine</i>—the +story the boy wrote for the girl—is now preparing.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<p>Twenty years ago Mr. Allen wrote, "Kentucky has little +or no literature;" and while he did not write, perhaps, +with the whole horizon of its range before him, there was +substantial truth in the statement. The splendid sequel +to his declaration is his own magnificent works. He +pointed out the lack of merit in our literature, but he did +a far finer and more fitting thing: he at once set out upon +his distinguished career and has produced a literature +for the state. He has created Kentucky and Kentuckians +as things apart from the outside world, a miniature +republic within a greater republic; and no one knows the +land and the people other than imperfectly if one cannot +see and feel that his conception is clear and sentient. +With a light but firm touch he has caught the shimmering +atmosphere of his own native uplands and the idiosyncrasies +of their people with all the fidelity with which the +camera gives back a material outline.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Stories of James Lane Allen</i>, by L. W. +Payne, Jr., in <i>The Sewanee Review</i> (January, 1900); <i>James +Lane Allen's Country</i>, by Arthur Bartlett, <i>The Bookman</i> (October, +1900); <i>Famous Authors</i>, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1901); +<i>Authors of Our Day in Their Homes</i>, by F. W. Halsey (New +York, 1902); <i>Social Historians</i>, by H. A. Toulmin, Jr. (Boston, +1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY: AN ADDRESS<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Outlook</i> (December 19, 1908)]</p> + +<p>We are witnessing at present a revival of conflict between two +ideas in our civilization that have already produced a colossal +war; the idea of the greatness of our Nation as the welded and +indissoluble greatness of the States, and the idea of the separate +dignity and isolated power of each sovereign commonwealth. +The spirit of the Nation reaches out more and more to absorb +into itself its own parts, and each part draws back more and +more into its own Attic supremacy and independence, feeling that +its earlier struggles were its own struggles, that its heroes were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +its own heroes, and that it has memories which refuse to blend +with any other memories. It will willingly yield the luster of its +daily life to the National sun, but by night it must see its own +lighthouses around its frontiers—beacons for its own wandering +mariner sons and a warning to the Nation itself that such lights +are sacred wherever they stand and burn.</p> + +<p>But if the State more and more resists absorption into the Federal +life, then less and less can it expect the Nation to do what +it insists is its own peculiar work; the greater is the obligation +resting upon it to make known to the Nation its own peculiar past +and its own incommunicable greatness. Among the States of the +Union none belongs more wholly to herself and less to the Nation +than does Kentucky; none perhaps will resist more passionately +the encroachments of Federal control; and upon her rests the +very highest obligation to write her own history and make good +her Attic aloofness.</p> + +<p>But there is no nobler or more eloquent way in which a State +can set forth its annals than by memorializing its great dead. +The flag of a nation is its hope; its monuments are its memories. +But it is also true that the flag of a country is its memory, and +that its monuments are its hopes. And both are needed. Each +calls aloud to the other. If you should go into any land and see +it covered with monuments and nowhere see its flag, you would +know that its flag had gone down into the dust and that its hope +was ended. If you should travel in a land and everywhere see +its flag and nowhere its monuments, you would ask yourself, Has +this people no past that it cares to speak of? and if it has, why +does it not speak of it? But when you visit a country where you +see the flag proudly flying and proud monuments standing everywhere, +then you say, Here is a people who are great in both their +hopes and in their memories, and who live doubly through the +deeds of their dead.</p> + +<p>Where are Kentucky's monuments for her battlefields? There +are some; where are the others? Where are her monuments for +her heroes that she insists were hers alone? Over her waves the +flag of her hopes; where are the monuments that are her memories?</p> + +<p>This man whom you memorialize to-day was not, in station or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +habiliment, one of Kentucky's higher heroes; his battlefield was +the battlefield of his own character; but the honor rightly heaped +upon him at last makes one remember how many a battlefield and +how many a hero remain forgotten. Not alone the fields and +heroes of actual war, but of civic and moral and scientific and +artistic leadership. These ceremonies—whom will they incite to +kindred action elsewhere? What other monuments will they +build?</p> + +<p>There is a second movement broader than any question of State +or National patriotism, in which these ceremonies also have their +place. It is the essential movement of our time in the direction +of a new philanthropy.</p> + +<p>No line of Shakespeare has ever been perhaps more quoted +than this: "The evil that men do lives after them; the good is +oft interred with their bones." It is true that he put the words +into the mouth of a Roman of old; but they were true of the England +of his time and they remained true for centuries after his +death. But within the last one hundred years or less an entirely +new spirit has been developed; a radically new way of looking at +human history and at human character has superseded the old. +The spirit and genius of our day calls for the recasting of Shakespeare's +lines: Let the evil that men do be buried with them; +let the good they did be found out and kept alive.</p> + +<p>I wish to take one illustration of the truth of this from the +history of English literature.</p> + +<p>Do you know when and where it was that satire virtually ceased +to exist in English literature? It was at the birthplace and with +the birth of Charles Darwin. From Darwin's time, from the +peak on which he stood, a long slope of English literature sinks +backward and downward toward the past; and on that shadowy +slope stand somewhere the fierce satirists of English letters. Last +of them all, and standing near where Darwin stood, is the great +form of Thackeray. All his life he sought for perfection in human +character and never found it. He searched England from +the throne down for the gentleman and never found the gentleman. +The life-long quest sometimes left him bitter, always left +him sad. For all of Thackeray's work was done under the influence +of the older point of view, that the frailties of men should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +be scourged out of them and could be. Over his imagination +brooded the shadow of a vast myth—that man had thrown away +his own perfection, that he was a fallen angel, who wantonly refused +to regain his own paradise.</p> + +<p>And now from the peak of the world's thought on which Darwin +stood, the other slope of English literature comes down to us +and will pass on into the future. And as marking the beginning +of the modern spirit working in literature, there on this side of +Darwin, near to him as Thackeray stood near to him on the other +side, is the great form of George Eliot. George Eliot saw the +frailties of human nature as clearly as Thackeray saw them; she +loved perfection as greatly as he loved perfection; but on her lips +satire died and sympathy was born. She was the first of England's +great imaginative writers to breathe in the spirit of modern +life and of modern knowledge—that man himself is a developing +animal—a creature crawling slowly out of utter darkness toward +the light. You can satirize a fallen angel who willfully refuses +to regain his paradise; but you cannot satirize an animal who is +developing through millions of years his own will to be used +against his own instincts.</p> + +<p>And this new spirit of charity not only pervades the new literature +of the world, but has made itself felt in every branch of +human action.</p> + +<p>It has affected the theatre and well-nigh driven the drama of +satire from the stage. Every judge knows that it goes with him +to the bench; every physician knows that it accompanies him into +the sick-room; every teacher knows that he must reckon with it as +he tries to govern and direct the young; every minister knows that +it ascends with him into his pulpit and takes wing with his prayer.</p> + +<p>And thus we come back around a great circle of the world's +endeavor to the simple ceremony of this hour and place. There +is but one thing to be said; it is all that need be said; it is an attempt +to burnish one corner of a hero's dimmed shield.</p> + +<p>It is autumn now, the season of scythe and sickle. Time, the +Reaper, long ago reaped from the field of this man's life its heroic +deed; and now after so many years it has come back to his grave +and thrown down the natural increase. On the day when King +Solomon was laid here the grass began to weave its seamless mantle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +across his frailties; but out of his dust sprang what has since +been growing—what no hostile hand can pluck away, nor any +wind blow down—the red flower of a man's passionate service +to his fellow-men when they were in direst need of him.</p> + +<p>And so, long honor to his name! A new peace to his ashes!</p> + + +<p class="center">THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i> (Philadelphia, December 5, 1908)]</p> + +<p>The stars burn out one by one like candles in too long a night.</p> + +<p>Children, you love the snow. You play in it, you hunt in it; it +brings the tinkling of sleighbells, it gives white wings to the trees +and new robes to the world. Whenever it falls in your country, +sooner or later it vanishes: forever falling and rising, forming +and falling and melting and rising again—on and on through +the ages.</p> + +<p>If you should start from your homes and travel northward, +after a while you would find that everything is steadily changing: +the air grows colder, living things begin to be left behind, those +that remain begin to look white, the music of the earth begins to +die out; you think no more of color and joy and song. On you +journey, and always you are traveling toward the silent, the +white, the dead. And at last you come to the land of sunlessness +and silence—the reign of snow.</p> + +<p>If you should start from your homes and travel southward, as +you crossed land after land, in the same way you would begin to +see that life was failing, colors fading, the earth's harmonies being +replaced by the discords of Nature's lifeless forces, storming, +crushing, grinding. And at last you would reach the threshold +of another world that you dared not enter and that nothing alive +ever faces—the home of the frost.</p> + +<p>If you should rise straight into the air above your housetops, +as though you were climbing the side of an unseen mountain, +you would find at last that you had ascended to a height where +the mountain would be capped with snow. All round the earth, +wherever its mountains are high enough, their summits are capped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +with the one same snow; for above us, everywhere, lies the upper +land of eternal cold.</p> + +<p>Some time in the future, we do not know when, but some time +in the future, the Spirit of the Cold at the north will move southward; +the Spirit of the Cold at the south will move northward; +the Spirit of the Cold in the upper air will move downward to +meet the other two. When the three meet there will be for the +earth one whiteness and silence—rest.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>A great time had passed—how great no one knew; there was +none to measure it.</p> + +<p>It was twilight and it was snowing. On a steep mountainside, +near its bald summit, thousands of feet above the line that +any other living thing had ever crossed, stood two glorious fir +trees, strongest and last of their race. They had climbed out of +the valley below to this lone height, and there had so rooted themselves +in rock and soil that the sturdiest gale had never been able +to dislodge them; and now the twain occupied that beetling rock +as the final sentinels of mortal things.</p> + +<p>They looked out toward the land on one side of the mountain; +at the foot of it lay a valley, and there, in old human times, a village +had thriven, church spires had risen, bridal candles had +twinkled at twilight. On the opposite side they looked toward +the ocean—once the rolling, blue ocean, singing its great song, +but level now and white and still at last—its voice hushed with +all other voices—the roar of its battleships ended long ago. One +fir tree grew lower down than the other, its head barely reached +up to its comrade's breast. They had long shared with each +other the wordless wisdom of their race; and now, as a slow, bitter +wind wandered across the delicate green harps of their leaves, +they began to chant—harping like harpers of old who never +tired of the past.</p> + +<p>The fir below, as the snowflakes fell on its locks and sifted +closely in about its throat, shook itself bravely and sang:</p> + +<p>"Comrade, the end for us draws nigh; the snow is creeping +up. To-night it will place its cap upon my head. I shall close +my eyes and follow all things into their sleep."</p> + +<p>"Yes," thrummed the fir above, "follow all things into their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +sleep. If they were thus to sleep at last, why were they ever +awakened? It is a mystery."</p> + +<p>The whirling wind caught the words and bore them to the +right and to the left over land and over sea:</p> + +<p>"Mystery—mystery—mystery."</p> + +<p>Twilight deepened. The snow scarcely fell; the clouds trailed +through the trees so close and low that the flakes were formed +amid the boughs and rested where they were created. At intervals +out of the clouds and darkness the low musings went on:</p> + +<p>"Where now is the Little Brother of the Trees—him of the +long thoughts and the brief shadow?"</p> + +<p>"He thought that he alone of earthly things was immortal."</p> + +<p>"Our people, the Evergreens, were thrust forth on the earth +a million ages before he appeared; and we are still here, a million +ages since he left, leaving not a trace of himself behind."</p> + +<p>"The most fragile moss was born before he was born; and the +moss outlasted him."</p> + +<p>"The frailest fern was not so perishable."</p> + +<p>"Yet he believed he should have eternal youth."</p> + +<p>"That his race would return to some Power who had sent it +forth."</p> + +<p>"That he was ever being borne onward to some far-off, divine +event, where there was justice."</p> + +<p>"Yes, where there was justice."</p> + +<p>"Of old it was their custom to heap white flowers above their +dead."</p> + +<p>"Now white flowers cover them—the frozen white flowers of +the sky."</p> + +<p>It was night now about the mountaintop—deep night above it. +At intervals the communing of the firs started up afresh:</p> + +<p>"Had they known how alone in the universe they were, would +they not have turned to each other for happiness?"</p> + +<p>"Would not all have helped each?"</p> + +<p>"Would not each have helped all?"</p> + +<p>"Would they have so mingled their wars with their prayers?"</p> + +<p>"Would they not have thrown away their weapons and thrown +their arms around one another? It was all a mystery."</p> + +<p>"Mystery—mystery."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>Once in the night they sounded in unison:</p> + +<p>"And all the gods of earth—its many gods in many lands +with many faces—they sleep now in their ancient temples; on +them has fallen at last their unending dusk."</p> + +<p>"And the shepherds who avowed that they were appointed by +the Creator of the universe to lead other men as their sheep—what +difference is there now between the sheep and the shepherds?"</p> + +<p>"The shepherds lie with the sheep in the same white pastures."</p> + +<p>"Still, what think you became of all that men did?"</p> + +<p>"Whither did Science go? How could it come to naught?"</p> + +<p>"And that seven-branched golden candlestick of inner light +that was his Art—was there no other sphere to which it could +be transferred, lovely and eternal?"</p> + +<p>"And what became of Love?"</p> + +<p>"What became of the woman who asked for nothing in life but +love and youth?"</p> + +<p>"What became of the man who was true?"</p> + +<p>"Think you that all of them are not gathered elsewhere—strangely +changed, yet the same? Is some other quenchless star +their safe habitation?"</p> + +<p>"What do we know; what did he know on earth? It was a +mystery."</p> + +<p>"It was all a mystery."</p> + +<p>If there had been a clock to measure the hour it must now have +been near midnight. Suddenly the fir below harped most tenderly:</p> + +<p>"The children! What became of the children? Where did +the myriads of them march to? What was the end of the march +of the earth's children?"</p> + +<p>"Be still!" whispered the fir above. "At that moment I felt +the soft fingers of a child searching my boughs. Was not this +what in human times they called Christmas Eve?"</p> + +<p>"Hearken!" whispered the fir below. "Down in the valley +elfin horns are blowing and elfin drums are beating. Did you +hear that—faint and far away? It was the bells of the reindeer! +It passed: it was the wandering soul of Christmas."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>Not long after this the fir below struck its green harp for the +last time:</p> + +<p>"Comrade, it is the end for me. Good-night!"</p> + +<p>Silently the snow closed over it.</p> + +<p>The other fir now stood alone. The snow crept higher and +higher. It bravely shook itself loose. Late in the long night it +communed once more, solitary:</p> + +<p>"I, then, close the train of earthly things. And I was the +emblem of immortality; let the highest be the last to perish! +Power, that put forth all things for a purpose, you have fulfilled, +without explaining it, that purpose. I follow all things +into their sleep."</p> + +<p>In the morning there was no trace of it.</p> + +<p>The sun rose clear on the mountaintops, white and cold and +at peace.</p> + +<p>The earth was dead.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="NANCY_HUSTON_BANKS" id="NANCY_HUSTON_BANKS">NANCY HUSTON BANKS</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Nancy Huston Banks, novelist, was born at Morganfield, +Kentucky, about 1850. She is the daughter of +the late Judge George Huston, who for many years was an +attorney and banker of her native town. When a young +woman Miss Huston was married to Mr. James N. Banks, +now a lawyer of Henderson, Kentucky. Mrs. Banks's +first book, <i>Stairs of Sand</i> (Chicago, 1890), has been +forgotten by author and public alike, but shortly after +its publication, she went to New York, and there she resided +at the Hotel St. James for many years. At the +present time she is living in London. She became a contributor +to magazines, her critical paper on Mr. James +Lane Allen and his novels, which appeared in <i>The Bookman</i> +for June, 1895, being her first work to attract serious +attention. A few years later Mrs. Banks dropped her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +magazine work in order to write her charming novel of +life in southern Kentucky, <i>Oldfield</i> (New York, 1902). +This story was highly praised in this country and in England, +the critics of London coining a descriptive phrase +for it that has stuck—"the Kentucky Cranford." Her +next novel, <i>'Round Anvil Rock</i> (New York, 1903), was a +worthy follower of <i>Oldfield</i>. One reviewer called it "a +blend of an old-fashioned love story and an historical +study." Mrs. Banks's most recent novel is <i>The Little +Hills</i> (New York, 1905). The opening words of this +story: "The air was the breath of spice pinks," was +seized upon by the critics and set up as a sign-post for +the book's tone. Mrs. Banks has been a great traveler. +She was sent to South Africa during the Boer war by +<i>Vanity Fair</i> of London, and her letters to that publication +were most interesting. She knew Cecil Rhodes and +George W. Steevens, the war correspondent, and, with +her beauty and charm, she became a social "star" in the +life about her. Mrs. Banks's one eccentricity—according +to the literary gossips of New York—is her distaste +for classical music; and that much of her success is due +to the fact that she knows how to handle editors and +publishers, we also learn from the same source. At least +one of her contemporaries once held—though he has +since wholly relented and regretted much—that, in a +now exceedingly scarce first edition, she out-ingramed Ingram! +But, of course, that is another story.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Critic</i> (September, 1902); <i>The Nation</i> (February +5, 1903); <i>The Bookman</i> (February, 1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">ANVIL ROCK<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>'Round Anvil Rock</i> (New York, 1903)]</p> + +<p>The courage and calmness which he had found in himself under +this test, heartened him and made him the more determined to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +control his wandering fancy. Looking now neither to the right +nor the left, he pressed on through the clearing toward the buffalo +track in the border of the forest which would lead him into the +Wilderness Road. Sternly setting his thoughts on the errand +that was taking him to the salt-works, he began to think of the +place in which they were situated, and to wonder why so bare, +so brown, and so desolate a spot should have been called Green +Lick. There was no greenness about it, and not the slightest +sign that there ever had been any verdure, although it still lay +in the very heart of an almost tropical forest. It must surely +have been as it was now since time immemorial. Myriads of wild +beasts coming and going through numberless centuries to drink +the salt water, had trodden the earth around it as hard as iron, +and had worn it down far below the surface of the surrounding +country. The boy had seen it often, but always by daylight, and +never alone, so that he noted many things now which he had not +observed before. The huge bison must have gone over that well-beaten +track one by one, to judge by its narrowness. He could +see it dimly, running into the clearing like a black line beginning +far off between the bordering trees; but as he looked, the darkness +deepened, the mists thickened, and a look of unreality came +over familiar objects. And then through the wavering gloom +there suddenly towered a great dark mass topped by something +which rose against the wild dimness like a colossal blacksmith's +anvil. It might have been Vulcan's own forge, so strange and +fabulous a thing it seemed! The boy's heart leaped with his +pony's leap. His imagination spread its swift wings ere he +could think; but in another instant he reminded himself. This +was not an awful apparition, but a real thing, wondrous and unaccountable +enough in its reality. It was Anvil Rock—a great, +solitary rock rising abruptly from the rockless loam of a level +country, and lifting its single peak, rudely shaped like a blacksmith's +anvil, straight up toward the clouds.</p> + + +<p class="center">THE OLD-FASHIONED FIDDLERS</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<p>Those old-time country fiddlers—all of them, black or white—how +wonderful they were! They have always been the wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +and the despair of all musicians who have played by rule and +note. The very way that the country fiddler held his fiddle +against his chest and never against his shoulder like the trained +musician! The very way that the country fiddler grasped his +bow, firmly and squarely in the middle, and never lightly at the +end like a trained musician! The very way that he let go and +went off and kept on—the amazing, inimitable spirit, the gayety, +the rhythm, the swing! No trained musician ever heard the +music of the country fiddler without wondering at its power, and +longing in vain to know the secret of its charm. It would be +worth a good deal to know where and how they learned the tunes +that they played. Possibly these were handed down by ear from +one to another; some perhaps may have never been pent up in +notes, and others may have been given to the note reader under +other names than those by which the country fiddlers knew them. +This is said to have been the case with "Old Zip Coon," and the +names of many of them would seem to prove that they belonged +to the time and the country. But there is a delightful uncertainty +about the origin and the history of almost all of them—about +"Leather Breeches" and "Sugar in the Gourd" and +"Wagoner" and "Cotton-eyed Joe," and so on through a long +list.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_B_SMITH" id="WILLIAM_B_SMITH">WILLIAM B. SMITH</a></h2> + + +<p>William Benjamin Smith, perhaps the greatest scholar +ever born on Kentucky soil, first saw the light at Stanford, +Kentucky, October 26, 1850. Kentucky (Transylvania) +University conferred the degree of Master of Arts +upon him in 1871; and the University of Göttengen granted +him his Doctor of Philosophy degree in 1879. Dr. +Smith was professor of mathematics in Central College, +Missouri, from 1881 to 1885, when he accepted the chair +of physics in the University of Missouri. In 1888 he +was transferred to the department of mathematics in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +the same institution, which he held until 1893, when he +resigned to accept a similar position at Tulane University. +In 1906 Dr. Smith was elected head of the +department of philosophy at Tulane, which position +he holds at the present time. He was a delegate +of the United States government to the first Pan-American +Scientific Congress, held at Santiago, Chile, in 1908. +Dr. Smith is the author of the following books, the very +titles of which will show his amazing versatility: <i>Co-ordinate +Geometry</i> (Boston, 1885); <i>Clew to Trigonometry</i> +(1889); <i>Introductory Modern Geometry</i> (New York, +1893); <i>Infinitesimal Analysis</i> (New York, 1898); <i>The Color +Line</i> (New York, 1905), a stirring discussion of the +Negro problem from a rather new perspective; two theological +works, written originally in German, <i>Der Vorchristliche +Jesus</i> (Jena, Germany, 1906); and <i>Ecce Deus</i> +(Jena, Germany, 1911), the English translation of which +was issued at London and Chicago in 1912. These two +works upon proto-Christianity have placed Dr. Smith +among the foremost scholars of his day and generation in +America. Besides his books he wrote two pamphlets of +more than fifty pages each upon <i>Tariff for Protection</i> +(Columbia, Missouri, 1888); and <i>Tariff Reform</i> (Columbia, +Missouri, 1892). These show the author at his best. +And his biography of James Sidney Rollins, founder of +the University of Missouri, was published about this time. +During the month of October, 1896, Dr. Smith published +six articles in the Chicago <i>Record</i>, on the sliver question +and in defense of the gold standard, which were certainly +the most thorough brought out by the presidential campaign +of that year. Among his many public addresses, essays, +and articles, <i>The Pauline Codices F and G</i> may be +mentioned, as well as his articles on <i>Infinitesimal Calculus</i> +and <i>New Testament Criticism</i> in the <i>Encyclopaedia Americana</i> +(New York, 1906); and he compiled the mathematical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +definitions for the <i>New International Dictionary</i> +(New York, 1908). Dr. Smith's fine poem, <i>The Merman +and the Seraph</i>, was crowned in the <i>Poet Lore</i> competition +of 1906. As a mathematician, philosopher, sociologist, +New Testament critic, publicist, poet, and alleged +prototype of <i>David</i>, hero of Mr. James Lane Allen's <i>The +Reign of Law</i>—which he most certainly was not!—Dr. +Smith stands supreme among the sons of Kentucky.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Current Literature</i> (June, 1905); <i>The Nation</i> +(November 23, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A SOUTHERN VIEW OF THE NEGRO PROBLEM<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Color Line</i> (New York, 1905)]</p> + +<p>It is idle to talk of education and civilization and the like as +corrective or compensative agencies. All are weak and beggarly +as over against the almightiness of heredity, the omniprepotence +of the transmitted germ-plasma. Let this be amerced of its ancient +rights, let it be shorn in some measure of its exceeding +weight of ancestral glory, let it be soiled in its millenial purity +and integrity, and nothing shall ever restore it; neither wealth, +nor culture, nor science, nor art, nor morality, nor religion—not +even Christianity itself. Here and there these may redeem some +happy spontaneous variation, some lucky freak of nature; but +nothing more—they can never redeem the race. If this be not +true, then history and biology are alike false; then Darwin and +Spencer, Haeckel and Weismann, Mendel and Pearson, have +lived and laboured in vain.</p> + +<p>Equally futile is the reply, so often made by our opponents, +that miscegenation has already progressed far in the Southland, +as witness millions of Mulattoes. Certainly; but do not such +objectors know in their hearts that their reply is no answer, but +is utterly irrelevant? We admit and deplore the fact that unchastity +has poured a broad stream of white blood into black +veins; but we deny, and perhaps no one will affirm, that it has +poured even the slenderest appreciable rill of Negro blood into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +the veins of the Whites. We have no excuse whatever to make +for these masculine incontinences; we abhor them as disgraceful +and almost bestial. But, however degrading and even unnatural, +they in nowise, not even in the slightest conceivable degree, defile +the Southern Caucasian blood. That blood to-day is absolutely +pure; and it is the inflexible resolution of the South to preserve +that purity, no matter how dear the cost. We repeat, then, +it is not a question of individual morality, nor even of self-respect. +He who commerces with a negress debases himself and dishonours +his body, the temple of the Spirit; but he does not impair, in anywise, +the dignity or integrity of his race; he may sin against himself +and others, and even against his God, but not against the +germ-plasma of his kind.</p> + +<p>Does some one reply that some Negroes are better than some +Whites, physically, mentally, morally? We do not deny it; but +this fact, again, is without pertinence. It may very well be that +some dogs are superior to some men. It is absurd to suppose +that only the elect of the Blacks would unite with only the non-elect +of the Whites. Once started, the <i>pamnixia</i> would spread +through all classes of society and contaminate possibly or actually +all. Even a little leaven may leaven the whole lump.</p> + +<p>Far more than this, however, even if only very superior Negroes +formed unions with non-superior Whites, the case would +not be altered; for it is a grievous error to suppose that the child +is born of its proximate parents only; it is born of all its ancestry; +it is the child of its race. The eternal past lays hand +upon it and upon all its descendants. However weak the White, +behind him stands Europe; however strong the Black, behind +lies Africa.</p> + +<p>Preposterous, indeed, is this doctrine that <i>personal excellence +is the true standard</i>, and that only such Negroes as attain a certain +grade of merit should or would be admitted to social equality. +A favourite evasion! <i>The Independent</i>, <i>The Nation</i>, <i>The +Outlook</i>, the whole North—all point admiringly to Mr. Washington, +and exclaim: "But only see what a noble man he is—so +much better than his would-be superiors!" So, too, a distinguished +clergyman, when asked whether he would let his +daughter marry a Negro, replied: "We wish our daughters to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +marry Christian gentlemen." Let, then, the major premise be, +"All Christian gentlemen are to be admitted to social equality;" +and add, if you will, any desired degree of refinement or education +or intellectual prowess as a condition. Does not every one +see that any such test would be wholly impracticable and nugatory? +If Mr. Washington be the social equal of Roosevelt and +Eliot and Hadley, how many others will be the social equals of +the next circle, and the next, and the next, in the long descent +from the White House and Harvard to the miner and the ragpicker? +And shall we trust the hot, unreasoning blood of youth +to lay virtues and qualities so evenly in the balance and decide +just when some "olive-coloured suitor" is enough a "Christian +gentleman" to claim the hand of some simple-hearted milk-maid +or some school-ma'am "past her bloom?" The notion is too ridiculous +for refutation. If the best Negro in the land is the social +equal of the best Caucasian, then it will be hard to prove that +the lowest White is higher than the lowest Black; the principle +of division is lost, and complete social equality is established. +We seem to have read somewhere that, when the two ends of one +straight segment coincide with the two ends of another, the segments +coincide throughout their whole extent.</p> + + +<p class="center">THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Poet-Lore</i> (Boston, 1906)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i19">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Deep the sunless seas amid,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Far from Man, from Angel hid,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where the soundless tides are rolled<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Over Ocean's treasure-hold,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With dragon eye and heart of stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The ancient Merman mused alone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i17">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">And aye his arrowed Thought he wings<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +<span class="i1">Straight at the inmost core of things—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As mirrored in his magic glass<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The lightning-footed Ages pass—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But broods on Everlastingness.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thoughts that Age and Change await not,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">All unfeeling,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">All revealing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Scorning height's and depth's concealing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">These be mine—and these alone!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Saith the Merman's heart of stone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i17">III<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Flashed a radiance far and nigh<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As from the vortex of the sky—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lo! a maiden beauty-bright<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And mantled with mysterious might<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of every power, below, above,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That weaves resistless spell of Love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i17">IV<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Through the weltering waters cold<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shot the sheen of silken gold;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quick the frozen heart below<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Kindled in the amber glow;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Rose to where the Glory burned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Deeper, bluer than the skies are,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Dreaming meres of morn thine eyes are;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">All that brightens<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Smile or heightens<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Charm is thine, all life enlightens,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thou art all the soul's desire"—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +<span class="i1">Sang the Merman's heart of fire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thee to walk the ways of Heaven;<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Vain the vision,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Fate's derision,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thee that raps to realms elysian,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fathomless profounds are thine"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quired the answering voice divine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i18">V<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Came an echo from the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pierced the deep celestial breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Summoned, far the Seraph fled,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Trailing splendours overhead;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Broad beneath her flying feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Laughed the silvered ocean-street.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i17">VI<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">On the Merman's mortal sight<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Instant fell the pall of Night;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He dreams the vanished vision o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hears anew the starry chime,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ponders aye Eternal Time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not,<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Times unending<br /></span> +<span class="i9">Comprehending,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Space and worlds of worlds transcending,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">These are mine—but these alone!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sighs the Merman's heart of stone.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="ANDERSON_C_QUISENBERRY" id="ANDERSON_C_QUISENBERRY">ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY</a></h2> + + +<p>Anderson Chenault Quisenberry, historical writer, was +born near Winchester, Kentucky, October 26, 1850. He +was educated at Georgetown College, Georgetown, Kentucky. +In 1870 Mr. Quisenberry engaged in Kentucky +journalism, being editor of several papers at different +periods, until 1889, when he went to Washington to accept +a position in the War Department; but he has continued his +contributions to the Kentucky press to the present time. +His first volume was <i>The Life and Times of Hon. Humphrey +Marshall</i> (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). This was +followed by his other works: <i>Revolutionary Soldiers in +Kentucky</i> (1896); <i>Genealogical Memoranda of the Quisenberry +Family and Other Families</i> (Washington, D. C., +1897); <i>Memorials of the Quisenberry Family in Germany, +England, and America</i> (Washington, D. C., 1900); <i>Lopez's +Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-51</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, +1906), one of the most attractive of the Filson Club publications; +and <i>History by Illustration: General Zachary +Taylor and the Mexican War</i> (Frankfort, Kentucky, +1911), the most recent volume in the Kentucky Historical +Series of the State Historical Society. Mr. Quisenberry +resides at Hyattsville, Maryland, going into Washington +every day for his official duties.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Quisenberry to the present +writer; <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-1851</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906)]</p> + +<p>The victims, bound securely, were brought out of the boat +twelve at a time; of these, six were blindfolded and made to kneel +down with their backs to the soldiers, who stood some three or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +four paces from them. These six executed, the other six were +put through the same ghastly ceremony; then twelve others were +brought from the boat; and so on, until the terrible and sickening +tragedy was over. As each lot were murdered their bodies +were cast aside to make room for the next lot.</p> + +<p>An eyewitness says of these martyrs to liberty: "They behaved +with firmness, evincing no hesitation or trepidation whatever." +Among those shot was a lad of fifteen who begged earnestly +on his knees that some one be sent to him who could speak +English, but not the slightest attention was paid to him. One +handsome young man desired that his watch be sent to his sweetheart. +After the first discharge those who were not instantly +killed were beaten upon the head until life was extinct. One +poor fellow received three balls in his neck, and, raising himself +in the agonies of death, was struck by a soldier with the butt of +a musket and his brains dashed out.</p> + +<p>Colonel Crittenden, as the leader of the party, was shot first, +and alone. One of the rabble pushed through the line of soldiers, +and rushed up to Crittenden and pulled his beard. The +gallant Kentuckian, with the utmost coolness, spit in the coward's +face. He refused to kneel or to be blindfolded, saying in a +clear, ringing voice: "A Kentuckian kneels to none except his +God, and always dies facing his enemy!"—an expression that became +famous. Looking into the muzzles of the muskets that were +to slay him, standing heroically erect in the very face of death, +with his own hands, which had been unbound at his request, he +gave the signal for the fatal volley; and died, as he had lived, +"Strong in Heart." Captain Ker also refused to kneel. They +stood up, faced their enemies, were shot down, and their brains +were beaten out with clubbed muskets.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="ROBERT_BURNS_WILSON" id="ROBERT_BURNS_WILSON">ROBERT BURNS WILSON</a></h2> + + +<p>Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a +Pennsylvania father and a Virginia mother, was born in +his grandfather's house near Washington, Pennsylvania, +October 30, 1850. When a very small child he was taken +to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother +died when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened +his subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in +the schools of Wheeling, West Virginia, after which he +went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to study art. When but +nineteen he was painting portraits for a living. In 1871 +he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York +artist, chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river +from Pittsburgh, hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, +Kentucky. They had hardly reached the Kentucky +shore, however, when they disagreed about something or +other, and young Alexander left him in the night and returned +to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his +boat into a bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in +that county a year, when he went up to Louisville. He +gained more than a local reputation with a crayon portrait +of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making +considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered +by the late Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, +who persuaded him to remove to that town. Mr. Wilson +settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there for the following +twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors +are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions +of that interesting old town, for he was its "great man" +for many years, and its toast. As painter and poet he +was heralded by the folk of Frankfort until the outside +world was attracted and nibbled at his work. The first +public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the +Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Wilson's first poem, <i>A Wild Violet in November</i>, +was followed by the finest flower of his genius, <i>When +Evening Cometh On</i>, which was originally printed in <i>Harper's +Magazine</i> for October, 1885. This is the only +Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned +in the same breath with Gray's <i>Elegy</i>. Many of +his poems and prose papers were published in <i>Harper's</i>, +<i>The Century</i>, and other periodicals. His first book, <i>Life +and Love</i> (New York, 1887), contained the best work he +has ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of +his mother were lovely; and there are many more poems +to be found in the volume that are very fine. <i>Chant +of a Woodland Spirit</i> (New York, 1894), a long poem +of more than fifty pages, portions of which had originally +appeared in <i>Harper's</i> and <i>The Century</i>, was +dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom Mr. Wilson was +friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the +poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent +collection of lyrics, <i>The Shadows of the Trees</i> (New York, +1898), was widely read and warmly received by all true +lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's striking poem, +<i>Remember the Maine</i>, provoked by the tragedy in Havana +harbor, was printed in <i>The New York Herald</i>; and another +of his several poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight +that is remembered, <i>Such is the Death the Soldier Dies</i>, +appeared in <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>. The Kentucky poet's +battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no other +American singer, unless it was by the late William +Vaughn Moody. Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a +novel, <i>Until the Day Break</i> (New York, 1900), is unreadable +as a story, but the passages of nature prose are +many and exquisite.</p> + +<p>While he has always been a writing-man of very clear +and definite gifts, Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits +and landscapes, working with equal facility in oils, water-color,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +and crayon. He is held in esteem by many competent +critics as an artist of ability, but nearly all of his +work in any of three mediums indicated, is exceedingly +moody and pessimistic; and his water-colors, especially, +are "muddy." It is greatly to be regretted that he did +not remain the poet he was born to be, instead of drawing +his dreams—many use a stronger word—in paints.</p> + +<p>As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius +of the town of Frankfort during his life there; and he +was a bachelor! Thereby hangs a tale with a meaning +and a moral. For many years the widows and the other +women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of +the mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, +dash through a field and over a fence, punching plants +with his never-absent stick, and return to town with a +poem pounding in his pulses, and another landscape in his +brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of +it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious +to get him into their nets, they awoke one morning +in 1901 to find that little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, +and daughter of a former attorney-general of Kentucky, +had married their heart's desire, that their dreams were +day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New +York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following +year their child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short +time afterwards he removed to New York, where he has +lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions have +reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been +prose papers and lyrics in the magazines.</p> + +<p>A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, +the famous Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: +"The old man whose head has grown gray in the service +of the Muses, who is about to leave the lists of poetry +forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place to +twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +the stars,' extends his hand to a younger brother of his +art with an earnest <i>Te moriturus saluto</i>." These charming +words were elicited by <i>June Days</i>, and <i>When Evening +Cometh On</i>.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Recent Movement in Southern Literature</i>, +by C. W. Coleman, Jr. (<i>Harper's Magazine</i>, May, 1887); +<i>Who's Who in America</i> (1901-1902); <i>Library of Southern +Literature</i> (Atlanta, v. xv, 1910), an excellent study by Mrs. +Ida W. Harrison.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Life and Love. Poems</i> (New York, 1887)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we were plucking violets—thou and I.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy fading strength seemed to return that day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I was mad with hope that God would stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death's pale approach—Oh! all hath long passed by!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">First loved; first lost; my mother:—time must still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In me, and in my art, is thine:—Me-seems,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887.</p> + + +<p class="center">WHEN EVENING COMETH ON</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The fane-like, purple-shadowed clouds arise;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of misty silence cross the far-off lands<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In moveless waves against the shimmering gold.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along their well-known paths with heavier tread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their gearings glinted by the waning beams;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close by their heels the heedful collie strays;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All slowly fading in a land of dreams,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Transfigured specters of the shrouding haze.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Across the dotted fields of gathered grain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soul of summer breathes a deep repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from the blurred and blended brake there flows<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The undulating echoes of some strain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once heard in paradise, perchance—who knows?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But now the whispering memory sadly strays<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the dim rows of the rustling maize<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Anon there spreads upon the lingering air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And odors from far fields, unseen but fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The bars that lie along the smouldering west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This wavering flame, this agonizing dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In darkness reaching out her sentient hands;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Close on the brink, unfearing and alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So lonely and so sad the sound she hears<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All colors vanish when the sun goeth down.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fair enchantment of the golden day<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Far through the vale of shadows melts away<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wounded heart Love only can console.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take then the portion which the gods allow.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When evening cometh on?<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="DANIEL_HENRY_HOLMES" id="DANIEL_HENRY_HOLMES">DANIEL HENRY HOLMES</a></h2> + + +<p>Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions +of Theodore O'Hara and Madison Cawein, the foremost +lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully claim, although he happened +to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851; and +that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple +title to his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, +was a native of Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. +Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, settled at New Orleans +when a young man as a merchant; but a year after +the birth of Daniel Henry Junior—as the future poet always +signed himself while his father lived—or in 1852, +he purchased an old colonial house back of Covington, +Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and called +it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became +a warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and +he spent the following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning +each fall to New Orleans for the winter. When +the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies were +entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where +eight years were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at +the age of eighteen years, Daniel Henry Junior, with his +family, returned to the United States, and entered his +father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for commercialism +in any form became so great that his father +wisely permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which +was then in charge of an uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. +In the same year that he returned to Holmesdale +(1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact +to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and +Holmesdale became the manor-place of his people for +many years. Holmes was graduated in law in 1872, and +he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In +1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +of one of the old and wealthy families of that city. +He and his bride spent the year of their marriage at +Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad.</p> + +<p>Holmes's first and finest book of poems, written at +Covington, was entitled <i>Under a Fool's Cap: Songs</i> +(London, 1884), and contained one hundred and forty-four +pages in an edition that did not exceed five hundred +copies. The poet whimsically placed his boyhood name +of "Daniel Henry Junior" upon the title-page. This +little volume is one of the most unique things ever done +by an American hand. Holmes took twenty-four old familiar +nursery jingles, which are printed in black-face +type at the top of the lyrics relating to them, and he +worked them over and turned them over and did everything +but parody them; and in only one of them—<i>Margery +Daw</i>—did he discard the original metres. He employed +"three methods of dealing with his nursery +rhymes; he either made them the basis of a story, or he +took them as an allegory and gave the 'modern instance,' +or he simply continued and amplified. The last method +is, perhaps, the most effective and successful of all," the +poems done in this manner being far and away the finest +in the book. Holmes spent the seven years subsequent +to the appearance of <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i>, in France, Italy, +and Germany. In 1890 his father gave him Holmesdale. +He returned to Kentucky, and the remaining years of his +life were spent at Covington, save several winters abroad.</p> + +<p>Holmes's second book of lyrics, <i>A Pedlar's Pack</i> (New +York, 1906), which was largely written at Holmesdale, +contained many exceedingly clever and charming poems, +but, with the exception of some fine sonnets, <i>A Pedlar's +Pack</i> is verse, while <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i> is genuine poetry. +Holmes was an accomplished musician, and his <i>Hempen +Homespun Songs</i> (Cincinnati, 1906), mostly written in +Dresden, contained fourteen songs set to music, of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +four had words by the poet. Of the other ten songs, three +were by W. M. Thackeray, two by Alfred de Musset, and +Austin Dobson, Henri Chenevers, W. E. Henley, Edgar +Allan Poe, and Alfred Tennyson were represented by having +one of their songs set to music. This was his only publication +in the field of music, and his third and final book. +Holmes's last years were spent at the old house in Covington, +devoted to arranging his large library, collected +from the bookshops of the world, and to his music. His +life was one of endless ease, the universal pursuit of +wealth being neither necessary nor engaging. He had +lived parts of more than forty years of his life at Holmesdale +when he left it for the last time in the fall of 1908 to +spend the winter at Hot Springs, Virginia, where he died +suddenly on December 14, 1908. He had hardly found +his grave at Cincinnati before lovers of poetry on both +sides of the Atlantic arose and demanded word of his life +and works. This demand has been in part supplied by +Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, the Maine publisher, who has +exquisitely reprinted <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i>, and written +this beautiful tribute to the poet's memory:</p> + +<blockquote><p>"One vital point of interest should be restated: the man who +took these old tags of nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them +some of the tenderest lyrics ever written was an American by +birth and in the doing of this unique thing did it perfectly. That +he never repeated these first fine careless raptures is nothing to +his discredit. That he <i>did</i> accomplish what he set himself to do +with an originality and a proper regard to the quality of his +work rather than its quantity is the essential fact; and in his +ability to touch a vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have +come across these lyrics we feel that the mission of Daniel Henry +Holmes was fulfilled both in letter and in spirit."</p></blockquote> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Hesperian Tree</i>, edited by J. J. Piatt (Cincinnati, +1900); <i>The Cornhill Magazine</i> (August, 1909), review +of <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i>, by Norman Roe; <i>The Bibelot</i> (May, +1910); <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i> (Portland, Maine, 1910; 1911),<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +lovely reprints of the 1884 edition, with Mr. Roe's review and +foreword by Mr. Mosher; letters from Mrs. Holmes, the poet's +widow, who has recently reopened Holmesdale.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">BELL HORSES</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Under a Fool's Cap</i> (London, 1884)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="oldenglish"><span class="i2">Bell horses, Bell horses,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">What time of day?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One o'clock! Two o'clock!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Three! and away.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall wait by the gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see you pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Closely press'd, three abreast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clanking with brass:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With your smart red mail-cart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hard at your heels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scarlet ground, fleck'd around<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the Queen's seals.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up the hills, down the hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the cart shrink<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a faint dab of paint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the sky-brink,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never stop till you drop,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On to the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearing great news of state<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Lords and Crown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And down deep in the keep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of your mail-cart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's a note that I wrote<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +<span class="i0">To my sweetheart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I had no words that glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No penman's skill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And high-born maids would scorn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spelling so ill;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But what if it be stiff<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hand and thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ink-blots mark the spots<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where kisses caught,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He will read without heed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of phrases' worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I love him above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All things on earth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I must wait here, till late<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Past Evensong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere you come tearing home—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Days are so long!—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But I'll watch, till I catch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your bell's chime clear ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If you'll bring <i>me</i> something—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Won't you please, dear?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">MY LADY'S GARDEN</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="oldenglish"><span class="i4">How does my Lady's garden grow?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">How does my Lady's garden grow?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With silver bells, and cockle-shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And pretty girls all in a row.<br /></span></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wholly unconscious they are so fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They all have crowns and all have wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pale silver crowns and faint green wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And each has a wand within her hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And raiment about her that cleaves and clings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But what have my Lady's girls to do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What maiden toil or spinning to do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They swing and sway the live-long day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While beams and dreams shift to and fro.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And are so still that one forgets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So calm and restful, one forgets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To think it strange they never change,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mistaking them for Margarets.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when night comes and Earth is dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the time of their magic toil has come.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They deck themselves in their bells and shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their silver bells and their cockle-shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And chaunting Runic hymns and spells,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They spread their faint green wings abroad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their wings and clinging robes abroad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And upward through the pathless blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They soar, like incense smoke, to God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who gives them crystal dreams to hold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And laughter spun of beams of the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tears that shine like molten-gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when their hands can hold no more,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Their chaliced hands can hold no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when their bells, and cockle-shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With holy gifts are brimming o'er,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With swift glad wings they cleave the deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As shafts of starlight cleave the deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through Space and Night they take their flight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To where my Lady lies asleep;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And there, they coil above her bed,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fairy crown above her bed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While from their hands, like sifted sands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falls their harvest winnowèd.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And this is why my Lady grows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My own sweet Lady daily grows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In sorcery such, that at her touch,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And this is what the pretty girls do,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is the toil appointed to do,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With silver bells, and cockle-shells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Margarets all in a row.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">LITTLE BLUE BETTY</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="oldenglish"><span class="i6">Little Blue Betty lived in a lane,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">She sold good ale to gentlemen.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Gentlemen came every day,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And little Blue Betty hopp'd away.<br /></span></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Little Blue Betty was mistress of;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But rarer still than its far-famed taps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So gentlemen came every day—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +<span class="i0">As much for the caps as the ale, they say—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which come of inordinate singing of psalms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To freshen the lips and smarten the ale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So gallants came, by the dozen and score,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sit on the bench by the trellised door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the full high noon till the shades grew long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their pots of ale, and snatches of song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How well I remember! I used to sit down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wheedle and coax my young vanity back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As I travell'd westward the other day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The inn was gone—to make room, alas!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where sat a proper young person in pink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Selling ale—which I hadn't the heart to drink.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></div></div> + + +<p class="center">THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="oldenglish"><span class="i4">There was an old woman lived under the hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And if she's not gone, she lives there still;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And she's the old woman who never told lies.<br /></span></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In winter or summer, come shine or come rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the bustles and beams into twilight wane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the top of her hill, one can see her climb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sit out her watch through the long night-time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When under the hill—one fine evening—she met<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What befell her there no mortal can tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But it must have been things indescribable,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For when she returned, at last, alone,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They gather'd about her: she shook her head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—She had been through Hell—that was all she said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In answer to whens, and hows, and whys;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So they took her word, for she never told lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now, they say, when the sun goes down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turns into a beautiful lass, once more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her beautiful fabulous lover comes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In scarlet doublet and red silken hose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To woo her again—till the Chanticleer crows.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And suffers in silence and patience alway,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the hope that God will forgive, some day.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">MARGERY DAW</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="oldenglish"><span class="i4">See-Saw! Margery Daw!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Sold her bed to lie upon straw;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Was she not a dirty slut<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To sell her bed, and live in dirt?<br /></span></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet perchance, were the circumstance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But known, of Margery's grim romance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As sacred a veil might cover her then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It's a story told so often, so old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So drearily common, so wearily cold:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man's adventure,—a poor girl's fall—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And a sinless scapegoat born—that's all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She was simple and young, and the song was sung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God pity the woman who falls before them!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They closed the door for evermore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the contrite heart which repented sore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she stood alone, in the outer night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To feed her baby as best she might.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So she sold her bed, for its daily bread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gown off her back, the shawl off her head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so it came that Margery's name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Margery's face grew familiar in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The market-place where they trade in sin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What use to dwell on this premature Hell?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suffice it to say that the child did well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till one night that Margery prowled the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sickness was stalking, and struck her down.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all she had to be pawned or sold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To keep her darling from hunger and cold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So the baby pined, till Margery, blind<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With hunger of fever, in body and mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not a sparrow falls, they say—Oh well!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God was not looking when Margery fell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With irons girt, in her felon's shirt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See-saw! Margery Daw!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It makes all smooth—for she's out of her head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her brat is provided for. It's dead.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_H_WOODS" id="WILLIAM_H_WOODS">WILLIAM H. WOODS</a></h2> + + +<p>William Hervey Woods, poet, was born near Greensburg, +Kentucky, November 17, 1852, the son of a clergyman. +He was educated at Hampden-Sidney College, in +Virginia, after which he studied for the church at Union +Theological Seminary, Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Woods +was ordained to the ministry of the Southern Presbyterian +church in 1878; and since 1887 he has been +pastor of the Franklin Square church at Baltimore. For +the past several years he has contributed poems to <i>Scribner's</i>, +<i>Harper's</i>, <i>The Century</i>, <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, <i>The +Youth's Companion</i>, <i>The Independent</i>, and several other +periodicals. This verse was collected and published in a +pleasing little volume of some hundred and fifty pages +under the title of <i>The Anteroom and Other Poems</i> (Baltimore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +1911). As is true of the purely literary labors of +most clergymen, a few of the poems are somewhat marred +by the homiletical tone—they simply must point a moral, +even though that moral does not adorn the tale. Several +of the poems reveal the author's love for his birthplace, +Kentucky; and, taken as a whole, the book is one of which +any of our singers might be proud.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Courier-Journal</i> (January 16, 1912); <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i> (July; August, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">SYCAMORES<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Anteroom and Other Poems</i> (Baltimore, 1911)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They love no crowded forest dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They climb no mountains high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ranged along the pleasant vale<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where shining waters lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their brown coats curling open show<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A silvery undergleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the white limbs of laughing boys<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Half ready for the stream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What if they yield no harvests sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor massive timbers sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all their summer leafage casts<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But scanty shade around;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their young leaves laugh in tune,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there's no lad in all the land<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Knows better when 'tis June.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They come from groves of Arcady,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or some lost Land of Mirth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May not possess the earth,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And though they neither toil nor spin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor fruitful duties pay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They also serve, mayhap, who help<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The world keep holiday.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ANDREW_W_KELLEY" id="ANDREW_W_KELLEY">ANDREW W. KELLEY</a></h2> + + +<p>Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preëminent +of life on a country newspaper, was born in the state of +New York about 1852. When twenty years of age he left +Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873 he +settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder +of his life. He was associate editor of Opie +Read's paper, <i>The Patriot</i>, for some time, but when that +sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post until a kindly +death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little +town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding +Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York +girl, all things were ready for the celebration of the ceremony, +when the bride-to-be suddenly changed her mind, +and poor <i>Parmenas Mix</i> was thus started in the drunkard's +path. He planned to go East for several years +prior to his death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he +sat in his room and dreamed his life away. Kelley died +at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried in the +potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition +was wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place +of his grave can only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote +many poems, nearly all of which celebrated some phase +of life on a country newspaper, but his masterpiece is +<i>The Old Scissors' Soliloquy</i>, which was originally published +in <i>Scribner's Monthly</i>—now <i>The Century Magazine</i>—for +April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac +Department," illustrated with a single tail-piece sketch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +of editorial scissors "lying at rest" upon newspaper +clippings, with "a whopping big rat in the paste." Many +of his other poems were also published in <i>Scribner's</i>. +<i>The New Doctor</i>, <i>Accepted and Will Appeal</i>, and <i>He +Came to Pay</i>, done in the manner of Bret Harte's <i>The +Aged Stranger</i>, are exceedingly clever. A slender collection +of his poems could be easily made, and should be. +Opie Read wrote a tender tribute to the memory of his former +friend, in which his merits were thus summed up: +"The country has surely produced greater poets than +'Parmenas Mix,' but I doubt if we shall ever know a truer +lover of Nature's divine impulses. He lightened the heart +and made it tender, surely a noble mission; he talked to +the lowly, he flashed the diamond of his genius into many +a dark recess. He preached the gospel of good will; he +sang a beautiful song."</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Blades o' Blue Grass</i>, by Fannie P. Dickey +(Louisville, 1892); <i>Poetry of American Wit and Humor</i>, by R. +L. Paget (Boston, 1899).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Scribner's Monthly</i>, April, 1876]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The place is deserted and still,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To my left are the ink and the quill—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And refuses to write with a pen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I love the old fellow—together for years<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We have managed the <i>Farmer's Gazette</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +<span class="i2">And can crowd the compositors yet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But my duties are rather too heavy, I think,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I oftentimes envy the quill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While I'm slashing away with a will.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when I was new,—I remember it well,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Though a score of long years have gone by,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heaviest share of the editing fell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the quill, and I think with a sigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From a neighboring editor's leader,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In behalf of the general reader.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am being paid off for my merriment then,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For my master is wrinkled and gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Except when he wishes to say:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"We are needing some money to run this machine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And subscribers will please to remit;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And so knotty it couldn't be split."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Though he hates to acknowledge the latter),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Head or tale to the most of his matter.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The compositors plague him whenever they see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The result of a luckless endeavor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the darling old rascal just lays it to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I make no remonstrance whatever.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, I shoulder the blame—very little I care<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the jolly compositor's jest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I think of a head with the silvery hair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That will soon, very soon be at rest.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +<span class="i0">He has labored full long for the true and the good<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His only emolument raiment and food,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And—a pass, now and then, to the circus.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a lass with the freshness of clover<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who used me to clip from her tresses one night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A memorial lock for her lover.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That dear little lock is still glossy and brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the lass is much older and fatter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the youth—he's an editor here in the town—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm employed on the staff of the latter.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The place is deserted and still—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the trees on the brow of the hill.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clouds hurry along in undignified haste<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the wind rushes by with a wail—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How I'd like to shut down on his tail!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">LATE NEWS</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Scribner's Monthly</i>, December, 1876]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">In the sanctum I was sitting,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Engaged in thought befitting<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A gentleman of letters—dunning letters, by the way—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When a seedy sort of fellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Middle-aged and rather mellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Then I smiled on him serenely—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the stranger dressed so meanly—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And that the troops in Flanders,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Both privates and commanders,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Had been dealing very freely in profanity of late.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Then the stranger, quite demurely,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Said, "That's interesting, surely;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Though excuse me, sir, for stating<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That the facts you've been narrating<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="YOUNG_E_ALLISON" id="YOUNG_E_ALLISON">YOUNG E. ALLISON</a></h2> + + +<p>Young Ewing Allison, one of the most versatile of the +Kentucky writers of the present school, was born at Henderson, +Kentucky, December 23, 1853. He left school at +an early age to become the "devil" in a Henderson printing +office. At seventeen years of age Mr. Allison was a +newspaper reporter. At different times he has been connected +with <i>The Journal</i>, of Evansville, Indiana; city and +dramatic editor of <i>The Courier-Journal</i>; editor of <i>The +Louisville Commercial</i>; and from 1902 to 1905 he was editor +of <i>The Louisville Herald</i>. Mr. Allison founded <i>The +Insurance Field</i> at Louisville, in 1887, and has since edited +it. He has thus been a newspaper man for more than +forty years; and though always very busy, he has found +time to write fiction, verse, literary criticism, history, and +librettos. In prose fiction Mr. Allison is best known by +three stories: <i>The Passing of Major Kilgore</i>, which was +published as a novelette in <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i> in 1888; +<i>The Longworth Mystery</i> (<i>Century Magazine</i>, October, +1889); and <i>Insurance at Piney Woods</i> (Louisville, 1896). +In half-whimsical literary criticism he has published two +small volumes which are known in many parts of the +world: <i>The Delicious Vice</i> (Cleveland, 1907, first series; +Cleveland, 1909, second series). These papers are "pipe +dreams and adventures of an habitual novel-reader among +some great books and their people." Mr. Allison's libretto,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +<i>The Ogallallas</i>, a romantic opera, was produced by the +Bostonians Opera Company in 1894; and his <i>Brother +Francisco</i>, a libretto of tragic opera, was presented at the +Royal Opera House, Berlin, by order of Emperor William +II. The music to both of these operas was composed +by Mr. Henry Waller, Liszt's distinguished pupil. +In history Mr. Allison has written <i>The City of Louisville +and a Glimpse of Kentucky</i> (Louisville, 1887); and <i>Fire +Underwriting</i> (Louisville, 1907). Of his lyrics, <i>The Derelict</i>, +a completion of the four famous lines in Robert Louis +Stevenson's <i>Treasure Island</i>, has been printed by almost +every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking +world, set to music by Mr. Waller, and an illustrated <i>edition +de luxe</i> has recently appeared. <i>The Derelict</i> and +<i>The Delicious Vice</i> have firmly fixed Mr. Allison's fame.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Confessions of a Tatler</i>, by Elvira M. Slaughter +(Louisville, 1905); letter from Mr. Allison to the writer.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">ON BOARD THE DERELICT</p> + +<p class="center">A Reminiscence of <i>Treasure Island</i></p> + +<p class="center">[From a leaflet edition]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Drink and the devil had done for the rest—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i10">—[<i>Cap'n Billy Bones his song</i>]<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drink and the devil had done for the rest—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bos'n brained with a marlinspike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Cookey's throat was marked belike<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +<span class="i4">It had been gripped<br /></span> +<span class="i6">By fingers ten;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And there they lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">All good dead men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like break-o'-day in a boozin' ken—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fifteen men of a whole ship's list—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead and bedamned, and the rest gone whist!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The skipper lay with his nob in gore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the scullion he was stabbed times four.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And there they lay<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And the soggy skies<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Dreened all day long<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In up-staring eyes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At murk sunset and at foul sunrise—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ten of the crew had the Murder mark—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or a yawing hole in a battered head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the scuppers glut with a rotting red.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And there they lay—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Aye, damn my eyes!—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">All lookouts clapped<br /></span> +<span class="i6">On paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All souls bound just the contra'wise—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fifteen men of 'em good and true—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Every man Jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a ton of plate in the middle hold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the cabins riot of loot untold.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And they lay there<br /></span> +<span class="i6">That had took the plum<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With sightless glare<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And their lips struck dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we shared all by the rule of thumb—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>More was seen through the sternlight screen—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Chartings undoubt where a woman had been—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Or was she wench ...</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Or some shuddering maid...?</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>That dared the knife</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>And that took the blade?...</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drink and the devil had done for the rest—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We wrapp'd 'em all in a mains'l tight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we heaved 'em over and out of sight—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a yo-heave-ho!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And a fare-you-well!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And a sullen plunge<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In the sullen swell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ten-fathoms deep on the road to hell—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!<br /></span> +<hr class="chap" /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h2><a name="HESTER_HIGBEE_GEPPERT" id="HESTER_HIGBEE_GEPPERT">HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert ("Dolly Higbee"), newspaper +woman and novelist, was born near Edina, Missouri, +March 12, 1854. She was the daughter of James +Parker Higbee, a Kentuckian, and his second wife, Martha +Lane (Galleher) Higbee, a woman of Virginian parentage. +Both of Miss Higbee's parents died before she +was fourteen years old, and she came to Lexington, Kentucky, +to live in the family of Dr. Samuel H. Chew, who +had married her half-sister. Dr. Chew's farm was situated +some seven miles from Lexington, and there Miss +Higbee lived for ten years. She was educated in Midway, +Kentucky, and then taught for several years. She detested +teaching and, "in January, 1878, while it was still +quite dark, I stole down stairs with five dollars in my +pocket and such luggage as I could carry in a handbag, +tiptoed into the drizzle and 'lit out.'" The flip of a +nickle determined that her new home should be Louisville, +and to that city she went. Miss Higbee was the first +woman in Kentucky, if not in the South, to adopt journalism +as a profession. The following fourteen years of +her life were spent in the daily grind of newspaperdom, +she having held almost every position on <i>The Courier-Journal</i>, +save that of editor-in-chief. In the four hottest +weeks of the year, and in the brief intervals of leisure she +could snatch from her daily duties, Miss Higbee wrote +her now famous novel, <i>In God's Country</i> (New York, +1890). After the Lippincotts had refused this manuscript, +<i>Belford's Monthly Magazine</i> accepted it by telegram, +paying the author two hundred dollars for it, and +publishing it in the issue for November, 1889; and in the +following May the story appeared in book form. Colonel +Henry Watterson wrote a review of <i>In God's Country</i> +that was afterwards published as an introduction for it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +and this did much to bring the tale into wide notice. Miss +Higbee went to Chicago in 1893 to accept a position on +<i>The Tribune</i>. On April 4, 1894, she was married to Mr. +William Geppert of Atlanta, and the first five years of +their married life were spent at Atlanta. It was during +this time that Mrs. Geppert's best story was written, +<i>Burton's Scoop</i>, one of the first American stories +written upon hypnotism and related phenomena. The +opening chapters of this appeared in the author's little +literary magazine, <i>The Autocrat</i>, which she conducted at +Atlanta for about two years, but it has never been published +in book form. Two musical romances, entitled <i>The +Scherzo in B-Flat Minor</i> (Atlanta, 1895), and <i>Un Ze +Studio</i> (Atlanta, 1895), attracted considerable attention, +and a third was announced as <i>Side Lights</i>, but was never +published. <i>In God's Country</i> was dramatized, with Miss +Catherine Gray cast in the role of <i>Lydia</i>, and opened at +the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, September 5, 1897, +but the work of the playwright and actors was most displeasing +to the author. In 1900 Mr. Geppert became one +of the editors of the New York <i>Musical Courier</i>, and he +and his wife have since resided at Croton-on-the-Hudson. +Mrs. Geppert has abandoned literature, but <i>In God's +Country</i> has given her a permanent place among the writers +of Kentucky.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Confessions of a Tatler</i>, by Elvira M. Slaughter +(Louisville, 1905); <i>Lexington Leader</i> (July 25, 1909).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>In God's Country</i> (New York, 1890)]</p> + +<p>Her hair had come down and was tumbling about her neck; she +whipped it out and caught it back with a hairpin, took up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +guitar, and skirted the shadowy porch to the room over the kitchen. +The window was open and she could see Karl sitting in the +middle of the room with his head bowed upon his hands. She +tapped lightly on the pane. He looked up and saw her standing +in the dim light with the guitar in her hand.</p> + +<p>"Karl," she said, "I want you to sing me that song before you +go—the one you sung me that day for your dinner."</p> + +<p>He came forward and took the instrument. He saw she had +been crying, but the experience of the summer had been so crushing, +he was so subdued by her past behavior, that he did not +dream the tears were for him.</p> + +<p>"You are grieved for someding," he said, with touching sympathy.</p> + +<p>He opened the door and gave her a chair, and, sitting near her +on the sill of the window, began to sing the song with all the tenderness +and pathos his own yearning and bitter disappointment +could put into it. It brought back all the old tumult. She saw +now, when it was too late, that she had overestimated her strength. +When he finished, she was sobbing; and in an instant he was +kneeling by her chair, raising to her a face sad, searching, but +shining with the tremulous glow of a hope just born.</p> + +<p>"You weep. Liebchen, is it for me?"</p> + +<p>She did not answer, but laid a hand gently on his head and +looked at him, with all the pent yearning of her full heart, all +the agony of that long, weary struggle, and all the pathos of defeat +in her eyes. It was no use. At that moment it seemed that +there was nothing else in the world but him. Everything else +was remote, dim, and unreal.</p> + +<p>He clasped her with a fierce, exultant joy.</p> + +<p>"You love me in spite of dis?" he asked, looking down at his +coarse attire. "You love me in spite of dat I am your nigga?"</p> + +<p>"In spite of all," she faltered.</p> + +<p>It was out at last: the crest of victory sank in inglorious surrender. +Her humiliation was his triumph.</p> + +<p>He looked at her with a face radiant, shining with a beauty not +of earth.</p> + +<p>"Liebchen," he whispered, "it is divine."</p> + +<p>"You vill gome mit me to mein gountry?" he asked presently.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>She laid a finger on his lips. "Don't," she said; "I can't bear +it."</p> + +<p>"I vill not be a vagabond in mein own gountry; we vill be very +happy. Gome mit me, Liebchen."</p> + +<p>He would not be a vagabond in his own country. The information +that would have been worth much to her once was +worth nothing now. She scarcely heard it.</p> + +<p>"I can't do that," she said. "You must go, and I must stay +here and do as I have promised; but I wanted to tell you that I +know I have been very cruel, and that I am very sorry. It was +hard for me, too, and I could not trust myself to be kind."</p> + +<p>It seemed but a moment she had been sitting there with his +arms around her and his head upon her breast, but the east was +red and the sun was almost up. Lydia rose wearily. The sense +of defeat, that was more fatiguing than the struggle, clung to +her. "It's time you were gone," she said. He took her hands +in his and asked, with searching earnestness,</p> + +<p>"If you love me, vy vill you not gome mit me?"</p> + +<p>"I can't," she answered, too tired for explanation.</p> + +<p>"Is it your fader?" he asked.</p> + +<p>She nodded, and said good-bye, looking up at him with a tender +glow on her face. The hair streaming about her shoulders +had caught the flame of sunrise like a torch. He stooped and +touched it with his lips as reverently as he would have kissed the +garment of a saint.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="HENRY_C_WOOD" id="HENRY_C_WOOD">HENRY C. WOOD</a></h2> + + +<p>Henry Cleveland Wood, novelist and verse-maker, was +born at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in January, 1855. His +mother was a writer of local reputation. In 1874 Mr. +Wood's poems and stories began to appear in English +and American magazines; and he has continued his work +for them until this day. Seven of his novels have been serialized +by the following publications: <i>Pretty Jack and</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +<i>Ugly Carl</i> (<i>The Courier-Journal</i>); <i>Impress of Seal and +Clay</i> (<i>New York Ledger</i>, in collaboration with his uncle, +Henry W. Cleveland, author of a biography of Alexander +H. Stephens); <i>The Kentucky Outlaw</i>, and <i>Love that Endured</i> +(<i>New York Ledger</i>); <i>Faint Heart and Fair Lady</i> +(<i>The Designer</i>); <i>The Night-Riders</i> (<i>Taylor-Trotwood +Magazine</i>); and <i>Weed and War</i> (<i>The Home and Farm</i>). +Of these only one has been issued in book form, <i>The +Night Riders</i> (Chicago, 1908). This was a tale of love +and adventure, depicting the protest against the toll-gate +system in Kentucky years ago, with a brief inclusion +of the more recent tobacco troubles. Mr. Wood's +verse has been printed in <i>Harper's Weekly</i>, <i>Cosmopolitan</i>, +<i>Ainslee's Magazine</i>, <i>The Smart Set</i>, <i>The Youth's Companion</i>, +and other periodicals. Two of his librettos, <i>The +Sultan's Gift</i> and <i>Amor</i>, have been set to music; and at +least one of his plays has been produced, entitled <i>The +Pretty Shakeress</i>. Mr. Wood conducts a little bookshop +in his native town of Harrodsburg.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Blades o' Blue Grass</i>, by Fannie P. Dickey +(Louisville, 1892); <i>Illustrated Kentuckian</i> (November, 1894).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE WEAVER</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Quiver</i> (London, England)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">The sun climbed up the eastern hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And through the dewy land<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shot gleams that fell athwart the rills<br /></span> +<span class="i3">That sang on every hand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Upon the wood and in the air<br /></span> +<span class="i3">There hung a mystic spell,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And on the green sward, every where,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +<span class="i3">Soft shadows lightly fell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">And in a cottage where the bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of roses on the wall<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Filled all the air, there was a loom<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Well built of oak and tall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">All through the fragrant summer day<br /></span> +<span class="i3">A maiden, blithe and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sat at the loom and worked away,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And hummed a simple air;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh! idle not, ye leafy trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Weave nets of yellow sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And kiss me oft, O! balmy breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">My task is but begun."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Still higher in the hazy sky<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The sun climbed on and on,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And autumn winds came rushing by,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The summer's bloom was gone;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Now sat a mother at the loom,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The shuttle flew along,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With whirr that filled the little room<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Together with her song;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O! shuttle! faster, faster fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For know ye not the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is climbing high across the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And yet my work's not done?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">The sun shot gleams of amber light<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Along the barren ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And shadows of the coming night<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Fell softly all around.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">And in the little cottage room<br /></span> +<span class="i3">From early dawn till night,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A woman sat before the loom<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +<span class="i3">With hair of snowy white.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">The hands were palsied now that threw<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The shuttle to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While as the fabric longer grew<br /></span> +<span class="i3">She sang both sweet and low;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Half hidden in the rosy west<br /></span> +<span class="i3">I see the golden sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And I shall soon begin my rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">My task is almost done!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><hr class="hr2" /> +<span class="i0"><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">The spring again brought joy and bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And kissed each vale and hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But in the little cottage room<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The oaken beam was still.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">The swaying boughs with rays of gold<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Wove nets of yellow sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And cast them where a headstone told—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">The weaver's task was done.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_E_CONNELLEY" id="WILLIAM_E_CONNELLEY">WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY</a></h2> + + +<p>William Elsey Connelley, historian and antiquarian, +was born near Paintsville, Kentucky, March 15, 1855, the +son of a soldier. At the age of seventeen he became a +teacher in his native county of Johnson; and for the following +ten years he continued in that work. John C. C. +Mayo, the mountain millionaire, was one of his pupils. +In April, 1881, Mr. Connelley went to Kansas; and two +years later he was elected clerk of Wyandotte county, of +which Kansas City, Kansas, is the county-seat. In 1888 +he engaged in the lumber business in Missouri; and four +years thereafter he surrendered that business in order<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +to devote himself to his banking interests, which have +hitherto required a considerable portion of his time. In +1905 Mr. Connelley wrote the call for the first meeting +of the oil men of Kansas, which resulted in the organization +of an association that began a crusade upon the +Standard Oil Company, and which subsequently resulted +in the dissolution of that corporation by the Supreme +Court of the United States. This is set down here because +Mr. Connelley is, perhaps, prouder of it than of +of any other thing he has done. He is well-known by +students of Western history, but, of course, his fame as a +writer has not reached the general reader. He is a member +of many historical societies and associations, including +the American, Nebraska, Missouri, Ohio, and Kansas, +of which he was president in 1912. Mr. Connelley has +made extensive investigations into the language and history +of several of the Indian tribes of Kansas, his vocabulary +of the Wyandot tongue being the first one ever written. +He has many original documents pertaining to the +history of eastern Kentucky; and the future historian of +that section of the state cannot proceed far without consulting +his collection. The novelist of the mountains, +John Fox, Jr., has sat at the feet of the historian and +learned of his people. Mr. Connelley lives at Topeka, +Kansas. A complete list of his works is: <i>The Provisional +Government of Nebraska Territory</i> (Topeka, 1899); +<i>James Henry Lane, the Grim Chieftain of Kansas</i> (Topeka, +1899); <i>Wyandot Folk-Lore</i> (Topeka, 1899); <i>Kansas +Territorial Governors</i> (Topeka, 1900); <i>John Brown—the +Story of the Last of the Puritans</i> (Topeka, 1900); <i>The +Life of John J. Ingalls</i> (Kansas City, Missouri, 1903); +<i>Fifty Years in Kansas</i> (Topeka, 1907); <i>The Heckewelder +Narrative</i> (Cleveland, Ohio, 1907), being the narrative of +John G. E. Heckewelder (1743-1823), concerning the mission +of the United Brethren among the Delaware and Mohegan<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +Indians from 1740 to the close of 1808, and the finest +book ever issued by a Western publisher, originally selling +for twenty dollars a copy, but now out of print and +very scarce; <i>Doniphan's Expedition</i> (Topeka, 1907); <i>The +Ingalls of Kansas: a Character Study</i> (Topeka, 1909); +<i>Quantrill and the Border Wars</i> (Cedar Rapids, 1910), one +of his best books; and <i>Eastern Kentucky Papers</i> (Cedar +Rapids, 1910), "the founding of Harman's Station, with +an account of the Indian Captivity of Mrs. Jennie Wiley." +In 1911 Baker University conferred the honorary degree +of A. M. upon him. For the last three years Mr. Connelley +has been preparing a biography of Preston B. Plumb, +United States Senator from Kansas for a generation, +which will be published in 1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913); letters +from Mr. Connelley to the writer.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">KANSAS HISTORY</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>History as an Asset of the State</i> (Topeka, Kansas, 1912)]</p> + +<p>Kansas history is like that of no other State. The difference +is fundamental—not a dissimilarity in historical annals. This +fact has been long recognized. A quarter of a century ago Ware +wrote that—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of all the States, but three will live in story:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Old Massachusetts with her Plymouth Rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And old Virginia with her noble stock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sunny Kansas with her woes and glory.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The south line of Kansas is the modified line between free soil +and slave territory as those divisions existed down to the abolition +of slavery. For almost half a century it was the policy of +the Government to send here the remnants of the Indian tribes +pushed west by our occupation of their country. The purpose +in this was to make the Western prairies the Indian country of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +America and thus prevent its settlement until the slave-power +was ready to utilize it for its peculiar institution. Many things +occurred which had not been counted on, and the country was +forced open before the South was ready to undertake its settlement. +While the crisis was premature, the slave-power entered +upon the contest with confidence. It had never lost a battle in its +conflict with the free-soil portion of the Union, and it expected +to win in Kansas. The struggle was between the two antagonistic +predominant ideas developed in our westward expansion, and +ended in a war which involved the entire nation and threatened +the existence of the Union. Politically, Kansas was the rock +about which the troubled waters surged for ten years. The Republican +party grew largely out of the conditions and influence +of Kansas. When hostilities began the Kansans enlisted in the +armies of the Union in greater proportion to total population +than did the people of any other State. Here the war was extremely +bitter, and in some instances it became an effort for extermination. +Kansas towns were sacked, and non-combatants +were ruthlessly butchered. The border embraced at that time all +the settled portion of the State, and it would be difficult indeed +to make the people of this day comprehend what occurred here. +Kansas was founded in and by a bloody struggle, which, within +her bounds, continued for ten years. No other State ever fought +so well. Kansas was for freedom. She won, and the glory of it +is that the victory gave liberty to America. That is why we +maintain that Kansas history stands alone in interest and importance +in American annals.</p> + +<p>The history of a State is a faithful account of the events of its +formation and development. If the account is set out in sufficient +detail there will be preserved the fine delineations of the +emotions which moved the people. These emotions arise out of +the experiences of the people. And the pioneers fix the lines of +their experiences. They lay the pattern and mark out the way +the State is to go, and this way can never be altered, and can, +moreover, be but slightly modified for all time. These emotions +produce ideals which become universal and the common aim of +the State, and they wield a wonderful influence on its progress, +growth, and achievement. A people devoid of ideals can scarcely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +be found, but ideals differ just as the experiences which produced +the emotions from which they result differed. If there be no +particular principle to be striven for in the founding of a State, +then no ideals will appear, and such as exist among the people +will be found to have come over the lines from other and older +States. Or, if by chance any be developed they will be commonplace +and ordinary, and will leave the people in lethargy and purposeless +so far as the originality of the thought of the State is +concerned. The ideals developed by a fierce struggle for great +principles are lofty, sublime in their conception and intent. The +higher the ideals, the greater the progress; the more eminent the +achievement, the more marked the individuality, the stronger the +characteristics of the people.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="CHARLES_T_DAZEY" id="CHARLES_T_DAZEY">CHARLES T. DAZEY</a></h2> + + +<p>Charles Turner Dazey, author of <i>In Old Kentucky</i>, was +born at Lima, Illinois, August 13, 1855, the son and grandson +of Kentuckians. When a lad the future dramatist +was brought to Kentucky for a visit at the home of his +grandparents in Bourbon county, whom he was to visit +again before returning to Kentucky, in 1872, to enter the +Agricultural and Mechanical College of Kentucky University, +where he studied for a year. In the fall of 1873 +young Dazey matriculated in the Arts College of the University. +Ill-health caused him to miss the following year, +but he returned in 1875 and remained a student in the +University until the summer of 1877. He was a member +of the old Periclean Society, the society of James Lane +Allen and John Fox, Jr., while at the University. When +he left Lexington he lacked two years of graduation. Mr. +Dazey later went to Harvard University, where he was +one of the editors of the <i>Harvard Advocate</i>, and the poet +of his class of 1881. While a Senior at Cambridge he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +begun dramatic composition, and after leaving the University +he became a full-fledged playwright. His plays +include: <i>An American King</i>; <i>That Girl from Texas</i>—first +called <i>A Little Maverick</i>—with Maggie Mitchell in +the title-role; <i>The War of Wealth</i>; <i>The Suburban</i>; <i>Home +Folks</i>; <i>The Stranger</i>, in which Wilton Lackaye played for +two seasons; <i>The Old Flute-Player</i>; and <i>Love Finds a +Way</i>. In collaboration with Oscar Weil Mr. Dazey wrote +<i>In Mexico</i>, a comic opera, produced by The Bostonians; +and with George Broadhurst he wrote two plays: <i>An +American Lord</i>, with William H. Crane as the star; and +<i>The Captain</i>, played by N. C. Goodwin.</p> + +<p>The play by Mr. Dazey in which we are especially interested +here, is, of course, <i>In Old Kentucky</i>, a drama in four +acts, first written to order for Katie Putnam, a soubrette +star, who was very popular a quarter of a century ago. +She, however, did not consider the play suited to her, and +it was then offered to several managers without success, +until it was finally accepted by Jacob Litt. When first +produced by Mr. Litt at St. Paul on August 4, 1892, it had +a most distinguished cast: Julia Arthur, the beautiful, +appeared as <i>Barbara Holton</i>; Louis James as <i>Col. Doolittle</i>; +Frank Losee as <i>Joe Lorey</i>; and Marion Elmore +made a most alluring <i>Madge Brierly</i>. This was only a +trial production, and the play went into the store-house +for a year, when, in August, 1893, it began its first annual +tour at the Bijou Theatre (now the Lyceum), at Pittsburgh. +In that first regular company Bettina Gerard +played <i>Madge</i>; Burt Clark, <i>Col. Doolittle</i>; George Deyo, +<i>Joe Lorey</i>; William McVey, <i>Horace Holton</i>; Harrison J. +Wolfe, <i>Frank Layson</i>; Charles K. French, <i>Uncle Neb</i>; +Edith Athelston, <i>Barbara</i>; and Lottie Winnett was <i>Aunt +Alathea</i>. Mr. Litt and his associate, A. W. Dingwall, +have always mounted <i>In Old Kentucky</i> handsomely, and +this has been an important element in its great success.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +For twenty years this drama of the bluegrass and the +mountains has held the boards, more than seven million +people have seen it, and even to-day it is being produced +almost daily with no signs of loss in popular interest. It +is the only play Mr. Dazey has written with a Kentucky +background, and it would be "a hazard of new fortunes" +for him to attempt to do so; he could hardly improve upon +his masterpiece. In 1897 Mr. Litt had a small edition of <i>In +Old Kentucky</i> privately printed from the prompt-books; +and in 1910 Mr. Dazey collaborated with Edward Marshall +in a novelization of the play, which was published as an attractive +romance by the G. W. Dillingham Company, of +New York. With Mr. Marshall he also novelized <i>The Old +Flute-Player</i> (New York, 1910). Mr. Dazey has recently +dramatized <i>Fran</i>, John Breckinridge Ellis's popular novel; +and at the present time he is engaged upon a new play, +which he thinks, promises better than anything he has so +far written. Mr. Dazey was in Kentucky several times between +1877 and 1898, the date of his most recent visit, at +which time he found John Fox, Jr., giving one of his inevitable +readings in Lexington, and James Lane Allen +looking for the last time, mayhap, upon the scenes of his +books. He spent several weeks with friends and relatives +near Paris; and, like all good Kentuckians, he +"hopes to revisit the dear old state in the near future." +Mr. Dazey has an attractive home at Quincy, Illinois.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Who's Who in the Theatre</i>, by John Porter +(Boston, 1912); letters from Mr. Dazey to the writer.</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>In Old Kentucky</i> (1897)]</p> + +<p><i>Act III, Scene IV. The exterior of the race-track. Fence, tree, +etc.</i></p> + +<blockquote><p><i>Colonel.</i> (<i>Enter L.</i>) I didn't go in. I kept my word, though +it nearly finished me. (<i>Shouts heard.</i>) They're bringing out +the horses. (<i>Looks through knot-hole.</i>) I can't see worth a +cent. It's not hole enough for me. To Hades with dignity! +I'll inspect that tree. (<i>Goes to tree; puts arm around it.</i>)</p></blockquote> + +<p>[<i>Enter</i> Alathea, <i>R.</i>]</p> + +<blockquote><p><i>Alathea.</i> (<i>Pauses, R. C.</i>) Everyone's at the races. I'm perfectly +safe. There is that blessed knot-hole. (<i>Goes to hole; +looks through.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> (<i>Comes from behind tree; sees Alathea.</i>) A woman, by +all that's wonderful—a woman at my knot-hole. (<i>Approaches.</i>) +Madam! (<i>Lays hand on her shoulder.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> (<i>Indignantly.</i>) Sir! (<i>Turns.</i>) Col. Sundusky Doolittle!</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> Miss Alathea Layson! (<i>Bus. bows.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Colonel, what are you all doing here?</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> Madam, what are you all doing here?</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Colonel, I couldn't wait to hear the result.</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> No more could I.</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> But I didn't enter the race-track.</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> I was equally firm.</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Neb. told me of the knot-hole.</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> The rascal, he told me, too!</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Colonel, we must forgive each other. If you really +must look, there is the knot-hole.</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> No, Miss Lethe, I resign the knot-hole to you. I shall +climb the tree.</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> (<i>As Colonel climbs tree.</i>) Be careful, Colonel, don't +break your neck, but get where you can see.</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> (<i>Up tree.</i>) Ah, what a gallant sight! There's Catalpa, +Evangeline—and there's Queen Bess! (<i>Shouts heard.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> What's that? (<i>To tree.</i>)</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> A false start. They'll make it this time. (<i>Shouts heard.</i>) +They're off—off! Oh, what a splendid start!</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Who's ahead? Who's ahead? (<i>To tree.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well back.</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front? Oh, if I +were only on that mare. (<i>Back to fence.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> At the half, Evangeline takes the lead—Catalpa next—the +rest bunched. Oh, great heavens!—(<i>Lethe to tree.</i>)—there's +a foul—a jam—and Queen Bess is left behind ten +lengths! She hasn't the ghost of a show! Look! (<i>Lethe +back to tree.</i>) She's at it again. But she can't make it up. +It's beyond anything mortal. And yet she's gaining—gaining!</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> (<i>Bus.</i>) Keep it up—keep it up!</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> At the three quarters; she's only five lengths behind the +leader, and gaining still!</p> + +<p><i>Alathea.</i> (<i>Bus.</i>) Oh, push!—push!—I can't stand it! I've +got to see! (<i>Climbs tree.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Col.</i> Coming up, Miss Lethe! All right, don't break your neck, +but get where you can see. In the stretch. Her head's at +Catalpa's crupper—now her saddle-bow, but she can't gain +another inch! But look—look! she lifts her—and, Great +Scott! she wins!</p></blockquote> + +<p>(<i>As he speaks, flats forming fence are drawn. Horses dash +past, Queen Bess in the lead. Drop at back shows grand stand, +with fence in front of same. Spectators back of fence.</i> Neb. <i>and</i> +Frank. <i>Band playing "Dixie."</i> Holton <i>standing near, chagrined.</i> +Col. <i>waves hat and</i> Alathea <i>handkerchief, in tree. Spectators +shout.</i>)</p> + +<p>(<i>For second curtain</i>, Madge <i>returns on Queen Bess</i>. Col. <i>and</i> +Alathea <i>down from tree and passing near. Other horses enter +as curtain falls.</i>)</p> + +<p class="center">[<i>Curtain</i>]</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_P_FRUIT" id="JOHN_P_FRUIT">JOHN P. FRUIT</a></h2> + + +<p>John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was +born at Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He +was graduated from Bethel College, Russellville, Kentucky, +in 1878, after which he became a teacher. For +two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty College, +Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was +professor of English in his <i>alma mater</i>, Bethel College. +In 1895 the University of Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. +degree; and three years later he was elected to the chair +of English in William Jewell College, Liberty, Missouri, +which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an edition +of Milton's <i>Lycidas</i> (Boston, 1894), and this was +followed by his edition of Coleridge's <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> +(Boston, 1899). Both of these little volumes have +been used in many schools and colleges. Dr. Fruit devoted +many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and +his works, and his researches he brought together in +<i>The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry</i> (New York, 1899). +This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost place among the +Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially recognized +by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, +and it has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the +present time Dr. Fruit is engaged in a comprehensive +study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his pamphlet, entitled +<i>Hawthorne's Immitigable</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, n. d.), +having attracted a deal of attention.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913); letters +from Prof. Fruit to the writer.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry</i> (New York, 1899)]</p> + +<p>Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme +without reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +some of Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes +singing "in the cotton and the corn." So much sound +makes us suspicious of the sense, but a little closer ear appreciates +delicate and telling onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels +join hands in sweetest fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of +harmony."</p> + +<p>As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been +trifling with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote <i>The Bells</i>.</p> + +<p>The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones +of the bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person +to our souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin +humanizes the sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, +sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together; +almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, +almost divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal +in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of chastisement or of +blessing to what is mortal is essential."</p> + +<p>Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he +never humanized the notes of a musical instrument....</p> + +<p>He took the common bells,—the more praise for his artistic +judgment,—and rang them through all the diapason of human +sentiment.</p> + +<p>If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression +and conception, in the previously considered poems, than +really exists, there can be no doubt on that point, even to the +mind of the wayfaring man, in reading <i>The Bells</i>.</p> + +<p>If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let +the variety of topic in <i>The Bells</i> protest.</p> + +<p>Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest +verification in <i>The Bells</i>. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," +led him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly +simple; that "one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; +nine-tenths, however, appertain to the mathematics; and the +whole is included within the limits of the commonest common-sense."</p> + +<p>It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic +discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and +nowhere with more skill than in <i>The Bells</i>. It is the climax of +his art on its technical side.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> + +<p>Read the poem and think back over the course of the development +of poet's art-instincts.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="HARRISON_ROBERTSON" id="HARRISON_ROBERTSON">HARRISON ROBERTSON</a></h2> + + +<p>Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, +and now a well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, +Tennessee, January 16, 1856. He was educated at +the University of Virginia, after which he settled at +Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker, +and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position +on <i>The Courier-Journal</i>, being managing editor at +the present time. He won his first fame with a Kentucky +racing story, the best one ever written, entitled <i>How the +Derby Was Won</i>, which was originally published in <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i> for August, 1889. Ten years later his +first long novel, <i>If I Were a Man</i> (New York, 1899), "the +story of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed +by <i>Red Blood and Blue</i> (New York, 1900); <i>The Inlander</i> +(New York, 1901); <i>The Opponents</i> (New York, +1902); and his most recent novel, <i>The Pink Typhoon</i> +(New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit. +In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some +of the very cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the +most part, that has ever been done by a Kentucky hand; +but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and the Muse. The +writer has always held that our literature lost a charming +poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson +changed literary steads, although his <i>How the Derby +Was Won</i> must not be forgotten. Now, however, he has +given up the literary life for the daily grind of a great +newspaper; and he may never publish another poem or +novel. More's the pity!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p><blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Book Buyer</i> (April, 1900; April, 1901); +<i>Scribner's Magazine</i> (October, 1907); <i>The Bookman</i> (December, +1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">TWO TRIOLETS<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A Vers de Socíeté Anthology</i>, by Caroline Wells (New York, 1907)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i18">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i13">What He Said:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This kiss upon your fan I press—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And may it from its soft recess—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This kiss upon your fan I press—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be blown to you, a shy caress,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By this white down, whene'er you use it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This kiss upon your fan I press—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you <i>don't</i> refuse it!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i19">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i12">What She Thought:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To kiss a fan!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What a poky poet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stupid man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To kiss a fan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he knows that—he—can—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or ought to know it—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To kiss a <i>fan</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What a poky poet!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">STORY OF THE GATE</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the maple, it was hinged—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +<span class="i2">The little wooden gate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas there within the quiet gloam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I had strolled with Nelly home,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I used to pause and wait.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Before I said to her good-night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Within the garden's pale;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there, the gate between us two,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We'd linger as all lovers do,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And lean upon the rail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And face to face, eyes close to eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">After a stealthy quest,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I'd grow drunken from the sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tuebrose upon her breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We'd talk—in fitful style, I ween—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With many a meaning glance between<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The tender words and low;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some idle gossip we'd repeat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then I'd move to go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Good-night," I'd say; "good-night—good-by!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Good-night"—from her with half a sigh—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Good-night!" "<i>Good</i>-night!" And then—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then I do <i>not</i> go, but stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again lean on the railing, and—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Begin it all again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! that was many a day ago—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That pleasant summer-time—although<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The gate is standing yet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little cranky, it may be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little weather-worn—like me—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Who never can forget<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The happy—"End?" My cynic friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pray save your sneers—there was no "end."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Watch yonder chubby thing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is our youngest, hers and mine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See how he climbs, his legs to twine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">About the gate and swing.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="INGRAM_CROCKETT" id="INGRAM_CROCKETT">INGRAM CROCKETT</a></h2> + + +<p>Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed +as one of the most exquisite poets of Nature yet born in +Kentucky, first saw the light at Henderson, Kentucky, +February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett, was +a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a +member of the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. +Ingram Crockett was educated in the schools of his native +town, but he never went to college. For many years past +Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank, +Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not +seared the spirit of song within his soul. In 1888 he began +his literary career by editing, with the late Charles J. +O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and critic, <i>Ye Wassail +Bowle</i>, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and +prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, +entitled <i>The Port of Pleasant Dreams</i> (Henderson, 1892), +was followed by a long poem, <i>Rhoda, an Easter Idyl</i>. The +first large collection of his lyrics was <i>Beneath Blue Skies +and Gray</i> (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet +friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a +true interpreter of many-mooded Nature. <i>A Year Book +of Kentucky Woods and Fields</i> (Buffalo, New York, +1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent writing. A +story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, <i>A +Brother of Christ</i> (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +only novel, and it was not overly successful. <i>The Magic +of the Woods and Other Poems</i> (Chicago, 1908), is his +most recent volume of verse. "It contains poems as big +as the world," one enthusiastic critic exclaimed, but it has +not brought the author the larger recognition that he so +richly deserves. This work surely contains Mr. Crockett's +best work so far. One does not have to travel far in +any direction in Kentucky in order to find many persons +declaring that Ingram Crockett is the finest poet living +in the state to-day. His latest book, <i>The Greeting and +Goodbye of the Birds</i> (New York, 1912), is a small volume +of prose-pastels, somewhat after the manner of his +<i>Year Book</i>. It again reveals the author's close companionship +with Nature, and his exquisite expression of +what it all means to him.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Blades o' Blue Grass</i>, by Fannie P. Dickey +(Louisville, 1892); <i>The Courier-Journal</i> (August 3, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">AUDUBON<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Beneath Blue Skies and Gray</i> (New York, 1898)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not with clash of arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not 'midst war's alarms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy splendid work was done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy great victory won.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Unknown, thro' field and brake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By calm or stormy lake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lured by swift passing wings—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Songs that a new world sings—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou didst untiring go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Led by thine ardor's glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cheered by thy kindling thought<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Beauty thy hand had wrought.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leaving thy matchless page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gift to a later age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That would revere thy name—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Build for thee, surely fame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, to have been with thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that wild life and free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While all the birds passed by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the new world sky!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, to have heard the song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that glad-hearted throng,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere yet the settlers came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Giving the woods to flame!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, to have with thee gone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up the white steps of Dawn!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or where the burning west<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crimsoned the wild drake's breast!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet better than bays we bring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are the woods whispering<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When life and leaf are new<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the tender blue!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Master, awake! for May<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes on her rainbowed way—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear thou bird-song again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweeter than praise of men!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">THE LONGING<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems</i> (Chicago, 1908)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +<span class="i2"><i>But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over and over again one day as the day before—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what does it all avail and the end of it—where?<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That e'en as we grasp it dulls—dust of the dust at last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead?<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place?<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">DEAREST</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ELIZA_CALVERT_OBENCHAIN" id="ELIZA_CALVERT_OBENCHAIN">ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Eliza Calvert Obenchain, ("Eliza Calvert Hall"), +creator of <i>Aunt Jane of Kentucky</i>, was born at Bowling +Green, Kentucky, February 11, 1856; and she has lived in +that little city all her life. Miss Calvert was educated in +the private schools of her town, and then spent a year at +"The Western," a woman's college near Cincinnati, +Ohio. Her first poems appeared in the old <i>Scribner's</i>, +when John G. Holland was the editor; and her first prose +papers were published in <i>Kate Field's Washington</i>. She +was married to Professor William A. Obenchain, of Ogden +College, Bowling Green, on July 8, 1885, and four +children have been born to them. <i>Aunt Jane of Kentucky</i> +(Boston, 1907), the memories of an old lady done +into short stories, opens with one of the best tales ever +written by an American woman, entitled <i>Sally Ann's Experience</i>. +This charming prose idyl first appeared in the +<i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i>, for July, 1898, since which time +it has been cordially commended by former President +Roosevelt, has been reprinted in <i>Cosmopolitan</i>, <i>The +Ladies' Home Journal</i>, and many other magazines, read +by many public speakers, and finally issued as a single +book in an illustrated <i>edition de luxe</i> (Boston, 1910). +Many of the other stories in <i>Aunt Jane of Kentucky</i> are +very fine, but <i>Sally Ann</i> is far and away superior to any +of them. Mrs. Obenchain's <i>The Land of Long Ago</i> (Boston, +1909), was another collection of Aunt Jane stories. +<i>To Love and to Cherish</i> (Boston, 1911), is the author's +first and latest novel. Upon these four volumes Mrs. +Obenchain's fame rests secure, but <i>Sally Ann's Experience</i> +will be read and enjoyed when her other books have +been forgotten. She struck a universal truth in this little +tale, and the world will not willingly let it die. Her +most recent work is a <i>A Book of Hand-Woven Coverlets</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +(Boston, 1912), a large and delightful volume on coverlet +collecting and the study of coverlet making.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> (July, 1908); <i>The Bookman</i> +(October, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">"SWEET DAY OF REST"<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Aunt Jane of Kentucky</i> (Boston, 1907)]</p> + +<p>"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin' +Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a +long time, and the church'd been takin' things easy, and finally +they got a new preacher from down in Tennessee, and the first +thing he did was to draw lines around 'em close and tight about +keepin' Sunday. Some o' the members had been in the habit o' +havin' their wood chopped on Sunday. Well, as soon as the new +preacher come, he said that Sunday wood-choppin' had to cease +amongst his church-members or he'd have 'em up before the session. +I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd have his wood +chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' wood +carried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long in +the cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty +soon they got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread +'way out into the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan +was one o' the first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, +he told about the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to +be forgiven for breakin' the Sabbath day.</p> + +<p>"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone +by the town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on +the Fourth Commandment and all about that pore man that was +stoned to death for pickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. +And Sam Amos, he says after meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my +opinion that that man was a industrious, enterprisin' feller that +was probably pickin' up kindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, +and,' says he, 'if they wanted to stone anybody to death they +better 'a' picked out some lazy, triflin' feller that didn't have +energy enough to work Sunday or any other day.' Sam always +would have his say, and nothin' pleased him better'n to talk back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +to the preachers and git the better of 'em in a argument. I +ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the Mite Society, +and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrong +thing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intended +for anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for +them to keep the Sabbath day holy, but,' says she, 'the Lord don't +rain down manna in my yard. And,' says she, 'men can stop +plowin' and plantin' on Sunday, but they don't stop eatin', and +as long as men have to eat on Sunday, women'll have to work.'</p> + +<p>"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and +these very preachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath +day holy, they'll walk down out of their pulpits and set +down at some woman's table and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits +and corn bread and five or six kinds o' vegetables, and +never think about the work it took to git the dinner, to say +nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after.'</p> + +<p>"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but +Abram; I reckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to +own it, but"—here her voice fell to a confessional key—"I never +did like Sunday till I begun to git old. And the way Sunday +used to be kept, it looks to me like anybody could 'a' been expected +to like it but old folks and lazy folks. You see, I never +was one o' these folks that's born tired. I loved to work. I +never had need of any more rest than I got every night when +I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day's work. +I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishing' for rest, but, honey, +all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough +to do it.' And when a person looks at all the things there is +to be done in this world, they won't feel like restin' when they +ain't tired.</p> + +<p>"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself +Sunday and every other day; and I ricollect I used to be +right glad when any o' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and +send for me to help nurse 'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' +necessity, and mercy, too. And then, child, the Lord don't ever +rest. The Bible says He rested on the seventh day when He got +through makin' the world, and I reckon that was rest enough +for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundays jest the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, and +the wind blows and He does it all."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'For still the Lord is Lord of might;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In deeds, in deeds He takes delight,'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I said.</p> + +<p>"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any +religion in restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy +in his sight as rest."</p> + +<p>Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun +was sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were +darting and twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds +rose from a huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, +and darkened the sky for a moment in their flight to the cedars +that were their nightly resting place. Gradually the mist +changed from amethyst to rose, and the poorest object shared +in the transfiguration of the sunset hour.</p> + +<p>Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common +days, between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, +and his life, his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities +of birth and death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning +and evening skies, what glory of thought and deed should each +day hold! What celestial dreams and vitalizing sleep should +fill our nights! For why should day be more magnificent than +life?</p> + +<p>As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment +slowly faded. The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at +hand; and in the shadowy hour between the two hovered the +benediction of that peace which "passeth all understanding."</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="KATE_SLAUGHTER_McKINNEY" id="KATE_SLAUGHTER_McKINNEY">KATE SLAUGHTER McKINNEY</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Kate Slaughter McKinney ("Katydid"), poet and +novelist, was born at London, Kentucky, February 6, +1857. She was graduated from Daughters', now Beaumont, +College, Harrodsburg, Kentucky, when John Augustus +Williams was president. On May 7, 1878, Miss +Slaughter was married at Richmond, Kentucky, to James +I. McKinney, now superintendent of the Louisville and +Nashville railroad. Mrs. McKinney's best work is to be +found in her first book of verse, <i>Katydid's Poems</i> (Louisville, +1887). This slender volume was extravagantly praised +by the late Charles J. O'Malley, but it did contain several +lyrics of much merit, especially "The Little Face," a +lovely bit of verse surely. Mrs. McKinney's first novel, +<i>The Silent Witness</i> (New York, 1907), was followed by <i>The +Weed by the Wall</i> (Boston, 1911). Both of these works +prove that the author's gift is of the muses, and not of the +gods of the "six best sellers." Neither of her novels +was overly successful, making one wish she had held +fast to her earlier love, verse-making. Besides these +three volumes, Mrs. McKinney has published a group of +songs which have attracted attention. She resides at +Montgomery, Alabama.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Blades o' Bluegrass</i>, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, +1892); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A LITTLE FACE<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Katydid's Poems</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, 1887)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little face to look at,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A little face to kiss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there anything, I wonder,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +<span class="i2">That's half so sweet as this?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little cheek to dimple<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When smiles begin to grow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little mouth betraying<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which way the kisses go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A slender little ringlet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A rosy little ear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little chin to quiver<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When falls the little tear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little face to look at,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A little face to kiss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there anything, I wonder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That's half so sweet as this?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little hand so fragile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All through the night to hold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two little feet so tender<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To tuck in from the cold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Two eyes to watch the sunbeam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That with the shadow plays—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A darling little baby<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To kiss and love always.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="CHARLES_J_OMALLEY" id="CHARLES_J_OMALLEY">CHARLES J. O'MALLEY</a></h2> + + +<p>Charles J. O'Malley, the George D. Prentice of modern +Kentucky literature, the praiser extraordinary and +quite indiscriminately of all things literary done by +Kentucky hands, and withal a poet of distinguished ability, +was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, February 9, +1857. Through his father O'Malley was related to Father +Abram J. Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +and his mother was of Spanish descent. He was educated +at Cecilian College, in Hardin county, Kentucky, and at +Spring Hill, a Jesuit institution near Mobile, Alabama, +from which he returned to Kentucky and made his home +for some years at Henderson. His contributions in prose +and verse to the newspapers of southwest Kentucky made +him well-known in the State. A series of prose papers +included <i>Summer in Kentucky</i>, <i>By Marsh and Pool</i>, and +<i>The Poets and Poetry of Southwest Kentucky</i>, attracted +much favorable comment. His finest poem, <i>Enceladus</i>, +appeared in <i>The Century Magazine</i> for February, 1892, +and much of his subsequent work was published in that +periodical. In 1893 O'Malley removed to Mt. Vernon, +Indiana, to become editor of <i>The Advocate</i>, a Roman +Catholic periodical. His first and best known book, <i>The +Building of the Moon and Other Poems</i> (Mt. Vernon, +Indiana, 1894), brought together his finest work in verse. +From this time until his death he was an editor of Roman +Catholic publications and a contributor of poems to <i>The +Century</i>, <i>Cosmopolitan</i>, and other high-class magazines. +For several years O'Malley was editor of <i>The Midland +Review</i>, of Louisville, and this was the best periodical +he ever edited. Many of the now well-known writers of +the South and West got their first things printed in <i>The +Review</i>. It did a real service for Kentucky authors especially. +During his later life O'Malley seemed to realize +that he had devoted far too much time in praising the literary +labors of other writers, and he turned most of his +attention to creative work, which was making him better +known with the appearance of each new poem. O'Malley +may be ranked with John Boyle O'Reilly, the Boston editor +and poet, and he loses nothing by comparison with +him. He was ever a Roman Catholic poet, and his religion +marred the beauty of much of his best work. Besides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +<i>The Building of the Moon</i>, O'Malley published <i>The Great +White Shepherd of Christendom</i> (Chicago, 1903), which +was a large life of Pope Leo XIII; and <i>Thistledrift</i> (Chicago, +1909), a little book of poems and prose pastels. For +several years prior to his passing, he planned a complete +collection of his poems to be entitled <i>Songs of Dawn</i>, but +he did not live to finish this work. At the time of his +death, which occurred at Chicago, March 26, 1910, O'Malley +was editor of <i>The New World</i>, a Catholic weekly. Today +he lies buried near his Kentucky birthplace with no +stone to mark the spot.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Century Magazine</i> (October, 1907); <i>The +New World</i> (Chicago, April 2, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">ENCELADUS<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Building of the Moon and Other Poems</i> (Mount Vernon, Indiana, +1894)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall arise; I am not weak; I feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A strength within me worthy of the gods—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A strength that will not pass in gray despair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ten million years I have lain thus, supine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the slow centuries have heard me groan<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In passing, and not one has pitied me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This mighty horror fixed upon my chest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And have not eased me of a moment's pain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, I will rise again—I will shake off<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo, prone in darkness I have gathered hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the great waters walking speaking by!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +<span class="i0">These unto me give mercy, thus forshown:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"We are the servants of a mightier Lord<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We go forth at His bidding, laying bare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mighty base of unborn continents.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old earth, when it hath fulfilled His will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fuller life, and like unto God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fills the new races struggling on the globe.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mighty order from the deep breaks up<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all her parts, and only Night remains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all her starts that minister to God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sits sublimely, shaping as He wills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Creating always." These things do they speak.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To mournful cloisters of the under-world;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These things, and more, the waters say to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How this old earth shall change, and its life pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And be renewed from fathomless within;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How other forms, and likelier to God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that far time, when He hath wrought His plan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall the new globe inherit, and like us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of ours—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or of our dust again made animate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These things to me; yet still his curse remains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His burden presses on me. God! thou God!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Who wast before the dawn, give ear to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the earth crumbles, plunging to the void<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all its shrieking peoples!—Let it fall!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let it be sown as ashes underneath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The base of all the continents to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forever, if so rent I shall be freed!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through all its massive frame, and know His hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again doth labor shaping out His plan.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, I shall have all patience, trust and calm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On their broad wings, release from this deep hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that I shall have life yet upon earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And meet the living races face to face.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">NOON IN KENTUCKY</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All day from the tulip-poplar boughs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chewink's voice like a gold-bell rings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The meadow-lark pipes to the drowsy cows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the oriole like a red rose swings,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And clings, and swings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shaking the noon from his burning wings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A flash of purple within the brake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The red-bud burns, where the spice-wood blows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the brook laughs low where the white dews shake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drinking the wild-haw's fragrant snows,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And flows, and goes<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Under the feet of the wet, wood-rose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Odors of may-apples blossoming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And violets stirring and blue-bells shaken—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shadows that start from the thrush's wing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And float on the pools, and swim and waken—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Unslaken, untaken—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bronze wood-Naiads that wait forsaken.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All day the lireodendron droops<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the thickets her moons of gold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All day the cumulous dogwood groups<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flake the mosses with star-snows cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">While gold untold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The oriole pours from his song-thatched hold!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Carol of love, all day in the thickets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Redbird; warble, O thrush, of pain!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pipe me of pity, O raincrow, hidden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep in the wood! and, lo! the refrain<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of pain, again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall out of the bosom of heaven bring rain!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="LANGDON_SMITH" id="LANGDON_SMITH">LANGDON SMITH</a></h2> + + +<p>Langdon ("Denver") Smith, maker of a very clever and +learned poem, was born in Kentucky, January 4, 1858. +From 1864 to 1872 he attended the public schools of Louisville. +As a boy Smith served in the Comanche and +Apache Wars, and he was later a correspondent in the +Sioux War. In 1894 Smith was married to Marie Antoinette +Wright, whom he afterwards memorialized in his +famous poem, and who survived him but five weeks. In +the year following his marriage, he went to Cuba for <i>The +New York Herald</i> to "cover" the conflict between Spain +and Cuba; and three years later he represented the New +York <i>Journal</i> during the Spanish-American War. Smith<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +was at the bombardment of Santiago and at the battles of +El Caney and San Juan. After the war he returned to +New York, in which city he died, April 8, 1908. He was +the author of a novel, called <i>On the Pan Handle</i>, and of +many short stories, but his poem, <i>Evolution</i>, made him +famous. The first stanzas of this poem were written in +1895; and four years later he wrote several more stanzas. +Then from time to time he added a line or more, until it +was completed. <i>Evolution</i> first appeared in its entirety +in the middle of a page of want advertisements in the New +York <i>Journal</i>. It attracted immediate and wide notice, +but copies of it were rather difficult to obtain until it was +reprinted in <i>The Scrap-Book</i> for April, 1906, and in <i>The +Speaker</i> for September, 1908.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Evolution, a Fantasy</i> (Boston, 1909), is a beautiful +and fitting setting for this famous poem. In the introduction +to this edition Mr. Lewis Allen Browne brings together +the facts of Langdon Smith's life and work with many +fine words of criticism for the poem. In 1911 W. A. Wilde +and Company, the Boston publishers, issued an exquisite edition +of <i>Evolution</i>. Thus it will be seen that Smith and his +masterpiece have received proper recognition from the publishers +and the public; the judgment of posterity cannot be +hurried; but that judgment can be anticipated, at least in +part. That it will be favorable, characterizing <i>Evolution</i> as +one of the cleverest, smartest things done by a nineteenth century +American poet, the present writer does not for a moment +doubt.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">EVOLUTION<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Evolution, a Fantasy</i> (Boston, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When you were a tadpole and I was a fish,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the Paleozoic time.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And side by side on the ebbing tide<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We sprawled through the ooze and slime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or skittered with many a caudal flip<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart was rife with the joy of life,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For I loved you even then.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mindless we lived and mindless we loved,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And mindless at last we died;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And deep in a rift of the Caradoc drift<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We slumbered side by side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world turned on in the lathe of time,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The hot lands heaved amain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And crept into light again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">III<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And drab as a dead man's hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or trailed through the mud and sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Writing a language dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With never a spark in the empty dark<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To hint at a life to come.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i22">IV<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And happy we died once more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a Neocomian shore.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The eons came, and the eons fled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the sleep that wrapped us fast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was riven away in a newer day,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +<span class="i2">And the night of death was past.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i24">V<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then light and swift through the jungle trees<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We swung in our airy flights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the hush of the moonless nights.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oh! what beautiful years were these,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When our hearts clung each to each;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When life was filled, and our senses thrilled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the first faint dawn of speech.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i25">VI<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus life by life, and love by love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We passed through the cycles strange,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And breath by breath, and death by death,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We followed the chain of change.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till there came a time in the law of life<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When over the nursing sod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shadows broke, and the soul awoke<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a strange, dim dream of God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23">VII<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I was thewed like an Auroch bull,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tusked like the great Cave Bear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you, my sweet, from head to feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were gowned in your glorious hair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the night fell o'er the plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the moon hung red o'er the river bed.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We mumbled the bones of the slain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i24">VIII<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shaped it with brutish craft;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I broke a shank from the woodland dank,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And fitted it, head and haft.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the Mammoth came to drink;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And slew him upon the brink.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i22">IX<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loud answered our kith and kin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From west and east to the crimson feast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The clan came trooping in.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We fought, and clawed and tore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cheek by jowl, with many a growl,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We talked the marvel o'er.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i25">X<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I carved that fight on a reindeer bone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With rude and hairy hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I pictured his fall on the cavern wall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That men might understand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For we lived by blood, and the right of might,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ere human laws were drawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Age of Sin did not begin<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till our brutal tusks were gone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i22">XI<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And that was a million years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a time that no man knows;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet here to-night in the mellow light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We sit at Delmonico's;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your eyes are as deep as the Devon springs,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your hair is as dark as jet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your years are few, your life is new,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Your soul untried, and yet—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i22">XII<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And deep in the Coraline crags;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our love is old, our lives are old,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And death shall come amain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should it come to-day, what man may say<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We shall not live again?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i22">XIII<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And furnished them wings to fly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I know that it shall not die;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though cities have sprung above the graves<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the crook-boned men made war,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the mummied mammoths are.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23">XIV<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then as we linger at luncheon here,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O'er many a dainty dish,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us drink anew to the time when you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="WILL_J_LAMPTON" id="WILL_J_LAMPTON">WILL J. LAMPTON</a></h2> + + +<p>William James Lampton ("Will J. Lampton"), founder +of the "Yawp School of Poetry," was born in Lawrence +county, Ohio, May 27, 185-, within sight of the Kentucky +line. (Being a bachelor, like Henry Cleveland Wood, he +has hitherto declined to herald the exact date of his birth.) +His parents were Kentuckians and at the age of three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +years he was brought to this State. His boyhood and +youth was spent in the hills of Kentucky. He was fitted +at private schools in Ashland and Catletsburg, Kentucky, +for Ohio Wesleyan University, which he left for Marietta +College. In 1877 Mr. Lampton established the <i>Weekly +Review</i>—spelled either way!—at Ashland, Kentucky. +Although he had had no prior training in journalism, he +wrote eleven columns for his first issue. His was a Republican +sheet, and the good Democrats of Boyd county +saw to it that it survived not longer than a year. From +Ashland Mr. Lampton went to Cincinnati and joined the +staff of <i>The Times</i>. <i>The Times</i> was too rapid for him, however, +and from Cincinnati he journeyed to Steubenville, +Ohio, to take a position on <i>The Herald</i>. Mr. Lampton remained +on that paper for three years, when he again came +to Kentucky to join the staff of the Louisville <i>Courier-Journal</i>. +Some time later his paper sent him to Cincinnati, +which marked his retirement from Kentucky journalism. +It will thus be seen that he "lapsed out of Kentucky for a +time, and lapsed again at the close of 1882." Leaving +Cincinnati he went to Washington and originated the now +well-known department of "Shooting Stars" for <i>The +Evening Star</i>. For some years past he has resided in +New York, working as a "free-lance." For a long time +he contributed a poem almost every day to <i>The Sun</i>, <i>The +World</i>, or some other paper. In 1910 the governor of +Kentucky created the poet a real Kentucky colonel; and +this momentous elevation above earth's common mortals +is heralded to-day upon his stationery. Colonel Lampton, +then, has published six books, the editions of three of which +are exhausted, and he is now happy to think that his +works are "rare, exceedingly scarce." The first of them, +<i>Mrs. Brown's Opinions</i> (New York, 1886), was followed +by his chief volume hitherto, <i>Yawps and Other Things</i> +(Philadelphia, 1900). The "other things" were poems,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +not yawps. Colonel Henry Watterson contributed a clever +introduction to the attractive volume; and another form +of verse was born and clothed. <i>The Confessions of a Husband</i> +(New York, 1903), was a slight offset to Mary +Adams's <i>The Confessions of a Wife</i>. Colonel Lampton's +other books are: <i>The Trolley Car and the Lady</i> (Boston, +1908), being "a trolley trip from Manhattan to Maine;" +<i>Jedge Waxem's Pocket-Book of Politics</i> (New York, +1908), which was "owned by Jedge Wabash Q. Waxem, +Member of Congress from Wayback," bound in the form +of an actual pocket-book; and his latest collection of cleverness, +<i>Tame Animals I Have Known</i> (New York, 1912). +The tall—and bald!—Kentuckian lives at the French +Y. M. C. A., New York, in order, as he himself has said, +"to give a Parisian tinge to his religion." His "den" is +a delight to Bohemians, a replica of many a country newspaper +office in Kentucky. He is one of the joys of life +surely. And though he has turned out almost as much +as Miss Braddon, he can recall but the four lines he wrote +in 1900 upon Mr. James Lane Allen:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The Reign of Law"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Well, Allen, you're lucky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's the first time it ever<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rained law in Kentucky.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (September, 1900); <i>The Bookman</i> +(May, 1902); <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> (November, 1907); <i>Lippincott's +Magazine</i> (August, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THESE DAYS<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Pearson's Magazine</i> (April, 1907)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What is it to-day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it should be worse than the early days?<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Are the modern ways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Darker for all the light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the years have shed?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the right<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the wheels of progress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the side of the road to success,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bleeding and bruised and broken,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Left in forgetfulness?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is truth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stronger in youth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than in age? Does it grow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeble with years, and move slow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the path that leads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the world's needs?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Does man reach up or down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To take the victor's crown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of progress in science, art and commerce?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all the works that plan<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And purpose to accomplish<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The betterment of man?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Does the soul narrow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the broadening of thought?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Does the heart harden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By what the hand has wrought?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who shall say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That decay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marks the good of to-day?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who dares to state<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That God grows less as man grows great?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Pearson's Magazine</i> (September, 1908)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I builded a castle in the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A magical, beautiful pile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the wonderful temples of Karnak were,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +<span class="i2">By the thirsty shores of the Nile.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its walls were of burnished gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which up from the caverns of ocean grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where pearls lay asleep in the cold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its windows were gems with the glint and the gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the sun and the moon and the stars.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin's dream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the land of the deodars.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It stood as the work of a master, alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose marvelous genius had played<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The music of heaven in mortar and stone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the tools of his earthly trade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I builded a castle in the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From its base to its turret crown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stretched forth my hand to touch it there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the whole darn thing fell down.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">CHAMPAGNE</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Bohemian</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gee whiz,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fizz,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You shine in our eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the stars in the skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You glint and gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a jeweled dream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You sparkle and dance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the soul of France,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your bubbles murmur<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And your deeps are gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Warm is your spirit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And your body, cold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You dazzle the senses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dispelling the dark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are music and magic,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The song of the lark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er all the ills of life victorious,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +<span class="i0">You touch the night and make it glorious.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The next day?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, go away!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gee whiz,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fizz! ! !<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARY_ANDERSON_DE_NAVARRO" id="MARY_ANDERSON_DE_NAVARRO">MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Mary Anderson de Navarro, the celebrated actress +of the long ago, and a writer of much ability, is a product +of Kentucky, although she happened to be born at Sacramento, +California, July 28, 1859. When but six months +old she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and there +her girlhood days were spent. Miss Anderson was educated +at the Ursuline Convent and the Presentation Academy, +two Roman Catholic institutions of Louisville. At +the age of seventeen years, or, on November 27, 1876, she +made her <i>debut</i> as <i>Juliet</i> in "Romeo and Juliet," at Macauley's +Theatre, Louisville, and her "hit" was most +decided, both press and public agreeing that a brilliant +career was before her. Miss Anderson's superb figure, +her glorious hair, her magnificent voice, made her the +great beauty she was, and thoroughly delightful. Leaving +Louisville for a tour of the principal cities of the country, +she finally arrived in New York, where she was seen +in several Shakespearian roles. Some time later she put +on "Pygmalion and Galatea," one of her greatest successes. +In London Miss Anderson won the hearts of the Britishers +with "The Lady of Lyons," "Pygmalion and Galatea," +and other plays. Her second season on the stage +saw a gorgeous production of "Romeo and Juliet" in +London, with the American girl in her first role, <i>Juliet</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +This "held the boards" for an hundred nights. She returned +to the United States, but she was soon back in London, +where "The Winter's Tale," her next play, ran for +nearly two hundred nights. Short engagements on the +continent followed, after which she came again to this +country, and to her old home, Louisville, which visit she +has charmingly related in her autobiography, <i>A Few +Memories</i> (London and New York, 1896), which work Joseph +Jefferson once declared would make permanent her +stage successes. From Louisville "Our Mary," as she +was called by Kentuckians, was seen in Cincinnati, from +which city she went to Washington, where she forever +rang down the curtain upon her life as an actress. That +was in the spring of 1889, and in June of that year she +was married to Antonio F. de Navarro, since which event +she has resided in England. In recent years Mary Anderson, +that was, has visited in New York, but she has not +journeyed out to Kentucky. In 1911 she collaborated in +the dramatization of Robert Hichens's novel, <i>The Garden +of Allah</i>, and she was in New York for its <i>premier</i>.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>A Few Memories</i> is delightfully set down, and, +though the author made no especial claims as a writer, her +book will keep her fame green for many years; <i>McClure's Magazine</i> +(July, 1908); <i>Harper's Weekly</i> (January 9, 1909); <i>Century +Magazine</i> (March, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">LAZY LOUISVILLE<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A Few Memories</i> (London, 1896)]</p> + +<p>After visiting many of the principal States, I was delighted to +find myself again in quaint, charming Louisville, Kentucky. +Everything goes along so quietly and lazily there that no one +seems to change or grow older. Having no rehearsals I used my +first free time since I had left the city soon after my <i>debut</i> to +see the places I liked best. Many of my childhood's haunts were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +visited with our old nurse "Lou." At the Ursuline Convent, +with its high walls, where music had first cast a veritable spell, +and made a willing slave of me for life, most of the nuns looked +much the same, though I had not seen them in nineteen years. +The little window of the den where I had first resolved to go upon +the stage, was as bright and shining as ever; and I wondered, +in passing the old house, whether some other young and +hopeful creature were dreaming and toiling there as I had done +so many years before. At the Presentation Academy I found +the latticed summer-house (where, as a child, I had reacted for +my companions every play seen at the Saturday matinées, instead +of eating my lunch) looking just as cool and inviting as it did +then. My little desk, the dunce-stool, everything seemed to have +a friendly greeting for me. Mother Eulalia was still the +Superioress, and in looking into her kind face and finding so +little change there, it seemed that the vortex I had lived in since +those early years was but a restless dream, and that I must be a +little child again under her gentle care. No one was changed +but myself. I seemed to have lived a hundred years since leaving +the old places and kindly faces, and to have suddenly come +back again into their midst (unlike Rip Van Winkle) to find +them as I had left them.</p> + +<p>Many episodes, memorable to me, occurred in Louisville. Not +the least pleasant was Father Boucher's acknowledgment (after +disapproving of my profession for years) that my private life +had not fallen under the evils which, at the beginning, he feared +to be inevitable from contact with the theatre. Father Boucher +was a dear old Frenchman, who had known and instructed me +in matters religious since my childhood. My respect and affection +for him had always been deep. When he condemned my +resolution to go upon the stage quite as bitterly as did my venerated +guardian, Pater Anton, my cup of unhappiness overflowed. +All my early successes were clouded by the alienation of such +unique friends. My satisfaction and delight may be imagined +when, after years of estrangement, Father Boucher met me with +the same trust with which he had honoured me as a child, and +heartily gave me his blessing.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was also at Louisville that the highly complimentary "resolutions" +passed by the Senate of Kentucky, and unanimously +adopted by that body, were presented to me. They were the +State's crowning expression of goodwill to their grateful, though +unworthy, country-woman.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARY_R_S_ANDREWS" id="MARY_R_S_ANDREWS">MARY R. S. ANDREWS</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews, short-story writer +and novelist, was born at Mobile, Alabama, in 1860, but +she was brought to Lexington, Kentucky, in September, +1861, when her father, Rev. Jacob S. Shipman, an Episcopal +clergyman, was chosen rector of Christ Church. When +six years old she was sent to Christ Church Seminary, the +church's school, conducted by Rev. Silas Totten and his +daughters. One of these daughters tells with a smile to-day +that "May" Shipman's first story, written at the age +of seven, was upon her dog, "Shep." When thirteen +years of age she discovered that the older girls in the +school were studying French, when she was not, and she +went to her father with the request that she be permitted +to join the class. But the rector's question, "May, would +you put in your furniture before you built your walls?" +sent her back to her Latin and mathematics without further +protest. She attended the school for eleven years, and +at it received her education, never having attended any +other institution. On November 26, 1877, when the future +writer was seventeen years of age, her father accepted +the rectorship of Christ Church, New York, and the family +shortly afterwards removed to that city. She has been +in Kentucky but twice since: five years after her departure, +and about ten years ago. But that she has not forgotten +her Kentucky home is evinced in the signed copies of her +books which have found their way to the Blue Grass country<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +and in her letters to former friends. On the last day +of December, 1884, Miss Shipman married William Shankland +Andrews, now associate justice of the supreme court +of New York. Mrs. Andrews spends her summers in the +Canadian woods, and the winters at her home in Syracuse, +New York. Her first novel, <i>Vive L'Empereur</i> (New +York, 1902), a story of the king of Rome, was followed +by <i>A Kidnapped Colony</i> (New York, 1903), with Bermuda +as the background. <i>Bob and the Guides</i> (New York, +1906), was the experiences of a boy, "Bob," with the +French guides of the Canadian woods who pursue caribou. +<i>A Good Samaritan</i> (New York, 1906), has been +called the best story ever printed in <i>McClure's Magazine</i>, +in which form it first appeared. <i>The Perfect Tribute</i> (New +York, 1906), a quasi-true story of Lincoln and the lack of +enthusiasm with which the crowd received his Gettysburg +speech, adorned with a love episode at the end, is Mrs. +Andrews's finest thing so far. This little tale has made +her famous, and stamped her as one of the best American +writers of the short-story. It was originally printed +in <i>Scribner's Magazine</i> for July, 1906. Her other books +are: <i>The Militants</i> (New York, 1907), a collection of +stories, several of which are set in Kentucky, and all of +them inscribed to her father in beautiful words; <i>The +Better Treasure</i> (Indianapolis, 1908), is a charming +Christmas story, with a moral attached; <i>The Enchanted +Forest and Other Stories</i> (New York, 1909), a group of +stories first told to her son and afterwards set down for +other people's sons; <i>The Lifted Bandage</i> (New York, +1910), a most unpleasant, disagreeable tale as may well +be imagined; <i>The Courage of the Commonplace</i> (New +York, 1911), a yarn of Yale and her ways, one of the author's +cleverest things; <i>The Counsel Assigned</i> (New +York, 1912), another story of Lincoln, this time as the +young lawyer, is not greatly inferior to <i>The Perfect</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +<i>Tribute</i>. Mrs. Andrews's latest volume, <i>The Marshal</i> +(Indianapolis, 1912), is her first really long novel. +It is a story of France, somewhat in the manner of her first +book <i>Vive L'Empereur</i>, but, of course, much finer than +that work of her 'prentice years. It has been highly +praised in some quarters, and rather severely criticized +in others. At any rate it has not displaced <i>The Perfect +Tribute</i> as her masterpiece. That little story, with <i>A Good +Samaritan</i>, <i>The Courage of the Commonplace</i>, and +<i>Crowned with Glory and Honor</i>, fairly entitle Mrs. Andrews +to the first and highest place among Kentucky women +writers of the short-story. She has attained a higher +note in a most difficult art than any other woman Kentucky +has produced; and it is only right and just that her +proper position be allotted her in order that she may occupy +it; which she will do with a consensus of opinion +when her Kentucky life is more widely heralded.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>American Magazine</i> (May, 1909); <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i> (September, 1911; August, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Courage of the Commonplace</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<p>Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston "Tech." +As his class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father +waiting for him. He noted with pride, as he always did, the +tall figure, topped with a wonderful head—a mane of gray +hair, a face carved in iron, squared and cut down to the marrow +of brains and force—a man to be seen in any crowd. With +that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the spectacles, he was +aware of a look which startled him. The boy had graduated at +the very head of his class; that light in his father's eyes all at +once made two years of work a small thing.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you were coming, sir. That's mighty nice of +you," he said, as they walked down Boylston Street together,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +and his father waited a moment and then spoke in his usual +incisive tone.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have liked to miss it, Johnny," he said. "I +don't remember that anything in my life has ever made me as +satisfied as you have to-day."</p> + +<p>With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, +looked away, looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find +a word anywhere. His father had never spoken to him so; +never before, perhaps, had he said anything as intimate to any +of his sons. They knew that the cold manner of the great engineer +covered depths, but they never expected to see the depths +uncovered. But here he was, talking of what he felt, of character, +and honor, and effort.</p> + +<p>"I've appreciated what you have been doing," the even voice +went on. "I talk little about personal affairs. But I'm not uninterested; +I watch. I was anxious about you. You were a +more uncertain quantity than Ted and Harry. Your first three +years at Yale were not satisfactory. I was afraid you lacked +manliness. Then came—a disappointment. It was a blow to +us—to family pride. I watched you more closely, and I saw +before that year ended that you were taking your medicine +rightly. I wanted to tell you of my contentment, but being +slow of speech, I—couldn't. So"—the iron face broke for a +second time into a whimsical grin—"so I offered you a motor. +And you wouldn't take it. I knew, though you didn't explain, +that you feared it would interfere with your studies. I was +right?" Johnny nodded. "Yes. And your last year at college +was—was all I could wish. I see now that you needed a +blow in the face to wake you up—and you got it. And you +waked." The great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "I +have had"—he hesitated—"I have had always a feeling of +responsibility to your mother for you—more than for the others. +You were so young when she died that you seem more her child. +I was afraid I had not treated you right well—that it was my +fault if you failed." The boy made a gesture—he could not +very well speak. His father went on: "So when you refused +the motor, when you went into engineers' camp that first summer, +instead of going abroad, I was pleased. Your course here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +has been a satisfaction, without a drawback—keener, certainly, +because I am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, +how well you were doing, how much you were giving up to do +it, how much power you were gaining by that long sacrifice. I've +respected you through these years of commonplace, and I've +known how much more courage it meant in a pleasure-loving lad +such as you than it would have meant in a serious person such +as I am—such as Ted and Harry are, to an extent, also." The +older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son +such a shining face as the boy had never seen. "That boyish +failure isn't wiped out, Johnny, for I shall remember it as the +corner-stone of your career, already built over with an honorable +record. You've made good. I congratulate and I honor you."</p> + +<p>The boy never knew how he got home. He knocked his shins +badly on a quite visible railing, and it was out of the question +to say a single word. But if he staggered, it was with an overload +of happiness, and if he was speechless and blind, the stricken +faculties were paralyzed with joy. His father walked beside him +and they understood each other. He reeled up the streets contented.</p> + +<p>That night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his +father turned and ordered fresh champagne opened.</p> + +<p>"We must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent +of the Oriel mine," he said. Johnny looked at him, surprised, +and then at the others, and the faces were bright with the +same look of something which they knew and he did not.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" asked Johnny. "Who's the superintendent +of the Oriel mine? Why do we drink to him? What are you all +grinning about, anyway?" The cork flew up to the ceiling, and +the butler poured gold bubbles into the glasses, all but his own.</p> + +<p>"Can't I drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked +Johnny, and moved his glass and glanced up at Mullins. But +his father was beaming at Mullins in a most unusual way, and +Johnny got no wine. With that Ted, the oldest brother, pushed +back his chair and stood and lifted his glass.</p> + +<p>"We'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to Johnny, "to +the gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent +of the Oriel mine, Mr. John Archer McLean," and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +they stood and drank the toast. Johnny, more or less dizzy, +more or less scarlet, crammed his hands in his pockets and stared +and turned redder, and brought out interrogations in the nervous +English which is acquired at our great institutions of learning.</p> + +<p>"Gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. And "is this a +merry jape?" And "Why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow +what's up your sleeve?" While the family sipped champagne +and regarded him.</p> + +<p>"Now, if I've squirmed for you enough, I wish you'd explain—father, +tell me!" the boy begged.</p> + +<p>And the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness, +interrupting freely. It seemed that the president of the +big mine needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and +the latest ideas, had written to the head of the Mining Department +in the School of Technology, to ask if he would give him +the name of the ablest man in the graduating class—a man to +be relied on for character as much as brains, he specified, for +the rough army of miners needed a general at their head almost +more than a scientist. Was there such a combination to be found, +he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four, such +as would be graduating at the "Tech?" If possible, he wanted +a very young man—he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the +athletic tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the +unmade reputation which would look for its making to hard +work in the mine. The letter was produced and read to the +shamefaced Johnny. "Gosh!" he remarked at intervals, and +remarked practically nothing else. There was no need. They +were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the +boy who had been a failure three years ago.</p> + +<p>On the urgent insistence of every one, he made a speech. He +got to his six-feet-two slowly, and his hand went into his trousers +as usual. "Holy mackerel," he began—"I don't call it decent +to knock the wind out of a man and then hold him up for remarks. +They all said in college that I talked the darnedest hash +in the class, anyway. But you will have it, will you? I haven't +got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except that I'll be +blamed if I see how this is true. Of course I'm keen for it—Keen! +I should say I was! And what makes me keenest, I believe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +is that I know it's satisfactory to Henry McLean." He +turned his bright face to his father. "Any little plugging I've +done seems like thirty cents compared to that. You're all peaches +to take such an interest, and I thank you a lot. Me, the superintendent +of the Oriel mine! Holy mackerel!" gasped Johnny, +and sat down.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ELVIRA_MILLER_SLAUGHTER" id="ELVIRA_MILLER_SLAUGHTER">ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Elvira (Sydnor) Miller Slaughter, the "Tatler" +of <i>The Louisville Times</i> in the old days, and a verse-writer +of considerable reputation, was born at Wytheville, Virginia, +October 12, 1860. When a child Miss Miller was +brought to Kentucky, as her mother had inherited money +which made necessary her removal to this State in order +to obtain it. She was educated at the Presentation Academy, +in Louisville, by the same nuns that had instructed +Mary Anderson de Navarro, the famous actress. She +was subsequently gold medalist at a private finishing +school, but she still clings to the Catholicism instilled at +the Presentation Academy. Shortly after having left +school Miss Miller published her first and only book of +poems, <i>Songs of the Heart</i> (Louisville, 1885), with +a prologue by Douglass Sherley.<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> About this time +her parents lost their fortune, and she secured a position +on <i>The Louisville Times</i>, where she was trained by +Mr. Robert W. Brown, the present managing editor of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +that paper. After three years of general reporting, Miss +Miller became editor of "The Tatler Column," and this +she conducted for fourteen years with cleverness and success, +only resigning on the day of her marriage to Mr. W. +H. Slaughter, Jr. Her second book, <i>The Tiger's Daughter +and Other Stories</i> (Louisville, 1889), is a group of +fairy tales, several of which are entertaining. <i>The Confessions +of a Tatler</i> (Louisville, 1905), is a booklet of the +best things she did for her department on <i>The Times</i>. +She surely handled some men, women, books, and things +in this brochure in a manner that even he who runs may +read and—understand! From 1909 to 1912 she lived at +Camp Dennison, near Cincinnati, Ohio, but at the present +time she is again at Louisville, engaged in literary work.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Blades o' Bluegrass</i>, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, +1892); <i>Dear Old Kentucky</i>, by G. M. Spears (Cincinnati, +1900).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE SOUTH AND SONG</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Midland Review</i> (Louisville, Kentucky)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i19">I.—<span class="smcap">The South</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Spirit, whose touch of fire<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Wakens the sleeping lyre—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou, who dost flood with music heaven's dominions,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Where hast thou taken flight—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Thou comfort, thou delight?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In what blest regions furled thy gloomy pinions,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since from the cold North voices call to me:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Thou South, thou South! Song hath abandoned thee!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">II.—<span class="smcap">Voices</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">We cry out on the air:<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Thy palace halls are bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shorn of the glory of the dream-gods' faces:<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +<span class="i8">Thy sweetest strain were sung<br /></span> +<span class="i8">When thy proud heart was young;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fame hath no crowns, nay, nor no vacant places—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, all in vain, thy poet-songs awaken:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou serenadest casements long forsaken.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Thy rivers proudly flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">As in the long ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like kings who lead their rushing hosts to battle:<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Thy sails make white the seas—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">They fly before the breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As o'er the wide plains fly storm-drifted cattle:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughter and light make beautiful thy portals,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spurned by the bright feet of the lost immortals.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">What gavest thou to him<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Whose fame no years may dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Song's great archangel, glorious, yet despairing—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Who, o'er earth's warring noises<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Heard Heaven's and Hell's great voices—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, from his shoulders the rude mantle tearing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrapt the thin folds about his dying wife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The angel and the May-time of his life?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">And what to him whose name<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Is consecrate to Fame—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose songs before the winds of war were driven—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Who swept his lute to mourn<br /></span> +<span class="i8">That banner soiled and torn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For which a million valiant hearts had striven—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who set God's cross high o'er the battling horde,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sheltered neath its arms the lyre and sword?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">What gav'st thou that true heart<br /></span> +<span class="i8">That shrined its dreams apart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From want and care and sorrow evermore—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Him, who mid dews and damp,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Burned out life's feeble lamp,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Striving to keep the wolf from out his door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And while the land was ringing with his praise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slumbered in Georgia, tired and full of days?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">And what to him whose lyre,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Prometheus-like, stole fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From heaven; whom sea and air gave fancies tender—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Whose song, winged like the lark,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Died out in death's great dark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose soul, like some bright star, clothed on in splendor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went trembling down the viewless fields of air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wafted by music and the breath of prayer?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">What gav'st thou these? A crust:<br /></span> +<span class="i8">A coffin for their dust:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Neglect, and idle praise and swift forgetting—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Stones when they asked for bread:<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Green bays when they were dead—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sang of thee from dawn till life's sun-setting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whose tired eyes, thank God! could never see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy shallow tears, thy niggard charity.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Yet fair as is a night,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">O strong, O darkly bright!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shinest ever radiant and tender,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Drawing all hearts to thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">As from the vassal sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The waves are lifted by the moon's white splendor:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So poet strains awake, and fancies gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like winds and summer lightning through thy dream.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">SUNDOWN LANE</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Louisville Times</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through a little lane at sundown in the days that used to be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the summer-time and roses lit the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sweetheart would come singing down that leafy way to me<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, I threw my arms about her as we met beside the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her darling, curly head lay on my breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While she told me that she loved me in her simple, girlish way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then kisses that she gave me told the rest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a kiss is all the language that you wish from your sweetheart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you meet her in the gloaming there, so lonely and apart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through a little lane at sundown we went walking hand in hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid the summer-time and roses long ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the path that we were treading seemed to lead to fairyland,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The place where happy lovers long to go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, we talked about our marriage in the quiet, evening hush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I bent to whisper love words in her ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her dainty pink sunbonnet was no pinker than her blush<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For she thought the birds and flowers all might hear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, that dainty pink sunbonnet, bright in memory still it glows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It hid her smiles and blushes as the young leaves veil the rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through a little lane at sundown I go roaming all forlorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though the summer-time once more smiles o'er the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the roses seem to ask me where their sister rose has gone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But false friends came between us and I found out to my cost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I learned too late her sweetness and her truth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the love we hold the dearest is the love that we have lost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the roses and the fairyland of youth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now the flowers all bend above her through the long, bright summer day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my heart grows homesick for her as she dreams the hours away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She who set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="JOSEPH_S_COTTER" id="JOSEPH_S_COTTER">JOSEPH S. COTTER</a></h2> + + +<p>Joseph Seaman Cotter, Kentucky's only negro writer of +real creative ability, was born near Bardstown, Kentucky, +February 2, 1861. From his hard day-labor, he went to +night school in Louisville, and he has educated himself so +successfully that he is at the present time principal of the +Tenth Ward colored school, Louisville. Cotter has published +three volumes of verse, the first of which was <i>Links +of Friendship</i> (Louisville, 1898), a book of short lyrics. +This was followed by a four-act verse drama, entitled +<i>Caleb, the Degenerate</i> (Louisville, 1903). His latest book +of verse is <i>A White Song and a Black One</i> (Louisville, +1909). Cotter's response to Paul Lawrence Dunbar's +<i>After a Visit</i> to Kentucky, was exceedingly well done, but +his <i>Negro Love Song</i> is the cleverest thing he has written +hitherto. His work has been praised by Alfred Austin, +Israel Zangwill, Madison Cawein, Charles J. O'Malley, +and other excellent judges of poetry. Cotter is a great +credit to his race, and he has won, by his quiet, unassuming +life and literary labors, the respect of many of Louisville's +most prominent citizens. One of his admirers has +ranked his work above Dunbar's, but this rating is much +too high for any thing he has done so far. In the last year +or two he has turned his attention to the short-story, and +his first collection of them has just appeared, entitled +<i>Negro Tales</i> (New York, 1912).</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Lexington Leader</i> (November 14, 1909); <i>Lore +of the Meadowland</i>, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky, +1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">NEGRO LOVE SONG<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A White Song and a Black One</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I lobes your hands, gal; yes I do.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +<span class="i2">(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I lobes your earnings thro' an' thro'.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, heah de truf. I'se mos' nigh broke;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wants ter take you fer my yoke;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So let's go wed ter-morro'.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, don't look shy, an' don't say no.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hope you don't expects er sho'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When we two weds ter-morro'.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I needs er licends—you know I do—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll borrow de price ob de same frum you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' den we weds ter-morro'.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How pay you back? In de reg'ler way.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When you becomes my honey<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll habe myself fer de princ'pal pay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' my faults fer de inter's' money.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dat suits you well? Dis cash is right.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So we two weds ter-morro' night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' you wuks all de ter-morro's.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ETHELBERT_D_WARFIELD" id="ETHELBERT_D_WARFIELD">ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD</a></h2> + + +<p>Ethelbert Dudley Warfield, historical writer, was born +at Lexington, Kentucky, March 16, 1861, the brother of +Dr. Benjamin Breckinridge Warfield, the distinguished +professor in Princeton Theological Seminary. President +Warfield was graduated from Princeton, continued his +studies at the University of Oxford, and was graduated in +law from Columbia University, in 1885. He practiced law +at Lexington, Kentucky, for two years, when he abandoned +the profession for the presidency of Miami University, +Oxford, Ohio. In 1891 he left Miami for the presidency +of LaFayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +he has remained ever since. In 1899 Dr. Warfield was +ordained to the Presbyterian ministry. He teaches history +at LaFayette. Besides several interesting pamphlets +upon historical subjects, Dr. Warfield has published +three books, the first of which was <i>The Kentucky Resolutions +of 1798: an Historical Study</i> (New York, 1887), his +most important work so far. <i>At the Evening Hour</i> (Philadelphia, +1898), is a little book of talks upon religious +subjects; and his most recent volume, <i>Joseph Cabell +Breckinridge, Junior</i> (New York, 1898), is the pathetic +tale of the years of an early hero of the Spanish-American +war, graphically related.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Munsey's Magazine</i> (August, 1901); <i>The Independent</i> +(December 25, 1902); <i>The Independent</i> (July 13, +1905).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Presbyterian and Reformed Review</i> (April, 1892)]</p> + +<p>Columbus is one of the few men who have profoundly changed +the course of history. He occupies a unique and commanding +position, seeming to stand out of contemporary history, and to be +a force separate and apart. He is the gateway to the New World. +His career made a new civilization possible. His achievement +conditions the expansion and development of human liberty. His +position is simple but certain. His figure is as constant and as +inexorable as the ice floes which girdle and guard the pole are to +us, or as the sea of darkness which he spanned was to his predecessors. +He inserted a known quantity into the hitherto unsolvable +problem of geography, and not only rendered it solvable, +but afforded a key to a vast number of problems dependent upon +it, problems not merely geographical, but economical, sociological +and governmental as well.</p> + +<p>Yet in all this there mingles an element of error. Great events +do not come unanticipated and unheralded.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Wass Gott thut, das ist wohl gethan,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>sang Luther, knowing well that God hath foreordained from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +foundation of the world whatsoever cometh to pass. "In the +fullness of time" God does all things in His benign philosophy. +In the fullness of time man was set in the midst of his creation; +in the fullness of time Christ came; in the fullness of time God +opened the portals of the west.</p> + +<p>If the Welsh were driven on our shores under Madoc, if the +Norsemen came and sought to found here "Vinland, the good," +they did not light upon the fullness of time. God had no splendid +purpose for the Welsh; the Northland force was needed to +make bold the hearts of England, France, and Italy, to unify the +world with fellow-service in the Orient, to break the bonds of +feudalism, and to wing the sandals of liberty. As Isaac Newton +sat watching the apple fall in his garden, he was but resting +from the labor of gathering into his mind the labors of men who +had in this or that anticipated his discovery of the law of gravitation. +In all scientific advance many gather facts. One comes +at length and in a far-reaching synthesis arranges the facts of +many predecessors around some central truth and rises to some +great principle. So generalizations follow generalizations, and +the field of truth expands in ever-widening circles from the central +fact of God's establishment. Columbus is not like Melchisedec. +He had antecedents—antecedents many and obvious. The +highest tribute we can pay him is to say that he fixed upon one of +the world's great problems, studied it in all its relations, embraced +clear and definite views upon it, and staked his all upon +the issue; and that not in a spirit of mere adventure, but of +dedication to a noble purpose. He gave to a speculative question +reality, and thereby gave a hemisphere to Christendom.</p> + +<p>But like the girl who admitted the Gauls to the Capitol at +Rome in return for "what they wore on their left arms," Columbus +was overwhelmed by the reward which he demanded for +his services. Without natural ability to command, and without +experience, he demanded and obtained a fatal authority.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="EVELYN_S_BARNETT" id="EVELYN_S_BARNETT">EVELYN S. BARNETT</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, a novelist of strength and +promise, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1861, +the daughter of Charles Scott Snead. On June 8, 1886, +Miss Snead became the wife of Mr. Ira Sayre Barnett, a +Louisville business man. Mrs. Barnett was literary editor +of <i>The Courier-Journal</i> for seven years, and her Saturday +page upon "Books and Their Writers" was carefully +edited. She did a real service for Kentucky letters +in that she never omitted comment and criticism upon the +latest books of our authors, with an occasional word upon +the writers of the long ago. She was succeeded by the present +editor, Miss Anna Blanche Magill. Mrs. Barnett's first +story, entitled <i>Mrs. Delire's Euchre Party and Other Tales</i> +(Franklin, Ohio, 1895), the "other tales" being three in +number, was followed by <i>Jerry's Reward</i> (Boston, 1902). +These novelettes made clear the path for the author's big +novel, <i>The Dragnet</i> (New York, 1909), now in its second +edition. This is a great mystery story, one reviewer +ranking it with the best detective tales of the present-day +school. The American trusts and the hearts of women +furnish the setting for <i>The Dragnet</i>, which is bigger in +promise than in achievement, and which bespeaks even +greater merit for Mrs. Barnett's new novel, now in preparation.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Kentuckians in History and Literature</i>, by J. +W. Townsend (New York, 1907); <i>Who's Who in America</i> +(1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE WILL<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Dragnet</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<p>Soon after their return, the Alexanders were forced to move to +town. Charles needed the time he had to spend on the road<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +going to and fro, and he was unwilling to put unnecessary hours +of work on Trezevant, who not only bore his share during the +day, but was sleeping with one eye open in a dingy corner of the +shops. As the Dinsmore was expensive, they rented a modern +flat, with tiny rooms, but plenty of sunlight. Constance knew +they could save here, especially as Diana still wished to make her +home with them.</p> + +<p>Finally, the last day at Hillside came.</p> + +<p>Charles drove Diana and Lawson to town, to get things ready +there, leaving Constance to see the last load off, and to make sure +that everything was in good shape for the Clarks, who intended +to take possession in the spring. Constance went into every room, +list in hand, checking the things the new owners had purchased. +Then she tried the window bolts, and snapped the key in the lock +of the front door. She blew the horn for the brougham. The +coachman came up. In a business-like, everyday manner, she +ordered him to drive to town, and, getting in, without one look +from the window, she left Hillside.</p> + +<p>When she arrived at the new home, she was pleased to find +that Diana and Lawson had arranged the furniture in the small +rooms, and had a dainty little luncheon awaiting. As she was +sitting down to enjoy it, her first visitor rang the bell—Aunt +Sarah, just returned from the East and the latest fashions, looking +younger than ever, and with a torrent of society gossip that +was almost Sanscrit to Constance, occupied so long with the +realities.</p> + +<p>"What was your idea, Constance, in coming to this tiny +place?" she asked, when she had given a full account of the +delights of her summer.</p> + +<p>Constance hesitated, but only for a moment. "Economy," she +said, boldly.</p> + +<p>Aunt Sarah looked anxious. "My dear child, has your husband +been preaching? Don't let him fool you; they all try it. +It's a trick. Every now and then they think it their duty to cry +hard times, when it is no such thing. You go to scrimping and +saving, like an obedient wife, and the first thing you know he +buys an automobile or a yacht, or wants you to give a ball."</p> + +<p>Constance smiled. "But this is real, Aunt Sarah. You know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +we are fighting a big trust, and while, eventually, we expect to +win, we have to be content with little or no profits for a few +years."</p> + +<p>"Trusts! Profits! What difference do they make as long as +you have a steady income of your own?"</p> + +<p>Constance was debating with herself whether she ought to +speak plainly and have it out with the Parker pride then and +there, or wait until she were not quite so tired and unstrung, +when she was happily spared a decision by her aunt's switching +off to another track.</p> + +<p>"Talking of money reminds me that I heard a piece of news +to-day," she said, lowering her voice in deference to Diana's +presence behind thin walls. "I heard that Horace Vendire made +a will shortly after his engagement to —— and has left her millions."</p> + +<p>"Oh, aunt! I wonder if it is true! How dreadful it would +be!"</p> + +<p>Aunt Sarah put up her jeweled lorgnette. "Constance Parker, +what on earth is the matter with you to-day? You seem to +be getting everything distorted, looking at the world upside +down. It's that country business—" she continued emphatically; +"the very moment you developed a fondness for that sort +of life, I knew you were bound to grow careless and indifferent +in thoughts, ways, and opinions. People who love the country +always seem to think they have to sneer at civilization."</p> + +<p>Constance was too tired to argue, and too disturbed over the +last piece of gossip to explain; so she said weakly that she supposed +she had changed, and let the rest of the visit pass in +banalities.</p> + +<p>The next day a little lawyer sprang a sensation by notifying +those whom it concerned that he held the last Will and Testament +of Horace Vendire, duly signed, attested, and sealed in his +presence, a month before the disappearance.</p> + +<p>Charles came to tell the two women.</p> + +<p>"No, no!" cried Diana: "It's a mistake! He did not intend +it to stand!"</p> + +<p>"You surmise the contents of the will?"</p> + +<p>"If it was made only a month before he disappeared. Had he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +lived, he would have altered it. I begged him to. Must I go to +the meeting of the heirs?"</p> + +<p>"I think it is best. Cheer up; there are many things worse +than money. Constance and I will go with you. Mr. James is +back, and has asked us."</p> + +<p>So Diana went, and she could not have looked more terrified +had she been listening to the last trump, instead of to the smooth +voice of a young lawyer reading the bequests of her dead lover.</p> + +<p>The will was dated, July 26th, 1900. By it, Horace Vendire's +life insurance was left to his brother James, an annuity of five +thousand dollars to his mother, and an income of only three +thousand a year to his fiancée, Diana Frewe, as long as she remained +unmarried. It was evident to Charles that Vendire did +not wish to give her enough to help her friends. The residue, +and, eventually, the principal, were to be used in building and +endowing the Horace Vendire Public Library in the city of New +York.</p> + +<p>In a codicil, he directed that his stock in the American Blade +and Trigger Company should be sold, the directors of that company +being given the option of buying it at par before it was +offered elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Mr. James Vendire was the first to congratulate Diana.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't!" she cried, shrinking from his proffered hand. +"I cannot bear it. It is yours; you must take it." She grew +almost incoherent.</p> + +<p>Constance petted and soothed. "Be still, dear. Remember +you are weak and unstrung. We will go home now, and see what +can be done later."</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_PATTERSON" id="JOHN_PATTERSON">JOHN PATTERSON</a></h2> + + +<p>John Patterson, "a Greek prophet not without honor in +his own American land," was born near Lexington, Kentucky, +June 10, 1861. He was graduated from Kentucky +State University in 1882; and the following year Harvard +granted him the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He took his +Master's degree from Kentucky University in 1886. The +late Professor John Henry Neville, one of Kentucky's +greatest classical scholars, first taught John Patterson +Greek; and to his old professor he is indebted for much of +his success as a teacher of Greek and a translator and +critic of its literature. Professor Patterson's first school +after leaving Harvard was a private one for boys near +Midway, Kentucky; and he was for several years principal +of the high school at Versailles, Kentucky. His first +book, <i>Lyric Touches</i> (Cincinnati, 1893), is his only really +creative work so far. It contains several fine poems and +was widely admired at the time of its appearance. In +1894 Professor Patterson was made instructor of Greek +in the Louisville High School, which position he held for +seven years. His first published translation was <i>The +Medea of Euripides</i> (Louisville, 1894), which he edited +with an introduction and notes. This was followed by <i>The +Cyclops of Euripides</i> (London, 1900), perhaps his finest +work hitherto. In 1901 Kentucky University conferred +the honorary degree of Master of Literature upon Professor +Patterson; and in the same year he helped to establish +the Patterson-Davenport school of Louisville. In 1907 +he became professor of Greek in the University of Louisville; +and since September, 1908, he has been Dean of the +College of Arts and Sciences of the University with full +executive powers, practically president. His institution +granted him the honorary degree of LL. D. in 1909. Doctor +Patterson's latest work is a translation into English of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +<i>Bion's Lament for Adonis</i> (Louisville, 1909). At the +present time he is engaged upon a critical edition of the +Greek text of the <i>Lament</i>.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1909), +v. ix; <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A CLUSTER OF GRAPES<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From. <i>Lyric Touches</i> (Cincinnati, 1893)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Misty-purple globes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beads which brown autumn strings<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Upon her robes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like amethyst ear-rings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind a bridal veil<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your veils of bloom their gems reveal.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Mellow, sunny-sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye lure the banded bee<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To juicier treat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aiding his tipsy spree<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With more dulcet wine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than clover white or wild woodbine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Dripping rosy dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To me of happy hall<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where laughter trims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lamps till swallow-call;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of flowery cup and throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of men made gods in wit and song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Holding purer days<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your luscious fruitfulness,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When prayer and praise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bleeding ruby bless,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And memory sees the blood<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Of Christ, the Savior, God and good.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Monks of lazy hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stilling the rich sunshine<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Within your cells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Teach me to have such wine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within my breast as this,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of faith, of song, of happiness.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">CHORAL ODE (<span class="smcap">Eripides' Medea, Lines 627-662.</span>)</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The loves in excess bring nor virtue nor fame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But if Cypris gently should come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No goddess of heaven so pleasing a dame:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet never, O mistress, in sure passion steeped,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aim at me thy gold bow's barbed flame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">May temperance watch o'er me, best gift of the gods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May ne'er to wild wrangling and strifes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dread Cypris impel me soul-pierced with strange lust;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But with favoring eye on the quarrelless couch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spread she wisely the love-beds of wives!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Oh fatherland! Oh native home!<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Never city-less<br /></span> +<span class="i4">May I tread the weary path of want<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Ever pitiless<br /></span> +<span class="i8">And full of doom;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But on that day to death, to death be slave!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Without a country's worse than in a grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Mine eye hath seen, nor do I muse<br /></span> +<span class="i8">On other's history.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Nor home nor friend bewails thy nameless pangs.—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Perish dismally<br /></span> +<span class="i8">The fiend who fails<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To cherish friends, turning the guileless key<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of candor's gate! Such friend be far from me!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_E_BARTON" id="WILLIAM_E_BARTON">WILLIAM E. BARTON</a></h2> + + +<p>William Eleazar Barton, novelist and theologian, was +born at Sublette, Illinois, June 28, 1861. He reached Kentucky +for the first time on Christmas Day of 1880, and matriculated +as a student in Berea College, where he spent the +remainder of the college year of 1880-1881, and four additional +years. During two summers and autumns he taught +school in Knox county, Kentucky, then without a railroad, +taking long rides to Cumberland Gap, Cumberland Falls +and other places which have since appeared in his stories. +The two remaining vacations he spent in travel through +the mountains, journeying by Ohio river steamer along the +northern counties, and by horseback far into the Kentucky +hills in various directions. In 1885 Mr. Barton graduated +from Berea with the B. S. degree; and three years later +the same institution granted him M. S., and, in 1890, A. +M. He was ordained to the Congregational ministry at +Berea, Kentucky, June 6, 1885, and he preached for two +years in southern Kentucky and in the adjacent hills of +east Tennessee, living at Robbins, Tennessee. Mr. Barton's +first book was a Kentucky mountain sketch, called +<i>The Wind-Up of the Big Meetin' on No Bus'ness</i> (1887), +now out of print. This was followed by <i>Life in the Hills +of Kentucky</i> (1889), depicting actual conditions. He became +pastor of a church at Wellington, Ohio, in 1890, and +his next two works were church histories. Berea College +conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity upon +Mr. Barton in 1895; and he has been a trustee of the college +for the last several years. He was pastor of a church +in Boston for six years, but since 1899, he has been in +charge of the First Congregational Church of Oak Park, +Illinois. Dr. Barton's other books are: <i>A Hero in Homespun</i> +(New York, 1897), a Kentucky story, the first of his +books that was widely read and reviewed; <i>Sim Galloway's</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +<i>Daughter-in-Law</i> (Boston, 1897), the Kentucky mountains +again, which reappear in <i>The Truth About the Trouble at +Roundstone</i> (Boston, 1897); <i>The Story of a Pumpkin Pie</i> +(Boston, 1898); <i>The Psalms and Their Story</i> (Boston, +1898); <i>Old Plantation Hymns</i> (1899); <i>When Boston +Braved the King</i> (Boston, 1899); <i>The Improvement of +Perfection</i> (1900); <i>The Prairie Schooner</i> (Boston, 1900); +<i>Pine Knot</i> (New York, 1900), his best known and, perhaps, +his finest tale of Kentucky; <i>Lieut. Wm. Barton</i> +(1900); <i>What Has Brought Us Out of Egypt</i> (1900); +<i>Faith as Related to Health</i> (1901); <i>Consolation</i> (1901); +<i>I Go A-Fishing</i> (New York, 1901); <i>The First Church of +Oak Park</i> (1901); <i>The Continuous Creation</i> (1902); <i>The +Fine Art of Forgetting</i> (1902); <i>An Elementary Catechism</i> +(1902); <i>The Old World in the New Century</i> (1902); +<i>The Gospel of the Autumn Leaf</i> (1903); <i>Jesus of Nazareth</i> +(1904); <i>Four Weeks of Family Worship</i> (1906); <i>The +Sweetest Story Ever Told</i> (1907); with Sydney Strong +and Theo. G. Soares, <i>His Last Week, His Life, His +Friends, His Great Apostle</i> (1906-07); <i>The Week of +Our Lord's Passion</i> (1907); <i>The Samaritan Pentateuch</i> +(1906); <i>The History and Religion of the Samaritans</i> +(1906); <i>The Messianic Hope of the Samaritans</i> +(1907); <i>The Life of Joseph E. Roy</i> (1908); <i>Acorns From +an Oak Park Pulpit</i> (1910); <i>Pocket Congregational Manual</i> +(1910); <i>Rules of Order for Ecclesiastical Assemblies</i> +(1910); <i>Bible Classics</i> (1911); and <i>Into All the World</i> +(1911). Since 1900 Dr. Barton has been on the editorial +staff of <i>The Youth's Companion</i>. The <i>locale</i> of his novels +was down on the Kentucky-Tennessee border, amid +ignorance and poverty—a background upon which no +other writer has painted.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Nation</i> (August 9, 1900); <i>The Book Buyer</i> +(November, 1900); <i>The Independent</i> (July 7, 1910).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">A WEARY WINTER<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Truth About the Trouble at Roundstone</i> (Boston, 1897)]</p> + +<p>The winter came and went, and the breach only widened with +the progress of the months. The men dropped all pretense of +religious observance. They grew more and more taciturn and +sullen in their homes. They cared less and less for the society +of their neighbors, and as they grew more miserable they grew +more uncompromising. When little Ike was sick and Jane going +to the spring just before dinner found a gourd of chicken +broth, so fresh and hot that it had evidently been left but a few +minutes before, she knew how it had come there, and hastened +to the house with it. But Larkin saw the gourd and at a glance +understood it, and asked,—</p> + +<p>"Whar'd ye git that ar gourd? Whose gourd is that?" and +snatching it from her, he took it to the door and flung it with all +his might. Little Ike cried, for the odor of the broth had already +tempted his fickle appetite, and Larkin bribed him to stop crying +with promises of candy and all other injurious sweetmeats known +to children of the Holler. But when the illness proved to be a +sort of winter cholera terminating in flux, he was glad to maintain +official ignorance of a bottle of blackberry cordial which also +was left at the spring, and which proved of material benefit in +the slow convalescence of Ike.</p> + +<p>It was thought, at first, that Captain Jack Casey would be +able to effect a reconciliation between the men. He was respected +in the Holler, and was often useful in adjusting differences between +neighbors. He was a justice of the peace, for that matter, +and had the law behind him. But his military title and his reputation +for fair dealing gave him added authority.</p> + +<p>He was the friend of both men, and had known them both in +the army. He was Eph's brother-in-law, beside, and their wives' +friendship, like their own, dated from that prehistoric period, +"before the war."</p> + +<p>But even Captain Jack failed to move either of the two enraged +neighbors.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> +<p>Brother Manus made several ineffectual attempts at a reconciliation, +but at last gave up all hope.</p> + +<p>"I'll pray fur 'em," he said, "but I cyant do no more."</p> + +<p>Great was his professed faith in prayer; it may be doubted +whether this admission did not indicate in his mind a desperate +condition of affairs.</p> + +<p>But there was one person who could never be brought to recognize +the breach between the families. Shoog made her frequent +visits back and forth unhindered. To be sure, Ephraim tried to +prevent her. He scolded her; he explained to her, and once he +even whipped her. But while she seemed to understand the +words he spoke, and grieved sorely over her punishments, she +could not get through her mind the idea of an estrangement, and +at length they gave up trying to have her understand. So, almost +daily, when the weather permitted, Shoog crossed the foot +log, and wended her way across the bottoms to Uncle Lark's. +Larkin at first attempted to ignore her presence, but the attempt +failed, and she was soon as much in his arms and heart as she +had ever been; and many prayers and good wishes went with her +back and forth, as Jane and Martha saw her come and go, and +often went a piece with her, though true to their unspoken parole +of honor to their husbands, speaking no word to each other.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="BENJ_H_RIDGELY" id="BENJ_H_RIDGELY">BENJ. H. RIDGELY</a></h2> + + +<p>Benjamin Howard Ridgely, short-story writer, was born +at Ridgely, Maryland, July 13, 1861. In early childhood +he was brought to Woodford county, Kentucky, where he +grew to manhood. He was educated in private schools +and at Henry Academy. He studied law but abandoned +it for journalism. Ridgely removed to Louisville in 1877 +to accept a position on <i>The Daily Commercial</i>, which later +became <i>The Herald</i>. He went with <i>The Courier-Journal</i> +and in a short time he was made city editor. Ridgely left +<i>The Courier-Journal</i> to establish <i>The Sunday Truth</i>, of +which he was editor, with his friend, Mr. Young E. Allison,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +as associate editor. President Cleveland, urged by Col. +Henry Watterson and other leading Democrats, appointed +Ridgely consul to Geneva, Switzerland, on June 20, 1892, +which post he held for eight years. Being able to speak +French and Spanish fluently, he was well fitted for the consular +service. On May 8, 1900, President McKinley transferred +Ridgely to Malaga, Spain, where he remained for +two years, when he was again transferred, this time going +to Nantes, France, where he also staid for two years. +President Roosevelt sent Ridgely to Barcelona, Spain, +on November 3, 1904, as consul-general. He resided at +that delightful place until March, 1908, when he was made +consul-general to Mexico, with his residence at Mexico +City. Ridgely died very suddenly at Monterey, Mexico, +on October 9, 1908. His body was brought back to Kentucky +and interred in Cave Hill cemetery, Louisville; +and there he sleeps to-day with no stone to mark the spot. +Ridgely's reports to the state department are now recognized +as papers of importance, but is upon his short-stories +and essays that he is entitled to a place in literature. +His stories of consular life, set amid the changing +scenes of his diplomatic career, appeared in <i>The Atlantic +Monthly</i>, <i>Harper's Magazine</i>, <i>The Century</i>, <i>McClure's</i>, +<i>Scribner's</i>, <i>The Strand</i>, <i>The Pall Mall Magazine</i>, and elsewhere. +Writing a miniature autobiography in 1907 he +set himself down as the author of a volume of short-stories, +which, he said, bore the imprint of The Century +Company, New York, were entitled <i>The Comedies of a +Consulate</i>, and, strangest thing of all, were published two +years prior to the time he was writing, or, in 1905! It is indeed +too bad that his alleged publishers fail to remember +having issued his book, for one would be worth while. +What a castle in Spain for this spinner of consular yarns!</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1908-1909); <i>The Courier-Journal</i> +(Louisville, October 10, 1908).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Man the Consul Protected</i> (<i>Century Magazine</i>, January, 1905)]</p> + +<p>Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield of Kentucky was an +amiable and kindly man of fifty, with the fluent speech and genial +good breeding of a typical Blue-grass gentleman. In appearance +and dress he was still an ante-bellum Kentuckian, with a +weakness for high-heeled boots, long frock-coats, and immaculate +linen. When he said, "Yes, sah," or "No, sah," it was like a +breath right off the old plantation. It should be added that he +was a bachelor and a Mugwump.</p> + +<p>Being a Kentuckian, he was naturally a colonel; though, as a +matter of fact, it was due solely to the courtesy of the press and +the amiable custom of the proud old commonwealth that he possessed +his military title. Nor had the genial colonel been otherwise +a brilliant success in life. Indeed, I am pained to recite that +he had achieved in his varied professional career only a sort of +panorama of failures. He had failed at the bar, failed in journalism, +failed as a real-estate broker, and, having finally taken the +last step, had failed as a life-insurance agent. In this emergency +his relatives and friends hesitated as to whether they should run +him for Congress or unload him on the consular service. His +younger brother, who was something of a cynic, insisted that +Gillespie was fitted by intelligence to be only a family physician; +but it was finally decided at a domestic council that he would +particularly ornament the consular service. In pursuance of this +happy conclusion, an organized onslaught was made upon the +White House. The President yielded, and one day the news +came that Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield had been appointed +consul of the United States to Esperanza.</p> + +<p>It is needless to suggest that Colonel Warfield took himself +very seriously in his new official capacity. It had not occurred +to him, however, that his consular mission was rather a commercial +than a patriotic one: he believed that he was going abroad +to see that the flag of his country was treated with respect, and +to protect those of his fellow-countrymen who in any emergency +might have need of the services of an astute and fearless diplomat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +In fact, the feeling that his chief official function was to +be that of a sort of diplomatic protecting angel took such possession +of him that he assumed a paternal attitude toward the whole +country. Thus, bursting with patriotism, he set sail one day from +New York for Gibraltar, and was careful during the voyage to +let it be understood on shipboard that if anybody needed protection +he stood ready to run up the flag and make the eagle +scream violently.</p> + +<p>Esperanza lies just around the corner from Gibraltar, and nowhere +along all the Iberian littoral of the Mediterranean is the +sky fairer or the sun more genial. The fertile <i>vega</i> stretches +back to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Across +the blue-sea way lies Morocco. It is a picturesque and beautiful +spot, and if the consul be a dreamer, he may find golden hours +for reverie. But I fear that neither the poetry nor the picturesqueness +of the entourage appealed to Consul Warfield as he +reached Esperanza that blazing September morning. He was +more impressed with the shrill noises of the foul and shabby +streets; with the dust that was upon everything, giving even to +the palm-trees in the <i>parque</i> a gray and dreary look; with the +flies that seemed to be hunting their prey in swarms like miniature +vultures; with the uncompromising mosquitos singing shrilly +for blood, and the bold, busy fleas that held no portion of his +official person sacred.</p> + +<p>The colonel was a buoyant man, but his exuberant soul felt a +certain sinking that hot morning. It was a busy moment at Esperanza, +and not much attention was paid to the new consul at +the crowded Fonda Cervantes, whither, after a turbulent effort, +he had persuaded his <i>cochero</i> to conduct him. He had been much +disappointed that the vice-consul was not on hand to receive him +at the railway station. The fact is, the consul had thought rather +earnestly of a committee and a brass band at the depot, and the +complete lack of anything akin to a reception had been something +of a shock to his official and personal vanity. However, he was +not easily discouraged, and after having convinced the proprietor +of the fonda that he was the new American consul, and therefore +entitled to superior consideration, he set out to find the consulate.</p> + +<p>He found it in a narrow little street that went twisting back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +from the quay toward the great dingy cathedral, and certainly +it was not what his imagination had fondly pictured it. He had +thought of a fine old Moorish-castle sort of house, with a great +carved door opening into a spacious <i>patio</i>, splendid with Arabic +columns, and in the background a broad marble staircase leading +up to the consulate. He had expected to see the flag of his +country flying in honor of his arrival, and a uniformed soldier +on duty at the entrance, ready to present arms and stand at attention +when the new consul appeared.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, there was a very narrow little door opening +into a very narrow little hallway that ran through the center +of a very narrow, squalid little house. Over the doorway was +perched the consular coat of arms. It was the poorest, dingiest, +dustiest little escutcheon that ever bore so pretentious a device.</p> + +<p>The dingy gilt letters were almost invisible, but the colonel +managed to make them out. He could also see that the figure in +the center of the shield was intended to represent a proud and +haughty eagle-bird in the act of screaming; but the poor old +eagle had been so rained upon and so shone upon, and the dust +had gathered so heavily upon him, that he looked like a mere +low-spirited reminiscence of the famous <i>Haliaëtus leucocephalus</i> +which he was originally meant to represent.</p> + +<p>Colonel Warfield of Kentucky was not discouraged. Being, as +I have said, a buoyant man, he simply remarked to himself: "I'll +have that disreputable-looking fowl taken down and painted." +Then he walked on into the squalid little consulate.</p> + +<p>An old man with shifty little blue eyes; a thin, keen face; long, +straggling gray hair; and a long, thin tuft of gray beard, which +looked all the more straggling and wretched because of the absence +of an accompanying mustache, sat at a table reading a +Spanish newspaper. This was Mr. Richard Brown of Maine, +"clerk and messenger" to the United States consulate, who drew +the allowance of four hundred dollars a year, and was the recognized +bulwark of official Americanism at Esperanza. For forty +years, during all the vicissitudes of war and politics, Richard +Brown had sat at his desk in the shabby little consulate, watching +the procession of American consuls come and go, doing nearly all +the clerical work of the office himself, and contemplating with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +cynical delight the tortuous efforts of the various untrained new +officers to acquaint themselves with their duties and the language +of the post.</p> + +<p>In his affiliations he had become entirely Spanish, having acquired +a fluent knowledge of the language and a wide acquaintance +with the people and their ways. None the less, in his speech +and appearance he remained a typical down-east Yankee, and it +is said at Esperanza that his one conceit was to look like the popular +caricature of Uncle Sam. In this it is not to be denied that +he succeeded. The "billy-goat" beard; the lantern-jaw; the +thin, long hair; the thin, long arms; and the thin, long legs—these +he had as if modeled from the caricature. And the nasal +twang and the down-east dialect—alas! it would have filled the +average melodramatic English novelist's devoted soul with untold +satisfaction and delight to hear Richard Brown say "Wal" and +"I gaiss," and otherwise mutilate the English language.</p> + +<p>To the Spaniards he was known as Don Ricardo. The small +Anglo-American colony at Esperanza referred to him as "old +Dick Brown." He was a cynical, crusty, sour old man, who had +become a sort of consular heirloom at Esperanza, and without +whose knowledge and assistance no new American consul could +at the outset have performed the simplest official duty. Knowing +this, Richard Brown felt a very well-developed sense of his own +importance, and looked upon each of his newly arrived superiors +with ill-concealed contempt.</p> + +<p>There was also a vice-consul at Esperanza; but as he was a +busy merchant, who could find time to sign only such papers as +old Brown presented to him in the absence of the consul, he was +seen little at the consulate. He generally knew when a new consul +was coming along or an old consul going away, but in this +instance Brown had failed to advise him either of Major Ransom's +departure or of Colonel Warfield's arrival. Thus it happened +that only the amiable Mr. Brown was on hand when Colonel +Warfield came perspiring upon the scene on the warm morning +in September of which we write.</p> + +<p>"Come in," he said sharply, as the consul hesitated upon the +threshold. "What's your business?"</p> + +<p>Colonel Warfield gave Mr. Brown a look that would have completely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +withered an ordinary person, but which was entirely lost +upon the old man in question, and with magnificent dignity +handed him the following card:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">COLONEL G. WITHERSPOON WARFIELD,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Consul of the United States of America.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 20em;">ESPERANZA.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Mr. Richard Brown looked the card over carefully.</p> + +<p>"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a +major; the one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' +but soldiers to send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? +Are you a real colonel or jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a +colonel on the governor's staff? There's your office over there +on the other side of the hall. Kin you speak Spanish?"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ZOE_A_NORRIS" id="ZOE_A_NORRIS">ZOE A. NORRIS</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born +at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. +Henry T. Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky +towns. She was graduated from Daughters, now +Beaumont, College, when she was seventeen years of age, +or in 1878; and two days later she married Spencer W. +Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, +to live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband +and went to New York to make a name for herself +in literature. She began with a Western story, <i>Georgiana's +Mother</i>, which appeared in George W. Cable's magazine, +<i>The Symposium</i>. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris +went to England—"like an idiot," as she now puts +it. In London she "got swamped among the million +thieving magazines, threw up the whole job," and traveled +for two years on the Continent, writing for American +periodicals. When she returned to New York she again +wrote for <i>McClure's</i>, <i>Cosmopolitan</i>, <i>The Smart Set</i>, <i>Everybody's</i>, +and several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +first novel, <i>The Quest of Polly Locke</i> (New York, 1902) +was a story of the poor of Italy. It was followed by her +best known novel, <i>The Color of His Soul</i> (New York, +1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, +and suppressed two weeks after its publication because of +the earnest objections of a young Socialist, who had permitted +the author to make a type of him, and, when the +story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was not +sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, +and withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other +publishers, and she could not find any one to print her +writings. A short time later Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped +dying as a charity patient in a New York hospital. +When she did recover she worked for two years on <i>The +Sun</i>, <i>The Post</i>, <i>The Press</i>, and several other newspapers +in Manhattan. <i>Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories</i> (New +York, 1905), which were originally printed in <i>The Sun</i>, +"describing scenes and incidents in a Kentucky Colonel's +life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by Phil B. +Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The +stories have enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to +issue another set of them shortly. Being badly treated +by a well-known magazine, she became so infuriated that +she decided to establish—at the suggestion of Marion +Mills Miller—a magazine of her own. Thus <i>The East +Side</i>, a little thing not so large—speaking of its physical +size—as Elbert Hubbard's <i>The Philistine</i>, was born. +That was early in 1909; and it has been issued every +other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not original; +her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The +four bound volumes of <i>The East Side</i> lie before me now, +and they are almost bursting with love, sympathy, and +understanding for the poor of New York. She has been +and is everything from printer's "devil" to editor-in-chief, +but she has made a success of the work. Her one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested +all her life. For the last seven years she has lived among +them; and among them she hopes to spend the remainder +of her days. Her one best friend has been William Oberhardt, +the artist, who has illustrated <i>The East Side</i> from +its inception until the present time. To celebrate the little +periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded—at +the suggestion of Will J. Lampton—The Ragged Edge +Klub, which is composed of her friends and subscribers, +and which gave her an opportunity to meet all of her +"distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's +dinners delight the diners—and the newspapers! Mrs. +Norris's latest novel, <i>The Way of the Wind</i> (New York, +1911), is a story of the sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, +and is generally regarded as her finest work. So long +as <i>Zoe's Magazine</i>—which is the sub-title of <i>The East +Side</i>—continues to come from the press, the pushcart +people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood +women, the homeless of New York's great East +Side will have a voice in the world worth having.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Everybody's Magazine</i> (September, 1909); <i>Cosmopolitan +Magazine</i> (January, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE CABARET SINGER<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The East Side</i> (September, 1912)]</p> + +<p>For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and +violin, held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret +singer stepped out upon the soft, red carpet.</p> + +<p>Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap +with his wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring +glances at the singer.</p> + +<p>She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her +long, soft glance, selecting her victim for the chorus.</p> + +<p>She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +pressed her rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to +sing.</p> + +<p>The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in +this delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret +singer, leaving him, went from one to the other of the men, some +bald, some young, singing the chorus of "Daddy."</p> + +<p>The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed +the singer.</p> + +<p>"Shall we go home?" she asked presently.</p> + +<p>"Not yet!" he implored.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My +baby is crying for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home."</p> + +<p>The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and +threw herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. +She began to cry softly.</p> + +<p>The negress patted her white shoulder.</p> + +<p>"What's de mattah, honey," she purred.</p> + +<p>"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that +song. I am sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I +know he is. I want to go home!"</p> + + +<p class="center">IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If I could go back and be little again,<br /></span> +<span class="i31">I'd like it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I'm tired of the day that must end in the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If I could be rocked in a cradle again,<br /></span> +<span class="i31">I'd like it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But tired or not, we must keep up the fight,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +<span class="i2">We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be brave in the dark and endure the pain;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For we'll never, never be little again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again,<br /></span> +<span class="i18">Tho we'd most of us like it.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="LUCY_CLEAVER_McELROY" id="LUCY_CLEAVER_McELROY">LUCY CLEAVER McELROY</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious +feminine, but very characteristic Dickensy sketches," was +born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on Christmas Day of 1861. +She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W. Cleaver, a +physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in +the schools of her native town, and, on September 28, +1881, she was married to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now +resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs. McElroy was an +invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to +become discouraged and she produced at least one book +that was a success. She began her literary career by contributing +articles to <i>The Courier-Journal</i>, of Louisville, +<i>The Ladies' Home Journal</i>, and other newspapers and +periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, <i>Answered</i> +(Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent +critics. The first book she published that won a +wide reading was <i>Juletty</i> (New York, 1901), a tale of old +Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners, fox-hunters +and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with +"whiskey-colored eyes," make the <i>motif</i>. <i>Juletty</i> was +followed by <i>The Silent Pioneer</i> (New York, 1902), published +posthumously. "The silent pioneer" was, of +course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out +of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. +Mrs. McElroy died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +Kentucky, which she called "Myrtledene," on December +15, 1901.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Critic</i> (May, 1901); <i>Library of Southern +Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">OLD ALEC HAMILTON<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Juletty</i> (New York, 1901)]</p> + +<p>"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he +was a curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and +thoughts.</p> + +<p>"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks +needle at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest +head and the brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of +his was covered by a dense growth of auburn hair, and as every +hair stood separately erect it looked like a big sunburned chestnut +burr; his eyes twinkled and snapped, sparkled and glowed, +like blue blazes, though on occasion they could beam as softly +and tenderly through their tears as those of some lovesick woman. +His language was a curious idiom; the result of college training +and after association with negroes and illiterate neighbors. Of +course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities, and looked +forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my grandmother, +of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had expatiated +much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm—three thousand +broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky +acres always are broad, about twice as broad as the average +acre) in the heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he +said, as a crow ever flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to +corn crops in succession for a hundred years. But I am going +to tell you, doctor, of my visit as a child to my grandfather. I +had never seen him, and felt a little natural shrinking from the +first meeting. My mother had only been dead a few weeks and—well, +in short, my young heart was pretty full of conflicting +emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was not +expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +was midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, +or shoes, outside his front door. As I drew near he called out +threateningly:</p> + +<p>"'Who are you?'</p> + +<p>"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he +thundered.</p> + +<p>"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling +from his lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so +nothing daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good +news:</p> + +<p>"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!'</p> + +<p>"'What yer want here?'</p> + +<p>"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered +quiveringly.</p> + +<p>"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared.</p> + +<p>"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than +ever before or since, I turned and ran from him.</p> + +<p>"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong +arms, his tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops +on my face, while he mumbled through his sobs:</p> + +<p>"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? +Eliza's son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome +than sunshine after a storm. Never mind what grandfather +says, little man; just always remember he loves you like a son.'</p> + +<p>"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all +at once his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, +he cried: 'Thar, yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter +carry yer eround like er nigger? Use yer own legs and find +yer grandmother.'</p> + +<p>"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I +had seen his heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a +gentleman, do what he might to hide it."</p> + +<p>The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my +rambling, reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my +grandsire.</p> + +<p>"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren +County came out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, +'My God, man, don't you wish ugliness was above par? You'd +be er Croesus.'"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARY_F_LEONARD" id="MARY_F_LEONARD">MARY F. LEONARD</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Mary Finley Leonard, maker of many tales for +girls, was born at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January +11, 1862, but she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, +when but a few months old. Louisville has been her home +ever since. Miss Leonard was educated in private +schools, and at once entered upon her literary labors. +She has published ten books for girls from fourteen to +sixteen years of age, but several of them may be read by +"grown-ups." The style of all of them is delightfully +simple and direct. <i>The Story of the Big Front Door</i> +(New York, 1898), was her first story, and this was followed +by <i>Half a Dozen Thinking Caps</i> (New York, 1900); +<i>The Candle and the Cat</i> (New York, 1901); <i>The Spectacle +Man</i> (Boston, 1901); <i>Mr. Pat's Little Girl</i> (Boston, 1902); +<i>How the Two Ends Met</i> (New York, 1903); <i>The Pleasant +Street Partnership</i> (Boston, 1903); <i>It All Came True</i> +(New York, 1904); <i>On Hyacinth Hill</i> (Boston, 1904); and +her most recent book, <i>Everyday Susan</i> (New York, 1912). +These books have brought joy and good cheer to girls in +many lands, and they have been read by many mothers +and fathers with pleasure and profit. Miss Leonard has +made for herself a secure place in the literature of Kentucky, +a place that is peculiarly her own. She has a novel +of mature life in manuscript, which is said to be the finest +thing she has done so far, and which will be published in +1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Munsey's Magazine</i> (March, 1900); <i>Who's Who +in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">GOODBY<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Candle and the Cat</i> (New York, 1901)]</p> + +<p>Trolley sat on the gate-post. If possible he was handsomer +than ever, for the frosty weather had made his coat thick and +fluffy, besides this he wore his new collar. His eyes were wide +open to-day, and he looked out on the world with a solemn +questioning gaze.</p> + +<p>He had been decidedly upset in his mind that morning at +finding an open trunk in Caro's room, and clothes scattered +about on chairs and on the bed. Of course he did not know what +this meant, but to the cat mind anything unusual is objectionable, +and it made him unhappy. Finally he stretched himself in the +tray, where Caro found him.</p> + +<p>"You darling pussie!" she cried, "Mamma do look at him. I +believe he wants to go home with us. I wish we could take +him."</p> + +<p>But Mrs Holland said one little girl was all the traveling companion +she cared for. "It wouldn't do dear, he would be unhappy +on the train," she added.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what I should have done without him. He and +my candle were my greatest comforts—except grandpa," and +Caro put her cheek down on Trolley's soft fur.</p> + +<p>"What am I to do without my little candle?" her grandfather +asked.</p> + +<p>"Why, you can have the cat," Caro answered merrily.</p> + +<p>No wonder Trolley's mind was disturbed that morning with +such a coming and going as went on,—people running in to say +goodby, and Aunt Charlotte thinking every few minutes of something +new for the traveler's lunch, tickling his nose with tantalizing +odors of tongue and chicken.</p> + +<p>It was over at last, trunks and bags were sent off, Aunt Charlotte +was hugged and kissed and then Trolley had his turn, and +the procession moved, headed by the president.</p> + +<p>"Goodby Trolley; don't forget me!" Caro called, walking +backwards and waving her handkerchief.</p> + +<p>When they were out of sight Trolley went and sat on the gate-post<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +and thought about it. After a while he jumped down and +trotted across the campus with a businesslike air as if he had +come to an important decision. He took his way through the +Barrows orchard to the Grayson garden where there was now a +well-trodden path through the snow.</p> + +<p>Miss Grayson and her brother were sitting in the library. They +had been talking about Caro when Walter glancing toward the +window saw a pair of golden eyes peering in at him. "There is +Trolley," he said, and called Thompson to let him in.</p> + +<p>Trolley entered as if he was sure of a welcome, and walking +straight to Miss Elizabeth, sprang into her lap; and from this +on he became a frequent visitor at the Graysons' dividing his +time in fact about evenly between his two homes.</p> + +<p>And thus an unfortunate quarrel which had disturbed the +peaceful atmosphere of Charmington and separated old friends, +was forgotten, and as the president often remarked, it was all +owing to the candle and the cat.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="JOSEPH_A_ALTSHELER" id="JOSEPH_A_ALTSHELER">JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER</a></h2> + + +<p>Joseph Alexander Altsheler, the most prolific historical +novelist Kentucky has produced, was born at Three +Springs, Kentucky, April 29, 1862. He was educated at +Liberty College, Glasgow, Kentucky, and at Vanderbilt +University. His father's death compelled him to leave +Vanderbilt without his degree, and he entered journalism +at Louisville, Kentucky. Mr. Altsheler was on the Louisville +<i>Evening Post</i> for a year, when he went with <i>The +Courier-Journal</i>, with which paper his remained for seven +years. During his years on <i>The Courier-Journal</i> he filled +almost every position except editor-in-chief. He later +went to New York, and, since 1892, has been editor of +the tri-weekly edition of <i>The World</i>. Mr. Altsheler was +married, in 1888, to Miss Sara Boles of Glasgow, Kentucky, +and they have an attractive home in New York.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +He began his literary career with a pair of "shilling +shockers," entitled <i>The Rainbow of Gold</i> (New York, +1895), and <i>The Hidden Mine</i> (New York, 1896), neither +of which did more than start him upon his real work. +The full list of his tales hitherto is: <i>The Sun of Saratoga</i> +(New York, 1897); <i>A Soldier of Manhattan</i> (New York, +1897); <i>A Herald of the West</i> (New York, 1898); <i>The Last +Rebel</i> (Philadelphia, 1899); <i>In Circling Camps</i> (New +York, 1900), a story of the Civil War and his best work so +far; <i>In Hostile Red</i> (New York, 1900), the basis of which +was first published in <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i> as "A Knight +of Philadelphia;" <i>The Wilderness Road</i> (New York, 1901); +<i>My Captive</i> (New York, 1902); <i>Guthrie of the Times</i> (New +York, 1904), a Kentucky newspaper story of success, one +of Mr. Altsheler's finest tales; <i>The Candidate</i> (New York, +1905), a political romance. The year 1906 witnessed no +book from the author's hand, but in the following year he +began the publication of a series of books for boys, as well +as several other novels. His six stories for young readers +are: <i>The Young Trailers</i> (New York, 1907); <i>The Forest +Runners</i> (New York, 1908); <i>The Free Rangers</i> (New +York, 1909); <i>The Riflemen of the Ohio</i> (New York, 1910); +<i>The Scouts of the Valley</i> (New York, 1911); and <i>The Border +Watch</i> (New York, 1912). "All the six volumes deal +with the fortunes and adventures of two boys, Henry +Ware and Paul Cotter, and their friends, Shif'less Sol +Hyde, Silent Tom Ross and Long Jim Hart, in the early +days of Kentucky." Mr. Altsheler's latest historical +novels are: <i>The Recovery</i> (New York, 1908); <i>The Last +of the Chiefs</i> (New York, 1909); <i>The Horsemen of the +Plains</i> (New York, 1910); and <i>The Quest of the Four</i> +(New York, 1911). He is at the present time engaged upon +a trilogy dealing with the Texan struggle for independence +against Mexico, the first of which has recently +appeared, <i>The Texan Star</i> (New York, 1912). This tale,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +with the other two that are to be issued in 1913, to be entitled, +<i>The Texan Scouts</i>, and <i>The Texan Triumph</i>, are +written chiefly for the young. He will also publish in 1913 +a story to be called <i>Apache Gold</i>. "Joseph A. Altsheler +has made a fictional tour of American history," one of his +keenest critics has well said; and his work has been linked +with James Fenimore Cooper's by no less a judge of literary +productions than the late Richard Henry Stoddard.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Independent</i> (August 9, 1900); <i>The Book +Buyer</i> (September, 1900); <i>The Bookman</i> (February, 1903).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE CALL OF THE DRUM<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>In Circling Camps</i> (New York, 1900)]</p> + +<p>Then I listened to the call of the drum.</p> + +<p>Fort Sumter was fired upon, and the first cannon shot there +set this war drum to beating in every village; it was never silent; +its steady roll day after day was calling men up to the cannon +mouth; it was persistent, unsatisfied, always crying for more.</p> + +<p>Its beat was heard throughout a vast area, over regions whose +people knew of each other as part of the same nation but had +never met, calling above this line to the North, calling below it +to the South, summoning up the legions for a struggle in which +old jealousies and old quarrels, breeding since the birth of the +Union, were to be settled.</p> + +<p>The drum beat its martial note in the great cities of the Atlantic, +calling the men away from the forges and the shops and +the wharves—clerks, moulders, longshoremen, the same call for +all; it passed on, and its steady beat resounded among the hills +and mountains of the North, calling to the long-limbed farmer +boys to drop the plough and take up the rifle, sending them +on to join the moulders, and clerks, and longshoremen, and putting +upon all one stamp, the stamp of the soldier, food for the +cannon—and this food supply was to be the largest of its time, +though few yet dreamed it.</p> + +<p>The roll of the drum went on, through the fields, along the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +rivers, by the shores of the Great Lakes, out upon the plains, +where the American yet fought with the Indian for a foothold, +and into the interminable forests whose shades hid the pioneers; +over levels and acres and curves of thousands of miles, calling +up the deep-chested Western farmers, men of iron muscles and no +pleasures, to whom unbroken hardship was the natural course of +life, and sending them to join their Eastern brethren at the +cannon mouth.</p> + +<p>It was an insistent drum, beating through all the day and +night, over the mountains, through the sunless woods and on the +burnt prairies, never resting, never weary. The opportunity +was the greatest of the time, and the drum did not neglect a +moment; it was without conscience, and had no use for mercy, +calling, always calling.</p> + +<p>Another drum and yet the same was beating in the South, and +those who came at its call differed in little from the others who +were marching to the Northern beat, only the clerks and the mill +hands were much fewer; the same long-limbed and deep-chested +race, spare alike of figure and speech, brown-faced men from the +shores of the Gulf, men of South Carolina in whom the original +drop of French blood still tinctured the whole; brethren of theirs +from Louisiana, gigantic Tennesseans, half-wild horsemen from +the Texas plains—all burning with enthusiasm for a cause that +they believed to be right.</p> + +<p>This merciless drum rolling out its ironical chuckle noted that +these Northern and Southern countrymen gathering to their +standards were alike in their lack of pleasure; they were a serious +race; life had always been a hard problem for them, a fight, in +fact, and this fight into which they were going was merely +another kind of battle, with some advantages of novelty and +change and comradeship that made it attractive, especially to the +younger, the boys. They had been hewers of wood and drawers of +water in every sense of the word, though for themselves; generations +of them had fought Indians, some suffering torture and +death; they had endured bitter cold and burning heat, eaten at +scanty tables, and lived far-away and lonely lives in the wilderness. +They were a rough and hard-handed race, taught to work +and not to be afraid, knowing no masters, accustomed to no splendours<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +either in themselves or others, holding themselves as good +as anybody and thinking it, according to Nature; their faults +those of newness and never of decay. These were the men who +had grown up apart from the Old World, and all its traditions, +far even from the influence which the Atlantic seaboard felt +through constant communication. This life of eternal combat +in one form or another left no opportunity for softness; the +dances, the sports, and all the gaieties which even the lowest in +Europe had were unknown to them, and they invented none to +take their place.</p> + +<p>They knew the full freedom of speech; what they wished to say +they said, and they said it when and where they pleased. But +on the whole they were taciturn, especially in the hour of trouble; +then they made no complaints, suffering in silence. They imbibed +the stoicism of the Indians from whom they won the land, and +they learned to endure much and long before they cried out. +This left one characteristic patent and decisive, and that characteristic +was strength. These men had passed through a school +of hardship, one of many grades; it had roughened them, but it +gave them bodies of iron and an unconquerable spirit for the +struggle they were about to begin.</p> + +<p>Another characteristic of those who came at the call of the drum +was unselfishness. They were willing to do much and ask little +for it. They were poor bargain-drivers when selling their own +flesh and bones, and their answer to the call was spontaneous and +without price.</p> + +<p>They came in thousands, and scores of thousands. The long +roll rumbling from the sea to the Rocky Mountains and beyond +cleared everything; the doubts and the doubters were gone; no +more committees; an end to compromises! The sword must decide, +and the two halves of the nation, which yet did not understand +their own strength, swung forward to meet the issue, glad +that it was obvious at last.</p> + +<p>There came an exultant note into the call of the drum, as if it +rejoiced at the prospects of a contest that took so wide a sweep. +Here was long and happy work for it to do; it could call to many +battles, and its note as it passed from village to village was resounding +and defiant; it was cheerful too, and had in it a trick; +it told the long-legged boys who came out of the woods of victories<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +and glory, of an end for a while to the toil which never +before had been broken, of new lands and of cities; all making a +great holiday with the final finish of excitement and reasonable +risk. It was no wonder that the drum called so effectively when +it mingled such enticements with the demands of patriotism. +Most of those who heard were no strangers to danger, and those +who did not know it themselves were familiar with it in the traditions +of their fathers and forefathers; every inch of the land +which now swept back from the sea three thousand miles had +been won at the cost of suffering and death, with two weapons, +the rifle and the axe, and they were not going to shun the present +trial, which was merely one in a long series.</p> + +<p>The drum was calling to men who understood its note; the +nation had been founded as a peaceful republic, but it had gone +already through the ordeal of many wars, and behind it stretched +five generations of colonial life, an unbroken chain of combats. +They had fought everybody; they had measured the valour of the +Englishman, the Frenchman, the Spaniard, the Hessian, the +Mexican, and the red man. Much gunpowder had been burned +within the borders of the Union, and also its people had burned +much beyond them. Those who followed the call of the drum +were flocking to no new trade. By a country with the shadow +of a standing army very many battles had been fought.</p> + +<p>They came too, without regard to blood or origin; the Anglo-Saxon +predominated; he gave his characteristics to North and +South alike, all spoke his tongue, but every race in Europe had +descendants there, and many of them—English, Irish, Scotch, +French, German, Spanish, and so on through the list—their +blood fused and intermingled, until no one could tell how much +he had of this and how much of that.</p> + +<p>The untiring drumbeat was heard through all the winter and +summer, and the response still rolled up from vast areas; it was +to be no common struggle—great armies were to be formed +where no armies at all existed before, and the preparations on a +fitting scale went on. The forces of the North and South gathered +along a two-thousand-mile line, and those trying to look far +ahead saw the nature of the struggle.</p> + +<p>The preliminary battles and skirmishes began, and then the +two gathered themselves for their mightiest efforts.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="OSCAR_W_UNDERWOOD" id="OSCAR_W_UNDERWOOD">OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD</a></h2> + + +<p>Oscar Wilder Underwood, orator and magazine writer, +was born at Louisville, Kentucky, May 6, 1862. He is the +grandson of Joseph Rogers Underwood, a celebrated Kentucky +statesman of the old <i>regime</i>. Mr. Underwood was +prepared for the University of Virginia at the Rugby +School of Louisville. In 1884 he was admitted to the bar +and entered upon the practice of his profession at Birmingham, +Alabama, his present home. He was prominent +in Alabama politics prior to his election to the lower +house of Congress, in 1895, as the representative of the +Ninth Alabama district; and he has been regularly returned +to that body ever since. Mr. Underwood is chairman +of the committee on ways and means of the Sixty-second +Congress, as well as majority leader of the House. +In the Democratic pre-convention presidential campaign +of 1912, the South almost unanimously endorsed Mr. Underwood +for the nomination. Led by Alabama he was +hailed in many quarters as the first really constructive +statesman the South has sent to Congress in more than +twenty years; further, his friends said, he has devoted his +life to the study of the tariff and is now the foremost exponent +of the subject living; his tariff policy is simply this: +stop protecting the profits of the manufacturers; and that +Underwood is Democracy's best asset. Earlier in the year, +Mr. Underwood had been attacked by William J. Bryan, +and his retorts in the House were so severe and unanswerable, +he being the only man up to that time able to cope +with the Colonel, that, of course, he had that distinguished +gentleman's influence against him at the Baltimore convention. +Nevertheless, every roll-call found him in third +place, just behind Champ Clark, who was also born in +Kentucky, and Woodrow Wilson, governor of New Jersey. +He was running so strong as the convention neared its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +close, that at least one Kentucky editor came home and +wrote a long editorial calling upon the Kentucky delegation +to change its vote from Clark to Underwood; but on +the following day the governor of New Jersey was nominated. +A few of Mr. Underwood's contributions to periodicals +may be pointed out: two articles in <i>The Forum</i> on +"The Negro Problem in the South;" "The Corrupting +Power of Public Patronage;" "What About the Tariff?" +(<i>The World To-day</i>, January, 1912); "The Right and +Wrong of the Tariff Question" (<i>The Independent</i>, February +1, 1912); and "High Tariff and American Trade +Abroad" (<i>The Century</i>, May, 1912). By friend and foe +alike Mr. Underwood is admitted to be the greatest living +student of the tariff; and his speeches in Congress and out +of it on this subject have given him a national reputation.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The World's Work</i> (March, 1912); <i>Harper's +Weekly</i> (June 1, 1912); <i>North American Review</i> (June, +1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS</p> + +<p class="center">[Delivered before the Southern Society of New York City (December 16, +1911)]</p> + +<p>The kaleidoscope of political issues must and will continually +change with the changing conditions of our Republic but there is +one question that was with us in the beginning and will be in +the end, and that is the most effective, efficient and fairest way +of equalizing the burdens of taxation that are levied by the +National Government. Of all the great powers that were yielded +to the Federal Government by the States when they adopted the +Constitution of our country, the one indispensable to the administration +of public affairs is the right to levy and collect taxes. +Without the exercise of that power we could not maintain an +army and navy; we could not establish the courts of the land; +the government would fail to perform its function if the power +to tax were taken away from it. The power to tax carries with +it the power to destroy, and it is, therefore, a most dangerous +governmental power as well as a most necessary one.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>There is a very clear and marked distinction between the position +of the two great political parties of America as to how +power to tax should be exercised in the levying of revenue at the +custom houses.</p> + +<p>The Republican party has maintained the doctrine that taxes +should not only be levied for the purpose of revenue, but also for +the purpose of protecting the home manufacturer from foreign +competition. Of necessity protection from competition carries +with it a guarantee of profits. In the last Republican platform +this position of the party was distinctly recognized when they declared +that they were not only in favor of the protection of the +difference in cost at home and abroad but also a reasonable profit +to American industries.</p> + +<p>The Democratic party favors the policy of raising its taxes +at the custom house by a tariff that is levied for revenue only, +which clearly excludes the idea of protecting the manufacturer's +profits. In my opinion, the dividing line between the positions +of the two great parties on this question is very clear and +easily ascertained in theory. Where the tariff rates balance the +difference in cost at home and abroad, including an allowance +for the difference in freight rates, the tariff must be competitive, +and from that point downward to the lowest tariff that can be +levied it will continue to be competitive to a greater or less extent. +Where competition is not interfered with by levying the +tax above the highest competitive point, the profits of the manufacturer +are not protected. On the other hand, when the duties +levied at the custom house equalizes the difference in cost at home +and abroad and in addition thereto they are high enough to allow +the American manufacturer to make a profit before his competitor +can enter the field, we have invaded the domain of the +protection of profits. Some men assert that the protection of +reasonable profits to the home manufacturer should be commended +instead of being condemned, but in my judgment, the +protection of any profit must of necessity have a tendency to destroy +competition and create monopoly, whether the profit protected +is reasonable or unreasonable.</p> + +<p>You should bear in mind that to establish a business in a +foreign country requires a vast outlay both in time and capital.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +Should the foreigner manufacturer attempt to establish himself +in this country he must advertise his goods, establish selling +agencies and points of distribution before he can successfully +conduct his business. After he has done so, if the home producer +is protected by a law that not only equals the difference in cost +at home and abroad, but also protects a reasonable or unreasonable +profit, it is only necessary for him to drop his prices slightly +below the point that the law has fixed to protect his profits and +his competitor must retire from the country or become a bankrupt, +because he would then have to sell his goods at a loss and +not a profit, if he continued to compete. The foreign competitor +having retired, the home producer could raise his prices to any +level that home competition would allow him and it is not probable +that the foreigner who had already been driven out of the +country would again return, no matter how inviting the field, +as long as the law remained on the Statute Books that would +enable his competitor to again put him out of business.</p> + +<p>Thirty or forty years ago, when we had numbers of small +manufacturers, when there was honest competition without an +attempt being made to restrict trade and the home market was +more than able to consume the production of our mills and factories, +the danger and the injury to the consumer of the country +was not so great or apparent as it is to-day, when the control of +many great industries has been concentrated in the hands of a +few men or a few corporations, because domestic competition +was prohibited. When we cease to have competition at home +and the law prohibits competition from abroad by protecting +profits, there is no relief for the consumer except to cry out for +government regulation. To my mind, there is no more reason +or justice in the government attempting to protect the profits of +the manufacturers and producers of this country than here would +be to protect the profits of the merchant or the lawyer, the banker +or the farmer, or the wages of the laboring man. In almost every +line of industry in the United States we have as great natural +resources to develop as that of any country in the world. It is +admitted by all that our machinery and methods of doing business +are in advance of the other nations. By reason of the efficient +use of American machinery by American labor, in most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +of the manufactures of this country, the labor cost per unit of +production is no greater here than abroad. It is admitted, of +course, that the actual wage of the American laborer is in excess +of European countries, but as to most articles we manufacture +the labor cost in this country is not more than double the labor +cost abroad. When we consider that the average <i>ad valorem</i> +rate of duty levied at the custom house on manufactures of cotton +goods is 53% of the value of the article imported and the +total labor cost of the production of cotton goods in this country +is only 21% of the factory value of the product, that the difference +in labor cost at home and abroad is only about as one is +to two, and that ten or eleven per cent of the value of the product +levied at the custom house would equal the difference in +the labor wage, it is apparent that our present tariff laws exceed +the point where they equalize the difference in cost at home +and abroad, and we realize how far they have entered into the +domain of protecting profits for the home manufacturer. This +is not only true of the manufacture of cotton goods, but of almost +every schedule in the tariff bill. To protect profits of necessity +means to protect inefficiency. It does not stimulate industry +because a manufacturer standing behind a tariff wall that is +protecting his profits is not driven to develop his business along +the lines of greatest efficiency and greatest economy. This is +clearly illustrated in a comparison of the wool and the iron and +steel industries. Wool has had a specific duty that when worked +out to an <i>ad valorem</i> basis amounts to a tax of about 90% of +the average value of all woolen goods imported into the United +States, and the duties imposed have remained practically unchanged +for forty years. During that time the wool industry +has made comparatively little progress in cheapening the cost +of its product and improving its business methods. On the +other hand, in the iron and steel industry the tariff rate has been +cut every time a tariff bill has been written. Forty years ago +the tax on steel rails amounted to $17.50 a ton, to-day it amounts +to $3.92. Forty years ago the tax on pig iron was $13.60 a ton, +to-day it is $2.50. The same is true of most of the other articles +in the iron and steel schedule, and yet the iron and steel industry +has not languished; it has not been destroyed and it has not gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +to the wall. It is the most compact, virile, fighting force of all +the industries of America to-day. It has long ago expanded its +productive capacity beyond the power of the American people +to consume its output and is to-day facing out towards the markets +of the world, battling for a part of the trade of foreign +lands, where it must meet free competition, or, as is often the +case, pay adverse tariff rates to enter the industrial fields of its +competitor.</p> + +<p>Which course is the wiser for our government to take? The +one that demands the protection of profits the continued policy +of hot-house growth for our industries? The stagnation of development +that follows where competition ceases, or, on the other +hand, the gradual and insistent reduction of our tariff laws to +a basis where the American manufacturer must meet honest +competition, where he must develop his business along the best +and most economic lines, where when he fights at home to control +his market he is forging the way in the economic development +of his business to extend his trade in the markets of the +world. In my judgment, the future growth of our great industries +lies beyond the seas. A just equalization of the burdens +of taxation and honest competition, in my judgment, are economic +truths; they are not permitted to-day by the laws of our +country; we must face toward them, and not away from them.</p> + +<p>What I have said does not mean that I am in favor of going +to free trade conditions or of being so radical in our legislation +as to injure legitimate business, but I do mean that the period of +exclusion has passed and the era of honest competition is here.</p> + +<p>Let us approach the solution of the problem involved with +the determination to do what is right, what is safe, and what is +reasonable.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="ELIZABETH_ROBINS" id="ELIZABETH_ROBINS">ELIZABETH ROBINS</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Elizabeth Robins Parkes, the well-known novelist +of the psychological school, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +August 6, 1862. She was taken from Louisville +as a young child by her parents for the reason that her +father had built a house on Staten Island, where she lived +until her eleventh year, when she went to her grandmother's +at Zanesville, Ohio, to attend Putnam Female Seminary, +an institution of some renown, where her aunts on +both sides of the house had received their training. <i>Mrs. +Gano</i>, the one fine character of Miss Robins's first successful +novel, <i>The Open Question</i>, is none other than her own +grandmother, Jane Hussey Robins, to whom she dedicated +the story; and the house in which she lived is faithfully +described in that story. In 1874, when she was twelve +years of age, Miss Robins made her first visit to Kentucky +since having left the State some years before; and +she has been back many times since, her latest visit being +made in 1912. Her mother and many of her kinsfolk are +buried in Cave Hill cemetery; and her brother, uncle, and +other relatives, including Charles Neville Buck, the young +Kentucky novelist, reside at Louisville. She is, therefore, +a Kentuckian to the core. On January 12, 1885, she was +married to George Richmond Parkes, of Boston, who died +some years ago. While passing through London, in 1889, +Mrs. Parkes decided it was the most pleasing city she had +seen, and she established herself there. She now maintains +Backset Town Farm, Henfield, Sussex; and a winter +home at Chinsegut, Florida. Mrs. Parkes won her first +fame as an actress, appearing in several of Ibsen's plays, +and attracting wide attention for her work in <i>The Master +Builder</i>, especially. While on the stage she began to +write under the pen-name of "C. E. Raimond," so as not +to confuse the public mind with her work as an actress;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +and this name served her well until <i>The Open Question</i> +appeared, at which time it became generally understood +that the actress and author were one and the same person. +She soon after began to write under her maiden +name of Elizabeth Robins—and thus confounded herself +with the wife of Joseph Pennell, the celebrated American +etcher. With her long line of novels Miss Robins takes +her place as one of the foremost writers Kentucky has +produced. A full list of them is: <i>George Mandeville's +Husband</i> (New York, 1894); <i>The New Moon</i> (New York, +1895); <i>Below the Salt</i> (London, 1896), a collection of +short-stories, containing, among others, <i>The Fatal Gift +of Beauty</i>, which was the title of the American edition +(Chicago, 1896); <i>The Open Question</i> (New York, 1898). +Miss Robins was friendly with Whistler, the great artist, +and he designed the covers for <i>Below the Salt</i> and <i>The +Open Question</i>, a morbid but powerful novel. She has been +especially fortunate in seizing upon a subject of vital, +timely importance against which to build her books; and +that is one of the real reasons for her success. What +the public wants is what she wants to give them. When +gold was discovered in the Klondike, and all the world was +making a mad rush for those fields, Miss Robins wrote +<i>The Magnetic North</i> (New York, 1904). That fascinating +story was followed by <i>A Dark Lantern</i> (New York, +1905), "a story with a prologue;" <i>The Convert</i> (New +York, 1907), a novel based upon the suffragette movement +in London, with which the author has been identified for +seven years, and for which she has written more, perhaps, +than any one else; <i>Under the Southern Cross</i> (New York, +1907); <i>Woman's Secret</i> (London, 1907); <i>Votes for Women: +A Play in Three Acts</i> (London, n. d. [1908]), a dramatization +of <i>The Convert</i>, produced by Granville Barker +at the Court Theatre, London, with great success. The +title of this play, if not the contents, has gone into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +remotest corners of the world as the accepted slogan of the +suffragette cause. <i>Come and Find Me!</i> (New York, 1908), +another story of the Alaska country, originally serialized +in <i>The Century Magazine</i>; <i>The Mills of the Gods</i> (New +York, 1908); <i>The Florentine Frame</i> (New York, 1909); +<i>Under His Roof</i> (London, n. d. [1910]), yet another short-story +of the suffragette struggle in London, printed in an +exceedingly slender pamphlet; and <i>Why?</i> (London, 1912), +a brochure of questions and answers concerning her darling +suffragettes. Upon these books Elizabeth Robins +has taken a high place in contemporary letters. Her +very latest story is <i>My Little Sister</i>, based upon a background +of the white slave traffic in London, the shortened +version of which appeared in <i>McClure's Magazine</i> for +December, 1912, concluded in the issue for January, +1913, after which it will be published in book form in +America under the original title; but the English edition +will bear this legend, "Where Are You Going To?" When +the first part of this strong story was printed in <i>McClure's</i> +it attracted immediate and very wide attention, and again +illustrated the ancient fact concerning the author's novels: +her ability to make use of one of the big questions of the +day as a scene for her story. Another book on woman's +fight for the ballot, to be entitled <i>Way Stations</i> may be +published in March, 1913. Miss Robins is the ablest woman +novelist Kentucky has produced; but her short-stories +are not comparable to Mrs. Andrew's.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Critic</i> (June, 1904); <i>The Bookman</i> (November, +1907); <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (December, 1910); <i>Harper's +Magazine</i> (August, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Florentine Frame</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<p>Mrs. Roscoe invoked the right manager. <i>The Man at the +Wheel</i> was not only accepted, it was announced for early production.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +Special scenery was being painted. The rehearsals +were speedily in full swing. The play had been slightly altered +in council—one scene had been rewritten.</p> + +<p>Generously, Keith made his acknowledgements. "I should +not have gone at it again, but for you," he told Mrs. Roscoe. +"It had got stale—I hated it, till that day I read it to you."</p> + +<p>She smiled. "Nobody needs an audience so much as a dramatist. +I was audience."</p> + +<p>"You brought the fresh eye, you saw how the <i>scène à faire</i> +could be made more poignant. Do you know," he said in that +way he was getting into, re-envisaging with this companion some +old outlook, "I sometimes feel the only difference between the +poor thing and the good thing is that in one, the hand fell away +too soon, and in the other it was able to give the screw just one +more turn. You practically helped me to give the final turn +that screwed the thing into shape."</p> + +<p>She shook her head, and then he told her that after a dozen +rebuffs he had made up his mind to abandon the play that very +day he and the Professor had talked of cinque cento ivories.</p> + +<p>It was not unnatural that the scant cordiality of Mrs. Mathew, +whenever Keith encountered that lady at her sister's house, +was insufficient to make him fail in what he acknowledged to +Fanshawe as a sort of duty. This was: keeping Mrs. Roscoe +fully informed of all the various stages in the contract-negotiation, +the cast decisions, and the checkered fortunes of rehearsal.</p> + +<p>It is only fair to Mrs. Mathew to admit that she had one +reason more cogent even than she quite realized for objecting +to the new addition to a circle that had, as Genie complained, +grown very circumscribed during the days of mourning.</p> + +<p>If keeping Mrs. Roscoe <i>au courant</i> with the fortunes of the +play had appeared to Keith in the light of an obligation imposed +by common gratitude, Mrs. Mathew conceived it as no less +her duty not to allow dislike of the new friend's presence to +interfere with the sisterly relation—a relation which on the +older woman's part had always had in it a touch of the maternal. +If that young man was "getting himself accepted upon +an intimate footing"—all the more important that Isabella's +elder sister should be there at least as much as usual, if only to +prevent the curious from "talking."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + +<p>In pursuance to this conception of her duty, one evening during +the later rehearsals, Mrs. Mathew stood just inside the door +of the cloak room that opened out of the famous gray and white +marble entrance hall of the Roscoe house. Engaged in the +homely occupation of depositing her "artics" in a corner where +they would not be mixed up with other people's, Mrs. Mathew +was arrested by a slight noise. Upon putting out her head she +descried Miss Genie creeping down the stairs with a highly conspiratorial +air. The girl, betraying every evidence of suppressed +excitement, came to a halt before the closed doors of the drawing-room. +The sound of Keith's voice reading aloud came +softened through the heavy panels, and seemed to reassure the +eavesdropper. She ran on noiseless feet to the low seat, where +a man's hat showed black against the soft tone of the marble. +She lifted the hat and appeared to be fumbling with the coat +that was lying underneath.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the flash of a small square envelope on its way to +the recesses of the visitor's overcoat!</p> + +<p>"What are you doing?" demanded Aunt Josephine, coming +down the hall.</p> + +<p>"Oh! How you startled me! I'm not doing anything in +particular—just waiting about till that blessed reading's over." +She left the letter concealed in the folds of the coat, and for an +instant she held the hat in front of her perturbed face: "Don't +men's things have a nice Russia-leathery smell?" she remarked +airily.</p> + +<p>"Genie Roscoe, what pranks are you playing?" As Mrs. +Mathew took hold of the coat, the girl's self-possession failed +her a little. She clung to the garment, sending anxious glances +toward the door, whispering her nervous remonstrances and +begging Aunt Josephine not to talk so loud. "You'll interrupt +them."</p> + +<p>"What is going on?" demanded Aunt Josephine, relaxing her +hold on the coat.</p> + +<p>"He's reading."</p> + +<p>"Your poor mother!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she likes it."</p> + +<p>"Humph! And that young man—does he never get tired of +his own works?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It isn't <i>his</i> works that he's reading. It's other people's—to +make him forget the way they murder the play at rehearsal. +It's French things they read, usually." Genie hurried on with +a nervous attempt to be diverting. "There's a new poet, did +you know? I like the new ones best, don't you? What I can't +stand is when they are so ancient, that they're like that decayed +old Ronsard—"</p> + +<p>The form Mrs. Mathew's literary criticism took was a violent +shake of the visitor's coat. Out of the folds dropped a note. It +was addressed in Genie's hand to Mr. Chester Keith.</p> + +<p>"What foolishness is this—"</p> + +<p>"Don't tell mother," prayed the girl, trying in vain to recover +the envelope.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mathew's face grew graver as she took in the girl's +feverish anxiety.</p> + +<p>"Dear Aunt Josephine!" Genie slipped her hand coaxingly +through the arm of the forbidding-looking lady. "I know you +wouldn't be so unkind. For all mother seems so gentle and you +sometimes look so severe, you're ten times as forgiving, really, +as mother is. You're more broadminded," said the unblushing +flatterer.</p> + +<p>"Oh, really"—Mrs. Mathew smiled a little grimly—but she +had ere now proved herself as accessible to coaxing as the cast-iron +seeming people often are. They betray, on occasion, a touching +gratitude at not being taken at their own grim word.</p> + +<p>"Why should I hesitate to tell what you don't hesitate to +do?"</p> + +<p>But Genie's arm was round her. "Oh, <i>you</i> know why. +Mother has such extravagantly high ideas about what people +ought to do."</p> + +<p>In the other hand Mrs. Mathew still held the note, out of the +girl's reach. "You make a practice of this?"</p> + +<p>"No, no. It's the first time, and I'll never do it again, if +you'll promise not to tell on me."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mathew hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Dearest auntie, <i>be nice</i>! If you tell," the girl protested, +"I'll have no character to keep up and I'll write him real—well, +real letters."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? Isn't this a real letter?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No. It doesn't say half. It's <i>nothing</i> to what I could—"</p> + +<p>"Very well, if it's nothing—" Mrs. Mathew tore open the +note.</p> + +<p>Before she could so much as unfold it, Genie had plucked it +out of her hand and fled upstairs.</p> + +<p>Half way to the top she leaned over the bannisters. "If you +tell I'll remember it all my life. If you don't I'll love you for +ever and ever."</p> + +<p>"You're a very silly child. And I'm not at all sure I won't +speak to your mother."</p> + +<p>"But I am!" the coppery head was hung ingratiatingly over +the hand rail.</p> + +<p>Aunt Josephine was already thinking of matters more important +than a school girl's foolishness. "How long has that +man been here?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, hours and hours!" said Genie, accepting the diversion +with due gratitude. "He stays longer and longer."</p> + +<p>"Humph! that's what I think!" Aunt Josephine stalked into +the drawing-room.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ELLEN_CHURCHILL_SEMPLE" id="ELLEN_CHURCHILL_SEMPLE">ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Ellen Churchill Semple, Kentucky's distinguished +anthropo-geographer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +in 1863. Vassar College conferred the degree of Bachelor +of Arts upon her in 1882, and the Master of Arts in +1891. She then studied for two years at the University +of Leipzig. Miss Semple has devoted herself to the new +science of anthropo-geography, which is the study of the +influence of geographic conditions upon the development +of mankind. Since 1897 she has contributed articles upon +her subject to the New York <i>Journal of Geography</i>, the +London <i>Geographical Journal</i>, and to other scientific publications. +Miss Semple's first book, entitled <i>American +History and Its Geographic Conditions</i> (Boston, 1903),<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +proclaimed her as the foremost student of the new science +in the United States. A special edition of this work was +published for the Indiana State Teachers' Association, +which is said to be the largest reading circle in the world. +In 1901 Miss Semple prepared an interesting study of <i>The +Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains</i>, which was issued +in 1910 as a bulletin of the American Geographical +Society. Miss Semple's latest work is an enormous volume, +entitled <i>Influences of Geographic Environment on +the Basis of Ratzel's System of Anthropo-Geography</i> +(New York, 1911). This required seven long years of +untiring research to prepare, and with its publication she +came into her own position, which is quite unique in the +whole range of American literature. Although scientific +to the last degree, her writings have the real literary +flavor, which is seldom found in such work. Miss Semple +lectured at Oxford University in 1912, and in the late +autumn of that year she discussed Japan, in which country +she had experienced much of value and interest, before +the Royal British Geographical Society in London, and +later before the Royal Scottish Geographical Society in +Edinburgh. Between various lectures in Scotland and +England she continued her researches in the London libraries, +returning to the United States as the year closed.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Nation</i> (December 31, 1903); <i>Political +Science Quarterly</i> (September, 1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Influences of Geographic Environment</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<p>Man is a product of the earth's surface. This means not +merely that he is a child of the earth, dust of her dust; but that +the earth has mothered him, fed him, set him tasks, directed +his thoughts, confronted him with difficulties that have strengthened +his body and sharpened his wits, given him his problems<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +of navigation or irrigation, and at the same time whispered hints +for their solution. She has entered into his bone and tissue, into +his mind and soul. On the mountains she has given him leg +muscles of iron to climb the slope; along the coast she has left +these weak and flabby, but given him instead vigorous development +of chest and arm to handle his paddle or oar. In the river +valley she attaches him to the fertile soil, circumscribes his ideas +and ambitions by a dull round of calm, exacting duties, narrows +his outlook to the cramped horizon of his farm. Up on the windswept +plateaus, in the boundless stretch of the grasslands and +the waterless tracts of the desert, where he roams with his flocks +from pasture to pasture and oasis to oasis, where life knows +much hardship but escapes the grind of drudgery, where the +watching of grazing herds gives him leisure for contemplation, +and the wide-ranging life a big horizon, his ideas take on a certain +gigantic simplicity; religion becomes monotheism, God becomes +one, unrivalled like the sand of the desert, and the grass +of the steppe, stretching on and on without break or change. +Chewing over and over the cud of his simple belief as the one +food of his unfed mind, his faith becomes fanaticism; his big +spacial ideas, born of that ceaseless regular wandering, outgrow +the land that bred them and bear their legitimate fruit in wide +imperial conquests.</p> + +<p>Man can no more be scientifically studied apart from the +ground which he tills, or the lands over which he travels, or +the seas over which he trades, than polar bear or desert cactus +can be understood apart from its habitat. Man's relation to his +environment are infinitely more numerous and complex than +those of the most highly organized plant or animal. So complex +are they that they constitute a legitimate and necessary object +of special study. The investigation which they receive in anthropology, +ethnology, sociology and history is piecemeal and +partial, limited as to the race, cultural development, epoch, +country or variety of geographic conditions taken into account. +Hence all these sciences, together with history so far as history +undertakes to explain the causes of events, fail to reach a satisfactory +solution of their problems, largely because the geographic +factor which enters into them all has not been thoroughly analyzed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +Man has been so noisy about the way he has "conquered +Nature," and Nature has been so silent in her persistent influence +over man, that the geographic factor in the equation of +human development has been overlooked.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MRS_ANNIE_FELLOWS_JOHNSTON" id="MRS_ANNIE_FELLOWS_JOHNSTON">MRS. ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Annie Fellows Johnston, creator of the famous +"Little Colonel Series," was born at Evansville, Indiana, +May 15, 1863, the daughter of a clergyman. Miss Fellows +was educated in the public schools of Evansville, and then +spent the year of 1881-1882 at the State University of +Iowa. She was married at Evansville, in 1888, to William +L. Johnston, who died four years later, leaving her a son +and daughter. Mrs. Johnston's first arrival in Kentucky +as a resident (though not as a visitor), was in 1898, and +then she stayed only three years. Her son's quest of +health led her first to Walton, New York, then to Arizona, +where they spent a winter on the desert in sight of Camelback +mountain, which suggested the legend of <i>In the +Desert of Waiting</i>. From Arizona they went to California +and then, in 1903, decided to try the climate of +Texas, up in the hill country, north of San Antonio. Mrs. +Johnston called her home "Penacres," and she lived there +until her son's death in the fall of 1910. She and her +daughter returned to Pewee Valley, Kentucky, in April, +1911, and purchased "The Beeches," the old home of Mrs. +Henry W. Lawton, the widow of the famous American +general. The house is situated in a six acre grove of +magnificent beech-trees, and is a place often mentioned +in "The Little Colonel" stories. Mrs. Johnston's books +are: <i>Big Brother</i> (Boston, 1893); <i>The Little Colonel</i> +(Boston, 1895); <i>Joel: A Boy of Galilee</i> (Boston, 1895; +Italian translation, 1900); <i>In League with Israel</i> (Cincinnati,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +1896), the second and last of Mrs. Johnston's books +that was not issued by L. C. Page and Company, Boston; +<i>Ole Mammy's Torment</i> (1897); <i>Songs Ysame</i> (1897), a +book of poems, written with her sister, Mrs. Albion Fellows +Bacon, the social reformer of Evansville, Indiana; +<i>The Gate of the Giant Scissors</i> (1898); <i>Two Little Knights +of Kentucky</i> (1899), written in Kentucky; <i>The Little Colonel's +House Party</i> (1900); <i>The Little Colonel's Holidays</i> +(1901); <i>The Little Colonel's Hero</i> (1902); <i>Cicely</i> (1902); +<i>Asa Holmes, or At the Crossroads</i> (1902); <i>Flip's Islands +of Providence</i> (1903); <i>The Little Colonel at Boarding-School</i> +(1903), the children's "Order of Hildegarde" was +founded on the story of <i>The Three Weavers</i> in this volume; +<i>The Little Colonel in Arizona</i> (1904); <i>The Quilt that +Jack Built</i> (1904); <i>The Colonel's Christmas Vacation</i> +(1905); <i>In the Desert of Waiting</i> (1905; Japanese translation, +Tokio, 1906); <i>The Three Weavers</i> (1905), a special +edition of this famous story; <i>Mildred's Inheritance</i> +(1906); <i>The Little Colonel, Maid of Honor</i> (1906); <i>The +Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding</i> (1907); <i>Mary Ware</i> +(1908); <i>The Legend of the Bleeding Heart</i> (1908); <i>Keeping +Tryst</i> (1908); <i>The Rescue of the Princess Winsome</i> +(1908); <i>The Jester's Sword</i> (1909; Japanese translation, +Tokio, 1910); <i>The Little Colonel's Good Times Book</i> +(1909); <i>Mary Ware in Texas</i> (1910); and <i>Travellers Five</i> +(1911), a collection of short-stories for grown people, +previously published in magazines, with a foreword by +Bliss Carman. The little Kentucky girl—called the +"Little Colonel" because of her resemblance to a Southern +gentleman of the old school—has had Mrs. Johnston's +attention for seventeen years, and she has recently announced +that she is at work upon the twelfth and final +volume of the "Little Colonel Series," as she feels that +work for grown-ups is more worth her while. This last +story of the series was published in the fall of 1912, entitled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +<i>Mary Ware's Promised Land</i>; and needless to say +her "promised land" is Kentucky. There are "Little +Colonel Clubs" all over the world, as Mrs. Johnston has +learned from thousands of letters from children, and when +she rings down the curtain upon her heroine many girls +and boys in this and other countries will be sad.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Current Literature</i> (April, 1901); <i>The Century</i> +(September, 1903).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE MAGIC KETTLE<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Little Colonel's Holidays</i> (Boston, 1901)]</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, so the story goes (you may read it yourself +in the dear old tales of Hans Christian Andersen), there was +a prince who disguised himself as a swineherd. It was to gain +admittance to a beautiful princess that he thus came in disguise +to her father's palace, and to attract her attention he made a +magic caldron, hung around with strings of silver bells. Whenever +the water in the caldron boiled and bubbled, the bells rang +a little tune to remind her of him.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, thou dear Augustine,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All is lost and gone,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>they sang. Such was the power of the magic kettle, that when +the water bubbled hard enough to set the bells a-tinkling, any +one holding his hand in the steam could smell what was cooking +in every kitchen in the kingdom.</p> + +<p>It has been many a year since the swineherd's kettle was set +a-boiling and its string of bells a-jingling to satisfy the curiosity +of a princess, but a time has come for it to be used again. Not +that anybody nowadays cares to know what his neighbor is going +to have for dinner, but all the little princes and princesses in the +kingdom want to know what happened next.</p> + +<p>"What happened after the Little Colonel's house party?" +they demand, and they send letters to the Valley by the score,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +asking "Did Betty go blind?" "Did the two little Knights of +Kentucky ever meet Joyce again or find the Gate of the Giant +Scissors?" "Did the Little Colonel ever have any more good +times at Locust, or did Eugenia ever forget that she too had +started out to build a Road of the Loving Heart?"</p> + +<p>It would be impossible to answer all these questions through +the post-office, so that is why the magic kettle has been dragged +from its hiding-place after all these years, and set a-boiling once +more. Gather in a ring around it, all you who want to know, +and pass your curious fingers through its wreaths of rising steam. +Now you shall see the Little Colonel and her guests of the house +party in turn, and the bells shall ring for each a different song.</p> + +<p>But before they begin, for the sake of some who may happen +to be in your midst for the first time, and do not know what it +is all about, let the kettle give them a glimpse into the past, that +they may be able to understand all that is about to be shown to +you. Those who already know the story need not put their +fingers into the steam, until the bells have rung this explanation +in parenthesis.</p> + +<p>(In Lloydsboro Valley stands an old Southern mansion, known +as "Locust." The place is named for a long avenue of giant +locust-trees stretching a quarter of a mile from house to entrance +gate in a great arch of green. Here for years an old Confederate +colonel lived all alone save for the negro servants. His only +child, Elizabeth, had married a Northern man against his wishes, +and gone away. From that day he would not allow her name +to be spoken in his presence. But she came back to the Valley +when her little daughter Lloyd was five years old. People began +calling the child the Little Colonel because she seemed to +have inherited so many of her grandfather's lordly ways as well +as a goodly share of his high temper. The military title seemed +to suit her better than her own name for in her fearless baby +fashion she won her way into the old man's heart and he made +a complete surrender.</p> + +<p>Afterward when she and her mother and "Papa Jack" went +to live with him at Locust, one of her favorite games was playing +soldier. The old man never tired of watching her march +through the wide halls with his spurs strapped to her tiny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +slipper heels, and her dark eyes flashing out fearlessly from +under the little Napoleon cap she wore.</p> + +<p>She was eleven when she gave her house party. One of the +guests was Joyce Ware, whom some of you have met, perhaps, +in "The Gate of the Giant Scissors," a bright thirteen-year-old +girl from the West. Eugenia Forbes was another. She was a +distant cousin of Lloyd's, who had no home-life like other girls. +Her winters were spent in a fashionable New York boarding-school, +and her summers at the Waldorf-Astoria, except the few +weeks when her busy father could find time to take her to some +seaside resort.</p> + +<p>The third guest, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, or Betty, as every one +lovingly called her, was Mrs. Sherman's little god-daughter. +She was an orphan, boarding on a backwoods farm on Green +River. She had never been on the cars until Lloyd's invitation +found its way to the Cuckoo's Nest. Only these three came to +stay in the house, but Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre (the two +little Knights of Kentucky) were there nearly every day. So +was Rob Moore, one of the Little Colonel's summer neighbors.</p> + +<p>The four Bobs were four little foxterrier puppies named for +Rob, who had given one to each of the girls. They were so much +alike they could only be distinguished by the colour of the ribbons +tied around their necks. Tarbaby was the Little Colonel's +pony, and Lad the one that Betty rode during her visit.</p> + +<p>After six weeks of picnics and parties, and all sorts of surprises +and good times, the house party came to a close with a +grand feast of lanterns. Joyce regretfully went home to the +little brown house in Plainsville, Kansas, taking her Bob with +her. Eugenia and her father went to New York, but not until +they had promised to come back for Betty in the fall, and take +her abroad with them. It was on account of something that had +happened at the house party, but which is too long a tale to repeat +here.</p> + +<p>Betty stayed on at Locust until the end of the summer in the +House Beautiful, as she called her god-mother's home, and here +on the long vine-covered porch, with its stately white pillars, +you shall see them first through the steam of the magic caldron).</p> + +<p>Listen! Now the kettle boils and the bells begin the story!</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="EVA_A_MADDEN" id="EVA_A_MADDEN">EVA A. MADDEN</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Eva Anne Madden, author of a group of popular +stories for children, was born near Bedford, Kentucky, +October 26, 1863, the elder sister of Mrs. George Madden +Martin, creator of <i>Emmy Lou</i>. Miss Madden was educated +in the public schools of Louisville, Kentucky, +after which she took a normal course. At the mature age +of fourteen she was writing for <i>The Courier-Journal</i>; +two years later she was doing book reviews for <i>The Evening +Post</i>; and when eighteen years of age she became a +teacher in the public schools. Miss Madden taught for +more than ten years, or until 1892, when she went to New +York and engaged in newspaper work. Her first book, +<i>Stephen, or the Little Crusaders</i> (New York, 1901), was +published only a few months before she sailed for Europe, +where she has resided for the last eleven years. +Miss Madden's <i>The I Can School</i> (New York, 1902), was +followed by her other books, <i>The Little Queen</i> (Boston, +1903); <i>The Soldiers of the Duke</i> (Boston, 1904); and her +most recent story, <i>Two Royal Foes</i> (New York, 1907). +Miss Madden has been the Italian representative of a +London firm since 1907; and since 1908 she has been the +correspondent of the Paris edition of the <i>New York Herald</i> +for the city in which she lives, Florence, Italy. She +had a very good short-story in <i>The Century</i> for February, +1911, entitled <i>The Interrupted Pen</i>.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, +v. xv); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL."<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The I Can School</i> (New York, 1902)]</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Miss Ellison," she said, putting up her little +mouth to be kissed. "I'm sorry that it's the end of the 'I Can +School.'"</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> +<p>Then Miss Ellison was all smiles.</p> + +<p>"You sweet little thing," she said, which was exactly what +she had done ten months before.</p> + +<p>How long ago that seemed to Virginia. How stupid she had +been about learning to spell that easy "cat."</p> + +<p>Now she could read a whole page about a black cat which got +into the nest of a white hen, and she could add numbers, and +"write vertical." She had painted in a book, and modeled a +lovely half-apple, made real by a stem and the seeds of a russet +she had had for lunch one day. She knew the name of all the +birds about Fairview, and she could tell about the wild flowers.</p> + +<p>Altogether she felt very learned and scornful of a certain +small person who had thought Kentucky the name of a little +girl, and who had known nothing of George Washington, and +who had called C-A-T kitten-puss.</p> + +<p>Virginia's mamma was very proud of all her little girl knew. +She did not wait for Virginia to get her work from the janitor. +She took it all carefully home to show her husband.</p> + +<p>"Papa," said Virginia, the moment Mr. Barton entered the +house that evening, "it's vacation!"</p> + +<p>"Vacation!" said her father. "My! my! I remember that +there was a time, Miss Barton, when I loved it better than school; +do you?"</p> + +<p>Virginia hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Ten months," she said at last, "is a lot of school. Lucretia +and Catherine seem just as tired, papa. Their lessons don't interest +them now that it's so hot. I love the 'I Can School,' papa; +but it's nice to stay at home and play 'Lady come to see.'"</p> + +<p>This was a very long speech for Virginia, the longest that she +ever had made.</p> + +<p>Her papa laughed.</p> + +<p>"Miss Barton," he said, "profound student that you are, I +see that in some things you are not altogether different from +your parent. But let me remind you, Miss Barton, when you +feel at times a little tired of vacation, that the 'I Can' will begin +again on the tenth of September."</p> + +<p>"And Miss Ellison will be so glad to see me!" said Virginia +confidently.</p> + +<p>Her papa laughed.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> + +<p>"As for that, Miss Barton—"</p> + +<p>"Now don't, Edward," interrupted his wife. "I am sure, +Virginia, that Miss Ellison will be glad to see you in the fall. +If I were you I would write her a little letter in the vacation. I +have her address."</p> + +<p>"And I'll tell Billy and Carter and Harry and all the children, +and we'll all write so that she won't forget us. And she'll answer +them, mamma, won't she?"</p> + +<p>"I think she will," answered her mother. "It will be very +nice for you to write to her."</p> + +<p>But her husband said in a low voice, "Poor Miss Ellison."</p> + +<p>"Good Miss Ellison, papa," said Virginia. "She's nice and +I love her."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="JOHN_FOX_Jr" id="JOHN_FOX_Jr">JOHN FOX, Jr.</a></h2> + + +<p>John Fox, Junior, Kentucky's master maker of mountain +myths, was born at Stony Point, near Paris, Kentucky, +December 16, 1863, the son of a schoolmaster. He was +christened "John William Fox, Junior," but he early discarded +his middle name. By his father he was largely +fitted for Kentucky, now Transylvania, University, which +institution he entered at the age of fifteen, spending the +two years of 1878-1880 there, when he left and went to +Harvard. Mr. Fox was graduated from Harvard in 1883, +the youngest man in his class. Though he had written +nothing during his collegiate career, upon quitting Cambridge +he joined the staff of the New York <i>Sun</i> and later +entered Columbia Law School. He soon abandoned law +and went with the <i>New York Times</i>, where he remained +several months, when illness—blind and blessed goddess +in disguise!—compelled him to go south in search of +health. At length he found himself high up in the Cumberland +Mountains, associated with his father and brother +in a mining venture. He also taught school for a time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +but the mountaineers of Kentucky were upon him, and +he began to weave romances about them. Mr. Fox's first +story, <i>A Mountain Europa</i> (New York, 1894), originally +appeared in two parts in <i>The Century Magazine</i> for September +and October, 1892. It was dedicated to James +Lane Allen, whom its author had to thank for encouragement +when he stood most in need of it. <i>On Hell-fer-Sartain +Creek</i>, which followed fast upon the heels of his first +book, made Mr. Fox famous in a fortnight. Written +in a day and a half, <i>Harper's Weekly</i> paid him the munificent +sum of six dollars for it, and printed it back with the +advertisements in the issue for November 24, 1894. The +ending was transposed just a bit and a word or two discarded +for apter words before it was published in book +form; and these revisions were very fine, greatly improving +the tale. In its most recent dress it counts less than +five small pages; and it may be read in as many minutes. +The mountain dialect prevails throughout. It "admits +an epic breadth," the biggest thing Mr. Fox has done +hitherto, and now generally regarded as a very great +short-story.</p> + +<p><i>A Cumberland Vendetta and Other Stories</i> (New York, +1895), contained, besides the title-story, first published in +<i>The Century</i>, a reprinting of <i>A Mountain Europa</i>—which +made the third time it had been printed in three +years—<i>The Last Stetson</i>, and <i>On Hell-fer-Sartain Creek</i>. +This volume was followed by Mr. Fox's finest work, entitled +<i>Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories</i> (New York, +1897). Of the ten stories in this little volume but four +of them are in correct English, the others, the best ones, +being in dialect. The last and longest story, <i>A Purple +Rhododendron</i>, originally appeared in <i>The Southern Magazine</i>, +a now defunct periodical of Louisville, Kentucky. +<i>The Kentuckians</i> (New York, 1897), was published a +short time after <i>Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +This novelette pitted a man of the Blue Grass against a +man of the Kentucky hills, and the struggle was not overly +severe; the reading world did little more than remark its +appearance and its passing.</p> + +<p>When the Spanish-American war was declared Mr. +Fox went to Cuba as a Rough Rider, but left that organization +to act as correspondent for <i>Harper's Weekly</i>. He +witnessed the fiercest fighting from the firing lines, and +his own experiences were largely written into his first +long novel, entitled <i>Crittenden</i> (New York, 1900). This +tale of love with war entwined was well told; and its concluding +clause: "God was good that Christmas!" has +become one of his most famous expressions. After the +war Mr. Fox returned to the South. <i>Bluegrass and Rhododendron</i> +(New York, 1901), was a series of descriptive +essays upon life in the Kentucky mountains, in which +Mr. Fox did for the hillsmen what Mr. Allen had done +for the customs and traditions of his own section of the +state in <i>The Bluegrass Region of Kentucky</i>. It also embodied +his own personal experiences as a member of the +police guard in Kentucky and Virginia. The word "rhododendron" +is Mr. Fox's shibboleth, and he seemingly +never tires of writing it.</p> + +<p><i>The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come</i> (New York, +1903), is his best long novel so far. The boy, Chad, is, +perhaps, his one character-contribution to American fiction; +and the boy's dog, "Jack," stands second to the little +hero in the hearts of the thousands who read the book. +The opening chapters are especially fine. The love story +of <i>The Little Shepherd</i> is most attractive; and the Civil +War is presented in a manner not wholly laborious. After +<i>Hell-fer-Sartain</i> this novel is far and away the best +thing Mr. Fox has done.</p> + +<p><i>Christmas Eve on Lonesome and Other Stories</i> (New +York, 1904), contained the title-story and five others,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +including <i>The Last Stetson</i>, which had appeared many +years before in <i>Harper's Weekly</i>, and later in <i>A Cumberland +Vendetta</i>. Mr. Fox attempted to reach the theatre +of the Russian-Japanese War, as a correspondent for +<i>Scribner's Magazine</i>, but he was not allowed to join the +ever advancing armies. His experiences may be read in +<i>Following the Sun-Flag</i> (New York, 1905), with its tell-tale +sub-title: "a vain pursuit through Manchuria." His +next work was a novelette, <i>A Knight of the Cumberland</i> +(New York, 1906), first published as a serial in <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i>. It was well done and rather interesting.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fox spent the greater part of the year of 1907 in +work upon <i>The Trail of the Lonesome Pine</i> (New York, +1908), a story that must be placed beside <i>The Little Shepherd</i> +when any classification of the author's work is made. +The heroine, June, is none other than Chad in feminine +garb. The book contains some of the most excellent writing +Mr. Fox has done, the descriptions being especially +fine. It was dramatized by Eugene Walter and successfully +produced. A few months after the publication of +<i>The Trail</i>, the author married Fritzi Scheff, the operatic +star, to whom he had inscribed his story. They have a +home at Big Stone Gap, in the Virginia mountains.</p> + +<p>In April, 1912, Mr. Fox's most recent novel, <i>The Heart +of the Hills</i>, began as a serial in <i>Scribner's</i>, to be concluded +in the issue for March, 1913. It is red with recent +happenings in Kentucky, happenings which are, at the +present time, too hackneyed to be of very great interest +to the people of that state.<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a> It must be remembered always +that Mr. Fox is a story-teller pure and simple, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +that he seemingly makes little effort to arrive at the stage +of perfection in the mere matter of writing that characterizes +the work of a group of his contemporaries. That he +is a wonderful maker of short-stories in the mountain +dialect is certain; but that he is a great novelist is yet to +be established.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Current Literature Magazine</i> (New York, September, +1903); <i>Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have +Written Famous Books</i>, by E. F. Harkins, (Boston, 1903, +Second Series); <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, +1909, v. iv).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Collier's Weekly</i> (December 11, 1909)]</p> + +<p>The sun of Christmas poured golden blessings on the head of +the valley first; it shot winged shafts of yellow light through +the great Gap and into the month of Pigeon; it darted awakening +arrows into the coves and hollows on the Head of Pigeon, between +Brushy Ridge and Black Mountain; and one searching ray +flashed through the open door of the little log schoolhouse at the +forks of Pigeon and played like a smile over the waiting cedar +that stood within—alone.</p> + +<p>Down at the mines below, the young doctor had not waited +the coming of that sun. He had sprung from his bed at dawn, +had built his own fire, had dressed hurriedly, and gone hurriedly +on his rounds, leaving a pill here, a powder there, and a word +of good cheer everywhere. That was his Christmas tree, the +cedar in the little schoolhouse—his and <i>hers</i>. And <i>she</i> was +coming up from the Gap that day to dress that tree and spread +the joy of Christmas among mountain folks, to whom the joy of +Christmas was quite unknown.</p> + +<p>An hour later the passing mail-carrier, from over Black Mountain, +stopped with switch uplifted at his office door.</p> + +<p>"Them fellers over the Ridge air comin' over to shoot up yo' +Christmas tree," he drawled.</p> + +<p>The switch fell and he was gone. The young doctor dropped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +by his fire—stunned; for just that thing had happened ten +years before to the only Christmas tree that had ever been heard +of in those hills except his own. From that very schoolhouse +some vandals from the Crab Orchard and from over Black +Mountain had driven the Pigeon Creek people after a short fight, +and while the surprised men, frightened women and children, +and the terrified teacher scurried to safety behind rocks and +trees, had shot the tree to pieces. That was ten years before, +but even now, though there were some old men and a few old +women who knew the Bible from end to end, many grown people +and nearly all of the children had never heard of the Book, +or of Christ, or knew that there was a day known as Christmas +Day. That such things were so had hurt the doctor to the heart, +and that was why, as Christmas drew near, he had gone through +the out-of-the-way hollows at the Head of Pigeon, and got the +names and ages of all the mountain children; why for a few +days before Christmas there had been such a dressing of dolls +in the sweetheart's house down in the Gap as there had not +been since she herself was a little girl; and why now the cedar +tree stood in the little log schoolhouse at the forks of Pigeon. +Moreover, there was as yet enmity between the mountaineers of +Pigeon and the mountaineers over the Ridge and Black Mountain, +who were jealous and scornful of any signs of the foreign +influence but recently come into the hills. The meeting-house, +courthouse, and the schoolhouse were yet favorite places for +fights among the mountaineers. There was yet no reverence at +all for Christmas, and the same vandals might yet regard a +Christmas tree as an imported frivolity to be sternly rebuked. +The news was not only not incredible, it probably was true; and +with this conclusion some very unpleasant lines came into the +young doctor's kindly face and he sprang from his horse.</p> + +<p>Two hours later he had a burly mountaineer with a Winchester +posted on the road leading to the Crab Orchard, another on the +mountainside overlooking the little valley, several more similarly +armed below, while he and two friends, with revolvers, buckled +on, waited for the coming party, with their horses hitched in +front of his office door. This Christmas tree was to be.</p> + +<p>It was almost noon when the doctor heard gay voices and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +happy laughter high on the ridge, and he soon saw a big spring +wagon drawn by a pair of powerful bays—Major, the colored +coachman, on the seat, the radiant faces of the Christmas-giving +party behind him, and a big English setter playing in the snow +alongside.</p> + +<p>Up Pigeon then the wagon went with the doctor and his three +friends on horseback beside it, past the long batteries of coke-ovens +with grinning darkies, coke-pullers, and loaders idling +about them, up the rough road through lanes of snow-covered +rhododendrons winding among tall oaks, chestnuts, and hemlocks, +and through circles and arrows of gold with which the sun +splashed the white earth—every cabin that they passed tenantless, +for the inmates had gone ahead long ago—and on to the +little schoolhouse that sat on a tiny plateau in a small clearing, +with snow-tufted bushes of laurel on every side and snowy +mountains rising on either hand.</p> + +<p>The door was wide open and smoke was curling from the +chimney. A few horses and mules were hitched to the bushes +near by. Men, boys, and dogs were gathered around a big fire +in front of the building; and in a minute women, children, and +more dogs poured out of the schoolhouse to watch the coming +cavalcade.</p> + +<p>Since sunrise the motley group had been waiting there: the +women thinly clad in dresses of worsted or dark calico, and a +shawl or short jacket or man's coat, with a sunbonnet or "fascinator" +on their heads, and men's shoes on their feet—the +older ones stooped and thin, the younger ones carrying babies, +and all with weather-beaten faces and bare hands; the men and +boys without overcoats, their coarse shirts unbuttoned, their +necks and upper chests bared to the biting cold, their hands +thrust in their pockets as they stood about the fire, and below +their short coat sleeves their wrists showing chapped and red; +while to the little boys and girls had fallen only such odds and +ends of clothing as the older ones could spare. Quickly the +doctor got his party indoors and to work on the Christmas tree. +Not one did he tell of the impending danger, and the Colt's .45 +bulging under this man's shoulder or on that man's hip, and the +Winchester in the hollow of an arm here and there were sights<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +too common in these hills to arouse suspicion in anybody's mind. +The cedar tree, shorn of its branches at the base and banked +with mosses, towered to the angle of the roof. There were no +desks in the room except the one table used by the teacher. +Long, crude wooden benches with low backs faced the tree, with +an aisle leading from the door between them. Lap-robes were +hung over the windows, and soon a gorgeous figure of Santa +Claus was smiling down from the very tiptop of the tree. Ropes +of gold and silver tinsel were swiftly draped around and up and +down; enmeshed in these were little red Santas, gaily colored +paper horns, filled with candy, colored balls, white and yellow +birds, little colored candles with holders to match, and other +glittering things; while over the whole tree a glistening powder +was sprinkled like a mist of shining snow. Many presents were +tied to the tree, and under it were the rest of the labeled ones in +a big pile. In a semicircle about the base sat the dolls in pink, +yellow, and blue, and looking down the aisle to the door. Packages +of candy in colored Japanese napkins and tied with a narrow +red ribbon were in another pile, with a pyramid of oranges +at its foot. And yet there was still another pile for unexpected +children, that the heart of none should be sore. Then the +candles were lighted and the door flung open to the eager waiting +crowd outside. In a moment every seat was silently filled +by the women and children, and the men, stolid but expectant, +lined the wall. The like of that tree no soul of them had ever +seen before. Only a few of the older ones had ever seen a +Christmas tree of any kind and they but once; and they had +lost that in a free-for-all fight. And yet only the eyes of them +showed surprise or pleasure. There was no word—no smile, +only unwavering eyes mesmerically fixed on the wonderful tree.</p> + +<p>The young doctor rose, and only the sweetheart saw that he +was nervous, restless, and pale. As best he could he told them +what Christmas was and what it meant to the world; and he +had scarcely finished when a hand beckoned to him from the +door. Leaving one of his friends to distribute the presents, he +went outside to discover that one vandal had come on ahead, +drunk and boisterous. Promptly the doctor tied him to a tree, +shouldered a Winchester, and himself took up a lonely vigil on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +the mountainside. Within, Christmas went on. When a name +was called a child came forward silently, usually shoved to the +front by some relative, took what was handed to it, and, dumb +with delight, but too shy even to murmur a word of thanks, +silently returned to its seat with the presents hugged to its +breast—presents that were simple, but not to those mountain +mites; colored pictures and illustrated books they were, red +plush albums, simple games, fascinators and mittens for the +girls; pocket-knives, balls, firecrackers, and horns, mittens, caps, +and mufflers for the boys; a doll dressed in everything a doll +should wear for each little girl, no one of whom had ever seen +a doll before, except what was home-made from an old dress or +apron tied in several knots to make the head and body. Twice +only was the silence broken. One boy quite forgot himself when +given a pocket-knife. He looked at it suspiciously and incredulously, +turned it over in his hand, opened it and felt the edge +of the blade, and, panting with excitement, cried: "Hit's a +shore 'nough knife!"</p> + +<p>And again when, to make sure that nobody had been left out, +though all the presents were gone, the master of ceremonies +asked if there was any other little boy or girl who had received +nothing, there arose a bent, toothless old woman in a calico dress +and baggy black coat, her gray hair straggling from under her +black sunbonnet, and her hands gnarled and knotted from work +and rheumatism. Simply as a child, she spoke:</p> + +<p>"I hain't got nothin'."</p> + +<p>Gravely the giver of the gifts asked her to come forward, and, +nonplussed, searched the tree for the most glittering thing he +could find. Then all the women pressed forward and then the +men, until all the ornaments were gone, even the half-burned +candles with their colored holders, which the men took eagerly +and fastened in their coats, clasping the holders to their lapels +or fastening the bent wire in their button-holes, and pieces of +tinsel rope, which they threw over their shoulders—so that the +tree stood at last just as it was when brought from the wild +woods outside.</p> + +<p>Straightway then the young doctor hurried the departure of +the merry-makers from the Gap. Already the horses stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +hitched, and, while the laprobes were being carried out, a mountaineer, +who had brought along a sack of apples, lined up the +men and boys, and at a given word started running down the +road, pouring out the apples as he ran, while the men and boys +scrambled for them, rolling and tussling in the snow. As the +party moved away, the mountaineers waved their hands and +shouted good-by to the doctor, too shy still to pay much heed to +the other "furriners" in the wagon. The doctor looked back +once with a grateful sigh of relief but no one in the wagon knew +that there had been any danger that day. How great the danger +had been not even the doctor knew then. For the coming vandals +had got as far as the top of the Dividing Ridge, had there quarreled +and fought among themselves, so that, as the party drove +away, one invader was at that minute cursing his captors, who +were setting him free, and high upon the ridge another lay dead +in the snow.</p> + +<p>In time there was a wedding at the Gap, and long afterward +the doctor, riding by the little schoolhouse, stopped at the door, +and from his horse shoved it open. The Christmas tree stood +just as he had left it on Christmas Day, only, like the evergreens +on the wall and over the windows, it, too, was brown, withered +and dry. Gently he closed the door and rode on.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="FANNIE_C_MACAULAY" id="FANNIE_C_MACAULAY">FANNIE C. MACAULAY</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Fannie Caldwell Macaulay ("Frances Little"), +"the lady of the Decoration," was born at Shelbyville; +Kentucky, November 22, 1863, the daughter of a jurist. She +was educated at Science Hill Academy, Shelbyville, +a noted school for girls. Miss Caldwell was married to +James Macaulay of Liverpool, England, but her marriage +proved unhappy. From 1899 to 1902 Mrs. Macaulay +was a kindergarten teacher in Louisville, Kentucky; +and from 1902 to 1907 she was engaged as +supervisor of kindergarten work at Hiroshima, Japan.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +From Japan she wrote letters home which were so charming +and clever that her niece, Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, the +Louisville novelist, insisted that she make them into a +book. The result was <i>The Lady of the Decoration</i> (New +York, 1906), for more than a year the most popular book +in America. This little epistolary tale of heroic struggle +for one's work and one's love, was read in all parts +of the English-speaking world. It set the high-water +mark, probably, for even the "six best sellers." Mrs. +Macaulay's second book, <i>Little Sister Snow</i> (New York, +1909), was the tender love story of a young American and +a Japanese girl. The lad sailed away to his American +sweetheart, leaving "Little Sister Snow" blowing him +kisses from her native shore. Mrs. Macaulay's latest story, +<i>The Lady and Sada San</i> (New York, 1912), was published +in London under the title of <i>The Lady Married</i>, which +was clearer, as it is the sequel to <i>The Lady of the Decoration</i>. +The Lady's husband, Jack, sails away to China in +pursuit of his scientific duties, leaving her lonely in Kentucky. +She decides to make another journey to Japan; +and on the way over she falls in with a charming young +American-Japanese girl, Sada San, whom she subsequently +saves from a most cruel fate. She then finds her husband, +ill and exhausted with his long trip, and returns +with him to Kentucky. The descriptions of the countries +through which she passes are very fine: the best writing +the author has shown hitherto. The little volume was +reported as the best selling book in America at Christmas +time of 1912. Mrs. Macaulay has spent much of her life +during the last several years in Japan, but her home is +at Louisville. She is a prominent club woman, and a +charming lecturer upon the beauties of Nippon.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (June, 1906); <i>Who's Who in +America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">APPROACHING JAPAN<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Lady of the Decoration</i> (New York, 1906)]</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 17.5em;">Still on Board. August 18th.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Dear Mate:</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>I am writing this in my berth with the curtains drawn. No +I am not a bit sea-sick, just popular. One of the old ladies is +teaching me to knit, the short-haired missionary reads aloud to +me, the girl from South Dakota keeps my feet covered up, and +Dear Pa and Little Germany assist me to eat.</p> + +<p>The captain has had a big bathing tank rigged up for the +ladies, and I take a cold plunge every morning. It makes me +think of our old days at the cottage up at the Cape. Didn't we +have a royal time that summer and weren't we young and +foolish? It was the last good time I had for many a long day—but +there, none of that!</p> + +<p>Last night I had an adventure, at least it was next door to +one. I was sitting up on deck when Dear Pa came by and asked +me to walk with him. After several rounds we sat down on the +pilot house steps. The moon was as big as a wagon wheel and +the whole sea flooded with silver, while the flying fishes played +hide and seek in the shadows. I forgot all about Dear Pa and +was doing a lot of thinking on my own account when he leaned +over and said:</p> + +<p>"I hope you don't mind talking to me. I am very, very +lonely." Now I thought I recognized a grave symptom, and +when he began to tell me about his dear departed, I knew it was +time to be going.</p> + +<p>"You have passed through it," he said. "You can sympathize."</p> + +<p>I crossed my fingers in the dark. "We are both seeking a life +work in a foreign field—" he began again, but just here the +purser passed. He almost stumbled over us in the dark and +when he saw me and my elderly friend, he actually smiled!</p> + +<p>Don't you dare tell Jack about this, I should never hear the +last of it.</p> + +<p>Can you realize that I am three whole weeks from home! I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +do, every second of it. Sometimes when I stop to think what I +am doing my heart almost bursts! But then I am so used to the +heartache that I might be lonesome without it; who knows?</p> + +<p>If I can only do what is expected of me, if I can only pick up +the pieces of this smashed-up life of mine and patch them into a +decent whole that you will not be ashamed of, then I will be +content.</p> + +<p>The first foreign word I have learned is "Alohaoe," I think it +means "my dearest love to you." Anyhow I send it laden +with the tenderest meaning. God bless and keep you all, and +bring me back to you a wiser and a gladder woman.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="JAMES_D_BRUNER" id="JAMES_D_BRUNER">JAMES D. BRUNER</a></h2> + + +<p>James Dowden Bruner, editor of many masterpieces of +French literature, as well as an original critic of that literature, +was born near Leitchfield, Kentucky, May 19, +1864. He was graduated from Franklin College, Franklin, +Indiana, in 1888, and then taught French and German +at Franklin for two years. Professor Bruner studied a +year in Paris and Florence and, on his return to this country, +in 1893, he was elected professor of Romance languages +in the University of Illinois. Johns Hopkins University +conferred the degree of Ph. D. upon him, in 1894, +his dissertation being <i>The Phonology of the Pistojese +Dialect</i> (Baltimore, 1894, a brochure). From 1895 to +1899 Dr. Bruner was professor of Romance languages and +literatures in the University of Chicago; from 1901 to +1909 he held a similar chair in the University of North +Carolina; and since 1909 he has been president of Chowan +College, Murfreesboro, North Carolina. Dr. Bruner has +edited, with introductions and critical notes, <i>Les Adventures +du Dernier Abencerage</i>, par Chateaubriand (New +York, 1903); <i>Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre</i>, par<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +Octave Feuillet (Boston, 1904); <i>Hernani</i>, par Victor +Hugo (New York, 1906); and <i>Le Cid</i>, par Pierre Corneille +(New York, 1908), his finest critical edition of any French +classic hitherto. His <i>Studies in Victor Hugo's Dramatic +Characters</i> (Boston, 1908), announced the advent of a +new critic of the great Frenchman's plays. It is an excellent +piece of work.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, +v. xv); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Le Cid</i>, par Pierre Corneille (New York, 1908)]</p> + +<p>Corneille in the <i>Cid</i> founded the French classical drama. Before +the appearance of this masterpiece, a transition drama containing +characteristics of the tragi-comedy as well as of the +regular classical tragedy, of which Corneille's next three plays, +<i>Horace</i>, <i>Cinna</i>, and <i>Polyeucte</i>, were to be perfect examples, the +tragi-comedy prevailed in France. This tragi-comedy, or irregular +drama, was a Renaissance product, having a history and +characteristics of its own, being largely influenced by the tragedies +of Seneca. Its most important characteristics are non-historic +subjects, serious or tragic plots, the mixture of comic +and tragic elements or tones, the high rank of the leading characters, +the <i>style noble</i>, looseness of structure, the disregard of +the minor or Italian unities of time and place, the classical form +of verse and number of acts, romanesque elements, and a happy +ending.</p> + +<p>The most striking characteristic of the French classical drama +of the seventeenth century, as of the modern short story, is that +of compression. This statement is true both as to its form and +its content. The accidental accessories of splendid decorations, +magnificent costumes, subsidiary plots, and secondary characters +that might detract from the main situation or obscure the general +impression, are, as far as possible, sacrificed to the essential +or necessary interests of dramatic art. Improbable and irrational<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +elements are reduced to a minimum. Digressions, episodes, +long soliloquies, oratorical tirades, minute descriptions of external +nature, and complicated machinery that would encumber +the plot or destroy proportion, are largely eliminated. The +classical dramatist is too sensitive to the beautiful, the sublime, +the essential, and the universal to admit into his conception of +fine art either moral and physical deformity or the accidental +and particular aspects of life. Classical tragedy is furthermore +narrow in its choice of subject and form, in its number and +range of characters, in its representation of material and physical +action on the stage, and in its number of events, incidents, and +actions. Its subjects and materials are taken almost wholly from +ancient classical and Hebrew sources. Mediaeval, national, and +modern foreign raw material, whether life, history, legend, or +literature, is seldom utilized. Its manners and ideas are those of +the court and the <i>salons</i>, and its religion is pagan. Its language +is general, cold, regular, and conventional, and its versification +is confined to rimed Alexandrine couplets, with the immovable +caesura and little <i>enjambement</i>.</p> + +<p>The Frenchman's love of proportion, symmetry, restraint, and +logical order led him to the cult of form. In striving after perfection +of form, he naturally adopted compression as the best +method of expressing this innate artistic reserve. This compactness +and concentration of form, this compressed brevity, +which the Frenchman inherited from the Latins, is well illustrated +by the following lines from Wordsworth:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To see a world in a grain of sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a heaven in a wild flower;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hold infinity in the palm of hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And eternity in an hour.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="MADISON_CAWEIN" id="MADISON_CAWEIN">MADISON CAWEIN</a></h2> + + +<p>Madison Cawein, whom English critics name the greatest +living American poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +March 23, 1865. He was christened "Madison Julius +Cawein," but he had not gotten far in the literary lane before +his middle name was dropped, though the "J." may +be found upon the title-pages of his earlier books. After +some preparatory work he entered the Louisville Male +High School, in 1881, at the age of sixteen years. At +high school Madison Cawein began to write rhymes which +he read to the students and teachers upon stated occasions, +and he was hailed by them as a true maker of song. He +was graduated in 1886 in a class of thirteen members. +Being poor in purse, Mr. Cawein accepted a position in a +Louisville business house, and he is one of the few American +poets who wrote in the midst of such commercialism. +His was the singing heart, not to be crushed by conditions +or environment of any kind. The year after his graduation +he collected the best of his school verse and published +them as his first book, <i>Blooms of the Berry</i> (Louisville, +1887). In some way William Dean Howells and Thomas +Bailey Aldrich saw this volume, praised it, and fixed the +future poet in his right path. <i>The Triumph of Music</i> +(Louisville, 1888), sounded after <i>The Blooms of the Berry</i>, +and since that time hardly a year has passed without +the poet putting forth a slender volume. The next few +years saw the publication of his <i>Accolon of Gaul</i> (Louisville, +1889); <i>Lyrics and Idyls</i> (Louisville, 1890); <i>Days and +Dreams</i> (New York, 1891); <i>Moods and Memories</i> (New +York, 1892); <i>Red Leaves and Roses</i> (New York, 1893); +<i>Poems of Nature and Love</i> (New York, 1893); <i>Intimations +of the Beautiful</i> (New York, 1894), one of his longest +poems; <i>The White Snake</i> (Louisville, 1895), metrical +translations from the German poets; <i>Undertones</i> (Boston,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +1896), which contained some of the finest lyrics he has +done so far; <i>The Garden of Dreams</i> (Louisville, 1896); +<i>Shapes and Shadows</i> (New York, 1898); <i>Idyllic Monologues</i> +(Louisville, 1898); <i>Myth and Romance</i> (New York, +1899); <i>One Day and Another</i> (Boston, 1901), a lyrical +eclogue; <i>Weeds by the Wall</i> (Louisville, 1901); <i>A Voice +on the Wind</i> (Louisville, 1902). A glance at these titles, +following fast upon each other, convinces the reader that +Mr. Cawein was writing and publishing far too much, +that he was not sufficiently critical of his work. Edmund +Gosse, the famous English critic, has always been one of +Mr. Cawein's most ardent admirers, and, in 1903, he selected +the best of his poems, wrote a delightful introduction +for them, and they were published in London under +the title of <i>Kentucky Poems</i>. This volume brought the poet +many new friends, as it assembled the best of his work +from volumes long out of print and rather difficult to procure. +<i>The Vale of Tempe</i> (New York, 1905), contained +the best of Mr. Cawein's work written since the publication +of <i>Weeds by the Wall</i> in 1901. <i>Nature-Notes and +Impressions</i> (New York, 1906), a collection of poems and +prose-pastels, was especially notable for the fact that it +contained the first and only short-story the poet has written, +entitled "Woman or—What?"</p> + +<p><i>The Poems of Madison Cawein</i> (Indianapolis, 1907, five +volumes), charmingly illustrated by Mr. Eric Pape, the +Boston artist, with Mr. Gosse's introduction, brought together +all of Mr. Cawein's work that he cared to rescue +from many widely scattered volumes. He made many revisions +in the poems, some of which (in the judgment of +the writer) tend to mar their original beauty. But it is a +work of which any poet may be proud; and it is not surpassed +in quality or quantity by any living American.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cawein's <i>Ode in Commemoration of the Founding +of the Massachusetts Bay Colony</i> (Louisville, 1908), which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +he read at Gloucester in August, 1907, was rather lengthy, +but it contained many strong and fine lines; and a group +of New England sonnets, some of the best he has done, +appeared at the end of the ode. His <i>New Poems</i> (London, +1909), was followed by <i>The Giant and the Star</i> (Boston, +1909), a small collection of children's verse, dedicated +to his little son, who furnished their inspiration. <i>Let Us +Do the Best that We Can</i> (Chicago, 1909), was a beautiful +brochure; and <i>The Shadow Garden and Other Plays</i> +(New York, 1910), was four chamber-dramas which have +been highly praised, and which contain some of the most +delicate work the poet has done. <i>So Many Ways</i> (Chicago, +1911), was another pamphlet-poem; and it was followed +by <i>Poems</i> (New York, 1911), selected from the +whole range of his work by himself, with a foreword by +William Dean Howells. Mr. Cawein's latest volume is +entitled <i>The Poet, the Fool and the Faeries</i> (Boston, +1912). It brings together his work of the last two or +three years, both in the field of the lyric and of the drama. +And from the mechanical aspect it is his most beautiful +book. The poet will publish two books through a Cincinnati +firm in 1913, to be entitled <i>The Republic—a Little +Book of Homespun Verse</i>, and <i>Minions of the Moon</i>.</p> + +<p>In March, 1912, literary Louisville celebrated the twenty-fifth +anniversary of the publication of <i>Blooms of the +Berry</i>, and the forty-seventh birthday of its author, Madison +Cawein, the city's most distinguished man of letters. +This was the first public recognition Mr. Cawein has received +in the land of his birth, though it is now proposed +to place a bust of him in the public library of Louisville. +He is better known in New York or London than he is in +Kentucky, but it will not be long before the people of his +own land realize that they have been entertaining a world-poet, +possibly, unawares. He is so far removed from any +Kentucky poet of the present school that to mention him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +in the same breath with any of them is to make one's self +absurd. Looking backward to the beginnings of our literature +and coming carefully down the slope to this time, +but two poets rise out of the mist of yesterday to greet +Cawein and challenge him for the laureateship of Kentucky +makers of song: Theodore O'Hara with his immortal +elegy, and Daniel Henry Holmes with his sheaf of +tender lyrics. These three are the nearest approach to +the ineffable poets—who left the earth with the passing +of Tennyson—yet nurtured upon Kentucky soil.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cawein is, of course, a poet of Nature, a landscape +poet in particular who paints every color on the palette +into his work. Had he been an artist he would have exhausted +all colors conceived thus far by man, and would +fain have originated new ones. There are literally hundreds +of his poems in which every line is as surely a stroke +as if done with the brush of a painter. Color, color, is his +shibboleth-scheme, and he who would woo Nature in her +richest robes may read Cawein and be content.</p> + +<p>Amazing as it may seem Mr. Cawein has thirty-four +volumes to his credit—almost one for every year of his +life. This statement stamps him as one of the most prolific +poets of modern times, if not, indeed, of all time. And +that it is not all quantity, may be seen in the recent declaration +of <i>The Poetry Review</i> of London: "He appears +quite the biggest figure among American poets; his <i>return +to nature</i> has no tinge of affectation; it is genuine to +the smallest detail. If he suffers from fatigue, it is in +him, at least, not through that desperate satiety of town +life which with so many recent poets has ended in impressionism +and death."</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Poets of the Younger Generation</i>, by William +Archer (London, 1901); <i>The Younger American Poets</i>, by +Jessie B. Rittenhouse (Boston, 1904); <i>History of American</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +<i>Literature</i>, by R. P. Halleck (New York, 1911); <i>The Poetry +Review</i> (London, October, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">CONCLUSION<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Undertones</i> (Boston, 1896)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The songs Love sang to us are dead:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet shall he sing to us again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dull days are wrapped in lead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the red woodland drips with rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lily of our love is gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That touched our spring with golden scent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now in the garden low upon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our rose of dreams is passed away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lit our summer with sweet fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The storm beats bare each thorny spray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its dead leaves are trod in mire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The songs Love sang to us are dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet shall he sing to us again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dull days are wrapped in lead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the red woodland drips with rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The marigold of memory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall fill our autumn then with glow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haply its bitterness will be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweeter than love of long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The cypress of forgetfulness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall haunt our winter with its hue;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The apathy to us not less<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear than the dreams our summer knew.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></div></div> + + +<p class="center">INDIAN SUMMER<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Kentucky Poems</i> (London, 1903)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dawn is warp of fever,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The eve is woof of fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the month is a singing weaver<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Weaving a red desire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With stars Dawn dices with Even<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For the rosy gold they heap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the blue of the day's deep heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On the black of the night's far deep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It's—'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The season's a prince who burns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the teasing lusts that harry<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His heart for a wench who spurns.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It's—'Crown us a beaker with sherry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To drink to the doxy's heels;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A tankard of wine o' the berry,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To lips like a cloven peel's.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">''S death! if a king be saddened,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right so let a fool laugh lies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But wine! when a king is gladdened,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a woman's waist and her eyes.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And left but a leaf that flits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of mist and of frost is its.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hath tippled the buxom beauty,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And gotten her hug and her kiss—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wide world's royal booty<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To pile at her feet for this.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">HOME<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Nature-Notes and Impressions</i> (New York, 1906)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A woman with a wild-rose in her hair.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">LOVE AND A DAY<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Poems of Madison Cawein</i> (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In girandoles and gladioles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The day had kindled flame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Heaven a door of gold and pearl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A red rose twisted in a curl,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Down sapphire stairways came.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What shall I do? what can I do?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +<span class="i2">All on a summer's morning?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said Love to me: "Go woo.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If she be milking, follow, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the clover hollow, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While through the dew the bells clang clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just whisper it into her ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All on a summer's morning."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i19">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of honey and heat and weed and wheat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The day had made perfume;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sunflower withering at her waist—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Within a crystal room.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What shall I do? what can I do?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the summer nooning?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said Love to me: "Go woo.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If she be 'mid the rakers, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the harvest acres, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While every breeze brings scents of hay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the summer nooning."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i17">III<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With song and sigh and cricket cry<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The day had mingled rest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Heaven a casement opened wide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of opal, whence, like some young bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +<span class="i2">A moonflower on her breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What shall I do? what can I do?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said I to Love: "What must I do,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the summer gloaming?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said Love to me: "Go woo.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go meet her at the trysting, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'spite of her resisting, O!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the stars and afterglow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just clasp her close and kiss her—so,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All in the summer gloaming."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">IN A SHADOW GARDEN<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays</i> (New York, 1910)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The place is most propitious and the time.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See how they trip it!—There one rides a snail.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here another teases at a bee.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We never knew, or cared, once.—Would we had!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That comes with beautiful belief in everything<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That makes for childhood, had then touched us young<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kept us young forever; young in heart—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The only youth man has. But man believes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In only what he contacts; what he sees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And vision are his all. The loveliness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And counts for nothing that he reckons real;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But is, in fact, less insubstantial than<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The world he builds of matter-of-fact and stone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That great inhuman world of evidence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With what it christens wisdom.—Did it know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wise are only they who keep their minds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As little children's, innocent of doubt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Believing all things beautiful are true.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">UNREQUITED<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Poems</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One hand among the deep curls of her brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So have I seen a clear October pool,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sung to and sung to by a longing bird;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">A TWILIGHT MOTH</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of gold and purple in the marbled west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou comest forth like some embodied trait,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Or of a rose the visible wish; that, white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goes softly messengering through the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whom each expectant flower makes its guest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All day the primroses have thought of thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their golden heads close-harmed from the heat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Veiled snowy faces,—that no bee might greet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O bearer of their order's shibboleth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A syllabled silence that no man may hear,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some specter of some perished flower of phlox?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O voyager of that universe which lies<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Between the four walls of this garden fair,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose constellations are the fireflies<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That wheel their instant courses everywhere,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thou steerest like some faery ship of air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="GEORGE_MADDEN_MARTIN" id="GEORGE_MADDEN_MARTIN">GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. George Madden Martin, the mother of <i>Emmy +Lou</i>, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. +She is the sister of Miss Eve Anne Madden, who has also +written several delightful books for children. She was +educated in the public schools of Louisville, but on account +of ill-health her training was concluded at home. +In 1892 Miss Madden was married to Mr. Attwood R. +Martin, and they have made their home at Anchorage, +Kentucky, some miles from Louisville, ever since. Mrs. +Martin's first book was <i>The Angel of the Tenement</i> (New +York, 1897), now out of print, which she seemingly regards +with so little favor that it is seldom found in the +list of her works. <i>Emmy Lou—Her Book and Heart</i> +(New York, 1902), made her famous throughout the English-reading +world. It ran serially in <i>McClure's Magazine</i> +during 1900. It is a masterpiece and, though +she has published several stories since, this remains as her +best book hitherto. Little "Emmy Lou" gets into the +reader's heart in the most wonderful way, and, once +there, she will not be displaced. She is the most charming +child in Kentucky literature, a genuine creation. Mrs. +Martin's short novel, <i>The House of Fulfillment</i> (New +York, 1904) won her praise from people who could not +care for her child, though the heroine was none other than +"Emmy Lou" in long skirts. This was followed by +<i>Abbie Ann</i> (New York, 1907); <i>Letitia: Nursery Corps, U. +S. A.</i> (New York, 1907), was a very winsome little girl,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +who causes the men of the army many trials and vexations +at various military posts where her parents happened +to be stationed. <i>Emmy Lou</i> and <i>Letitia</i>, as has +been pointed out by one of Mrs. Martin's keenest critics, +regard childhood through the eyes of age and are best appreciated, +perhaps, by adults; while <i>Abbie Ann</i> sees childhood +through a child's eyes, and is certainly more appreciated +by children than by grown-ups. Two of Mrs. Martin's +most recent stories, <i>When Adam Dolve and Eve +Span</i>, appeared in <i>The American Magazine</i> for October, +1911; and <i>The Blue Handkerchief</i>, in <i>The Century</i> +for December, 1911.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (February, 1903); <i>The +Outlook</i> (October 1, 1904); <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (December, +1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Emmy Lou—Her Book and Heart</i> (New York, 1902)]</p> + +<p>About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She +heard that it was February, and that wonderful things were +peculiar to the Fourteenth. At recess the little girls locked arms +and talked Valentines. The echoes reached Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>The Valentines must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the +real thing. And to get no valentine was a dreadful thing—dreadful +thing. And even the timidest of the sheep began to +cast eyes across at the goats.</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if +not, how was she to survive the contumely and shame?</p> + +<p>You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on +your valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl +friend was to prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. +These things reached Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of +that, so grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending +her a valentine.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> +<p>And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to +school on the Fourteenth day of February. The drug-store +window was full of valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the +street. She did not want to see them. She knew the little girls +would ask her if she had gotten a valentine. And she would +have to say, No.</p> + +<p>She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps +as she went to her desk to lay down book and slate before +taking off her wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of +the little boy peeped through the crack of the door from Miss +Clara's dressing-room.</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk +lay something square and white. It was an envelope. It was a +beautiful envelope, all over flowers and scrolls.</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew +pink.</p> + +<p>She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had +reading on it.</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. +The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid +her valentine in her book, for since you must not—she would +never show her valentine—never.</p> + +<p>The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, +and Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the +joy of being able to say it.</p> + +<p>Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her +Primer, but no one else might see it.</p> + +<p>It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there +was reading on it. She studied surreptitiously. The reading +was made up of letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had +thought about that. She knew some of the letters. She would +ask someone the letters she did not know by pointing them out +on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was learning. It was the +first time since she came to school.</p> + +<p>But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, +studying the valentine again.</p> + +<p>Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. +Aunt Cordelia was busy.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>Aunt Cordelia listened.</p> + +<p>"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?"</p> + +<p>"Be," said Aunt Cordelia.</p> + +<p>If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many +things were strange.</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith.</p> + +<p>After dinner she approached Aunt Katie.</p> + +<p>"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"</p> + +<p>"My," said Aunt Katie.</p> + +<p>The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, +and had to copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, +the house-boy. Tom was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. +She waited until the other boy was gone.</p> + +<p>"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the +letters off the slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told +her.</p> + +<p>Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section +little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>Now she was alone, so she stopped.</p> + +<p>"Get any valentines?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the +little girl's friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it."</p> + +<p>"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's +been reading the long verses inside to me."</p> + +<p>"Can you show them—valentines?" asked Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl.</p> + +<p>The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie +was there, and the aunties, sitting around, reading.</p> + +<p>"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's +Day, and it came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not +gone away, never to come back, the year before, Valentine's +Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed +the black dress she was wearing because of the mother who +would never come back, and looked troubled.</p> + +<p>But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's +knee. In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +Emmy Lou's forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped +hands.</p> + +<p>"I can read it," said Emmy Lou.</p> + +<p>They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt +Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"B," said Emmy Lou, "e—Be."</p> + +<p>The aunties nodded.</p> + +<p>"M," said Emmy Lou, "y—my."</p> + +<p>Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, +n, t, i, n, e—Valentine. Be my Valentine."</p> + +<p>"There!" said Aunt Cordelia.</p> + +<p>"Well!" said Aunt Katie.</p> + +<p>"At last!" said Aunt Louise.</p> + +<p>"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARY_ADDAMS_BAYNE" id="MARY_ADDAMS_BAYNE">MARY ADDAMS BAYNE</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, +Kentucky, in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, +she made her home with her brother, Mr. William Addams +of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an aspirant for the gubernatorial +chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was married +to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad, +Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story +writer for some years before she became a novelist. +Her first book, <i>Crestlands</i> (Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial +story of the famous Cane Ridge meeting-house, +near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or +Reformed church. <i>Crestlands</i> is important as history +and entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by +<i>Blue Grass and Wattle</i> (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of +which is more illuminating, "The Man from Australia." +This novel relates the religious life of a young Australian, +educated in Kentucky, and his many fightings within and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +without form an interesting story. From the literary +standpoint <i>Blue Grass and Wattle</i> is an advance over +<i>Crestlands</i>, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in +Mrs. Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall +of 1912 Mrs. Bayne purchased the old Burnett place at +Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she has converted into the +most charming home of that town.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; <i>The Christian +Standard</i> (December, 1907).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Crestlands</i> (Cincinnati, 1907)]</p> + +<p>The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish +haze, pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops +sounded a sighing minor melody as now and then a leaf bade +adieu to the companions of its summer revels, and sought its +winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a fallen log a red-bird +sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the lament of +the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home; +but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when +mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees +a colony of squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a +flock of wild turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked +through the underbrush. At a wayside puddle a deer bent his +head to slake his thirst, but scarcely had his lips touched the +water when his head was reared again. For an instant he +listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a startled light in +his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the depths +of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from +their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the +squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost +branches of the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, +undisturbed, went on with his caroling, too confident in his +own beauty and the charm of his song to fear any intruder.</p> + +<p>The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +proclaimed by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path +he was traversing. He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed +young man with ruddy complexion, clear-cut features, and +a well-formed chin. A rifle lay across his saddle-bow, and behind +him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags. He wore neither the +uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun of the +settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the +period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was +short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The +broad brim of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; +the gray traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark +blue, a waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches +of the same color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating +in a black cloth band with silver buckles.</p> + +<p>He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon +emerged into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the +high-pitched, quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first +and seeming as much a part of nature as the russet glint of the +setting sun through the trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, +until, emerging into an open space, he came upon the +singer, a gray-haired negro trudging sturdily along with a stout +hickory stick in his hand. The negro doffed his cap and bowed +humbly.</p> + +<p>"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one +horn broke off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de +bars an' jes' skipped off somewhars."</p> + +<p>"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me +how far it is to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this +region."</p> + +<p>"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done +pass de turnin' whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' +off 'bout a mile back by de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? +Dat's de lane whut leads to Marstah Gilcrest's, suh."</p> + +<p>"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason +Rogers' house? My business is with him as well as with Major +Gilcrest."</p> + +<p>"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I +b'longs to Marse Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +mile fuddah down dis heah same road, an' ef you wants to see +my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest bofe, you might ez well see +Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah he say, Marse +Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick."</p> + +<p>The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile.</p> + +<p>"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing +northward with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house +wid all de shettahs barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum +de road, wid a woods all roun' it—dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. +Soon's you pass it, you comes to de big spring, den to +a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore white trash, de Simminses, +libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a orchid. Den you's +dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble rumpus, but +you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and some dem +no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter Miss +Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y +Is'e bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way."</p> + +<p>With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant +heifer. Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in +another half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking +clearing than any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ELIZABETH_CHERRY_WALTZ" id="ELIZABETH_CHERRY_WALTZ">ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of <i>Pa Gladden</i>, +was born at Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the +daughter of Major John Nichols Cherry, to whose memory +she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was graduated +from the Columbus High School; and a short time +thereafter she was married. The death of her husband +compelled her to become the breadwinner for her several +children, and in 1895 she joined the staff of the <i>Cincinnati +Tribune</i>, which she left after two years for the Springfield, +Ohio, <i>Republic-Times</i>, with which she was connected +for a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +Hastings Waltz, a few years her junior, and they +settled at Louisville, where he had a position on <i>The Courier-Journal</i>. +Mrs. Waltz became literary editor of <i>The +Courier-Journal</i>, and this position she held until her +death. Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. +Fields, Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a> +in assuming charge of the paper's literary page, and the +standards were thus high, she was one of the ablest +writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. +Waltz was a tremendous worker, one of her associates +having written that, after a hard day's work on the paper, +she would "go home, cook, wash and iron, clean +house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on +her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming +on the street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs +with a lead pencil!" Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to +prose fiction is her well-known character, "Pa Gladden." +These stories were accepted by <i>The Century Magazine</i> in +1902, and they were published from time to time, being +brought together in a charming book, entitled <i>Pa Gladden—The +Story of a Common Man</i> (New York, 1903; London, +n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden" is certainly a real creation. +Christian, optimist, lover of his kind, and above all companionable, +he preached and lived the gospel of goodness. +Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great +amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, +but this is the only adverse comment that was made. The +prayers of Pa, said throughout the book, are always very +beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death occurred very suddenly at +her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook," September 19,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her book. +She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked. +<i>The Ancient Landmark</i> (New York, 1905), her +posthumous novel, was a vigorous attack upon the divorce +evil. She died before her time, worn out with work, and +thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer of real +achievement and greater promise.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Outlook</i> (December 5, 1903); <i>Who's Who +in America</i> (1903-1905).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Pa Gladden</i> (New York, 1903)]</p> + +<p>In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned +to the barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. +He felt glad he had sent for the doctor, although he attributed +the young woman's illness to exposure and anxiety. She was +tossing on the warm bed, at times unable to speak intelligibly. +She drank the warm tea he gave her, and again asked for the +doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she turned her +face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that, setting +the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards +and prayed fervently:</p> + +<p>"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy +night when redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas +night when ye sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all +our sins an' ignorances. Heal 'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er +wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy love. Hold 'er in thy +arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let Christmas day +be a real turnin'-point in 'er life."</p> + +<p>When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full +of deep meaning.</p> + +<p>"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve +it, all your goodness. I am not"—her voice rose to a shriek—"I +am not wicked. You can pray for me, and over me if I +should die. I am not afraid to be here. It's quiet and peaceful.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +I will try to be patient. Please tell me your name, sir."</p> + +<p>"Pa Gladden."</p> + +<p>"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?"</p> + +<p>"No"—with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden +ter all the folks."</p> + +<p>"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown +up."</p> + +<p>"Prubable."</p> + +<p>"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by +her side, like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, +Pa Gladden!" She ended with a sob.</p> + +<p>"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my +darter? I'll make it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good +heart."</p> + +<p>"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad +to see me cry, Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just +let me stay here. If you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet +now, peaceful and quiet."</p> + +<p>He sat by her for a few moments longer.</p> + +<p>"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said +cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; +he'll soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter +quiet ye down. Doc Briskett knows his business."</p> + +<p>She held out her hand to him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's +lonesome in the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for +your footsteps."</p> + +<p>Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of +the doctor's cart over the hard road before he reached the red +gate.</p> + +<p>"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. +"Go out the barn road. Yer patient air out thar."</p> + +<p>"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have +brought me 'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival +night!"</p> + +<p>Pa climbed in beside him.</p> + +<p>"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and +unfolded his story for the doctor's amazed ears.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows +what sort of an illness she may have. However, I'll see her. +A tramp is likely to have any disease traveling."</p> + +<p>A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly +doctor took it and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden +paused at the doorway to look over the white world of Christmas +eve. On such a night, he thought, the shepherds watched, the +star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born. Pa Gladden +heard the voice of his mother in the long ago:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Carol, carol, Christians,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Carol joyfully,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Carol for the coming<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of Christ's nativity!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost +tumbled down the ladder:</p> + +<p>"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. +Meenie is at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. +Bring her here; bring some woman, for the love of God!"</p> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="REUBENA_HYDE_WALWORTH" id="REUBENA_HYDE_WALWORTH">REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy +that has come down to posterity with a deal of the perfume +of permanency, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter of Reuben +Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of +New York State, the feminine form of whose name she +bore. Her father was the well-known novelist, Mansfield +Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her mother and sister +were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a glance +that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately. +She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, +but her one-act comediette, entitled <i>Where was +Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies</i> (New York, 1888), written<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> +before she was of age, made her widely known. This little +comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce. +Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in +1896, being poet of the class, and one of the editors of +<i>The Vassarian</i>. She then taught in a woman's college +for a time, when the war with Spain was declared and she +determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss +Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. +The last months of her life were spent at the detention +hospital, Montauk, New York, where she rendered noble +service in her country's cause. She was stricken with +fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken +to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried +with military honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics +should be republished.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Appletons' <i>Cyclopaedia of American Biography</i> +(New York, 1889, v. vi); <i>A Dictionary of American Authors</i>, +by O. F. Adams (Boston, 1905).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Where was Elsie?</i> (New York, 1888)]</p> + +<p>Act I, Scene IV. <i>Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and +taper.</i></p> + +<p><i>Elsie.</i> Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern?</p> + +<p><i>Jack.</i> Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to +take you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince—[<i>Stops</i>].</p> + +<p><i>Elsie.</i> Prince! what Prince?</p> + +<p><i>Jack.</i> Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that +the King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But +I must be off to dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, +be it said with all due reverence, is not over-sweet when her +loyal subjects are slow to obey her commands. [<i>Exit, but immediately +puts his head in the door.</i>] Don't forget the magical +water, Elsie. [<i>Exit.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Elsie.</i> That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +[<i>Looks at flask in her hand.</i>] Jack says that it keeps anybody +from growing old so fast; but if you get it from the fairies on +Christmas eve, the way I did, you won't ever grow old. Oh +dear! I don't want to be young forever. I want to grow up, +and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have a long +train. [<i>Struts up and down, but stops suddenly.</i>] Well, I +don't care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [<i>Looking +about her.</i>] I don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [<i>Catches +sight of something shining on the wall.</i>] Oh my! what's that shiny +thing? Wouldn't it be fun if there were a secret door there, +just like a story book! I'm going to see what it is. [<i>Stops.</i>] +Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask! [<i>Brightening up.</i>] +Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take the old +spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is +over there. I wonder what will happen. [<i>Drinks.</i>]</p> + +<p class="center">Curtain.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="CRITTENDEN_MARRIOTT" id="CRITTENDEN_MARRIOTT">CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT</a></h2> + + +<p>Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, +March 20, 1867, the great grandson of Kentucky's famous +statesman, John J. Crittenden, the grandson of Mrs. Chapman +Coleman, who wrote her father's biography, and the +son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr. Marriott's +mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several +of Miss Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy +tales. The future novelist first saw Kentucky when he +was nine years old, and for the two years following he +lived at Louisville and attended a public school. From +1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent two +of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed +to the Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he +was compelled to resign on account of deficient eyesight. +He returned to Louisville where he clerked in an insurance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +office, the American Mutual Aid Society, which position +he held until 1887, when he resigned and removed to Baltimore +as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently +went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 +Mr. Marriott joined the staff of the San Francisco <i>Chronicle</i>, +and acted as representative of the Associated Press. +Two years later he went to South Africa as a correspondent, +tramping sixteen hundred miles in the interior, mostly +alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to his +aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in +Shelby county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went +to New York as ship news reporter for <i>The Tribune</i>, +which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr. Marriott went +to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite cruiser +<i>Nictheroy</i>. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby +county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville +girl, whom he married in June, 1895. At the time of his +wedding he was a newspaper correspondent in Washington. +Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly afterwards, and +from January to September, 1896, he was ill at Louisville. +In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago <i>Record</i>. When +the now defunct Louisville <i>Dispatch</i> was established, Mr. +Marriott became telegraph editor, which position he held +for six months in 1898. Although he has resided in Washington +since leaving the <i>Dispatch</i>, he regards Louisville as +his real home, and he has visited there several times within +the last few years, his most recent visit being late in +1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 +Mr. Marriott has been one of the assistant editors of the +publications of the United States Geological Survey. At +the present time he is planning to surrender his post and +establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr. Marriott's +first book, <i>Uncle Sam's Business</i> (New York, +1908), was an excellent study of our government at +work, "told for young Americans." It was followed by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the Sargasso Sea, +<i>The Isle of Dead Ships</i> (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene of +which he saw several times on his various journeys around +the world. <i>How Americans Are Governed in Nation, +State, and City</i> (New York, 1910), was an adultiazation +and elaboration of his first book, fitting it for institutions +of learning and for the general reader. Mr. Marriott's +second novel, <i>Out of Russia</i> (Philadelphia, 1911), a story +of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than <i>The +Isle of Dead Ships</i>. From June to October, 1912, his <i>Sally +Castleton, Southerner</i>, a Civil War story, ran in <i>Everybody's +Magazine</i>, and it will be issued by the Lippincott's +in January, 1913. The love story of a Virginia girl, +daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian, +who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing +Mr. Marriott has done—one of the best of the recent war +novels. In the past five years he has sold more than one +hundred short-stories, some fifteen serials, and his fifth +book is now in press, which is certainly a most creditable +record. He has published two Kentucky stories, one for +<i>Gunter's Magazine</i>, the other for <i>The Pocket Magazine</i> +(which periodical was swallowed up by <i>Leslie's Weekly</i>); +and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, +which he calls <i>One Night in Kentucky</i>, and which will appear +in <i>The Red Book Magazine</i> sometime in 1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; <i>Who's +Who in America</i>, (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Sally Castleton, Southerner</i> (<i>Everybody's Magazine</i>, June, 1912)]</p> + +<p>With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she +opened the door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show +too great terror, must not try to deny the enemy the freedom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +of the house. She clung to the door, half fainting, while the +world spun round her.</p> + +<p>Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard +some one addressing her and realized that a boy was standing +on the porch steps holding his horse's bridle—a boy, short, +rotund, friendly looking, with gilt and yellow braid upon his +dusty blue uniform; just a boy—not an enemy.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir?" she faltered.</p> + +<p>The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He +stood swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. +"General Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to +cause inconvenience, but he must occupy this house as headquarters +for a few hours. He will be here immediately." He +gestured toward a little knot of horsemen, who had paused at +the foot of the lawn and were staring down the valley with +field-glasses.</p> + +<p>Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The +house is at General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. +"I am sorry that I have only one aged servant and therefore +cannot serve him as I should."</p> + +<p>The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her +face. "Oh, that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We +are used to looking out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a +bit. The general only wants a place to rest for a few hours."</p> + +<p>"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After +all, there were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it +was just as well to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can +have more. Uncle Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is +not quite empty. May I offer supper to him and his staff?"</p> + +<p>Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack +of fear; now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger +seemed somehow less.</p> + +<p>The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper +at a table, with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell +the general." He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming +toward the steps.</p> + +<p>Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive +grasp on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +be afraid, dear!" she murmured. "They're only men, after all. +Try to forget that they are Yankees, and everything will come +right." She turned once more to meet her guests.</p> + +<p>On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. +The dusty cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were +taking advantage of a few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, +sun-burned, unshaven, covered with mud and dust, moved about +this way and that. Company lines were formed, and long strings +of picketed horses munched the clover, while other strings of +horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles in +his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered +in the sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established +a tiny hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded +who had accompanied the flying column. Some of the Castleton +fences went for farrier's fires, and his hammer clanked noisily.</p> + +<p>The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get +out of hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there +was no little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow +June apples, and the welcome "garden truck" were temptations +not to be wholly resisted.</p> + +<p>It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to +see the Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the +busy scene with unconscious interest.</p> + +<p>The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General +Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten +convention. "General Haverhill—Miss—?" He paused interrogatively.</p> + +<p>The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said.</p> + +<p>"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I +suppose Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use +your house?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, general. Will you come in?"</p> + +<p>The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper, +general," he said.</p> + +<p>The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; +the scar of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, +but his smile was pleasant. "You are—loyal?" he questioned +doubtfully. The question seemed unnecessary.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes—to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under +his bushy brows. "And this is—" he turned toward the +younger girl.</p> + +<p>"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal—to +Virginia, Miss Eugenia?" he said.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that +touched 'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever +the cause, she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she +cried, stamping her small foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I +wish I were a man!"</p> + +<p>The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without +admiration. "Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, +smiling.</p> + +<p>Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then +clanked after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, +its chairs and lounge—the lounge on which Philip +Byrd had so lately lain—and the big black stove. To save their +lives neither Sally nor her sister could help glancing at that +stove.</p> + +<p>It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. +"Please sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse +me, I will see about supper." With a smile she rustled from the +room, 'Genie following rather sullenly.</p> + +<p>In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had +she acted her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? +Was it suspicion that she had seen in the general's eyes as she +left him? Would he search—and find? How long would he +stay? Philip was wounded, suffering, probably hungry and +thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very long, he might have to surrender. +What would they do to him? Would they consider +him a spy and—and——</p> + +<p>A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her +knees beside her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I +make him suspect? Oh, if anything happens to Philip through +my fault, I'll die!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. +"You didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do +for us to be too friendly. That would be the surest way to make +them suspicious."</p> + +<p>"But—but—he'll starve!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a +few hours,' that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped +up. "Come. Let's get supper for them. That'll give us something +to do, and will keep them occupied—when it's ready. +Men will always eat. Come!"</p> + +<p>'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she +flashed. "Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with +poor Philip starving right under their noses."</p> + +<p>The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but +there are worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it +may be better for him, after all; for he must have some fever +after that wound and that ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed +these Yankees, so let's do it with a good grace. Men are easiest +managed when they've eaten. If we've got to feed the brutes, +let's do it."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ABBIE_CARTER_GOODLOE" id="ABBIE_CARTER_GOODLOE">ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, +was born at Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 +she was graduated from the Girls' High School, Louisville; +and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor of +Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were +spent in studying and traveling in Europe. On her return +to the United States Miss Goodloe made her home +at Louisville, of which city she has been a resident ever +since. Her first book, <i>Antinous</i> (Philadelphia, 1891), a +blank verse tragedy, was followed by <i>College Girls</i> (New +York, 1895), an entertaining collection of short stories of +college life. Miss Goodloe's first novel, <i>Calvert of Strathore</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +(New York, 1903), was set, for the most part, in the +sunny land of France. <i>At the Foot of the Rockies</i> (New +York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's +best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit +and interest, one enthusiastic critic comparing them to +Kipling's finest work. The author spent one glorious +summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the Northwest +Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, +and the romance of it all quite possessed her. These +were the backgrounds for the eight stories which have +won her wider fame than any of her other writings. A +winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel, +<i>The Star-Gazers</i> (New York, 1910). The reader is presented +to the late president of that revolutionary-ridden +republic, Porfirio Diaz, together with the other celebrities +of his country. The epistolary form of narration is +adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In +no way does this work rank with <i>At the Foot of the Rockies</i>. +The short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest +gift, and in that field she should go far.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the +<i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1909, v. v); <i>Scribner's +Magazine</i> (January, April, 1910; July, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A COUNTESS OF THE WEST<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>At the Foot of the Rockies</i> (New York, 1905)]</p> + +<p>She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, +and a wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big +and stupid and irresolute. She would have liked him better if +he had told her with brutal frankness that he no longer cared +for her and wouldn't marry her. She had thought him grateful +at least, and he wasn't even that. The affection he had inspired +in her fell from her like a discarded garment. Suddenly +she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring. +With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. +She held it out to him.</p> + +<p>"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and +give it to some fine English girl whom your father happens to +know! I hope you'll enjoy your England. Montana's good +enough for me!"</p> + +<p>As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, +she suddenly saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into +his eyes. Following the direction of his gaze she beheld two +riders approaching at a hand gallop, a Mounted Police officer +from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and following briskly in +his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age. The hair +about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his complexion +was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he +was most immaculately got up in riding things.</p> + +<p>"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper +incredulously to himself.</p> + +<p>The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the +fashion of the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in +fascinated silence. The Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass +and surveyed his son.</p> + +<p>"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't +looking any too fit, you know."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, father—yes, I know it. When did you get here?"</p> + +<p>"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly +train."</p> + +<p>"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?"</p> + +<p>"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't +seen you for a long while. May—may I—the Earl of Rigby, +Miss Ogden."</p> + +<p>The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again—it had fallen +out when he had shaken his son's hand—and stared at the +young woman before him.</p> + +<p>"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. +"I—I had always understood that this country was an Eveless +paradise. I'm glad to see I'm mistaken."</p> + +<p>Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +Not one of the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed +necessarily attendant on an introduction to a noble earl +now disturbed her composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite +compliment left her perfectly cool. He simply seemed to her +an extremely handsome man, a good deal cleverer and stronger-looking +than his son.</p> + +<p>"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss +Ogden," said Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in +Port Highwood and she'll help St. John show you the country, +my lord."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing +the white, even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she +turned to the Earl of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you +the country—specially as Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in +two or three days."</p> + +<p>"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction.</p> + +<p>"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable +Arthur.</p> + +<p>"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two +weeks, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Yes—father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood +House. I fancy he'll wish he were back in England!"</p> + +<p>"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl.</p> + +<p>A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes.</p> + +<p>"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the +two weeks, and at the end of the time I am sure you could not +decide which to call the prettiest," she asserted.</p> + +<p>"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to +try."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. +"And now, as you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I +think I won't go on into Highwood. Your lordship's things +will be sent over early in the morning. His lordship was so +anxious to see you, St. John, that we couldn't even persuade him +to mess with us to-night," he remarked, jocularly, to the Honorable +Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I think. Good-bye!" +He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse +set off at an easy canter for the fort.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, +which Miss Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, +and riding on slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur +and his father. The earl gazed admiringly at her slim back.</p> + +<p>"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits +her horse perfectly."</p> + +<p>"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively.</p> + +<p>"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, +warmly. He spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The +Honorable Arthur rather sulkily closed up on the left.</p> + +<p>"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go +on the round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised +to show me the country. I am most deeply interested in our +Canadian possessions, you know," said the earl.</p> + +<p>She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray +eyes which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp.</p> + +<p>"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored +while Mr. St. John is away," she said, sweetly.</p> + +<p>It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks +and four days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the +Morgan round-up, twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a +telegram for St. John. The Honorable Arthur was so dirty, +tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the half-breed had difficulty in +picking him out from the rest of the dirty, tired, dusty, and +sunburnt round-up crew.</p> + +<p>The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable +fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand +like a withered leaf on a windshaken bough.</p> + +<p>"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. +Most important.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 18em;"><span class="smcap">Rigby.</span>"</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p>His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and +tanned skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly +a joyous thought came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, +and wants me to go back with him," he told himself over and +over. He thrust his few things into the one portmanteau he +had brought with him and made such good time going the twenty-five +miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in.</p> + +<p>The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule +rail of the observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially +grasped his son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was +struck afresh by the good looks and youthfulness of his aristocratic +father.</p> + +<p>"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and +I'm glad you got here in time. What? No, you won't need +your portmanteau. The truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, +"the Countess of Rigby—she was Miss Lily Ogden until last +night, my deah boy—and I are on our way to England, and +we couldn't leave the country without seeing you again. Won't +you step into the coach and speak to her?"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="GEORGE_LEE_BURTON" id="GEORGE_LEE_BURTON">GEORGE LEE BURTON</a></h2> + + +<p>George Lee Burton, magazinest, was born at Danville, +Kentucky, April 17, 1868. He was fitted at the Louisville +Rugby School for the University of Virginia, from which +he was graduated, after which he returned to Louisville, +and studied law in the University of Louisville. Upon +his graduation from that institution he was admitted +to the bar, and he has since practiced his profession +at Louisville with success. Mr. Burton began to +write some years ago, contributing short-stories and +sketches to the eastern periodicals. <i>The Century</i> published +his clever story, <i>As Seen By His Bride</i>; and <i>Ainslee's +Magazine</i> printed his <i>The Training of the Groom</i>, +<i>The Deferred Proposal</i>, <i>Cupid's Impromptu</i>, and several +other stories. His work for <i>The Saturday Evening +Post</i>, however, has been his most noteworthy performance. +For that great weekly he has written: <i>Getting a Start at +Sixty</i> (published anonymously); <i>The Making of a Small +Capitalist</i>, <i>A Fresh Grip</i>, <i>A Rebuilt Life</i>, and <i>Tackling +Matrimony</i>, the last of which titles appeared in two parts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +in <i>The Post</i> for November 23 and November 30, 1912, was +exceedingly well done. He has recently re-written <i>Tackling +Matrimony</i>, greatly developing the story-part, and +more than doubling its length, for the Harper's, who will +issue it in book form early in the spring of 1913. Mr. +Burton is a bachelor who has won wide reputation as a +writer upon various phases of matrimonial mixups. He +also has a certain sympathy with those who waste their +youth in riotous living, but who win their true positions +in the world after all seems lost.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Burton to the Author; <i>Outing</i> +(May, 1900).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">AFTER PRISON—HOME<a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A Rebuilt Life</i> (<i>Saturday Evening Post</i>, March 23, 1912)]</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, when I got out I was shipped back to my own +town, or rather the town from which I had been sent up. I +was born five hundred miles from there; but my people had died +when I was young and I had drifted in there when I was only +sixteen years old—I guess that makes it my town after all. +Now, at thirty-five I was back there from the pen and I stayed +there.</p> + +<p>"Maybe that was a mistake. I guess it was harder for me; +but I had that much fight left in me. I wanted to show people +that there was still some man in me, even if I had spent ten years +in the pen that I deserved to spend there. Besides, I wouldn't +like to start off fresh in a new place and build up a little, and +just as I got to going have somebody from my home town come +along and tell everybody that respected me that I was a murderer +and an ex-convict and a lowdown sort of nobody.</p> + +<p>"I believe after all I'd rather start in as I did, back where +they thought that about me to begin with, and build up fresh +from that. I wanted to live down the killing and those ten +years—and I believe I've sorter done it. It may sound foolish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +but—though I don't excuse all that, remember—I have got to +sorter respect myself again, and I tell you it feels good!</p> + +<p>"They didn't have prison reform in that state then, with an +employment officer and a job all ready to help a poor devil start +out again when he got back to freedom. They gave me a suit +of clothes and five dollars and shipped me back to the town I +came from, then turned me loose as an ex-convict to hump for +myself like the other "exes," branded by those years of living +in there.</p> + +<p>"It certainly seemed strange to see the place again. There +had been many changes in those years. I put up at one of these +twenty-five-cents-a-night men's hotels, and took fifteen-cent +meals—skipping one every day to make my five dollars last +longer; and I commenced looking for a job.</p> + +<p>"There didn't seem any need of more help anywhere. I +tried many of my old acquaintances to see if I could get a +place—I did not seem to have any friends left! I found ten +years in the pen seemed to wipe out the claim of being even an +acquaintance with most of them. They all looked at me curiously, +as if I was a different brand of man—a cannibal, or Eskimo, +or something.</p> + +<p>"I'd rather they wouldn't have showed so plain they thought +me dangerous or worse; yet I'd have swallowed that if they had +only given me work. They didn't though; some of them weren't +as cold with me as others, but none of them had anything for me.</p> + +<p>"Of course I tackled all sorts of strangers, too, for work; but +usually they didn't have any—and when they had they wanted +references. I couldn't blame them; I guess I had a sort of +pasty face and hangdog look.</p> + +<p>"They had such a habit of asking: 'Where did you work +last?'</p> + +<p>"'I've been away a long time—have not worked here for +several years,' I would say.</p> + +<p>"'Where did you work while you were away?' came next.</p> + +<p>"'I worked at broom-making part of the time,' I got to +answering.</p> + +<p>"Then, like as not, the boss would look at me suspiciously and +say: 'No, I don't believe I need you just now; if I do I will +let you know. Where do you live?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When I gave the number of the bum lodging house he would +look as if that settled it; he had known all along I wasn't any +good. And I felt so shamed and low down all the time I looked +like he was right.</p> + +<p>"Five dollars don't last very long, even with two meals a day. +I got work one day on a wrecker's force, tearing down an old +building; but the foreman drove his men hard and I wasn't used +to real work anyway. I couldn't stand up to it, and—I'm +ashamed to tell it even now—I fainted about four o'clock that +afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Another day I got a place with the gang working repairs on +the street-railroad tracks; but the man in charge said I was too +slow and not strong enough—had better get some different kind +of work. As if I hadn't tried everything I could! He didn't +pay me for a full day either—said I wasn't worth it; and the +worst was that I knew he was right. I was about at the end of +my rope when my money gave out, and I was looking so weak +and shamefaced that I didn't stand any sort of a chance. I got +to feeling desperate.</p> + +<p>"I remember that about this time I went in to answer an ad—'Man +wanted as porter in well-established wholesale drug +house.' The head of the place was a mild-mannered old man, +who sat in the back office, but who always looked over the new +men before they were employed. He began as usual:</p> + +<p>"'Where did you work last?'</p> + +<p>"'With the street-railroad gang,' I answered.</p> + +<p>"'U-um! How long?'</p> + +<p>"'One day,' I told him.</p> + +<p>"'Ah!' he said, as if he had discovered something—'and before +that?'</p> + +<p>"'With a house-wrecking gang on Flint Street.'</p> + +<p>"'Yes—how long there?'</p> + +<p>"'Part of a day,' I said. 'I couldn't stand up to the work.'</p> + +<p>"I thought he looked a little sympathetic then, but was not +sure until he sniffed and asked the next question in a hard, thin +voice:</p> + +<p>"'And where before that?'</p> + +<p>"I hesitated a moment; he looked at me more closely and said +in that same tone:</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Where?'</p> + +<p>"I had been looked at and questioned so much that way and +had got so raw about it that now I almost shouted: 'In the penitentiary!'</p> + +<p>"'Why, bless my soul!' the mild little man gasped. 'No, I +don't need you. Good day! Good day!'</p> + +<p>"He looked so shocked and I felt so desperate that I could +not help adding, while I looked at him hard:</p> + +<p>"'I was put in for manslaughter too—voluntary manslaughter!'</p> + +<p>"There wasn't any clerk in the room at the time.</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh, indeed!' he gulped out, rising and backing away, +big-eyed and trembly. He almost got to the back window before +I turned and left.</p> + +<p>"Maybe I didn't feel bitter and like 'what's the use—what's +the use of anything!' I don't know what would have happened—I +guess I'd have starved to death or worse—if it hadn't +been for the hoboes' hotel—Welcome Hall—'Headquarters for +the Unemployed,' as it's advertised.</p> + +<p>"You don't know about the place? Well, sir, it's a dandy!—at +least, that's the way I think about it—and a good many +others do too. The worst of the hoboes won't go there if they +can help it—they'd rather bum a dime and get a bed for the +night in one of those ten-cent places.</p> + +<p>"This Welcome Hall is a sort of industrial kindling-splitting +joint. You blow in there and saw and split kindling for a bed +and meals—you give them six hours' work.</p> + +<p>"You see, in that way you can live off six hours' work a day +and have some time left to look for a job. It's a good thing, +and it's been a moneymaker too; it's the only charity I know of +that's not a charity but a moneymaking concern. Of course +people had to give it a place and start it; but it more than pays +expenses, and at the same time helps to build up a man instead +of making him a pauper or a deadbeat bum.</p> + +<p>"I certainly was glad to find some place where I could at least +earn my lodging and meals. I rested up some there and was +glad I could just stay somewhere. Though I looked about for +work a little, nearly every day, I lived along there for three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +weeks on my six hours a day of work—still out of a job. At last +I guess my fighting blood got up again, I determined I would +get a job of some kind, even if it was cleaning vaults. I decided +no honest work was beneath me when it all seemed so far above +me as to be out of reach.</p> + +<p>"'If I keep my eyes open and am not too choosy I must find +something to do,' I said to myself, and set out to look for it in +earnest. It was Saturday morning, I remember, for I thought +of the next day being Sunday, when I could not even hunt for +work. I had walked a good way and asked for work at a lot of +places without getting anything to do, when I saw an old negro +man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk and washing off the front +steps of a plain two-story house with a bucket of water and a +cloth.</p> + +<p>"'I may not be much account but I sure can do that,' I +thought, and asked him how much he got for it.</p> + +<p>"'For dese here, boss, I gits ten cents; but when I wuks all +de way roun' to de back do' I gits some dinner th'owed in,' he +said with a grin.</p> + +<p>"That wasn't so bad; and 'boss'!—how good that sounded! +I went on down the street feeling almost like a man again and +not a down-and-out ex-convict.</p> + +<p>"About a square away I began to ask at every house if they +didn't want the leaves swept off and the front steps washed. +Maybe I looked too much like a tramp or too much above one +with that 'boss' still ringing in my ears—the first time I had +been spoken to that way for more than ten years! Anyway I +got turned down at first.</p> + +<p>"At the tenth place, however, a two-story-and-attic red brick, +they gave me a job. The woman asked me in a sharp voice, as +if she were defending herself from being overcharged:</p> + +<p>"'How much?'</p> + +<p>"'Ten cents,' I answered, as meekly as I could.</p> + +<p>"She seemed to think that was reasonable; and after waiting +a minute, as if she wanted the work done and couldn't find any +excuse for not letting me do it, she handed me a bucket and +mop and broom and set me at it.</p> + +<p>"I finished the job in about an hour; and I tell you I enjoyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +that work! Beneath me? Why, it couldn't get beneath me—I +was that low down in mind and living and even hope. I was +just about all in, you understand; and I wasn't a plumb out-and-out +fool.</p> + +<p>"I have got that dime yet; see here," he said, holding out a +brightly polished dime surrounded by a narrow gold band, +which he wore as a charm on his watch-chain; "whenever I begin +to feel ashamed of my work I look at that and get thankful, +and remember how proud and happy I felt when that sharp-looking +woman handed it to me. I had done a little extra work +in cleaning up the yard, and she said as she gave it to me:</p> + +<p>"'That looks a whole lot better! You certainly earned that +dime.'</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have spent that money if I had had to go without +food for two days! It seemed to put springs in my feet and I +went down the street hustling for another job of the same kind. +I found it before dinner; it was another ten cent job with +twenty cents' worth of work; but I sure was glad to get it.</p> + +<p>"I felt that, so long as Welcome Hall was making money, +I was earning my way by those six hours of work a day, and I +stayed on there for some time longer."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="JAMES_TANDY_ELLIS" id="JAMES_TANDY_ELLIS">JAMES TANDY ELLIS</a></h2> + + +<p>James Tandy Ellis, "Shawn's" father, was born at +Ghent, Kentucky, June 9, 1868. He spent his boyhood +days in one of the most romantically beautiful sections of +Kentucky, on the Ohio river between Cincinnati and +Louisville. He was educated at Ghent College and the +State College of Kentucky at Lexington. Mr. Ellis has +always been a great lover of Nature and his leisure-hours +are usually spent with dog and gun or in angling. He +engaged in newspaper work in Louisville and his character +sketches soon made him well-known throughout the +State. His first book, <i>Poems by Ellis</i> (Louisville, Kentucky,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +1898), contained some very clever verse. <i>Sprigs +o' Mint</i> (New York, 1906), was an attractive little volume +of pastels in prose and verse. Mr. Ellis next issued three +pamphlets: <i>Peebles</i> (Carrollton, Kentucky, 1908); +<i>Awhile in the Mountains</i> (Lexington, Kentucky, 1909); +and <i>Kentucky Stories</i> (Lexington, 1909). His latest +book, entitled <i>Shawn of Skarrow</i> (Boston, 1911), is +a novelette of river life in northern Kentucky, and +the simple, direct manner of the little tale was found +"refreshing" by the "jaded" reviewers. Colonel Ellis +is now assistant Adjutant-General of Kentucky, and he +resides at Frankfort, the capitol of the Commonwealth.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Ellis to the Author; <i>Lexington +Leader</i> (December 24, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">YOUTHFUL LOVERS<a name="FNanchor_56_56" id="FNanchor_56_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_56" class="fnanchor">[56]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Shawn of Skarrow</i> (Boston, 1911)]</p> + +<p>The winter had passed away. Shawn had been working hard +in school, and under the encouragement of Mrs. Alden, was +making fair progress, but Sunday afternoons found him in his +rowboat, wandering about the stream and generally pulling his +boat out on the beach at Old Meadows, for Lallite was there to +greet him, and already they had told each other of their love. +What a dream of happiness, to wander together along the pebbled +beach, or through the upland woods, tell each other the +little incidents of their daily life, and to pledge eternal fidelity. +Oh, dearest days, when the rose of love first blooms in youthful +hearts, when lips breathe the tenderest promises, fraught with +such transports of delight; when each lingering word grows +sweeter under the spell of love-lit eyes. Oh, blissful elysium of +love's young dream!</p> + +<p>They stood together in the deepening twilight, when the sun's +last bars of gold were reflected in the stream.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> +<p>"Oh, Shawn, it was a glad day when you first came with +Doctor Hissong to hunt."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Shawn, as he took her hand, "and it was a hunt +where I came upon unexpected game, but how could you ever +feel any love for a poor river-rat?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Lallite, "but maybe, it is that kind +that some girls want to fall in love with, especially if they have +beautiful teeth, and black eyes and hair, and can be unselfish +enough to kill a bag of game for two old men, and let them think +they did the shooting."</p> + +<p>"Lally, when they have love plays on the show-boats, they +have all sorts of quarrels and they lie and cuss and tear up +things generally."</p> + +<p>"Well, Shawn, there's all sorts of love, I suppose, but mine +is not the show-boat kind."</p> + +<p>"Thank the Lord," said Shawn.</p> + +<p>He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of +cotton, was the pearl given to him by Burney.</p> + +<p>"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way +of jewelry, and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it +for my sake?"</p> + +<p>"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing +girl.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="GEORGE_HORACE_LORIMER" id="GEORGE_HORACE_LORIMER">GEORGE HORACE LORIMER</a></h2> + + +<p>George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. +George C. Lorimer (1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist +clergyman and author, who held pastorates at Harrodsburg +(where he married a wife), Paducah, and Louisville, +but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple, +Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at +Yale. Since Saint Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer +has been editor-in-chief of <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +He resides with his family at Wyncote, Pennsylvania, but +he may be more often found near the top of the magnificent +new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in +Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is +known for his popular <i>Letters from a Self-Made Merchant +to His Son</i> (Boston, 1902), which was one of the +"six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually translated +into Japanese. Its sequel, <i>Old Gorgon Graham</i> +(New York, 1904), was more letters from the same to the +same. The original of <i>Old Gorgon Graham</i> was none +other than Philip Danforth Armour, the Chicago packer, +under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both +of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is +doubtful if many women cared for either of them. <i>The +False Gods</i> (New York, 1906), is a newspaper story in +which "the false gods" are the faithless <i>flares</i> which lead +a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything +turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's +latest story, <i>Jack Spurlock—Prodigal</i> (New York, 1908), +an adventurous young fellow who is expelled from Harvard, +defies his father, and finds himself in the maw of a +cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny—for the +reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the <i>Poor +Richard</i> brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in +the habit of "serving up" weekly for the readers of <i>The +Post</i>. That he is certainly an editor of very great ability, +and that he has exerted wide influence in his field, no one +will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper call +him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly +the highest salaried one in this country to-day. <i>The +Post</i>, which was nothing before he assumed control of it, +is one of the foremost weeklies in the English-reading +world at the present time; and its success is due to the +longheadedness and hard common sense of its editor, +George Horace Lorimer.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Critic</i> (June, 1903); <i>The Bookman</i> (October, +November, 1904); <i>Little Pilgrimages Among the Men +Who Have Written Famous Books</i>, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, +1903, Second Series).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">HIS SON'S SWEETHEART<a name="FNanchor_57_57" id="FNanchor_57_57"></a><a href="#Footnote_57_57" class="fnanchor">[57]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son</i> (Boston, 1902)]</p> + +<p class="signature"> +<span class="smcap">New York</span>, November 4, 189-.<br /> +</p> + +<p><i>Dear Pierrepont</i>: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are +your intentions there? She knows a heap more about you than +she ought to know if they're not serious, and I know a heap less +about her than I ought to know if they are. Hadn't got out of +sight of land before we'd become acquainted somehow, and she's +been treating me like a father clear across the Atlantic. She's +a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a mighty sensible +girl—in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like to see +you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it.</p> + +<p>Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy +a whole lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you +have the right sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And +while I don't go much on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with +fifty a week as a starter, is just about right, if the girl is just +about right. If she isn't, it doesn't make any special difference +how you start out, you're going to end up all wrong.</p> + +<p>Money ought never to be <i>the</i> consideration in marriage, but +it ought always to be <i>a</i> consideration. When a boy and a girl +don't think enough about money before the ceremony, they're +going to have to think altogether too much about it after; and +when a man's doing sums at home evenings, it comes kind of +awkward for him to try to hold his wife on his lap.</p> + +<p>There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than +one. A good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his +happiness, and that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got +the money to invest. I have met women who had cut their husbands' +expenses in half, but they needed the money because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +they had doubled their own. I might add, too, that I've met a +good many husbands who had cut their wives' expenses in half, +and they fit naturally into any discussion of our business, because +they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes a +vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife.</p> + +<p>An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved +real estate—he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he +isn't of any particular use except to build on. The great trouble +with a lot of these fellows is that they're "made land," and if +you dig down a few feet you strike ooze and booze under the +layer of dollars that their daddies dumped in on top. Of course, +the only way to deal with a proposition of that sort is to drive +forty-foot piles clear down to solid rock and then to lay railroad +iron and cement till you've got something to build on. But a +lot of women will go right ahead without any preliminaries and +wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to crack and +tumble about their ears.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="SISTER_IMELDA" id="SISTER_IMELDA">SISTER IMELDA</a></h2> + + +<p>Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born +at Jackson, Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of +Charles Brady, a native of Ireland, and soldier in the +Confederate army. After the war he went to Jackson, +Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of +Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their +second child was Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. +She was educated by the Dominican sisters at Jackson +and, at the age of eighteen years, entered the sisterhood, +taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the next twenty-three +years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in +Roman Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, +but she is now connected with the Sacred Heart Institute,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +Watertown, Massachusetts. Sister Imelda's booklet +of poems has been highly praised by competent +critics. It was entitled <i>Heart Whispers</i> (1905), and issued +under her pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." +Many of these poems were first published in <i>The Midland +Review</i>, a Louisville magazine edited by the late Charles +J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a woman +of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious +life has hampered her literary labors to an unusual +degree.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Hesperian Tree</i> (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); +letters from Sister Imelda to the Author.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A JUNE IDYL<a name="FNanchor_58_58" id="FNanchor_58_58"></a><a href="#Footnote_58_58" class="fnanchor">[58]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Heart Whispers</i> (1905)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Every glade sings now of summer—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Songs as sweet as violets' breath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the glad, warm heart of nature<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thrills and gently answereth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Answers through the lily-lyrics<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the rosebud's joyous song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faintly o'er the valley stealing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As the June days speed along.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And we, pausing, fondly listen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To their tuneful minstrelsy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Floating far beyond the wildwood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the ever restless sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till the echoes, softly, lowly,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Trembling on the twilight air—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tells us that each rose and lily<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bows its scented head in prayer.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">HEART MEMORIES</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In fancy's golden barque at eventide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My spirit floateth to the Far Away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dreamland faces come as fades the day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They lean upon my heart. We gently glide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adown the magic shores of long ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While memories, like silver lily bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When eventide has slowly winged its flight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, then there swiftly come again to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like echoes of some song-bird melody,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">A NUN'S PRAYER</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wander silently o'er the scented lea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until Death's angel makes the melody<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then only will it know eternal rest.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="HARRISON_CONRARD" id="HARRISON_CONRARD">HARRISON CONRARD</a></h2> + + +<p>Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, +September 21, 1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's +College, Cincinnati. From 1892 until the spring of 1899 +Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when he removed +to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff, +his present home. While living at Ludlow he published +his first book of poems, entitled <i>Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets</i> +(1898), which is now out of print. Mr. Conrard's +second and best known volume of verse, called <i>Quivira</i> +(Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics of +almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he +has so far published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, +"I shall roll up my bedding, take my fishing rod and wander +back east, and Kentucky will be good enough for me." +He has, however, never come back. A new volume of his +verse is to be issued shortly.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; <i>Poet-Lore</i> +(Boston, Fall Issue, 1907).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">IN OLD TUCSON<a name="FNanchor_59_59" id="FNanchor_59_59"></a><a href="#Footnote_59_59" class="fnanchor">[59]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Quivira</i> (Boston, 1907)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In old Tucson, in old Tucson,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What cared I how the days ran on?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A brown hand trailing the viol-strings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hair as black as the raven's wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lips that laughed and a voice that clung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till all life shone, in that golden clime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the tender glow of the morning-time.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In old Tucson, in old Tucson,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +<span class="i0">How swift the merry days ran on!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In old Tucson, in old Tucson,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How soon the parting day came on!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the low adobe a palace seems,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the notes that throb from her viol-strings.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a soul that glows like the desert sand—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The golden fruit of a golden land!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In old Tucson, in old Tucson,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long, lone days, O Time, speed on!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">A KENTUCKY SUNRISE</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the red Sun brings forth the Day.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">A KENTUCKY SUNSET</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The great Sun dies in the west; gold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And scarlet fill the skies; the white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Daisies nod in repose; the fold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long shadows come, and then—Night.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="ALICE_HEGAN_RICE" id="ALICE_HEGAN_RICE">ALICE HEGAN RICE</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was +born at Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was +educated at Hampton College, Louisville. On December +18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale Young Rice, the +Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of +several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable +attention. Her first book, published under her maiden +name of Alice Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable <i>Mrs. +Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch</i> (New York, 1901), is an epic +of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its admirers; +and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At +any rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: +one of the "six best sellers" for more than a year, and now +in its forty-seventh edition! That, surely, is glory—and +money—enough for the most exacting. The love episode +running through the little tale did not greatly add to its +merit, and when the old woman of the many trials and tribulations +is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. <i>Lovey +Mary</i> (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed +by the one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky +woman of Martinsville, Indiana, and her <i>Denominational +Garden</i>. That chapter and <i>The 'Christmas +Lady'</i> from <i>Mrs. Wiggs</i>, were reprinted in London as +very slight volumes. <i>Sandy</i> (New York, 1905), was the +story of a little Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; <i>Captain +June</i> (New York, 1907), related the experiences of an +American lad in Japan; <i>Mr. Opp</i> (New York, 1909), was +a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky journalist, +yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. +Gusty, Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, <i>The Opp Eagle</i>, its +editor, D. Webster Opp, his half-crazed sister, Kippy, +are very real and very pathetic. Mrs. Rice's latest story, +<i>A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill</i> (New York, 1912), was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy +and high romance;" and it was said to have been the +result of a suggestion made to the author by the late +editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder, that she should +paint upon a larger canvas—which suggestion was both +good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" +is present no one will deny; but the "high romance" is +reached at the top of Billy-Goat Hill which is, after all, +not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of course, one of the +"six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more than +a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly +as many people have seen the dramatization of <i>Mr. Opp</i> +and <i>Mrs. Wiggs</i>.<a name="FNanchor_60_60" id="FNanchor_60_60"></a><a href="#Footnote_60_60" class="fnanchor">[60]</a></p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Outlook</i> (December 6, 1902); <i>The Bookman</i> +(May, 1903); <i>The Critic</i> (June, 1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES<a name="FNanchor_61_61" id="FNanchor_61_61"></a><a href="#Footnote_61_61" class="fnanchor">[61]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Mr. Opp</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<p>Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to +his home. All the unfairness and injustice of the universe +seemed pressing upon his heart. Every muscle in his body<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +quivered in remembrance of what he had been through, and an +iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His town had +refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!</p> + +<p>With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began +calling Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening +the door with his latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the +room.</p> + +<p>The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a +white, spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the +stillness.</p> + +<p>"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.</p> + +<p>From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, +peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a +voice that was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: +"Kippy! Kippy!"</p> + +<p>At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp +with shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small +bonfire, with papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees +and seized a bit of charred cardboard. It was a corner of the +hand-painted frame that had incased the picture of Guinevere +Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of paper, parts of that treasured +package of letters she had written him from Coreyville.</p> + +<p>As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon +something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the +light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in +the girl's clear, round hand:</p> + +<blockquote><p>Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to +the asylum.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried +wildly; "she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the +woods now, or down on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. +"Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be afraid! Brother D.'s coming +to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for me! Wait!" +and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into the +darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, +calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +leaking skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of +the current.</p> + +<p>Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville +Asylum for the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. +Her boat had evidently been washed ashore at a point +fifteen miles above the town, for people living along the river had +reported a strange little woman, without hat or coat, who came +to their doors crying and saying her name was "Oxety," and +that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the way to +the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious +on the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, +she had been wild and unmanageable.</p> + +<p>"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser +for you not to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently +felt the attack coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."</p> + +<p>He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner +of one who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying +degrees of insanity.</p> + +<p>"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested +Mr. Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time +being that won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been +improving all winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, +and to pick out a number of cities on the geographical atlas."</p> + +<p>"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. +She can never be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. +Her mind should never be stimulated or excited in any way. +Here, of course, we understand all these things and treat the +patient accordingly."</p> + +<p>"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" +asked Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or +help her grow up in any way?"</p> + +<p>The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this +excellent institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself +and your family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping +her at home. Let her stay here for six months or so, and you +will see what a relief it will be."</p> + +<p>Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +in his hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had +his clothes off for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time +from his search to eat anything. His face looked old and +wizened and haunted from the strain. Yet here and now he +was called upon to make his great decision. On the one hand +lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a future +of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged +self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to +snatch it, at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody—of +Kippy; of Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but +would keep her promise; of Hinton, whose secret he had long +ago guessed. And, as a running accompaniment to his thoughts, +was the quiet, professional voice of the doctor urging him to the +course that his heart prompted. For a moment the personal +forces involved trembled in equilibrium.</p> + +<p>After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief +across his brow.</p> + +<p>"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping +breath of a man who has been under water.</p> + +<p>In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.</p> + +<p>As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned +for a moment dizzily against the wall.</p> + +<p>"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested +the doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.</p> + +<p>Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his +old professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to +mention," he said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of +'The Opp Eagle'; and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, +"is, as everybody knows, a complete teetotaler."</p> + +<p>At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, +was a slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he +turned fiercely upon the attendant.</p> + +<p>"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"</p> + +<p>"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman, +reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. +She wants it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us +to touch her. She has been crying about it ever since she came."</p> + +<p>In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, +Kippy darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +it parted on the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the +rest hanging down? Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; +brother D.'ll take care of you."</p> + +<p>She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in +a passion of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and +neck were wet with her tears.</p> + +<p>As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her +into her little bedroom.</p> + +<p>"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding +her hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish +will have a nice, hot supper all waiting for us."</p> + +<p>But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she +broke forth into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed +him from her and looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I +mustn't go; I am crazy!" But he told her about the three little +kittens that had been born under the kitchen steps, and in an instant +she was a-tremble with eagerness to go home to see them.</p> + +<p>An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank +and waited for the little launch that was to take them back to +the Cove. A curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for +their story had gone the rounds.</p> + +<p>Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight +in front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was +suffering. Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale +hair flying about her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.</p> + +<p>"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I +be grown up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, +with all the gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never +going to grow up at all. You are just always going to be +brother D.'s little girl. You see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, +just like—" he paused, then finished it bravely—"just like I +am too old for Miss Guin-never. I wouldn't be surprised if they +got married with each other some day. You and me will just +have to take care of each other."</p> + +<p>She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but +he was ready for her with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't +we?"</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="RICHARD_H_WILSON" id="RICHARD_H_WILSON">RICHARD H. WILSON</a></h2> + + +<p>Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist +and educator, was born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, +March 6, 1870. He received the degrees of B. A. and +M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns +Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe +studying at universities in France, Germany, Italy, and +Spain; and he married a Frenchwoman. He has been a +great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen languages +fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of +Romantic languages at the University of Virginia. All +the appointments of his home are in the French style, and +French is the language of the family. Professor Wilson +is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the land +and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia +what Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His +first book, <i>The Preposition A</i>, is now out of print. His +novel, <i>Mazel</i> (New York, 1902), takes rather the form of a +satire upon life at the University of Virginia. Professor +Wilson's next story, <i>The Venus of Cadiz</i> (New York, +1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life +at Cadiz, Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued +under his pen-name of "Richard Fisguill"—"Fisguill" +being bastard French for "Wilson." Professor Wilson +contributes much to the magazines. Four of his short-stories +were printed in <i>Harper's Weekly</i> between April +and October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the +order of their appearance: <i>Orphanage</i>, <i>The Nymph</i>, +<i>Seven Slumbers</i>, and <i>The Princess of Is</i>. Another story, +<i>The Waitress at the Phoenix</i>, was published in <i>Collier's</i> +for September 7, 1912. A collection of his short-stories +may be issued in 1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, +v. xv); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">SUSAN—THE VENUS OF CADIZ<a name="FNanchor_62_62" id="FNanchor_62_62"></a><a href="#Footnote_62_62" class="fnanchor">[62]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Venus of Cadiz</i> (New York, 1905)]</p> + +<p>Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his +address. He had written four letters in twelve years.</p> + +<p>"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain +Malepeste. "His letter was addressed to me, and he knows I +always count in francs."</p> + +<p>"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. +"He began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' +and I don't believe Colonel Norris would think in francs when +he had me in mind."</p> + +<p>"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't +you think it would be more natural for him to count and think +in dollars—a million dollars?"</p> + +<p>"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you +are wrong. The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations +are doubtless with English houses. And in my opinion he means +pounds, English money—a million pounds sterling."</p> + +<p>"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed +Gertrude.</p> + +<p>"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig.</p> + +<p>"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste.</p> + +<p>"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that +is what the Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. +Norris is a man of remarkable business instincts. He is as cool +and collected on the floor of a stock exchange as he was on the +field of battle. Then he had every incentive to make a fortune. +And he has made one, take my word for it."</p> + +<p>"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will +all go to Paris, and buy a hôtel on the Champs-Elysees!"</p> + +<p>"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. +"Your modern Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live +in."</p> + +<p>Captain Malepeste retorted:</p> + +<p>"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more +than one 'Dutchman,' and live in Germany—God forbid!"</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> +<p>Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music +Room that they might settle with swords the question of the respective +merits of Germany and France. Gertrude followed in +the capacity of second and surgeon to both men. Susan and +Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine had retired to her bedroom.</p> + +<p>"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin, +affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to +do—give a ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?"</p> + +<p>"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere +to study art," replied Susan.</p> + +<p>The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled.</p> + +<p>Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had +crossed the threshold of womanhood.</p> + +<p>"Study art ... be an artist, when a girl is as pretty as +you are, and heiress to five million dollars!" cried Doctor Alvin, +laying aside the mask he had worn so long.</p> + +<p>It was Susan's turn to be astonished. She looked at her +guardian fixedly, expressing pain in her look.</p> + +<p>At length, in a low voice, she said:</p> + +<p>"I do not see why."</p> + +<p>"Susan!" began Doctor Alvin.</p> + +<p>Then he hesitated, as if in doubt as to whether he should +continue.</p> + +<p>"I do not see why," repeated Susan, in the same low voice.</p> + +<p>Doctor Alvin passed his hand over his forehead. He resumed:</p> + +<p>"Susan, your father is coming back shortly. My guardianship +is ended. Your father made me swear on Julia's coffin, +that I would discourage in you all thoughts of marriage until he +returned. He was afraid you might follow in Julia's footsteps. I +was to represent sentiment as sentimentality, substitute art for +love, and prevent your fancy crystallizing into some man-inspired +desire. I have kept my promise. Your father will find +you fancy-free, will he not?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"But, Susan—" and Doctor Alvin's voice again expressed +excitement. "But—"</p> + +<p>Doctor Alvin's voice trembled so that he was obliged to start +over again:</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Susan, you do not know what you are. You—you—are a +beautiful woman. You are more beautiful than Julia was at the +height of her beauty. You are more beautiful than your mother +was—"</p> + +<p>Doctor Alvin's voice echoed mournfully as if he were calling +upon the dead.</p> + +<p>"Susan, you have only to look upon men to conquer them. +You can achieve with a gesture what artists accomplish with a +masterpiece. What can artists do, other than quicken the pulse +of sluggard humanity? But, Susan—God guide your power—you +will make blood boil, heads reel, hearts throb until they +burst, if so you will it. Art—artists! There is no need of you +studying art. Artists will study you. Have you never looked +at yourself in the glass, child? Have you never, when—when—You +have studied art with Malepeste, and you know what lines +are. Have you never thought of studying your own lines? None +of the great statues or paintings, of which Malepeste has the +photographs, is so harmoniously perfect as you. Art!—You +are the genius of art. I have influenced you into taking up +various lines of work, that I might keep you from the pitfalls of +love, until the proper time. But, now, my guardianship is ended. +I have played a part. I must lay aside my mask. Susan, I have +been deceiving you. Love is by all odds the greatest thing in +the world. You must love. And you must let some one love +you—some one of the many who will be ready to lay down +their lives for you—"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="LUCY_FURMAN" id="LUCY_FURMAN">LUCY FURMAN</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Lucy Furman, short-story writer, was born at Henderson, +Kentucky, in 1870, the daughter of a physician. +Her parents died when she was quite young, and she was +brought up by her aunt. Miss Furman attended public +and private schools at Henderson, and at the age of sixteen +years, graduated from Sayre Institute at Lexington, +Kentucky. The three years following her graduation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +were spent at Henderson and at Shreveport, Louisiana, +the home of her grandparents, in both of which places she +was a social leader. At the age of nineteen, it became +necessary for her to make her own way in the world, and +for about four years she was court stenographer at Evansville, +Indiana. Miss Furman's earliest literary work +was done at Evansville. The first stories she ever wrote +were accepted by <i>The Century Magazine</i> when she was +but twenty-three years of age. These were some of the +<i>Stories of a Sanctified Town</i> (New York, 1896), one of the +most charming books yet written by a Kentucky woman. +At the age of twenty-five, when her prospects were exceedingly +bright, Miss Furman's health failed entirely, +and during the next ten years she was an invalid, seeking +health in Florida, southern Texas, on the Jersey coast, +and elsewhere, but without much success, and being always +too feeble to do any writing. In 1907 she went +up into the mountains of her native State to become a +teacher in the W. C. T. U. Settlement School at Hindman, +Knott county, Kentucky. She did very little at first, but +gradually her strength came back, and for the last two +years she has been writing stories and sketches of the Kentucky +mountains for <i>The Century Magazine</i>. In 1911 +<i>The Century</i> published a series of stories under the title +of <i>Mothering on Perilous</i>, which will be brought out in +book form. In 1912 Miss Furman had several stories in +the same magazine, one of the best of which was <i>Hard-Hearted +Barbary Allen</i>. Her lack of physical strength +has compelled her to work very slowly, and it is only by +living out-of-doors at least half the time that she can live +at all. "I have charge of the gardening and outdoor +work at the Settlement School," Miss Furman wrote recently, +"but the happiest part of my life is my residence at +the small boys' cottage, about which I have told in the +'Perilous' stories, and in which I find endless pleasure and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +entertainment. Here I hope to spend the remainder of +my days." Very pathetic, reader, and very heroic!</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Miss Furman to the Author; <i>The +Century Magazine</i> (July, August, November, December, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE<a name="FNanchor_63_63" id="FNanchor_63_63"></a><a href="#Footnote_63_63" class="fnanchor">[63]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen</i> (<i>The Century Magazine</i>, March, 1912)]</p> + +<p>Beneath the musket, on the "fire-board," lay a spindle-shaped, +wooden object, black with age. "A dulcimer," Aunt Polly Ann +explained. "My man made it, too, always-ago. Dulcimers used +to be all the music there was in this country, but banjos is coming +in now."</p> + +<p>Miss Loring knew that the dulcimer was an ancient musical +instrument very popular in England three centuries ago. She +gazed upon the interesting survival with reverence, and expressed +a wish to hear it played.</p> + +<p>"Beldory she'll pick and sing for you gladly when she gets +the dishes done," promised Aunt Polly Ann. "Picking and +singing is her strong p'ints, and she knows any amount of song-ballads."</p> + +<p>At last Beldora came out on the porch and seated herself on a +low stool near the loom. Laying the dulcimer across her knees, +she began striking the strings with two quills, using both shapely +hands. The music was weird, but attractive; the tune she played, +minor, long-drawn, and haunting. Miss Loring received the +second shock of the day when she caught the opening words of +the song:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All in the merry month of May,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the green buds they were swelling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the love of Barbary Allen.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Often had she read and heard of the old English ballad "Barbara +Allen"; never had she thought to encounter it in the flesh. +As she listened to the old song, long since forgotten by the rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +of the world, but here a warm household possession; as she gazed +at Beldora, so young, so fair against the background of ancient +loom and gray log wall, she felt as one may to whom the curtain +of the past is for an instant lifted, and a vision of dead-and-gone +generations vouchsafed.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Beldora went off to fetch the nag, and Aunt Polly Ann accompanied +the guest to the horse-block, laying an anxious hand +on her arm.</p> + +<p>"You heared the song-ballad Beldory sung to you. She knows +dozens, but that's always her first pick. It's her favor<i>rite</i>, and +why? Because it's similar to her own manœuvers. Light and +cruel and leading poor boys on to destruction is her joy and +pastime, same as Barbary's. Did you mind her eyes when she +sung them words about</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">As she were walking through the streets,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">She heard them death-bells knelling,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And every stroke it seemed to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Hard-hearted Barbary Allen!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>like it was something to take pride in, instead of sorrow for? +Yes, woman, them words, 'Hard-hearted Barbary Allen,' is her +living description, and will be to the end of time."</p> + +<p>Ten days later the shocking news reached the school that +Robert and Adriance Towles had fought on the summit of Devon +Mountain for Beldora Wyant's sake, and Robert had fallen +dead, with five bullets in him, Adriance being wounded, though +not fatally. It was said that Beldora, pressed to choose between +the two, had told them she would marry the best man; that +thereupon, with their bosom friends, they had ridden to the top +of Devon, measured off paces, and fired. Adriance had fled, but +word came the next day that, weak from loss of blood, he had +been captured and was on the way to jail in the county-seat near +the school.</p> + +<p>In the weeks until court sat and the trial came off there was +much excitement. Sympathy for Adriance and blame for Beldora +were everywhere felt. Most of the county and all of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +school-women attended the trial, and interest was divided between +the haggard, harassed young face of Adriance and the +calm, opulent loveliness of Beldora. When she took the stand, +people scarcely breathed. Yes, she had told the Towles boys she +would marry the best man of them. She had had to tell them +something,—they were pestering her to death,—and the law +didn't allow her to marry both. She had had no notion they +would be such fools as to try to kill each other. Miss Loring +and the other women watched anxiously for some sign of pity or +remorse in her, but there was not so much as a quiver of the lips +or a tremor in her voice. As she sat there in the lone splendor +of her beauty, somewhat scornfully enjoying the gaze of every +eye in the court-room, one phrase of her "favor<i>rite</i>" song rang +ceaselessly through Miss Loring's head—"Hard-hearted Barbary +Allen." Her lack of feeling intensified the sympathy for +Adriance, and, to everybody's joy, the light verdict of only one +year in the penitentiary was brought in.</p> + +<p>Half an hour later, Aunt Polly Ann, tragic in face and air, +and with Beldora on the nag behind her, drew rein before the +settlement school.</p> + +<p>"Women," she said with sad solemnity on entering, "for four +year' you have been bidding Beldory come and set down and +partake of your feast of learning and knowledge; for four year' +she has spurned your invite. At last she is minded to come. +Here she is. Take her, and see what you can accomplish on her. +My raising of her has requited me naught but tenfold tribulation. +In vain have I watched and warned and denounced and prophesied; +her inordinate light-mindedness and perfidity has now +brung one pore boy to a' ontimely grave and another to Frankfort. +Take her, women, and see if you can learn her some little +demeanor and civility. Keep her under your beneficent and +God-fearing roof, and direct her mind off of her outward and on +to her inward disabilities! Women, I now wash my hands."</p> + +<p>Receiving Beldora into the school was felt to be a somewhat +hazardous undertaking, but affection and sympathy for Aunt +Polly Ann moved the heads to do it. To the general surprise, +Beldora settled down very adaptably to the new life, being capable +enough about the industries, and passably so about books.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +But it was in music that she excelled. Miss Loring gave her +piano lessons, and rarely had teacher a more gifted pupil.</p> + +<p>Needless to say, when Beldora picked the dulcimer and sang +song-ballads at the Friday night parties, all the children and +grown-ups sat entranced. For three or four weeks, on these +occasions, she had the grace to choose other ballads than "Barbara +Allen"; but one night in early November, after singing +"Turkish Lady" and "The Brown Girl," she suddenly struck +into the haunting melody and tragic words of "Barbara Allen." +A thrill and a shock went through all her hearers. Miss Loring +saw Howard Cleves start forward in his chair with a look of +horror, almost repulsion, on his fine, intelligent face.</p> + +<p>Howard was the most remarkable boy in the school. Five +years before, when not quite fifteen, he had walked over, barefoot, +from his home on Millstone, forty miles distant, and presented +himself to "the women" with this plea: "I hear you +women run a school where boys and girls can work their way +through. I am the workingest boy on Millstone, and have hoed +corn, cleared new-ground, and snaked logs since I turned my +fifth year. I have heard tell, over yander on Millstone, that there +is a sizable world outside these mountains, full of strange, foreign +folk and wonderly things. I crave to know about it. I +can't set in darkness any longer. My hunger for learning ha'nts +me day and night, and burns me like a fever. I'll pine to death +if I don't get it. Women, give me a chance. Hunt up the hardest +job on your place, and watch me toss it off."</p> + +<p>They gave him the chance; and never had they done anything +that more richly rewarded them. Not only were his powers of +work prodigious, but his eager, brilliant mind opened amazingly +day by day, progressing by leaps and bounds. The women set +their chief hopes upon Howard, believing that in him they would +give a great man to the nation. Promise of a scholarship in the +law school of a well-known university had already been obtained +for him, and in one more year, such was his astonishing progress, +he would be able to enter it, if all went well. Miss Loring had +observed that, in common with every other boy, big or little, in +the school, Howard had been at first much taken with Beldora's +looks, and it was with relief that she beheld his expression of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +repulsion at Beldora's complacent singing of "Barbara Allen."</p> + +<p>The first real warning came at the Thanksgiving party. During +a game of forfeits, Beldora was ordered to "claim the one +you like the best." Miss Loring saw her first approach Howard +with a dazzling and tender look in her splendid eyes, and even +put out a hand to him; then suddenly, with a wicked little smile, +she turned and gave both hands to Spalding Drake, a young +man from the village. A deep flush sprang to Howard's face, +his jaws clenched, his eyes blazed tigerishly. It might have been +only chagrin at the public slight; still, it made Miss Loring +anxious enough to have a long talk with Beldora next day and +explain to her the hopes and plans for Howard's future and the +tragedy and cruelty of interfering with them in any way.</p> + +<p>One morning, three days before Christmas, Beldora's bed had +not been slept in at all, and under the front door was a note in +Howard's handwriting, as follows:</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Friends</span>:</p> + +<p>Beldora told me last week she aimed to marry Spalding Drake +Christmas. Though he is a nice boy and I like him, I knew, if +she did, I would kill him on the spot. Rather than do this, it is +better for me to marry her myself beforehand. I have hired a +nag, and we will ride to Tazewell by moonlight for a license and +preacher.</p> + +<p>I know a man is a fool that throws away his future for a woman, +that Beldora is not worth it, and that I am doing what I +will never cease to regret. It is like death to me to know I will +never accomplish the things you set before me, and be the man +you wanted me to be. I wish I had never laid eyes on Beldora. I +have agonized and battled and tried to give her up; but she is +too strong for me. I can fight no longer with fate. It would be +better if women like Beldora never was created. She has cost +the life of one boy, the liberty of another, and now my future. +But it had to be.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 18em;">Respectfully yours,</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 26.5em;"><span class="smcap">Howard</span>.</span><br /> +</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="BERT_FINCK" id="BERT_FINCK">BERT FINCK</a></h2> + + +<p>Edward Bertrand Finck ("Bert Finck"), prose pastelist +and closet dramatist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October +16, 1870, the son of a German father and American +mother. His parents were fond of traveling and much of +his earlier life was spent in various parts of this country +and abroad. He was educated in the private schools of his +native city, finishing his academic training at Professor M. +B. Allmond's institution. Mr. Finck began to write at an +early age, and he has published four books: <i>Pebbles</i> +(Louisville, 1898), a little volume of epigrams; <i>Webs</i> +(Louisville, 1900), being reveries and essays in miniature; +<i>Plays</i> (Louisville, 1902), a group of allegorical dramas; +and <i>Musings and Pastels</i> (Louisville, 1905). All of these +small books are composed of poetic and philosophical +prose, many passages possessing great truth and beauty. +In 1906 Mr. Finck was admitted to the bar of Louisville, +and he has since practiced there with success. He seemingly +took Blackstonian leave of letters some years ago, +but the gossips of literary Louisville have been telling, of +late, of a new book of prose pastels that he has recently +finished and will bring out in the late autumn of 1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Mr. Finck's letters to the Author; <i>Who's Who +in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">BEHIND THE SCENES<a name="FNanchor_64_64" id="FNanchor_64_64"></a><a href="#Footnote_64_64" class="fnanchor">[64]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Webs</i> (Louisville, 1900)]</p> + +<p>Could we but lift the countenance which pleases or repels, what +seems so sweet might thrust away, and what is repugnant charm +or win our sympathy and aid. Is not indifference often a net +to catch or to conceal? Modesty, diplomatic egotism? Wit, brilliant +misery? Contentment, wallowing despair? Langor, shrewd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +energy? Frivolity, woe burlesquely masked by unselfishness or +pride? Is not philosophy, at times, resignation in delirium? The +enthusiastic are ridiculed as being self-conceited; the patient +condemned for having no heart. We stigmatize them as idle +whose natures are toiling the noblest toil of all, for not rarely +do thought-gods drift through a spell of idleness; a butterfly-fancy +may breed a spirit that turns the way of an age's career; +there are sleeps that are awakenings; awakenings, sleeps; none +so worthless as many who are busy all the time. Smiles are +sometimes selfish triumphs; peace, the swine-heart's well-filled +trough. Cheeks rich with the fire of fever are envied as glow +of health; steps, eager to escape from a spectre, we laudingly +call enthusiasm in work; and the brain's desperate efforts to +stifle bitter thoughts sharpen tongues that fascinate with their +brilliant gayety—the world dances to the music of its sighs.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="OLIVE_TILFORD_DARGAN" id="OLIVE_TILFORD_DARGAN">OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born +at Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She +attended the public schools, in which her parents were +teachers, until she was ten years of age, when they left +Kentucky and established a school at Donophan, Missouri. +Three years later she was ready for college, but her mother's +health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark +Mountains, near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another +school was conducted, this time with the daughter as her +father's assistant. For the following five years she taught +the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and +during these years she herself was always hoping and +planning for a college education, which hopes and plans +seemed to crumble beneath her feet when her mother died, +in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with her invalid +father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +finally obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to +the University of Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution +she was graduated two years later. Miss Tilford +then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but the climate +so affected her health that she was forced to resign +and repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly +afterwards took a course in a business college and, for a +brief period, held a position in a bank. Teaching again +called her and for two years she taught in the schools of +San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in +English and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, +Massachusetts; and a year later she turned again to +teaching, holding a position in Acadia Seminary, Wolfville, +Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in +reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also +worked as a stenographer. Several of her articles were +accepted by the magazines about this time, which decided +her to settle upon literature as her life work. She worked +too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way, and +she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in +order to regain her strength. Miss Tilford was married, +in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan, of Darlington, South +Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at Radcliffe. +Not long after she went to New York, and there +resumed her literary labors with a high and serious purpose. +Mrs. Dargan's first volume of dramas, <i>Semiramis +and Other Plays</i>, was published by Brentano's in 1904, +and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides the +title-play, <i>Semiramis</i>, founded on the life of the famous +Persian queen, this book contained <i>Carlotta</i>, a drama of +Mexico in the days of Maximilian, and <i>The Poet</i>, which is +Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized. Mrs. Dargan's second +volume of plays bore the attractive title of <i>Lords and Lovers +and Other Dramas</i> (New York, 1906), the second edition +of which appeared in 1908. This also contains three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +plays, the second being <i>The Shepherd</i>, with the setting in +Russia, and the third, <i>The Siege</i>, a Sicilian play, the +scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three hundred and +fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's <i>Lords and +Lovers</i>, set against an English background, is generally +regarded as the best work she has done hitherto. Mr. +Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised this play highly, +placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine +Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's +foremost poetic dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished +may be considered but an earnest of what she +will ultimately produce. Her beautiful masque, <i>The +Woods of Ida</i>, appeared in <i>The Century Magazine</i> for +August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest +English work in that branch of the drama. She has had +lyrics in <i>Scribner's</i>, <i>McClure's</i>, <i>The Century</i>, and <i>The +Atlantic Monthly</i>, her most recent poem, "In the Blue +Ridge," having appeared in <i>Scribner's</i> for May, 1911. +Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three +years she has traveled abroad, spending much time in +England, the background of her greatest work. Her third +and latest volume contains three dramas, entitled <i>The +Mortal Gods and Other Plays</i> (New York, 1912). This +was awaited with impatience by her admirers on both +sides of the Atlantic and read with delight by them.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it +may seem premature to pronounce a critical judgment on +her work," wrote Dr. George A. Wauchope, professor of +English in the University of South Carolina, in claiming +her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued, +"that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this +country, and is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with +all but the greatest in English literature. One is equally +impressed by the creative inspiration and the mastery of +technique displayed by the author. Each of her plays reveals<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought +and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, +also, with which her plays are interspersed, yield a rich +and haunting melody that is redolent of the charming +Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are audacious +in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling +of the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in +the splendor of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent +of reflection, and, above all, in their spiritual uplift and +noble emotion, these dramas give evidence of a remarkably +gifted playwright who not only possesses a deep +feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has +command of all the varied resources of dramatic expression."</p> + +<p>It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of +an author, would it not?</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The University of Virginia Magazine</i> (January, +1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's +<i>The Poet</i>; <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, +1909, v. iii); <i>The Writers of South Carolina</i>, by G. A. Wauchope +(Columbia, S. C., 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS<a name="FNanchor_65_65" id="FNanchor_65_65"></a><a href="#Footnote_65_65" class="fnanchor">[65]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Lords and Lovers</i> (New York, 1906)]</p> + +<p class="center">Act IV, Scene I. <i>Henry, with lute, singing.</i></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ope, throw ope thy bower door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And come thou forth, my sweet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And mating hearts should meet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stars have fled and left their grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every blossom's lifted face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gentle shadows fleck the light<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With tender memories of the night.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet, there's a door to every shrine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wilt thou, as morning, open thine?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hark! now the lark has met the clouds,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And rains his sheer melodious flood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The green earth casts her mystic shrouds<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To meet the flaming god!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas, for me there is no dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If Glaia come not with the sun.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center">[<i>Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches.</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> 'Tis you!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false?<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Nay, I'm too glad thou'rt come to question so.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">'Tis easy to forgive the treachery<br /></span> +<span class="i7">That opes our gates to angels.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i>          O, I'm loved?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And I rose early, for I love to say<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And loath to go away, as though they know<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The fickle world is thinking of the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And all their gentle service of the night<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Is quite forgot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> And what didst think of me?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> That you could come and see this beauteous wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">You'd be content to live awhile with me,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Leave war's red step to follow living May<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To each decaying root; and rest by springs<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Where waters run to sounds less rude than song,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> The only springs I seek are in your eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i7">That nourish all the desert of myself.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And start fair summer in this waste of me!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose?<br /></span> +<span class="i7">What do I know of it but that 'tis fair?<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And goes to some sweet country of the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">So cloud-like dost thou move before my love,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">From beauty coming that I may not see,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To beauty going that I can but dream.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">This miracle of warm, unmelting snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">This lily bit of thee that in my clasp<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote—<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown!<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The darkest shadow of defeat that broods<br /></span> +<span class="i7">O'er sceptres and unfriended kings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i>                 Why talk<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">For if you love me you will stay with me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Review the sunny graces of the world,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Plucking the smilingest to dearer love,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Until the heart becomes the root and spring<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i7">As these bright children of the wedded sun<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And dewy earth!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i>      I knew you'd stay, my brother!<br /></span> +<span class="i7">You'll live with me!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i>       But there's a world not this,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop<br /></span> +<span class="i7">That rims the forehead of a king,—a world<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Where trampling armies and sedition's march<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Cut off the flowers of descanting love<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Ere they may sing their perfect word to man,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +<span class="i7">Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> O, do not tell me, do not think of it!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> I must. There is my world, and there my life<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Must grow to gracious end, if so it can.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">If thou wouldst come, my living periapt,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">With virtue's gentle legend overwrit,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Pure lily cloister of a praying rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The whispering winds do never counsel false,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And senatorial trees droop not their state<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Your minister, the seasons your envoys<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And high ambassadors, bearing from His court<br /></span> +<span class="i7">The mortal olive of immortal love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i> To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To bind me here; and if you love me true,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">You will not ask me where I go or stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">But that your feet may stay or go with mine.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips<br /></span> +<span class="i7">That all their life have ripened for this kiss.<br /></span> +<span class="i38">[<i>Kisses her</i>]<br /></span> +<span class="i7">O ruby purities! I would not give<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Stored with the honey of a thousand suns<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Through the slow measure of as many years!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> Do brothers talk like that?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i>          I think not, sweet<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> But you will be my brother?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i>          We shall see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Gla.</i> And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear<br /></span> +<span class="i7">All that you love in me is born of these<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Wild innocences that I live among,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">And far from here, all such sweet value lost,<br /></span> +<span class="i7">I'll be as others are in your mad world,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +<span class="i7">Or wither mortally, even as the sprig<br /></span> +<span class="i7">A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Dear playmates ever, never growing old,—<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace<br /></span> +<span class="i7">Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us<br /></span> +<span class="i7">To come at will.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hen.</i>          No, Glaia. Even now<br /></span> +<span class="i7">I must be gone. I came for this——to say<br /></span> +<span class="i7">I'd come again, and bid you watch for me.<br /></span> +<span class="i7">A tear? O, love! One moment, then away!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i21">[<i>Exeunt. Curtain</i>]<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="HARRY_L_MARRINER" id="HARRY_L_MARRINER">HARRY L. MARRINER</a></h2> + + +<p>Harry Lee Marriner, newspaper poet, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, March 24, 1871, the son of a schoolman. +He was educated by his father and in the public schools of +his native city. He engaged in a dozen different businesses +before he suddenly discovered that he could write, +which discovery caused him to accept a position on the +now defunct <i>Chicago Dispatch</i>, from which he went to +<i>The Evening Post</i>, of Louisville, remaining with that +paper for several years. In 1902 Mr. Marriner went +to Texas and became assistant city editor of the <i>Dallas +News</i>; and he has since filled practically all the +editorial positions, being at the present time Sunday +editor of both the <i>Dallas News</i> and the <i>Galveston +News</i>, which are under the same management. In +1907 Mr. Marriner originated a feature consisting of a +daily human interest poem, printed on the front page of +his two papers. For some time he concealed his identity +under the title of "The News Staff Poet," but in 1909 he +discarded his cloak and came out into the sunlight of reality +in order that his hundreds of admirers throughout the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +Southwest might be content. Mr. Marriner's "poetry" +is rather homely verse based upon the everyday things +and thoughts and experiences of everyday people. This +verse has had a wonderful vogue in Texas and Oklahoma, +and the surrounding States. Dealing with dogs and +"kids," with sore toes and sentiment, with joys and griefs, +dolls and ball gowns, country stores and city life, street +cars and prairie schooners, mint-fringed creeks and bucking +bronchos, it is a medley of everything human. The +cream of his verse has been brought together in three +charming little books: <i>When You and I Were Kids</i> (New +York, 1909); <i>Joyous Days</i> (Dallas, 1910); and <i>Mirthful +Knights in Modern Days</i> (Dallas, 1911). Mr. Marriner +has written the lyrics for two musical comedies; and he +has had short-stories in the periodicals.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Marriner to the Author; <i>The +Dallas News</i> (December 2, 1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR<a name="FNanchor_66_66" id="FNanchor_66_66"></a><a href="#Footnote_66_66" class="fnanchor">[66]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>When You and I Were Kids</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How doth the mind of man go back to when he was a boy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When feet were full of tan and dust, and life was full of joy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But many a man looks back in fear, for in a time-worn chair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sees himself draped in a sheet, while Mother cuts his hair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The scissors drag, and sniffles rise when ears lop in the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the porch rain locks of hair like tufts of prairie hay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely hid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looks on himself and views with pain the job that Mother did.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The mule may shed in summertime the felt that Nature grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But neither bears that patchwork look, that war map of despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That zigzags on the small boy's head when Mother cuts his hair.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">SIR GUMSHOO<a name="FNanchor_67_67" id="FNanchor_67_67"></a><a href="#Footnote_67_67" class="fnanchor">[67]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Mirthful Knights in Modern Days</i> (Dallas, 1911)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir Gumshoo, known as Wot d'Ell, a noble Knight from Spain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was one who was so strong a Pro he'd water on the brain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He would not drink a dram at all, or even sniff at it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And just the sight of lager beer would throw him in a fit.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It chanced one day Sir Gumshoo rode upon a noble quest—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His lady had acquired a cold that settled on her chest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to the rural districts he repaired, for it was plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He must secure some goosegrease that she might get well again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He found a rude, bucolic rube who had goosegrease to sell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sir Gumshoo bought about a quart, and all was going well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he who rendered geese to grease made him a stealthy sign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And led him to a bottle filled with elderberry wine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Knight declined; he was a Pro, which fact he did explain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The farmer, sore disgusted, took his goosegrease back again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereat the Knight in anguish sore gave up himself for lost<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And took a fierce and fiery drink with all his fingers crossed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That night he rode as rides a pig upon a circus steed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He clutched his charger 'round the neck, for he was stewed indeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, bowing to his lady fair, as bows the wind-tossed pine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He handed her part of a quart of elderberry wine.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="LUCIEN_V_RULE" id="LUCIEN_V_RULE">LUCIEN V. RULE</a></h2> + + +<p>Lucien V. Rule, poet, was born at Goshen, Kentucky, +August 29, 1871. He spent one year at State College, +Lexington, when he went to Centre College, Danville, +from which he was graduated in 1893. Mr. Rule studied +for the ministry, but he later engaged in newspaper work, +in which he spent six or seven years. During the last +few years he has devoted his time to writing and speaking +upon social and religious subjects. His first book of +poems, entitled <i>The Shrine of Love and Other Poems</i> +(Chicago, 1898), is his best known work. He is also the +author of a small pamphlet of social and political satires, +entitled <i>When John Bull Comes A-Courtin'</i> (Louisville, +1903). This contains the title-poem, the sub-title of which +reads: "Sundry Meditations on the Rumored Matrimonial +Alliance between J. Bull, Bart., and his cousin, +Lady Columbia;" and several shorter poems. Those +inscribed to Tolstoi, Whittier, and Walt Whitman are +very strong. Mr. Rule's latest book is <i>The House of +Love</i> (Indianapolis, 1910). In 1913 he will probably publish +a group of poetic dramas-in-cameo for young people, +and a brief collection of biographical studies. Mr. Rule +resides at his birthplace, Goshen, Kentucky.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Southern Writers</i>, by W. P. Trent (New York, +1905); letters from Mr. Rule to the Author.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU?<a name="FNanchor_68_68" id="FNanchor_68_68"></a><a href="#Footnote_68_68" class="fnanchor">[68]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>When John Bull Comes A Courtin'</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, 1903)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What right hast thou to more than thou dost need<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While others perish for the want of bread?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What right hast thou upon a palace bed<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +<span class="i0">To idly slumber while the homeless plead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A vicious and voluptuous life to lead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While millions struggle on in rags and shame?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What right hast thou thus vilely to inflame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy fellow men with hate, O fiend of greed?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What right hast thou to take the hallowed name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of God upon thy lips, or Christ's, who came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To save the race from sorrows thou dost cause?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not always helpless 'neath thy cruel paws,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Beast of Capital, shall Labor lie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy doom this day is thundered from the sky!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Arise, my soul, put off thy dark despair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say not the age of chivalry is gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For lo, the east is kindling with its dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bugle echoes bid thee wake to wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Majestic moral armour, and to bear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A worthy part in truth's eternal fray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say not the muse inspires no more to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor that fame's flowers no longer flourish fair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Live thou sublimely and then speak thy heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If thou wouldst build an altar unto art.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand with the struggling and the stars above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will shower celestial thoughts to thrill thy pen.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Put self away and walk alone with Love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou shalt be the marvel of all men!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="EVA_WILDER_BRODHEAD" id="EVA_WILDER_BRODHEAD">EVA WILDER BRODHEAD</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Eva Wilder (McGlasson) Brodhead, novelist and +short-story writer, was born at Covington, Kentucky, in +187-. Her parents were not of Southern origin, her father +having been born in Nova Scotia, and her mother at +Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She was educated in New +York City and in her native town of Covington. She +began to write when but eighteen years of age, and a short +time thereafter her first novel appeared, <i>Diana's Livery</i> +(New York, 1891). This was set against a background +most alluring: the Shaker settlement at Pleasant Hill, +Kentucky, into which a young man of the world enters +and falls in love with a pretty Shakeress. Her second +story, <i>An Earthly Paragon</i> (New York, 1892), which was +written in three weeks, ran through <i>Harper's Weekly</i> +before being published in book form. It was a romance +of the Kentucky mountains, laid around Chamouni, the +novelist's name for Yosemite, Kentucky. It was followed +by a novelette of love set amidst the salt-sea atmosphere +of an eastern watering place, <i>Ministers of Grace</i> (New +York, 1894). Hildreth, the scene of this little story, is +anywhere along the Jersey coast from Atlantic City to +Long Branch. <i>Ministers of Grace</i> also appeared serially +in <i>Harper's Weekly</i>, and when it was issued in book form +Col. Henry Watterson called the attention of Richard +Mansfield to it as a proper vehicle for him, and the actor +promptly secured the dramatic rights, hoping to present +it upon the stage; but his untimely death prevented the +dramatization of the tale under highly favorable auspices. +It was the last to be published under the name of Eva +Wilder McGlasson, as this writer was first known to the +public, for on December 5, 1894, she was married in New +York to Mr. Henry C. Brodhead, a civil and mining engineer +of Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Brodhead's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +next novelette, <i>One of the Visconti</i> (New York, 1896), the +background of which was Naples, the hero being a young +Kentuckian and the heroine of the old and famous Visconti +family, was issued by the Scribner's in their well-known +Ivory Series of short-stories. Her last Kentucky +novel, <i>Bound in Shallows</i> (New York, 1896), originally +appeared in <i>Harper's Bazar</i>. That severe arbiter of +literary destinies, <i>The Nation</i>, said of this book: "No +such work as this has been done by any American woman +since Constance Fenimore Woolson died." It was founded +on material gathered at Burnside, Kentucky, where +Mrs. Brodhead spent two summers. Her most recent +work, <i>A Prairie Infanta</i> (Philadelphia, 1904), is a Colorado +juvenile, first published in <i>The Youth's Companion</i>. +Aside from her books, Mrs. Brodhead won a wide reputation +as a short-story writer and maker of dialect verse. +More than fifty of her stories have been printed in the +publications of the house of Harper, the publishers of +four of her books; in <i>The Century</i>, <i>Scribner's</i>, and other +leading periodicals. Many of her admirers hold that the +short-story is her especial forte. Five of them may be +mentioned as especially well done: <i>Fan's Mammy</i>, <i>A +Child of the Covenant</i>, <i>The Monument to Corder</i>, <i>The +Eternal Feminine</i>, and <i>Fair Ines</i>. She has written much +dialect verse which appeared in the Harper periodicals, +<i>The Century</i>, <i>Judge</i>, <i>Puck</i>, and other magazines. Neither +her short-stories nor her verse has been collected and +issued in book form. Since her marriage Mrs. Brodhead +has traveled in Europe a great deal, and in many parts of +the United States, traveled until she sometimes wonders +whether her home is in Denver or New York, and, although +she is in the metropolis more than she is in the Colorado +capital, her legal residence is Denver, some distance from +the mining town of Brodhead, named in honor of her husband's +geological discoveries and interests. In 1906 she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +was stricken with a very severe illness, followed by her +physician's absolute mandate of no literary work until her +health should be reëstablished, which has been accomplished +but recently. She has published but a single story +since her sickness, <i>Two Points of Honor</i>, which appeared +in <i>Harper's Weekly</i> for July 4, 1908. At the present +time Mrs. Brodhead is quite well enough to resume work; +and the next few years should witness her fulfilling the +earnest of her earlier novels and stories, firmly fixing her +fame as one of the foremost women writers of prose fiction +yet born on Kentucky soil.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Harper's Weekly</i> (September 3, 1892); <i>The +Book-buyer</i> (September, 1896).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE RIVALS<a name="FNanchor_69_69" id="FNanchor_69_69"></a><a href="#Footnote_69_69" class="fnanchor">[69]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Ministers of Grace</i> (New York, 1894)]</p> + +<p>As the days merged towards the end of August, Hildreth was +packed to the very gates. The wiry yellow grasses along the +neat walks were trampled into powder. The very sands, for all +the effacing fingers of the tides, seemed never free of footprints, +and by day and night the ocean promenade, the interior of the +town, lake-sides, hotels, and the surf itself, were a press of holiday +folk.</p> + +<p>In these times Mr. Ruley seldom went forth in his rolling-chair, +except early of a morning, when the beach was yet way-free, +and the sands unfrequented save for a few barelegged +men, who, with long wooden rakes, cleaned up the sea-verge for +the day.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Wade pushed the chair. But since the night when +he gave Elizabeth the honeysuckles he had in some measure +avoided the old preacher's small circle. There had been, on +that occasion, a newness of impulse in his spirit which made +him feel the advisability of keeping himself out of harm's way, +however sweet that way might seem. Graham was the favored<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +suitor. He, Wade, having no chance for the rose, could at least +withhold his flesh from the thorn.</p> + +<p>"So," said Gracie Gayle, "you're out of the running?"</p> + +<p>"Ruled off," smiled Wade.</p> + +<p>"Don't you make any mistakes," wisely admonished Miss +Gayle. "I've seen her look at him, and I've seen her look at +<i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"This is most surprising," indicated Wade, with a feigned +accent. "You will pardon me, Gracie, if I scarcely credit your +statement."</p> + +<p>"Be sarcastic if you want to," said Gracie. "If you knew +anything at all, you'd know that straws show which way the +wind blows. When a woman regards a man with a kind of +flat, frank sincerity, it's because her heart's altogether out of +his reach. When she looks <i>around</i> him rather than <i>at</i> him, it's +because——" Gracie lifted her shoulders suggestively.</p> + +<p>"Grace," breathed Wade, gravely, "I am hurt to the quick to +see you developing the germs of what painfully resembles +thought. For Heaven's and your sex's sake, pause while there +is yet time! Women who form the pernicious habit of thinking +lose in time the magic key which unlocks the hearts of +men."</p> + +<p>Grace sniffed.</p> + +<p>"Men's hearts are never locked," she said, sagaciously. "The +heavier the padlock the smoother the hinges." She shook her +crisp curls as she tripped away with her airy, mincing, soubrette +tread.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding the inconsequent nature of this talk, it set +Wade to thinking. Perhaps he had carried his principle of +self-effacement too far. At all events, when he next saw Miss +Ruley, he went up to her and stopped for a moment's conversation.</p> + +<p>It chanced to be on the sands. Elizabeth was sitting by herself +under the arch of a lace-hung sunshade, which cast shaking +little shadows on her face, sprigging it with such delicate darkness +as lurk in the misty milk of moss-agate.</p> + +<p>"You are going in, then?" she asked, smiling up rather uncertainly, +and noticing his flannel attire. "Mr. Graham is already<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> +very far out. That is he, I think, taking that big breaker. +What a stroke!"</p> + +<p>Wade, focussing an indulgent eye, saw a figure away beyond +the other bathers, rising to the lift of a great billow. The man +swam with a splendid motion. Whether he dived, or floated, +or circled his arms in that whirling stroke of his, he seemed +in subtle sympathy with the sea, possessed of a kinship with it, +and in an element altogether his own.</p> + +<p>Wade expressed an appropriate sentiment of admiration.</p> + +<p>Just then Gracie Gayle came gambolling along, a childish +shape, kirtled to the knee in bright blue, and turbaned in vivid +scarlet. Among the loose-waisted figures on the sands she was +like a humming-bird scintillating in a staid gathering of barnyard +fowls. Bailey was with her, having returned after a fortnight's +absence.</p> + +<p>The two paused beside Elizabeth, and Wade went on, confused +by the singular way in which that small fair face, shadow-streaked +and faintly smiling, lingered in his vision. He was +still perplexed with a half-pleasant, half-pained consciousness +of it as he plunged into the pushing surf and felt a dizzy world +of water heave round him. The surge was strong to-day, and +the splashing and screaming of the shore bathers sent him +farther and still farther out. Gradually their cries lessened in +his ear, and there was with him presently only the hollow thud +of the waves and the rushing hiss of the crestling foam.</p> + +<p>Once, as he rose to a sea-lift, it seemed to him that he heard +a sound that was not the boom of the breakers nor the song of the +slipping froth. It came again, whatever it was, and as he gave +ear he took in a human intonation, sharp and agonized. It was +a cry for help.</p> + +<p>Wade shook the brine from his hair, freeing his gaze for an +outlook. In the glassy mound of water to his right a face, lean +and white with alarm, gleamed and faded. That the sinking +man was Graham came instantly to Wade's mind—Graham, +a victim to some one of the mischances which the sea reserves +for those who adventure too confidently with her.</p> + +<p>Wade struck out instantly for the spot where Graham's appalled +features had briefly glimpsed. Shoreward he could note<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +an increasing agitation among the multitudes. Evidently the +people had noticed the peril of the remote swimmer whose exploits +had so lately won admiring comment. The beachguard +no doubt was buckling to his belt the life-rope coiled always on +the sands for such emergencies. Cries of men and women rang +stifled over the water—exclamations of fear and advice and +excitement, mingled in a long continuous wail.</p> + +<p>Graham's head rose in sight, a mere speck upon the dense +green of the bulging water. Wade, fetching nearer in wide +strokes, suddenly felt himself twisted violently out of his course, +and whirled round in a futile effort with some mysterious current. +He was almost near enough to lay hold of Graham when +this new sensation explained lucidly the cause of Graham's +danger. They were both in the claws of an undertow, which, +as Wade realized its touch, appeared as if wrenching him straight +out to the purring distance of the farther sea.</p> + +<p>Even in the first consternation of this discovery he felt himself +thrust hard against a leaden body, and in the same instant +Graham's hands snatched at him in a desperate reach for life.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake don't hold me like this!" Wade expostulated. +"Let go. Trust me to do what I can. You're strangling me, +man!"</p> + +<p>But Graham was past sanity. He only clutched with the +more frenzy at the thing which seemed to keep him from the +ravenous mouth of the snarling waters.</p> + +<p>Wade, in a kind of composed despair, sent a look towards the +beach. They were putting out a boat, a tiny sheel which frisked +in the surf, and seemed motionless in the double action of the +waves. Men laid hard at the oars. The little craft took the +first big wave as a horse takes a hurdle. It dropped from the +glassy height, and Wade saw it sink into a breach of the sea. +Then flashing with crystal, it bore up again and outward.</p> + +<p>The figures running and gesticulating on the beach had a +marvellous distinctness to Wade's submerging eyes. He noticed +the blue sky, flawed with scratches of white, the zigzag roof-lines +of the great town, the twisting flags and meshes of the dark +wire. Everything oppressed him with a sort of deadly clearness, +as if a metal stamp should press in melting wax.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + +<p>He was momently sinking, drawn ever outward by the undercurrent, +and downward by the weighty burden throttling him +in its senseless grasp. He looked once more through a blinding +veil of foam, and saw the boat dipping far to the left. A phantasm +of life flickered before him. Unsuspected trivialities shook +out of their cells, and amazed him with the pygmy thrift of +memory. Then came a sense of confusion, as if the spiritual +and corporal lost each its boundary and ranged wild, and Wade +felt the sea in his eyes, stroking them down as gently as ever +any watcher by the dying.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="CORDIA_GREER_PETRIE" id="CORDIA_GREER_PETRIE">CORDIA GREER PETRIE</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Cordia Greer Petrie, a talented writer of very great +promise and of decided performance, was born near +Merry Oaks, Kentucky, February 12, 1872. When she +was a child her parents removed to Louisville, Kentucky, +and in the public schools of that city she was educated, +after which she spent a half-year at old Eminence College, +Eminence, Kentucky. In July, 1894, Miss Greer was +married to Dr. Hazel G. Petrie, of Fairview, Kentucky, +who, for the past ten years, has been mine physician in +various sections of eastern Kentucky. At the present +time he is serving six mines and making his home at +Chenoa, near Pineville, Kentucky. In her writings Mrs. +Petrie has created a character of great originality in +Angeline Keaton, an unlettered inhabitant of a remote +Kentucky hamlet. "Of the original Angeline," Mrs. Petrie +once wrote, "I know but little. She and her shiftless, +'no-erkount' husband, Lum, together with her son, Jeems +Henry, lived in Barren county, not far from Glasgow. +Angeline supported the family by working on the 'sheers,' +'diggin one half the taters fur tother half!' She was +very anxious for her boy to 'git an edjycation' and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +sooner would he get comfortably settled in a 'cheer' until +she would exclaim, 'Jeems Henry! Git up offen them +britches, you lazy whelp! Git yer book and be gittin some +larnin in your head!' Without a word Jim Henry would +climb up the log wall and from under the rafters abstract +his blue back speller." Characterization is Mrs. Petrie's +chief strength; and she is a positive refutation of the +masculine dictum that women lack humor. With her +friend, Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, the short-story writer, +she collaborated on an Angeline sketch, entitled "When +the Bees Got Busy," which was published in the <i>Overland +Monthly</i> for August, 1904; and the prize story reprinted at +the end of this note is the only other Angeline story that +has been published so far. She has won several prizes +with other stories, but a group of the Angeline sketches +are in manuscript, and they will shortly appear in book +form. <i>Angeline Keaton</i>, "with her gaunt angular form +clad in its scant calico gown," is sure to "score" when she +makes her bow between the covers of a book. She is every +bit as cleverly conceived as <i>Mrs. Wiggs</i>, <i>Susan Clegg</i>, or +any of the other quaint women who have recently won +the applause of the American public.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mrs. Petrie to the Author; Miss +Leigh Gordon Giltner's study in <i>The Southern Home Journal</i> +(Louisville).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Evening Post</i> (Louisville, Kentucky)]</p> + +<p>She sat upon the edge of the veranda, fanning herself with +her "split" sunbonnet, a tall, angular woman, whose faded +calico gown "lost connection" at the waist line. Her spring +being dry, she came to our well for water. Discovering that +Angeline Keaton was a "character," I invariably inveigled her +to rest awhile on our cool piazza before retracing her steps up +the steep, rocky hillside to her cabin home.</p> + +<p>"I missed you yesterday," I said as a starter.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes'm," she answered in a voice harsh and strident, yet +touched with a peculiar sibilant quality characteristic of the +Kentucky backwoodsman, "and thar wuz others that missed me, +too!"</p> + +<p>Settling herself comfortably, she produced from some hidden +source a box of snuff and plied her brush vigorously.</p> + +<p>"We-all have got inter a wrangle over at Zion erbout the +church music," she began. "I and Lum, my old man, has been +the leaders ever since we moved here from Lick-skillet. We wuz +alluz on hand—Lum with his tunin' fork and me with my strong +serpraner. When it come to linin' off a song, Lum wuz pintedly +hard to beat. Why, folks come from fur and near to hear us, +and them city folks, at Mis' Bowles' last summer, 'lowed thar +warn't nothing in New York that could tech us. One of 'em +offered us a dollar to sing inter a phonygraf reckerd, but we +wuz afeerd to put our lives in jopperdy by dabblin' in 'lectricerty. +But even celebrerty has its drawbacks, and a 'profit +is not without honor in his own country,' as the saying is. A +passel of 'em got jellus, a church meeting was called, unbeknownst +to us, and ermong 'em they agreed to make a change in +the music at old Zion. That peaked-faced Betty Button wuz at +the bottom of it. Ever since she tuk that normal course at +Bowling Green she's been endeverin' to push herself inter +promernence here at Bear Waller. Fust she got up a class in +delsarty, but even Bear Waller warn't dull ernough to take to +that foolishness! Then she canvassed the county with a cuttin' +system and a book called 'Law at a Glance.' Now she's teaching +vokle culshure. She orter know singers, like poits, is born, not +made! Jest wantin' to sing won't do it. It takes power. It's +give up mine's the powerfullest voice in all Bear Waller. I kin +bring old Brindle in when she's grazing in the woods, back o' +Judge Bowles' medder, and I simply step out on the portico +and call Lum to dinner when he's swoppin' yarns down to the +store quarter o' mile away. Fur that matter, though, a deef +and dum man could fetch Lum to <i>vittles</i>.</p> + +<p>"Do you know Bear Waller owes its muserkil educashun to +me? Mine wuz the fust accordyon brought to the place, and I +wuz allus ready to play fur my nabers. I didn't hafter be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +<i>begged</i>. I orgernized the Zobo band, I lent 'em my ballads, but +whar's my thanks? At the battin' of an eye they're ready to +drop me for that quavery-voiced Button gal and them notes o' +hern that's no more'n that many peryids and commers.</p> + +<p>"When the committee waited on me and Lum we jest flew +mad and 'lowed we'd quit. Maybe we wuz hasty, but it serves +'em right. Besides, these Bear Wallerites ain't compertent to +appreshiate a voice like mine, nohow. I decided I'd take my +letter to Glasgow and jine that brag choir of their'n. It did me +good to think how it 'ud spite some folks to see me leadin' the +singin' at the county seat!</p> + +<p>"Lum wuz dead set ergin it, but armin' myself with the rollin' +pin and a skillet o' bilin grease, I finally pervailed on him to +give in. Lum is of a yieldin' dispersishun if a body goes at 'im +right.</p> + +<p>"Jim Henry, that's my boy, an' I tuk a early start. We had +tied up the colt in the cow shed and I wuz congratulatin' myself +on bein' shet of the pesky critter when I heerd him nicker. +Lookin' back, I saw him comin' in a gallerp, his head turned to +one side, while he fairly obscured the landscape with great clouds +o' pike dust!</p> + +<p>"We wuz crossin' the railroad when old Julie heered that +nicker, an' right thar she balked. Neither gentle persuasion from +the peach tree switch which I helt in my hand, nor well-aimed +kicks of Jim Henry's boots in her flanks could budge her till +that colt come up pantin' beside her. We jest did clear the track +when the accomerdashun whizzed by. Well, sir, when old Julie +spied them kyars she began buck-jumpin' in a manner that +would'er struck terror to a less experienced hosswoman. Jim +Henry, who wuz gazin' at the train with childlike pleasure, wuz +tuk wholly by suprise, and before he knowed what wuz up he +wuz precippytated inter the branches o' a red-haw tree. He +crawled out, a wreck, his face and hands scratched and bleedin' +and his britches hangin' in shreds, and them his Sundays, too! +I managed to pin 'em tergether with beauty pins, and cautionin' +him not to turn his back to the ordiance, we finally resumed our +journey. That colt alluz tries hisself, and jest as we reached<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +the square, in Glasgow, his appertite began clammerin', and +Julie refused to go till the pesky critter's wants wuz appeased. +Them Glasgowites is dear lovers of good hoss flesh, and quite a +crowd gethered to discuss the good pints of the old mare and +that mule colt.</p> + +<p>"Some boys mistook Jim Henry for somebody they knowed +and hollered, 'Say, Reube!' 'Hey, Reube!' at him. Jim Henry +wuz fur explainin' to 'em their mistake, till one of 'em began to +sing, 'When Reuben comes to town, he's shore to be done brown!' +'Jim Henry,' says I, sternly, 'you're no child o' mine ef you +take <i>that</i>! Now, if you don't get down and thrash him I'm +agoin' to set you afire when I get you home.'</p> + +<p>"Jim Henry needed no second biddin'. He wuz off that nag +in a jiffy, and the way he did wallerp that boy wuz a cawshun! +He sellerbrated his victry by givin' the Bear Waller war-whoop. +Then crawlin' up behind me, he said he wuz <i>now</i> ready fur +meetin'. That boy's a born fiter. He gets it honest, for me and +Lum are both experts, but then practice makes perfect, as the +sayin' is.</p> + +<p>"Our arrival created considerable stir in meetin'. Why is it +that when a distinguished person enters a church it allus perduces +a flutter? Owin' to the rent in Jim Henry's britches, I +shoved him inter the back seat. Cautionin' him not to let me +ketch him throwin' paper wads, I swept merjestercally up the +ile and tuk a seat by the orgin. A flood of approvin' glances +fastened themselves on my jet bonnet and fur-lined dolman. I +wuz sorry I didn't know the fust song. It must have been a +new one to that choir. Thar wuz four of 'em and each one wuz +singin' it to a different tune, and they jest couldn't keep tergether! +The coarse-voiced gal to my rear lagged dretfully. +When the tall blonde, who wuz the only one of 'em that knowed +the tune, when she'd sing,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Wake the song!'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>that gal who lagged would echo,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Wake the song!'<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>in a voice as coarse as Lum's. She 'peared to depend on the tall +gal for the words, for when the tall 'un would sing,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'Song of Ju-ber-lee,'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>the gal that lagged, and the two gents, would repeat, 'Of Ju-ber-lee.'</p> + +<p>"I passed her my book, thinkin' the words wuz tore out o' +hern, but, la! she jest glared at me, and she and them gents, if +anything, bellered louder'n ever. I looked at the preacher, expecting +to see him covered with shygrin, but, la! he wuz takin' +it perfectly cam, with his eyes walled up at the ceilin' and his +hands folded acrost his stummick like he might be havin' troubles +of his own.</p> + +<p>"I kept hopin' that tryo would either ketch up with the leader +or jest have the curridge to quit. Goodness knows, I done what +I could fur 'em, by beatin' time with my turkey wing.</p> + +<p>"Somebody must have give 'em a tip, for the next song which +the preacher give out as 'a solo,' that tryo jest pintedly giv it up +and set thar is silent as clambs. The tall gal riz and commenced +singin' and that tryo never pertended to help her out! +My heart ached in symperthy fur her as she stood thar alone, +singin' away with her voice quaverin', and not a human bein' +in that house jined in, not even the <i>preacher</i>! But she had +<i>grit</i>, and kept right on! Most people would'er giv right up. +She's a middlin' good singer, but is dretfully handercapt by that +laggin' tryo and a passel o' church members that air too triflin' +to sing in meetin'. The song wuz a new 'un to me, but havin' a +nacheral year for music, I soon ketched the tune and jined in on +the last verse with a vim. Of course I could only hummit, not +knowin' the words, but I come down on it good and strong and +showed them folks that Angeline Keaton ain't one to shirk a +duty, if they wuz. After the sermon the preacher giv out 'Thar +Is a Fountain Filled with Blood.' Here wuz my chanct to show +'em what the brag-voice of Bear Waller wuz like!</p> + +<p>"With my voice risin' and falling and dwellin' with extry +force on the fust syllerbles of foun-tin and sin-ners, in long, +drawn-out meeter, I fairly lost myself in the grand old melerdy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +I wuz soarin' inter the third verse when I discovered I wuz the +only one in the house that knowed it! The rest of 'em wuz +singin' it to a friverlous tune like them Mose Beasley plays on +his fiddle! What wuz more, they wuz titterin' like I wuz in +errer! The very idy! That wuz too much fur me, and beckernin' +Jim Henry to foller, I marched outer meetin'!</p> + +<p>"We found the old mare had slipped the bridle and gone home, +so thar wuz nothin' left fur us to do but foot it. The last thing +I heered as we struck the Bear Waller pike and set out fur home +wuz that coarse-voiced gal, still lagging behind, as she sang,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"'The Blood of the Lamb!'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARIA_THOMPSON_DAVIESS" id="MARIA_THOMPSON_DAVIESS">MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Maria Thompson Daviess, author of <i>The Melting of +Molly</i>, was born at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in October, +1872, the descendant of the famous Joseph Hamilton Daviess, +the granddaughter of the historian of Harrodsburg, +whose full name she bears, and the niece of Mrs. H. D. +Pittman and Miss Annie Thompson Daviess, the Kentucky +novelists. Miss Daviess was graduated from Science +Hill Academy, Shelbyville, Kentucky, in 1891, after +which she studied English for a year at Wellesley College. +She then went to Paris to study art at Julien's, and several +of her pictures have been hung in the Salon. As a +miniature painter she excelled. At the conclusion of her +art course, Miss Daviess returned to America, making her +home at Nashville, Tennessee, where she resides at the +present time. She taught at Belmont College, Nashville, +for a year or more, and set up as a painter of miniatures +for a public that demanded values in their portraits that +she could not see fit to grant, so she finally decided to +write. Miss Daviess's first book, and the one that she is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> +still best known by, was <i>Miss Selina Lue and the Soap-Box +Babies</i> (Indianapolis, 1909). Miss Lue, spinster, +tucks babies into a row of soap-boxes, maintaining sort of +a free day-nursery, and the reader has much delicious +humor from her duties. <i>Miss Selina Lue</i> was followed by +<i>The Road to Providence</i> (Indianapolis, 1910), dominated +by the character of Mother Mayberry, guide, philosopher, +and friend to a Tennessee town; <i>Rose of Old Harpeth</i> (Indianapolis, +1911), was a love story "as ingenuous and +sweet as a boy's first kiss under a ruffled sunbonnet." +Selina Lue and Mother Mayberry were both past their +bloom; Rose possessed the power and glory of youth. +<i>The Treasure Babies</i> (Indianapolis, 1911), was a delightful +children's story, which has been dramatized and produced, +but Miss Daviess's most charming novel, <i>The +Melting of Molly</i> (Indianapolis, 1912), was "the saucy +success of the season," for eight months the best selling +book in America. Molly must melt from the plumpest +of widows to the slenderest of maidens in just three +months because the sweetheart of her girlhood days, now +a distinguished diplomat, homeward bound, demands a +glimpse of her in the same blue muslin dress which she +wore at their parting years ago. The melting process, +with the O. Henry twist at the end, is the author's business +to narrate, and she does it in the most fetching manner. +The little novel is "gay, irresistible, all sweetness and +spice and everything nice." Miss Daviess's latest story, +<i>Sue Jane</i> (New York, 1912), has for its heroine a little +country girl who comes to Woodlawn Seminary (which is +none other than the author's <i>alma mater</i>, Science Hill), is +at first laughed at and later loved by the girls of that +school. She is as quaint and charming a child as one may +hope to meet in the field of juvenile fiction. <i>The Elected +Mother</i> (Indianapolis, 1912), the best of the three short-stories +tucked in the back of the Popular edition of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> <i>Miss +Selina Lue</i> (New York, 1911), was a rather unique argument +for woman's equal rights. It proves that motherhood +and mayoralties may go hand and hand—in at least +one modern instance. <i>Harpeth Roses</i> (Indianapolis, +1912), were wise saws culled from the pages of her first +four books, made into an attractive little volume. Just +as the year of 1912 came to a close Miss Daviess's publishers +announced that her new novel, <i>Andrew the Glad</i>, a +love story, would appear in January, 1913. <i>Phyllis</i>, another +juvenile, will also be issued in 1913, but will first +be serialized in <i>The Visitor</i>, a children's weekly, of Nashville. +That Miss Daviess has been an indefatigable worker +may be gathered at a glance. She has the "best seller +touch," which is the most gratifying thing a living writer +may possess. The present public demands that its reading +shall be as light as a cream puff and sparking as a +brook, and, in order to qualify for <i>The Bookman's</i> monthly +handicap, a writer must possess those two requisites: +deftness of touch and brightness. These Miss Daviess +has. And so, when the summer-days are over-long and +the winter's day is dull, Maria Thompson Daviess and her +brood of books will be found certain dispellers of earthly +woes and bringers of good cheer.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (December, 1909); <i>The Bookman</i> +(July, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES<a name="FNanchor_70_70" id="FNanchor_70_70"></a><a href="#Footnote_70_70" class="fnanchor">[70]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Melting of Molly</i> (Indianapolis, 1912)]</p> + +<p>Why don't people realize that a seventeen-year-old girl's heart +is a sensitive wind-flower that may be shattered by a breath? +Mine shattered when Alfred went away to find something he +could do to make a living, and Aunt Adeline gave the hard +green stem to Mr. Carter when she married me to him. Poor +Mr. Carter!</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> +<p>No, I wasn't twenty, and this town was full of women who +were aunts and cousins and law-kin to me, and nobody did anything +for me. They all said with a sigh of relief, "It will be +such a nice safe thing for you, Molly." And they really didn't +mean anything by tying up a gay, dancing, frolicking, prancing +colt of a girl with a terribly ponderous bridle. But God didn't +want to see me always trotting along slow and tired and not +caring what happened to me, even pounds and pounds of plumpness, +so he found use for Mr. Carter in some other place but this +world, and I feel that He is going to see me through whatever +happens. If some of the women in my missionary society knew +how friendly I feel with God, they would put me out for contempt +of court.</p> + +<p>No, the town didn't mean anything by chastening my spirit +with Mr. Carter, and they didn't consider him in the matter at +all, poor man. Of that I feel sure. Hillsboro is like that. It +settled itself here in a Tennessee valley a few hundreds of years +ago and has been hatching and clucking over its own small affairs +ever since. All the houses set back from the street with +their wings spread out over their gardens, and mothers here go +on hovering even to the third and fourth generation. Lots of +times young, long-legged, frying-size boys scramble out of the +nests and go off to college and decide to grow up where their +crow will be heard by the world. Alfred was one of them.</p> + +<p>And, too, occasionally some man comes along from the big +world and marries a plump little broiler and takes her away +with him, but mostly they stay and go to hovering life on a +corner of the family estate. That's what I did.</p> + +<p>I was a poor, little, lost chick with frivolous tendencies and +they all clucked me over into this empty Carter nest which +they considered well-feathered for me. It gave them all a sensation +when they found out from the will just how well it was +feathered. And it gave me one, too. All that money would +make me nervous if Mr. Carter hadn't made Doctor John its +guardian, though I sometimes feel that the responsibility of me +makes him treat me as if he were my step-grandfather-in-law. +But all in all, though stiff in its knees with aristocracy, Hillsboro<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> +is lovely and loving; and couldn't inquisitiveness be called +just real affection with a kind of squint in its eye?</p> + +<p>And there I sat on my front steps, being embraced in a perfume +of everybody's lilacs and peachblow and sweet syringa +and affectionate interest and moonlight, with a letter in my +hand from the man whose two photographs and many letters +I had kept locked up in the garret for years. Is it any wonder +I tingled when he told me that he had never come back because +he couldn't have me and that now the minute he landed +in America he was going to lay his heart at my feet? I added +his honors to his prostrate heart myself and my own beat +at the prospect. All the eight years faded away and I was +again back in the old garden down at Aunt Adeline's cottage +saying good-by, folded up in his arms. That's the way my +memory put the scene to me, but the word "folded" made me +remember that blue muslin dress again. I had promised to +keep it and wear it for him when he came back—and I couldn't +forget that the blue belt was just twenty-three inches and mine +is—no, I <i>won't</i> write it. I had got that dress out of the old +trunk not ten minutes after I had read the letter and measured +it.</p> + +<p>No, nobody would blame me for running right across the +garden to Doctor John with such a real trouble as that! All of +a sudden I hugged the letter and the little book up close to my +breast and laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks.</p> + +<p>Then before I went into the house I assembled my garden and +had family prayers with my flowers. I do that because they +are all the family I've got, and God knows that all His budding +things need encouragement, whether it is a widow or a snowball-bush. +He'll give it to us!</p> + +<p>And I'm praying again as I sit here and watch for the doctor's +light to go out. I hate to go to sleep and leave it burning, +for he sits up so late and he is so gaunt and thin and tired-looking +most time. That's what the last prayer is about, almost +always,—sleep for him and no night call!</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="CALE_YOUNG_RICE" id="CALE_YOUNG_RICE">CALE YOUNG RICE</a></h2> + + +<p>Cale Young Rice, poet and dramatist, was born at Dixon, +Kentucky, December 7, 1872. He graduated from Cumberland +University, in Tennessee, and then went to Harvard +University, where he received his Bachelor of Arts +degree in 1895, and his Master's degree in the following +year. In 1902 Mr. Rice was married to Miss Alice Caldwell +Hegan, whose <i>Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch</i> had +been published the year before. Mr. Rice has been busy +for years as a lyric poet and maker of plays for the study, +though several of them, indeed, have received stage presentation. +His several books of shorter poems are: <i>From +Dusk to Dusk</i> (Nashville, Tennessee, 1898); <i>With Omar</i> +(Lebanon, Tennessee, 1900), privately printed in an edition +of forty copies; <i>Song Surf</i> (Boston, 1901), in which +<i>With Omar</i> was reprinted; <i>Nirvana Days</i> (New York, +1908); <i>Many Gods</i> (New York, 1910); and his latest book +of lyrics, <i>Far Quests</i> (New York, 1912). Mr. Rice's plays +have been published as follows: <i>Charles di Tocca</i> (New +York, 1903); <i>David</i> (New York, 1904); <i>Plays and Lyrics</i> +(London and New York, 1906), a large octavo containing +<i>David</i>, <i>Yolanda of Cyprus</i>, a poetic drama, and all of his +best work; <i>A Night in Avignon</i> (New York, 1907), a little +one-act play based upon the loves of Petrarch and Laura, +which was "put upon the boards" in Chicago with Donald +Robertson in the leading <i>role</i>. It was part one of a dramatic +trilogy of the Italian Renaissance. Next came a reprinting +in an individual volume of his <i>Yolanda of Cyprus</i> +(New York, 1908); and <i>The Immortal Lure</i> (New York, +1911), four plays, the first of which, <i>Giorgione</i>, is part two +of the trilogy of one-act plays of which <i>A Night in Avignon</i> +was the first part. The trilogy will be closed with +another one-act drama, <i>Porzia</i>, which is now announced +for publication in January, 1913. Mr. Rice has been characterized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +by the <i>New York Times</i> as a "doubtful poet," +but that paper's recent and uncalled for attack upon Madison +Cawein, together with many other seemingly absurd +positions, makes one wonder if it is not a "doubtful +judge." After all is said, it must be admitted that Mr. +Rice has done a small group of rather pleasing lyrics, and +that his plays, perhaps impossible as safe vehicles for an +actor with a reputation to sustain, are not as turgid as +<i>The Times</i> often is, and not as superlatively poor as some +critics have held. Of course, Mr. Rice is not a great +dramatist, nor a great poet, yet the body of his work is +considerable, and our literature could ill afford to be rid +of it. The Rices have an attractive home in St. James +Court, Louisville, Kentucky.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Critic</i> (September, 1904); <i>The Atlantic +Monthly</i> (September, 1904); <i>The Bookman</i> (December, 1911); +<i>Lippincott's Magazine</i> (January, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">PETRARCA AND SANCIA<a name="FNanchor_71_71" id="FNanchor_71_71"></a><a href="#Footnote_71_71" class="fnanchor">[71]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A Night in Avignon</i> (New York, 1907)]</p> + +<p> +<i>Petrarca.</i> While we are in the world the world's in us.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">The Holy Church I own—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Confess her Heaven's queen;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">But we are flesh and all things that are fair</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">God made us to enjoy—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but sorrow.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">You though would ban earth's beauty,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Even the torch of Glory</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">That kindled Italy once and led great Greece—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">I love them! they are divine!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And so to-night—I—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">(<i>Voices.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">They! it is Lello! Lello! Lello! Sancia!—</span><br /> +</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> +<p>(<i>Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; +then Sancia singing:</i>)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To the maids of Saint Rèmy</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">All the gallants go for pleasure;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To the maids of Saint Rèmy—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Tripping to love's measure!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To the dames of Avignon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">All the masters go for wiving;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To the dames of Avignon—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">That shall be their shriving!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(<i>He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then Lello +cries:</i>)</p> + +<p> +<i>Lello.</i> Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">What! are you a sonnet-monger?</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> Ai, ai, aih!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">(<i>Motions</i> Gherhardo—<i>who goes</i>.)</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Lello.</i> Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">(<i>Rattles it.</i>)</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Look for it and ascend!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">(Orso <i>enters</i>.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Stay, here is Orso!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(<i>The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet +them. In a moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter—</i>Lello<i> +between them—singing</i>:)</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Ehyo! ninni! onni! ōnz!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">I went fishing on All Saints' Day</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And—caught but human bones!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">I went fishing on All Saints' Day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">I went fishing on All Saints' Day—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">But my love called me back!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">She called me back and she kissed my lips—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Oh, my lips! Oh! onni ōnz!</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 6em;">"Better take love than—bones! bones!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">(Sancia <i>kisses</i> Petrarca.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Better take love than bones."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>(<i>They scatter with glee and</i> Petrarca <i>seizes</i> Sancia <i>to him</i>.)</p> + +<p> +<i>Petrarca.</i> Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Warm love is better, better!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> (<i>interposing</i>). Or—less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To pledge him in!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> The tankards bubble o'er!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">(<i>They go to the table.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And see, they are wreathed of April,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> And that is—what? some dull and silly show<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Out of your sallow books?</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> Those books were writ<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Papyri of the stars!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> And—long ago?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Ha! long ago?</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> Returnless centuries!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> (<i>contemptuously</i>). Who loves the past,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Loves mummies and their dust—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And he will mould!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Who loves the future loves what may not be,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And feeds on fear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Only one flower has Time—its name is Now!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Come, pluck it! pluck it!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Lello.</i> Brava, maid! the Now!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> (<i>dancing</i>). Come, pluck it! pluck it!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> By my soul, I will:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">(<i>Seizes her again.</i>)</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 6em;">It grows upon these lips—and if to-night</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">(<i>She breaks from him.</i>)</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Flippa.</i> Enough! the wine! the wine!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> O ever-thirsty<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">(<i>She lifts a brimming cup.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">We'll drink to Messer Petrarca—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">May he long revel in the courts of Venus!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>All (drinking).</i> Aih, long!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> As long as Sancia enchants them!<br /> +<br /> +<i>Flippa.</i> I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Messer Petrarca, should not be made</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Whose breath of life is oaths?...</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">But, swear it!—by the Saints!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Who were great sinners all!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And by the bones of every monk or nun</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Who ever darkened the world!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Lello.</i> Or ever shall!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15.5em;">(<i>A pause.</i>)</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> I'll swear your eyes are singing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Like nightingales in the wood!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> Pah! Messer Poet—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Such words as those you vent without an end—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To the Lady Laura!</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Petrarca.</i> Stop!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">(<i>Grows pale.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Not <i>her</i> name—here!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">(<i>All have sat down; he rises.</i>)</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Sancia.</i> O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">(<i>To the rest—rising.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Shall we depart, that he may still indite them?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"To Laura—On the Vanity of Passion?"</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 6em;">"To Laura—Unrelenting?"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"To Laura—Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;">(<i>Laughs.</i>)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"To Laura—Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;">(Orso <i>enters</i>.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Shall we depart?</span><br /> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<h2><a name="ROBERT_M_McELROY" id="ROBERT_M_McELROY">ROBERT M. McELROY</a></h2> + + +<p>Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent +histories of Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, +December 28, 1872. He took the three degrees conferred +by Princeton University; and since 1901 he has been assistant +professor of American history in that institution. +For the <i>Metropolitan Magazine</i> of New York Dr. McElroy +wrote an excellent <i>History of the Mexican War</i>, but this +work has not yet appeared in book form. His <i>Kentucky +in the Nation's History</i> (New York, 1909), gave him an +honorable place among the younger generation of American +historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky +literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy +labored for many years, no sacrifice was too great for him +to make, no journey too long for him to undertake, provided +a better perspective were to be obtained at the end +of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel Reuben +T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and +sitting at his feet drinking from the well of Western history +which the Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was +what so sadly mars his work: he does in the discussion of +several great questions, hardly more than serve as amanuensis +for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel John Mason +Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted +<i>carte-blanche</i>, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set +aside. Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon +the Spanish Conspiracy, and writes a single line concerning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +Thomas Marshall Green's great work! He brings his +narrative down to the commencement of the Civil War, +which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation +in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His +work is most scholarly, the latest historical procedure is +sustained throughout, and the pity is that he so slavishly +followed one or two authorities, though both of them were +wholly excellent and profound, to the exclusion of all others. +Originality of opinion is what the work lacks, a lack +which it might have easily possessed with the author's +undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary +Louisville.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Dr. McElroy to the Author; <i>Who's +Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">GEORGE ROGERS CLARK<a name="FNanchor_72_72" id="FNanchor_72_72"></a><a href="#Footnote_72_72" class="fnanchor">[72]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Kentucky in the Nation's History</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<p>It was at this critical moment that George Rogers Clark, the +future conqueror of the Northwest territory, took up his permanent +abode among the Kentucky pioneers. Clark had visited +Kentucky, on a brief tour of inspection, during the previous +autumn (Sept., 1775), and had been placed in command of the +irregular militia of the settlements. He had returned to Virginia, +filled with the importance of establishing in Kentucky an +extensive system of public defence, and with the firm conviction +that the claims of Henderson & Company ought to be disallowed +by Virginia. His return to Kentucky, in 1776, marks the beginning +of the end of the Transylvania Company. In spite of +his youth (he was only twenty-four) he was far the most dangerous +opponent that Henderson & Company had in the province. +A military leader by nature, he had served in Lord Dunmore's +war with such conspicuous success that he had been offered a +commission in the British Army. This honor he had declined, +preferring to remain free to serve his country in the event of a +revolt from British tyranny.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p> +<p>Shortly after his arrival, Clark proposed that, in order to +bring about a more certain connection with Virginia, and the +more definitely to repudiate the authority of the Transylvania +Company, a regular representative assembly should be held at +Harrodsburg. His own views he expressed freely in advancing +his suggestion. Agents, he said, should be appointed to urge +once more the right of the region to be taken under the protection +of Virginia, and, if this request should again be unheeded, +we should "employ the lands of the country as a fund +to obtain settlers, and establish an independent state."</p> + +<p>The proposed assembly convened at Harrodsburg on the 6th of +June. Clark was not present when the session began, and when +he arrived, he found that the pressing question of the day had +already been acted upon, and that he himself, with Gabriel John +Jones, had been elected a delegate to represent the settlements +in the Virginia Assembly. Clark knew that such an election +would not entitle them to seats, but he agreed to visit Williamsburg, +and present the cause of his fellow pioneers. Provided +with a formal memorial to the Virginia Assembly, he started, +with Jones, for Virginia and, after a very painful journey, upon +which, Clark declared, I suffered "more torment than I ever +experienced before or since," they reached the neighborhood of +Charlottesville, only to learn that the Assembly had adjourned. +Jones set off for a visit to the settlements on the Holston; but +Clark, intent upon his mission, pushed on to Hanover County, +where he secured an interview with Patrick Henry, then Governor +of Virginia.</p> + +<p>After listening to Clark's report of the troubles of the frontier +colony, and doubtless enjoying his denunciation of the Transylvania +Company, Governor Henry introduced him to the executive +Council of the State, and he at once requested from them +five hundred pounds of powder for frontier defence. He had +determined to accomplish the object of his mission in any manner +possible, and he knew that if he could induce the authorities +of Virginia to provide for the defence of the frontier settlements, +the announcement of her property rights in them would +certainly follow, to the destruction of the plans of Henderson +and his colleagues.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Council, however, doubtless also foreseeing these consequences, +declared that its powers could not be so construed as to +give it authority to grant such a request. But Clark was insistent, +and urged his case so effectively that, after considerable +discussion, the Council announced that, as the call appeared +urgent, they would assume the responsibility of lending five hundred +pounds of powder to Clark, making him personally responsible +for its value, in case their assumption of authority +should not be upheld by the Burgesses. They then presented +him with an order to the keeper of the public magazine, calling +for the powder desired.</p> + +<p>This was exactly what Clark did not want, as the loan of five +hundred pounds of powder to George Rogers Clark, could in no +sense be interpreted as an assumption by Virginia, of the responsibility +of defending the western frontier, and his next act +was most characteristic of the man. He returned the order with +a curt note, declaring his intention of repairing at once to Kentucky, +and exerting the resources of that country to the formation +of an independent State, for, he frankly declared, "a country +which is not worth defending is not worth claiming."</p> + +<p>This threat proved instantly successful. The Council recalled +Clark to their presence and, on August 23, 1776, delivered him +another order calling for five hundred pounds of gunpowder, +which was to be conveyed to Pittsburg by Virginia officials, +there "to be safely kept and delivered to George Rogers Clark +or his order, for the use of the said inhabitants of Kentucky."</p> + +<p>With this concession Clark was completely satisfied, for he +felt that by it Virginia was admitting her obligation to defend +the pioneers of the West, and that an open declaration of sovereign +rights over the territory must soon follow. He accordingly +wrote to his friends in Kentucky, requesting them to receive the +powder at Pittsburg, and convey it to the Kentucky stations, +while he himself awaited the opening of the autumn session of +the Virginia Assembly, where he hoped to procure a more explicit +verdict against the claims of Henderson's Company.</p> + +<p>At the time appointed for the meeting, Clark, accompanied by +his colleague, Gabriel John Jones, proceeded to Williamsburg +and presented his petition to the Assembly, where again his remarkable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> +personality secured a victory. In spite of the vigorous +exertions of Henderson and Campbell in behalf of the Transylvania +Company, the Virginia Assembly (December 7, 1776) +passed an act dividing the vast, ill-defined region, hitherto known +as Fincastle County, into three sections, to be known as Kentucky +County, Washington County, and Montgomery County, +Virginia. The County of Kentucky, comprising almost the same +territory as is contained in the present State of Kentucky, was +thus recognized as a political unit of the Virginia Commonwealth, +and as such was entitled to representation.</p> + +<p>This statute decided the fate of the Transylvania Company, as +there could not be two Sovereign Proprietors of the soil of Kentucky +County. And so passed, a victim to its own lust of gain, +the last attempt to establish a proprietary government upon the +free soil of the United States; and George Rogers Clark, as +founder of Kentucky's first political organization, became the +political father of the Commonwealth, even as Daniel Boone had +been the father of her colonization.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="EDWIN_D_SCHOONMAKER" id="EDWIN_D_SCHOONMAKER">EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER</a></h2> + + +<p>Edwin Davies Schoonmaker, poet, was born at Scranton, +Pennsylvania, February 1, 1873. He removed from Ohio +to Kentucky in 1886, and he lived at Lexington almost +continuously until 1904. Mr. Schoonmaker was educated +at old Kentucky (Transylvania) University; and in 1904 +he married a Kentucky woman, who has published a play +and a novel. For the last several years he and his wife +have lived at Bearsville, New York, high up in the Catskills. +Mr. Schoonmaker's first book was a verse play, +entitled <i>The Saxons—a Drama of Christianity in the +North</i> (Chicago, 1905). This was based upon the attempt +on the part of Rome to force the religion of Christ upon +the pagans in the forests of the North, and it was a very +strong piece of work. His second work, another verse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +drama, will appear in 1913, entitled <i>The Americans</i>. It +will be published by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, for whom +Mr. Schoonmaker is planning two other plays. Mr. +Schoonmaker has had short lyrics in many of the leading +magazines.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Arena</i> (May, 1906); <i>Hampton's Magazine</i> +(June, 1910); <i>The Forum</i> (August, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE PHILANTHROPIST<a name="FNanchor_73_73" id="FNanchor_73_73"></a><a href="#Footnote_73_73" class="fnanchor">[73]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The American Magazine</i> (October, 1912)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I neither praise nor blame thee, aged Scot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In whose wide lap the shifting times have poured<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heavy burden of that golden hoard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shines far off and shall not be forgot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I only see thee carving far and wide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy name on many marbles through the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or flashing splendid from the jeweler's hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where medaled heroes show thy face with pride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Crœsus had not such royal halls as thou,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor Timon half as many friends as crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy porches when thy largesses are loud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Learning and Peace are stars upon thy brow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And still thy roaring mills their tribute bring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As unto Cæsar, and thy charities<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have borne thy swelling fame beyond the seas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where thou in many realms art all but king.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet when night lays her silence on thine ears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou art at thy window all alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pondering thy place, dost thou not hear the groans<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of them that bear thy burdens through the years?<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="CREDO_HARRIS" id="CREDO_HARRIS">CREDO HARRIS</a></h2> + + +<p>Credo Harris, novelist, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, +January 8, 1874. He was educated in the schools +of Louisville and finished at college in the East. He settled +in New York as a newspaper man and the following +ten years of his life were given to that work. In 1908 Mr. +Harris abandoned daily journalism in order to devote +himself to fiction. Only a few of his short-stories had gotten +into the magazines when his first book, entitled <i>Toby, +a Novel of Kentucky</i> (Boston, 1912), appeared. In spite +of the fact that the author's literary models were, perhaps, +too manifest, <i>Toby</i> was well liked by many readers. +Mr. Harris's second story, <i>Motor Rambles in Italy</i> (New +York, 1912), was cordially received by those very critics +who assailed his first volume with vehemence. It is both +a book of travels and a romance, the recital being in the +form of love letters to his sweetheart, Polly, and also descriptive +of the country from Baden-Baden to Rome seen +from the tonneau of a big touring-car. Mr. Harris has a +new story well under way, which will probably appear in +1913. He resides at Glenview, Kentucky, with his father, +but his work on <i>The Louisville Herald</i> takes him into town +almost every day.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Harris to the Author; <i>The +Courier-Journal</i> (November 30, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">BOLOGNA<a name="FNanchor_74_74" id="FNanchor_74_74"></a><a href="#Footnote_74_74" class="fnanchor">[74]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Motor Rambles in Italy</i> (New York, 1912)]</p> + +<p>Bologna! Home of the sausage! Does not your mouth +water at just the thought of it! I can see your pretty nose +turn up in a curve that simply screams "Disgusting"—but you +have never been quite fair to this relic of menageries.</p> + +<p>To-day at luncheon our waiter first pranced up with a dish I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> +did not recognize. It has long been a rule of mine—especially +in Italy—that when I do not recognize a dish I wave it by. +But rules are sent broadcast before the Bolognese spirit of +patriotism. Would I be permitted to refuse this dish? No. +He poked it still nearer and gave me a polite look. "No," I +said, "not any." He poked it still nearer and his look became +troubled. "No," I said again. This time his look was indignant +as he exclaimed: "But, signor, it is <i>mortadella</i>!" Indeed, +we found his persistence quite justifiable.</p> + +<p>I could be satisfied to linger here. It is a pleasant mixture +of cosmopolitan and mediaeval, blending a touch of geniality +which adds much to its charm. The people are happier, perhaps +it would be best to say more smiling, in Bologna than +farther north. If one can be reconciled to the incongruity of +living in a hotel that was a fifteenth century palace overlooking +the solemn tombs of jurists, and then stepping to the corner +for a twentieth century electric car, he can steel himself to put +up with many other temperamental contradictions to be found +in this capital of the Emilia.</p> + +<p>But because of its cosmopolitanism I shall tell you little. In +big places like this there is so much to see, so much to digest, so +much to read out of guide books, that—what's the use? My +letters are permitted, you have threatened, only so long as I tell +an occasional thing which may serve you and the Dowager when +you come through next year by motor, and while I do not believe +you quite mean this, or would throw it down if you saw +me heading toward the tender realms of nothingness, your +wish shall, nevertheless, constitute my aim. Should I digress, +it will be because my love for you is stronger than myself—an +assertion of doubtful value at the present time.</p> + +<p>So if you want to know Bologna, read your guide books. Here, +you shall have only the more untrodden paths, which, if you +follow as I have done, you may be fortunate. For you must +know that all I have seen has been discovered by your eyes +alone. Many a day has passed since you brought and taught +me the things truly beautiful in this world. Great sculptures, +rich paintings, magnificent architecture, are in the well worn +paths of every one's progress which those who pass cannot help<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +seeing, but a changing leaf, the sweep of a bird, a child's laugh +at the roadside, ah, those are the bounties your hands have +poured into my lap! Thousands pass along this way, piled +high with perishable treasures, and never dream that they are +trampling a masterpiece with every crunch of their bourgeoise +boots.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="HALLIE_ERMINIE_RIVES" id="HALLIE_ERMINIE_RIVES">HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Hallie Erminie Rives-Wheeler, maker of mysteries, +was born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, May 2, +1874, the daughter of Colonel Stephen T. Rives. She is a +cousin of Princess Troubetzkey, the celebrated Virginia +novelist. Miss Rives, to give her her old name, was educated +in Kentucky schools, after which she went to New +York with her mother. In 1896 Miss Rives's mother died +and she and her father moved to Amherst county, Virginia, +which is her present American home. Her literary +labors fall naturally into two periods: the first, which included +five "red-hot" books, as follows: <i>The Singing +Wire and Other Stories</i> (Clarksville, Tennessee, 1892), +the "other stories" being four in number and nameless +here; <i>A Fool in Spots</i> (St. Louis, 1894); <i>Smoking Flax</i> +(New York, 1897); <i>As the Hart Panteth</i> (New York, +1898); and <i>A Furnace of Earth</i> (New York, 1900). Miss +Rives's second period of work began with <i>Hearts Courageous</i> +(Indianapolis, 1902), a romance of Revolutionary +Virginia, and continues to the present time. This was followed +by <i>The Castaway</i> (Indianapolis, 1904), based upon +the career of Lord Byron; and the great poems of the Englishman +are made to swell the length of the story. In +<i>Tales from Dickens</i> (Indianapolis, 1905), Miss Rives did +for the novelist what Lamb did for Shakespeare—made +him readable for children. <i>Satan Sanderson</i> (Indianapolis,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +1907), a wild and thrilling tale of today, one of the +"six best sellers" for many months, was followed by what +is, perhaps, her best book, a story set in Japan, entitled +<i>The Kingdom of Slender Swords</i> (Indianapolis, 1910). +Her latest novel is <i>The Valiants of Virginia</i> (Indianapolis, +1912), the action of which begins in New York, but is +transferred to Virginia. Miss Rives was married in +Tokyo, Japan, December 29, 1906, to Mr. Post Wheeler, +writer and diplomat, now connected with the American +embassy at Rome. While none of her novels is set against +Kentucky backgrounds, several of her short stories published +in the magazines are Kentucky to the core.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The American Review of Reviews</i> (October, +1902); <i>The Nation</i> (August 11, 1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE BISHOP SPEAKS<a name="FNanchor_75_75" id="FNanchor_75_75"></a><a href="#Footnote_75_75" class="fnanchor">[75]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Satan Sanderson</i> (Indianapolis, 1907)]</p> + +<p>Inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting Harry +Sanderson. He had officiated at his ordination and liked him. +His eyes took in the simple order of the room, lingering with +a light tinge of disapproval upon the violin case in the corner, +and with a deeper shade of question upon the jewel on the +other's finger—a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting curiously +twisted of the two initial letters of his name.</p> + +<p>There came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early +prodigalities and wildness which he had heard. For the lawyer +who had listened to Harry Sanderson's recital on the night of +the making of the will had not considered it a professional disclosure. +He had thought it a "good story," and had told it at +his club, whence it had percolated at leisure through the heavier +strata of town-talk. The tale, however, had seemed rather to +increase than to discourage popular interest in Harry Sanderson. +The bishop knew that those whose approval had been withheld +were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could +not have denied that he possessed desirable qualities—a manner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> +by turns sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, +and the unteachable tone of blood—and had infused new +life into a generally sleepy parish. He had dismissed the whisper +with a smile, but oddly enough it recurred to him now at +sight of the ruby ring.</p> + +<p>"I looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "I've +just come from David Stires—he has a letter from Van Lennap, +the great eye-surgeon of Vienna. He disagrees with the rest of +them—thinks Jessica's case may not be hopeless."</p> + +<p>The cloud that Hugh's call had left on Harry's countenance +lifted.</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" he said. "Will she go to him?"</p> + +<p>The bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed +to hold more than a conventional relief.</p> + +<p>"He is to be in America next month. He will come here to +examine, and perhaps to operate. An exceptional girl," went +on the bishop, "with a remarkable talent! The angel in the +chapel porch, I suppose you know, is her modelling, though that +isn't just masculine enough in feature to suit me. The Scriptures +are silent on the subject of woman-angels in Heaven; +though, mind you, I don't say they're not common on earth!"</p> + +<p>The bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram.</p> + +<p>"Poor child!" he continued more soberly. "It will be a terrible +thing for her if this last hope fails her, too! Especially +now, when she and Hugh are to make a match of it."</p> + +<p>Harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen +it suddenly startled. "To make a match of it!" To hide the +flush he felt staining his cheek, Harry bent to close the safe. A +something that had darkled in some obscure depth of his being, +whose existence he had not guessed, was throbbing now to a +painful resentment. Jessica to marry Hugh!</p> + +<p>"A handsome fellow—Hugh!" said the bishop. "He seems +to have returned with a new heart—a brand plucked from the +burning. You had the same <i>alma mater</i>, I think you told me. +Your influence has done the boy good, Sanderson!" He laid +his hand kindly on the other's shoulder. "The fact that you +were in college together makes him look up to you—as the +whole parish does," he added.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p> + +<p>Harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. But +through the turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating:</p> + +<p>"No, they don't call me 'Satan' now!"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="EDWIN_CARLILE_LITSEY" id="EDWIN_CARLILE_LITSEY">EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY</a></h2> + + +<p>Edwin Carlile Litsey, author of <i>The Love Story of Abner +Stone</i>, was born at Beechland, Kentucky, June 3, 1874. +He was educated in public and private schools, but he did +not go to college. At the age of seventeen years Mr. Litsey +entered the banking business, and he is now connected +with the Marion National Bank, of his present home, Lebanon, +Kentucky. His first novel, <i>The Princess of Gramfalon</i> +(Cincinnati, 1898), was a daring piece of imagination, +creating impossible lands and peoples, and it has +been forgotten by author and public alike. Mr. Litsey's +strongest and best work so far is a beautiful tale of Nature, +entitled <i>The Love Story of Abner Stone</i> (New York, +1902). This novelette made the author many friends, as +it is a charming story. In 1904 he won first prize in <i>The +Black Cat</i> story-contest, over ten thousand competitors, +with <i>In the Court of God</i>. His stories of wild animals in +their haunts were brought together in <i>The Race of the +Swift</i> (Boston, 1905). This contains some of his best +work, the first story being especially fine and strong. Mr. +Litsey's latest novel, <i>The Man from Jericho</i> (New York, +1911), was not up to the standard set in his earlier works, +and in no sense is it a noteworthy production. It shows a +decided falling off, and it brought disappointment to many +admirers of <i>The Love Story of Abner Stone</i> and <i>The Race +of the Swift</i>. In 1912 Mr. Litsey contributed several +short-stories to <i>The Cavalier</i>, and next year he will issue +another novel, to be entitled <i>A Maid of the Kentucky Hills</i>.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Book Buyer</i> (July, 1902); <i>Munsey's Magazine</i> +(April, 1903).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE RACE OF THE SWIFT<a name="FNanchor_76_76" id="FNanchor_76_76"></a><a href="#Footnote_76_76" class="fnanchor">[76]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Race of the Swift</i> (Boston, 1905)]</p> + +<p>The next morning, near midday, her merciless offsprings +teased and worried her so that the she-fox crept forth in spite +of the warning of the day before, and set her sharp muzzle +towards the crest of the range, with the intention of invading +territory which hitherto her feet had never pressed. There +were wild turkeys back in the hills, and wary and suspicious as +she knew them to be, they were no match for her wily woodcraft. +But scarcely had her noiseless feet gone over the top of the +knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind her caused her to +jump and turn quickly. They were there—her enemies—and +their noses were smelling out her trail, for as yet they had not +seen her. Even as she leaped for the nearest cover like a yellow +flash, her first thought was of the little ones biding at home. +She must lead her foes away from that cleft in the rocks where +her love-children lay awaiting her return. And though her life +should be given up, yet would she die alone, and far away, before +she would sacrifice her young.</p> + +<p>It was a hard and stubborn race which she ran for the next +six hours. At times her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to +burst from the strain she thrust upon it. At times fleet feet +were pattering almost at her heels, and pitiless jaws were held +wide to grasp her; then again only the echo of the stubborn +cry of her pursuers reached her. She had doubled time and +again. Once a brief respite was granted her when she dashed +up a slanting tree-trunk which, in falling, had lodged in the +branches of another tree. Eight tawny forms dashed hotly, +furiously by, then she descended and took the back track. Only +for a moment, however, were the cunning dogs deceived. They +discovered the artifice almost as soon as it was perpetrated, and +came harking back themselves with redoubled zeal. So the long +hours of the afternoon wore away. Not a moment that was free<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +from effort; not an instant that death did not hover over the +mother fox, awaiting the least misstep to descend. Back and +forth, around and across, and still the subtlety of the fox +eluded the haste and fury of the hounds. All were tired to +the point of exhaustion, but none would give up. The sun went +down; tremulous shadows, like curtains hung, were draped +among the trees. The timid stars came out again and the halfed +moon arose, a little larger than the night before. And still, +with inveterate hate on the one side, and the undying strength +of despair on the other, the grim chase swept through the night. +At last the blood-rimmed eyes of the reeling quarry saw +familiar landmarks. Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had +come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps the love within +her heart had guided her back. She found her strength quickly +failing, and with a realization of this her scheming brain +awoke as from a trance, and drove her to deeper guile. Two +rods away was the creek. To it she staggered, splashed through +the low water for a dozen yards, and hid herself beneath the +gnarled roots of a tree from the base of which the stream had +eaten away the soil. She listened intensely. She heard the +pack lose the scent, search half-heartedly for a few minutes, for +they, too, were weary to dropping, then withdraw one at a +time, beaten. But for half an hour the brave animal lay against +the tree roots, waiting and resting. Then she came out cautiously, +looked around her, and with difficulty gained the mouth +of her den. Casting one keen glance over her shoulder through +the checkered spaces of the forest, she glided softly within, and +lying down, curled her tired body protectingly around her sleeping +little ones.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="MILTON_BRONNER" id="MILTON_BRONNER">MILTON BRONNER</a></h2> + + +<p>Milton Bronner, literary critic and journalist, was born +at Louisville, Kentucky, November 10, 1874. He was +graduated from the University of Virginia, in 1895, when +he returned to his home to join the staff of the old <i>Louisville +Commercial</i>. In 1900 Mr. Bronner removed to Covington, +Kentucky, to become city editor of <i>The Kentucky +Post</i>, of which paper he is now editor-in-chief. Mr. Bronner's +first book, called <i>Letters from the Raven</i> (New +York, 1907), was a work about Lafcadio Hearn with many +of Hearn's hitherto unpublished letters. His second and +most important volume so far, <i>Maurice Hewlett</i> (Boston, +1910), is the first adequate discussion of the novels and +poems of the celebrated English author. His method was +to treat the works in the order of their publication, together +with a brief word upon Mr. Hewlett's life. His little +book must have pleased the novelist as much as it did +the public. Mr. Bronner seems to have a <i>flair</i> for new +writers who later "arrive." Thus years ago <i>Poet-Lore</i> +published his paper on William Ernest Henley, before +Henley's fame was so firmly established. Some years +later <i>The Independent</i> had his essay on Francis Thompson, +whom all the world now declares to have been a great +and true poet. Still later <i>The Forum</i> printed his criticism +of John Davidson, in which high estimates were set +upon the unfortunate fellow's works; and <i>The Bookman</i> +has printed a series of his critical appreciations of such +men as John Masefield, Ezra Pound, Wilbur Underwood, +W. H. Davies, W. W. Gibson, and Lionel Johnson, which +introduced these now celebrated poets to the American +public.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Forum</i> (September, 1910); <i>The Bookman</i> +(August; November, 1911); <i>The Bookman</i> (April; October, +1912).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN<a name="FNanchor_77_77" id="FNanchor_77_77"></a><a href="#Footnote_77_77" class="fnanchor">[77]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Maurice Hewlett</i> (Boston, 1910)]</p> + +<p>Mr. Hewlett is mainly interested in his women. They are +the pivots about whom his comedies and tragedies move. And +his treatment of them differs from all the great contemporary +novelists. Kipling gives snapshot photographs of women. He +shows them in certain brief moments of their existence, in vivid +blacks and whites, caught on the instant whether the subjects +were laughing or crying. Stevenson's few women are presented +in silhouette. Barrie and Hardy give etchings in which line by +line and with the most painstaking art, the features are drawn. +But Meredith and Mr. Hewlett give paintings in which brush +stroke after brush stroke has been used. The reader beholds +the finished work, true not only in features, but in colouring.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Now Mr. Hewlett is purely medieval. The Hewlett woman is +forever the plaything of love. She is always in the attitude of +the pursuing who is pursued. She is forever the subject of +passion, holy or unholy. Men will fight for her, plunge kingdoms +and cities in war or ruin for her, die for her. Sometimes, as +in "The Stooping Lady," she is the willing object of this love +and stoops to enjoy its divine benison; sometimes she flees from +it when it displays a satyr face as in "The Duchess of Nona;" +sometimes she is caught up in its tragic coil as in "The Queen's +Quair," and destroyed by it. Hewlett's women, like Hardy's, +are stray angels, but like Meredith's they are creatures of the +chase. And, note the difference from Meredith!—this, according +to the gospel of Mr. Hewlett, is as it should be.</p> + +<p>Since it is woman's proper fate to be loved, it would seem to +be impossible for Mr. Hewlett to write a story in which there +is not some romantic love interest. And in each case there is a +stoop on the part of one. The stoop may be happy or the reverse, +but it is there. He recurs to the idea again and again, +but each time with a difference that prevents monotony.</p> + +<p>In the main, Mr. Hewlett's women are good women. They +are loyal and loving, ready alike to take beatings or kisses. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +is no ice in their bosoms which must needs be thawed. Nor are +Mr. Hewlett's women "kind" after the manner of the Stendhal +characters. They are not women who make themselves common. +For the most part, they are Rosalinds and Perditas of +an humbler sort, with the beauty of those immortal girls, but +without their supreme wit and high spirits. They are girls +who are stricken down with love's dart and who make no effort +to remove the dear missiles. They are true dwellers in romance-land, +beautiful creatures who give themselves to their chosen +lords without thought of sin or of the future.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="A_ST_CLAIR_MACKENZIE" id="A_ST_CLAIR_MACKENZIE">A. ST. CLAIR MACKENZIE</a></h2> + + +<p>Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, author of <i>The Evolution +of Literature</i>, was born at Inverness, Scotland, February +17, 1875. "Blue as a molten sapphire gleams the Moray +Firth below Culloden Moor, under whose purple heather +sleep some of the warrior ancestors of Alastair St. Clair +Mackenzie, near which he was born." The University of +Glasgow conferred the degree of Master of Arts upon him +in 1892. He then did graduate work in English at the +University of Edinburgh for a year, after which he +studied for some months under Sir Richard C. Jebb of +the University of Cambridge, and Edward Caird of Oxford +University. Mackenzie met S. R. Crockett, Henry +Drummond, William Black, Alfred Tennyson, and many +other distinguished men of letters, before he came to America. +After a brief residence in Philadelphia he came +to the State University of Kentucky, at Lexington, in September, +1899, as head of the department of English, and +under his supervision the curriculum has been extended +from three courses to thirty. Among Kentucky educators +he has been the pioneer in introducing Journalism, Comparative +Philology, and Comparative Literature. In 1911<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from +Kentucky Wesleyan College, the only degree of the kind +ever conferred by that institution. In 1912 Dr. Mackenzie +was Ropes Foundation lecturer at the University of +Cincinnati. He is now dean of the Graduate School of +the University of Kentucky. Besides contributing many +articles to periodicals, Dr. Mackenzie wrote, in 1904, the +first history of Lexington Masonic Lodge, No. 1, the earliest +in the West; and, in 1907, the article on Hew Ainslie, +the Scottish-Kentucky poet, published in the <i>Library of +Southern Literature</i>, and pronounced by many competent +critics to be the finest essay in that great collection. His +<i>The Evolution of Literature</i> (New York, 1911), the English +edition of which was issued by John Murray, London, +deals with the origins of literature, as its title indicates, +and it has placed Dr. Mackenzie at the head of Southern +students of this subject. Into this work went the researches +and deliberate judgments of a lifetime; and that +a scholar should produce such a work in the West or +South, without a great library near at hand, is in itself remarkable. +Dr. Mackenzie has done what will probably +come to be regarded as the most scholarly production of a +Kentucky hand, although the work is more suggestive +than it is conclusive.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Library of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, +v. xv); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A KELTIC TALE<a name="FNanchor_78_78" id="FNanchor_78_78"></a><a href="#Footnote_78_78" class="fnanchor">[78]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Evolution of Literature</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<p>Here is an old Keltic tale of farewell. It was a night of mist, +a low moon brooding over the braes, the heathery braes. The +man sat by the seashore, as he sang quaint ballads of a land +across the water, where men never see death. There was none +to reveal the secrets of the glens, nor could any one tell him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> +what the eagle cried to the stag at the corrie, while the burn +wimpled on with its song of sobbing. He sat and listened, but +he was knowing naught of sadness. To his ears came only the +accents of the fairies of joy, and they called him to seek the +fountain where song had its birth. Away from the sea he +climbed till its voice came faint, faint across the bracken. At +last, full weary, he slept. The night passed, and a leveret stood +up, gazing upon his face without fear. A deer came to the +stream, beheld the sleeping figure, and fled not. A grey linnet +perched upon the pale hand lying across the bosom; it looked +the sun in the face, and sang, but the man did not awake. Again +the shadows melted into the night of stars, and the hills said to +one another, "He has found Death and Life. For we know, +and God knows, all his dreams. He has found the secret of the +sea, the message of all the streams, and the fountain-head of +song."</p> + +<p>In quest of literary strivings and achievements, lowly as well +as exalted, we have journeyed through all the principal lands of +the globe. The forests of Africa have shaded us from the +scorching sun, and the tang of the salt sea has smitten us off +Cape Horn. Visions of scenes familiar have mingled with sights +and sounds of cities that flourished forty centuries ago. Wherever +we have gone, we have noticed that vitality is the quality +which gives permanent value to all true art. Popular opinion, +blind perhaps to the qualities of art as art, caring nothing +about the more elusive charms of verse and prose, is quick to +detect the presence or absence of a vital relationship between +literature and humanity. Literary art voices life and gives +life. The higher the art the more effectively does it fill the +onlooker with a sense of life, personal and racial, dignified, +wholesome, inexhaustible. Apparently it is the ideal within +the real that becomes ever more manifest in the course of the +evolution of literature.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="LAURA_SPENCER_PORTOR" id="LAURA_SPENCER_PORTOR">LAURA SPENCER PORTOR</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Laura Spencer Portor, poet and short-story writer, +was born at Covington, Kentucky, in 1875. She lived at +Covington until ten years old, when she was taken to Paris, +France, where she attended private schools for two years. +She returned to Kentucky, and attended school at Cincinnati, +but she afterwards entered the old Norwood Institute, +Washington. Her education being finished, Miss +Portor again made her home at Covington, where she +resided until a few years ago, when she went to New York, +her home at the present time. She has worked in many +literary fields. Children's work; essays; short-stories; +feature and editorial work of all kinds; and verse for children +and "grown-ups." Miss Portor is now children's +editor of <i>The Woman's Home Companion</i>. She has been +so very busy with her magazine work that she has found +time to publish but one book, <i>Theodora</i> (Boston, 1907), a +little tale for children, done in collaboration with Miss +Katharine Pyle, sister of the famous American artist, the +late Howard Pyle, and herself an artist and author of +ability and reputation. The next few years will certainly +see several of Miss Portor's manuscripts published in +book form. Among her magazine stories and verse that +have attracted attention may be mentioned her purely +Kentucky tales, such as "A Gentleman of the Blue +Grass," published in <i>The Ladies' Home Journal</i>; "The +Judge," which appeared in <i>The Woman's Home Companion</i>; +"Sally," a Southern story, printed in <i>The Atlantic +Monthly</i>; and "My French School Days," an essay, +also printed in <i>The Atlantic</i>, are thought to be the best +things in prose Miss Portor has written so far. Her poems, +"The Little Christ" (<i>Atlantic Monthly</i>), and "But +One Leads South" (<i>McClure's Magazine</i>), are her most +characteristic work in verse. She has written much for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +children in both prose and poetry. Miss Portor is one of +Kentucky's proudest hopes in fiction or verse, and the +books that are to be published from her pen will bring +together her work in a manner that will be highly pleasing +to her admirers.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Harper's Magazine</i> (August, 1900); <i>St. Nicholas +Magazine</i> (October, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE LITTLE CHRIST<a name="FNanchor_79_79" id="FNanchor_79_79"></a><a href="#Footnote_79_79" class="fnanchor">[79]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, December, 1905]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, I am thy little Son—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why weepest thou?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hush! for I see a crown of thorns,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>A bleeding brow.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, I am thy little Son—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why dost thou sigh?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Hush! for the shadow of the years</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Stoopeth more nigh!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, I am thy little Son—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Oh, smile on me.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birds sing blithe, the birds sing gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The leaf laughs on the tree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>That tree whereon they grow,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I see it hewn, and bound, to bear</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>The weight of human woe!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, I am thy little Son—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Night comes on apace—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When all God's waiting stars shall smile<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +<span class="i2">On me in thy embrace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Oh, could'st thou slip away</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>And get to God by Day!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH<a name="FNanchor_80_80" id="FNanchor_80_80"></a><a href="#Footnote_80_80" class="fnanchor">[80]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>McClure's Magazine</i>, December, 1909]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So many countries of the earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So many lands of such great worth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So stately, tall, and fair they shine,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So royal, all,—but one is mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So many paths that come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Busy and freighted, to and fro;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So many that I never see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That still bring gifts and friends to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So many paths that go and come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But one leads South,—and that leads home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, I would rather see the face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that dear land a little space<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than have earth's richest, fairest things<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My own, or touch the hands of kings.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm homesick for it! When at night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The silent road runs still and white,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Runs onward, southward, still and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I know well it's going there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I know well at last 'twill come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To that old candle-lighted home,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though all the candles of heaven are lit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm homesick for the sight of it!<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="LEIGH_GORDON_GILTNER" id="LEIGH_GORDON_GILTNER">LEIGH GORDON GILTNER</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, poet and short-story writer, +was born at Eminence, Kentucky, in 1875. She is the +daughter of the Rev. W. S. Giltner, who was for many +years president of Eminence College, from which the +future writer was graduated. She later pursued a course +in English at the University of Chicago, and studied +Shakespeare and dramatic art with Hart Conway of the +Chicago School of Acting. Miss Giltner's book of lyrics, +<i>The Path of Dreams</i> (Chicago, 1900), brought her many +kind words from the reviewers. This little book contained +some very excellent verse, but, shortly after its appearance, +the author abandoned poesy for the short-story. +Her stories and sketches have appeared in the <i>New England +Magazine</i>, <i>The Century</i>, <i>Munsey's Overland Monthly</i>, +<i>The Reader</i>, <i>The Era</i>, and several other periodicals. +Within the last year or so she has had quite a number of +short-stories in <i>Young's Magazine</i> "of breezy stories." +At the present time Miss Giltner has a Kentucky novel +and a comedy in preparation, both of which should appear +shortly. She is one of the most beautiful of Kentucky's +writers: her frontispiece portrait in <i>The Path of Dreams</i> +is said to have disarmed many carping critics who untied +the little volume with malice aforethought. But back of +her personal loveliness, is a mind of much power, cleverness, +and originality.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Nation</i> (September 6, 1900); <i>Munsey's +Magazine</i> (October, 1902); <i>The Overland</i> (October, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE JESTING GODS<a name="FNanchor_81_81" id="FNanchor_81_81"></a><a href="#Footnote_81_81" class="fnanchor">[81]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Munsey's Magazine</i> (July, 1904)].</p> + +<p>From the first it had been, in the nature of things, perfectly +patent to every member of the party gathered at Grantleigh for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> +the shooting that Tompkins' bride cared not a whit for Tompkins—which, +if one happened to know the man, was scarcely +a matter for surprise.</p> + +<p>Tompkins, though a good fellow on the whole, was an unmitigated +idiot. Not a mere insignificant unit in the world's noble +army of fools, but a fool so conspicuous and of so infinite a +variety as to be at all times the cynosure of the general gaze.</p> + +<p>When a man is a fool and knows it, his folly not infrequently +attains the measure of wisdom. Let him but conceal his motley +beneath a cloak of weighty silence and he will presently acquire +a reputation for solid intelligence and a wise conservatism. But +Tompkins was not one of these. He joyously jangled his bells +and flourished his bauble, wholly unaware the while of the spectacle +he was making of himself. If he could have been persuaded +to take on a neutral tint and keep himself well in the background, +inanity might, in time, have assumed the dignity of intellectuality: +but he lacked the sense of proportion, of values. He was +always in the foreground and always a more or less inharmonious +element in the <i>ensemble</i>.</p> + +<p>Tompkins had published an impossible volume of prose, followed +by a yet more impossible volume of verse: his crudely +impressionistic essays at art made the judicious grieve: he dabbled +in music and posed as a lyric tenor, though he had neither +voice nor ear. A temperament essentially histrionic kept him +constantly in the centre of the stage. With no remote realization +of his limitations, he aspired to play leads and heavies, when +Fate had inexorably cast him for a line of low comedy. He +contrived to make divers and sundry kinds and degrees of an +idiot of himself on all possible occasions—and even when there +was no possible occasion therefor. He had a faculty for doing +the wrong thing which amounted to inspiration.</p> + +<p>We had been wont to speculate at the Club as to whether +Tompkins would ever find a woman the measure of whose folly +should so far exceed his own as to impel her to marry him. We +wondered much when we heard that he had at last achieved this +feat. We wondered more when we saw the woman who had +made it a possibility.</p> + +<p>"<i>Titania</i> and <i>Bottom</i>, by Jove!" whispered Ronalds to me as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +Tompkins followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening +of their arrival at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked +everywhere on account of his relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) +My fancy, which I had allowed to play freely about the +lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his marriage, had +wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had accepted +him as a <i>dernier resort</i> and a simpering school girl too young +to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride—and +gasped.</p> + +<p>She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so +compelling, as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It +quite took away one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping +at her, but she bore the ordeal with all grace and calm, though +she was the daughter of a struggling curate in some obscure +locality remote from social advantages. She was of a singularly +striking type: the beauty of her face was almost tragic in its intensity: +the ghost of some immemorial sorrow seemed to lurk in +the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too sombre expression +was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare smile, she was +positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to "promulgate +rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial indifference +to feminine charm should endorse me.)</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>As the days passed—we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight—I +found myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some +inaccuracy in her interpretation of her <i>role</i>. But I watched in +vain. There was always a perfect appreciation of the requirements +of the situation, always the perfection of taste in its treatment. +Evidently she had thrown herself into the part and was +playing it—would play it, perhaps, to the end—with artistic +<i>abandon</i>, tempered by a fine discretion and discrimination. If +her yoke galled, this proud woman made no sign. But even the +subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment, and it was in such +a moment that I chanced to see her the night before the last of +our stay.</p> + +<p>The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the +moors and were on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. +Tompkins had gone up stairs just ahead of me (his apartments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +were next mine) and had carelessly left a door opening on the +corridor slightly ajar. In passing I unconsciously glanced that +way and my eyes fell full upon the mirrored face of Elinor +Tompkins as her husband crossed toward where she sat at her +dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed her countenance +held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an unbelievable +complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and +self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash +it came and went. The next instant she had forced herself to +smile and was lifting her face for her husband's caress, while +Tompkins, physically and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined +his lips to hers. I caught my breath sharply. A choking +sensation in my throat paid tribute to her art. Not even Duse +was more a mistress of emotional control, expression, and repression. +But this was something more than the perfection of +acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance long drawn +out—a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's +mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering.</p> + +<p>That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for +the day, and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to +open his budget. He had had the satisfaction of surprising us +with the rumored engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the +scapegrace son of an impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately +at a scandal in high official life: and had made his climax with +the announcement of the sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton +and the consequent succession of Delmar to his title and estates—when +I glanced, by purest chance, at Mrs. Tompkins. (I had +fallen into a way of looking at her often—she was certainly an +interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the lips. +Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant +she had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered +her wonted perfect poise and calm.</p> + +<p>That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the +subject. Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps +at the moment. In his unconscious egotism he never spared +her: there was seldom a moment when she might drop her smiling +mask: the essence of his personality pervaded her whole +atmosphere.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying, +"and—<i>apropos</i> of Delmar's succession to the title—he mentioned +that there had been a serious affair of the heart between +him and our fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. +It seems one of Ilverton's innumerable country places was near +the village where the Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl +there last Autumn. The affair soon assumed serious proportions: +Ilverton heard of the engagement: cut up an awful +shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him off to +India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her compliments +to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have +given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused +his son and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should +occasion arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a +bit, chuckled mightily over the message and vowed that had it +only been one of his younger sons, she should have had him, by +Jupiter!... But things weren't easy for the girl at home. +She had an invalid mother, a nervous, nagging creature, who +dinned it into her ears that she'd lost the chance of a lifetime: +that she was standing in the light of three marriageable younger +sisters: that with her limited social advantages few matrimonial +opportunities might be expected to come her way—and more +to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic."</p> + +<p>"Why not have tried the stage—with her voice and presence +any manager would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested.</p> + +<p>"She considered it, they say, but her reverend father turned +a fit at the bare suggestion. At this juncture, Tompkins presented +himself as a suitor: it was duly pointed out to Miss Barton +by her loving parents that he was rather an eligible <i>parti</i>: +rich, not bad looking, and a nephew of Wrexford's, and that she +would better take the goods the gods provided, which, in sheer +desperation, she ultimately did. You can see she loathes him, +but she's evidently made up her mind to be decent to him—and +by Jove, she doesn't do it by halves! She's got sand, all right, +and I honor her for the way she makes the best of a bad bargain—though +it's not a pleasant thing to see."</p> + +<p>"It's a beastly pity!" broke in Ronalds warmly. "It makes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> +me ill to see her wasting herself and her subtleties on a dolt like +Algy. What a splendid pair she and Del would have made, and +what a shame his Lordship didn't obligingly die a few months +sooner—since it had to be!"</p> + +<p>At this precise moment I caught sight of Tompkins standing +just without the parted portierres. How long he had been there +I could not guess, but doubtless quite long enough. He looked +like a man who had had a facer and was a bit dazed in consequence. +I think I gasped, for on the instant he looked my way +with a glance that held an appeal, which I must somehow have +answered. In an instant he was gone and the other men, all +unaware of his proximity, pursued their theme.</p> + +<p>I did not see Tompkins at our hurried buffet breakfast next +morning, and I began to hope he would not go out with the guns +that day, thus sparing me the awkward necessity of meeting him +again. But he presently appeared on the terrace in his shooting +togs, and I knew I was in for it. His manner, however, which +was entirely as usual, reassured me. Either he had heard less +than I had feared or the callousness of stupidity protected him. +He chatted with his wonted gayety with the men: he made the +ladies at hand to see us off a labored compliment or two, and +met my eye without consciousness or embarassment. I wondered +if it were stolidity or stoicism? All day he was in the best of +spirits: he was positively hilarious when we gathered at the +gamekeeper's cottage for luncheon—and I decided upon the +former with a sense of relief, for the thing had somehow got on +my nerves.</p> + +<p>But later, as we returned to the field, he so palpably waited +for me to come up with him (we always put Tompkins in the +van for safety's sake—he did such fearful and wonderful +things with his gun) that I was forced to join him. After a +moment he said, with an effort:</p> + +<p>"Sibley, I want to ask, as a very great personal favor, that +you will never, under any circumstances, mention to anyone—to +<i>any one</i>," he repeated, with a curious effect of earnestness, +"about—last night."</p> + +<p>I hastened to give him my assurance. It was the least I could +do.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said simply. "I felt I might depend upon +you." Then, because we were men—and Englishmen—we +spoke of other things.</p> + +<p>Late that afternoon, as we bent our steps homeward, Tompkins +and I found ourselves again together. We had somehow +strayed from the rest, and under the guidance of a keeper, +striding ahead, laden with trappings of the hunt, were making +our way toward Grantleigh. Tompkins' manner was entirely +simple and unconstrained. A respect I had not previously accorded +him was growing upon me. We were both dead tired, +and when we spoke at all it was of the day's sport.</p> + +<p>As we neared the Manor, the keeper, far in the lead, vaulted +lightly over a stile in a hedgerow. I followed less lightly (my +enemies aver that I am growing stout) with Tompkins in the +rear.... Suddenly a shot, abnormally loud and harsh in the +twilight hush, rang out at my back. Blind and deaf—fatally +blind and deaf as I had been—I realized its import on the instant. +Even before I turned I knew what I should see.</p> + +<p>Tompkins was lying in a huddled heap at the foot of the stile, +and as I bent over him I saw that it was a matter of moments. +He had bungled things all his life, poor fellow, but he had not +bungled this.</p> + +<p>"An accident, Sibley," he gasped, as I knelt beside him. "I +was—always—awkward—with a gun, you know. <i>An accident</i>—you'll +remember, old man? Elinor must not—"</p> + +<p>Speech failed him for an instant. An awful agony was upon +him, but no moan escaped his lips. His life had been a farce, a +failure, but if he had not known how to live, assuredly he knew +how to die.... The shadows were closing round him. He +put out a groping hand for mine.</p> + +<p>"I think I'm—going, Sibley," he whispered. "Tell Elinor—" +And with her name upon his lips, he went out into the +dark.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="MARGARET_S_ANDERSON" id="MARGARET_S_ANDERSON">MARGARET S. ANDERSON</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was +born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated +in the public schools, with a short special course at Wellesley +College. Since 1901 Miss Anderson has been literary +editor of <i>The Evening Post</i>, of Louisville, having +a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in the Saturday +edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" +for <i>McClure's Magazine</i>; and since quitting <i>McClure's</i>, +she has been a public lecturer upon literature and +art in New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Memphis, and +Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems have +appeared in <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>, <i>The Century</i>, <i>McClure's</i>, +but the greater number of them have been published +in <i>The American Magazine</i>. She has also contributed +considerable verse to the minor magazines. The next +year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought together +in a charming volume, entitled <i>The Flame in the Wind</i>, +which form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky +woman of the present time has done better work in verse +than has she.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (August, 1902); <i>The Century</i> +(September, 1904).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK<a name="FNanchor_82_82" id="FNanchor_82_82"></a><a href="#Footnote_82_82" class="fnanchor">[82]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (September, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lord of all strength—behold, I am but frail!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lord of all harvest—few the grapes and pale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry:<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let me lift up my sapling like a blade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">NOT THIS WORLD<a name="FNanchor_83_83" id="FNanchor_83_83"></a><a href="#Footnote_83_83" class="fnanchor">[83]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (November, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I not give this world my heart, and well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If for naught else, for many a miracle<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Not this world, oh, not this!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I not give this world my heart, who find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within this world the glories of the mind—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Nay, by the little footways it hath trod,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And smiles to see, when thou art under sod,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And by its very gaze across the abyss,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Not this world, oh, not this!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One figure here above myself, my gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My life and hope, my joy and my intent?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That fragile garment that shall soon be rent,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Not this world, oh, not this!</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot?<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Thou child and thankless! On this little spot</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Not this world, oh, not this!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM)<a name="FNanchor_84_84" id="FNanchor_84_84"></a><a href="#Footnote_84_84" class="fnanchor">[84]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i> (August, 1910)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So sharp the sword, so airy the defense!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So fine and strange—so subtly-poisèd, too—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The egoist that looks forever through!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That winged spirit—air and grace and fire—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A-flutter at the frame, is your desire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay, it is you—who never knew the net,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Exquisite, vain—whom we shall not forget!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="ABBY_MEGUIRE_ROACH" id="ABBY_MEGUIRE_ROACH">ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Abby Meguire Roach, "the very cleverest of the +Louisville school of women novelists," was born at +Philadelphia in 1876. She was educated in the schools of +her native city, finishing her training with a year at Wellesley +College. In 1899 she was married to Mr. Neill +Roach, of Louisville, Kentucky, and that city has been her +home since. Mrs. Roach wrote many stories of married +life for the New York magazines, which were afterwards +collected and published as <i>Some Successful Marriages</i> +(New York, 1906). These have been singled out by the +reviewers as "charming" and "most beautiful"; and her +work has been compared to Miss May Sinclair's, the famous +English novelist. One of Mrs. Roach's most recent +stories was published in <i>The Century Magazine</i> for July, +1907, entitled "Manifest Destiny," but this has not been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> +followed by any others in the last year or so. "Unremembering +June," one of the best of the tales in <i>Some +Successful Marriages</i>, relates the love of Molly-Moll for +her invalid husband, after whose death she falls in love +with Reno, the father of Lola, "who had been his salvage +from the wreck of his marriage."</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Harper's Magazine</i> (May, 1907); <i>Library of +Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1909, v. xv), contains Miss +Marilla Waite Freeman's excellent study of Mrs. Roach.</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">UNREMEMBERING JUNE<a name="FNanchor_85_85" id="FNanchor_85_85"></a><a href="#Footnote_85_85" class="fnanchor">[85]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Some Successful Marriages</i> (New York, 1906)]</p> + +<p>"And you will let me have word of you? Surely? And +give me a chance to be of use? Won't you?" he persisted, taking +leave. She swept his face swiftly with a glance of inquiry, +intelligence. "Won't you?"</p> + +<p>"O-h—perhaps," with just the faintest puckering of the +mouth.</p> + +<p>But spring passed without word from her, until there were +times when Reno's impatience seethed like a colony of bees at +hiving-time.</p> + +<p>At last he wrote.</p> + +<p>With unpardonable deliberation a brief answer came: Molly's +son was a couple months old, but not yet finished enough to be +much to look at.</p> + +<p>He wrote again: Lola was pale from the city, and bored with +herself and her maid; a farm with other children on it sounded +like fairyland to her. Could some arrangement be made...?</p> + +<p>Lola had been there a month before he had any word but +her own hard-written and naturally not very voluminous love-letters, +letters in which the homesickness was an ever fainter +and fainter echo of the first wild cry, and in which the references +to "Dandie" made it plain that she had adopted the +other children's auntie into a peculiar relationship with herself. +At last a postscript from Mrs. Loring herself:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span></p> +<p>"Wouldn't you like to come to see her? It's worth a longer +trip."</p> + +<p>"Of course I would. You're uncommon slow asking me. +What kind of father, and man, do you think me?"</p> + +<p>Molly was standing with the baby in her arms, chewing its +chub of fist. In the warm wind soft wisps of blown brown hair +curled all around forehead and neck. Her flesh was firm, transparent, +aglow; her skin as clear, satiny, pink as the baby's. And +what generous, sweet plumpness! She was at perhaps the most +beautiful time of a woman's life—in the glamour of first young +motherhood, with the beauty of perfect health and uncoarsened +maturity.</p> + +<p>And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was +no more suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter +in full June—rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering +June," the present and future tenses of the year's declension.</p> + +<p>As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look +devoured her.</p> + +<p>Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed +his to the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile +in front of her. One particular occupant of one particular pair +of overalls spied him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, +rosy. "Why, who is this? Whose little girl—or boy—are +you?"</p> + +<p>Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped +flower.</p> + +<p>"Whose little girl <i>are</i> you?" coached a rich voice with an undercurrent +of laughter.</p> + +<p>Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that +elemental nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small +voice. At sight of the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of +many significances. And with a flood of recollected loyalty, +"<i>Papa's!</i>" gasped the child, and smothered him with remorse.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all +at once?"</p> + +<p>("Well! I like that!")</p> + +<p>"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?"</p> + +<p>"I think you can."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> + +<p>("Oh, you do?")</p> + +<p>"No?" His grip on her wrist hurt, and forced her to look up. +("Is it only a mother you want for Lola—and yourself?"); +and, looking, she was satisfied; and, looking, she flushed slowly +from head to foot, answering him.</p> + +<p>"The most loyal, affectionate woman in the world!" he added, +after a little.</p> + +<p>"Oh, never mind the fairy tales!" she scoffed, pleased, waiting.</p> + +<p>He spoke none of the time-honored commonplaces that belittle +or dignify or mask the real individual feeling under the stereotype +of what it is assumed love ought to be. He could foresee +her amusement. Besides, it would have been about as appropriate +as trying to capture a bird with a smile.</p> + +<p>"But I would never marry any woman that I wasn't sure +would be kind to Lola and fond of her."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lola!" Her whole look was soft and sweet. "I am +fond of her now." Then a mischievous laugh bubbled in her +throat. "And could be of you, too, if you insist." Even with +the laugh her eyes were deeper than words, grave and tender.</p> + +<p>"As to that, also, Molly-Moll, what you will be to me I am +quite satisfied, quite."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="IRVIN_S_COBB" id="IRVIN_S_COBB">IRVIN S. COBB</a></h2> + + +<p>Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb, humorist and short-story writer, +was born at Paducah, Kentucky, June 23, 1876. He was +educated in public and private schools, but the newspaper +field loomed large before him, and at the age of nineteen +he became editor of the Paducah <i>Daily News</i>. For three +years he conducted the "Sour Mash" column in the Louisville +<i>Evening Post</i>, when he returned to Paducah to become +managing editor of the <i>News-Democrat</i>, which position +he held from 1901 to 1904. Late in the year of 1904 +Mr. Cobb went to New York, and for a year he was editor +of the humorous section and special writer for <i>The Evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> +Sun</i>. In 1905 he became staff humorist for <i>The World</i>, +and for the following six years he remained with that paper. +Mr. Cobb has written several plays, none of which +have been published in book form, but they have been produced +upon the stage. They include: <i>The Campaigner</i>, +<i>Funabashi</i>, <i>Mr. Busybody</i>, <i>The Gallery God</i>, <i>The Yeggman</i>, +and <i>Daffy-Down-Dilly</i>. He has written many humorous +stories, among which may be mentioned: <i>New York +Through Funny Glasses</i>, <i>The Hotel Clerk</i>, <i>Live Talks with +Dead Ones</i>, <i>Making Peace at Portsmouth</i>, <i>The Gotham +Geography</i>, and <i>The Diary of Noah</i>.</p> + +<p>Then, one day, the daily grind racked his nerves, he rebelled +and bethought himself of the good old days in Kentucky +years agone. Ah, what a fine chapter was added to +the history of our native letters when Cobb looked backward! +Now, when he was but twenty-four years of age, +he had written a story, a horror tale of Reelfoot Lake, +which he named "Fishhead" and immediately forgot, but +which he had brought on East with him. On this he made +some minor revisions and started it on its round of the +magazine editors. But Cobb didn't wait for the fate of +"Fishhead"; and it's a good thing that he didn't! He +wrote what he now regards as his first fiction story, The +Escape of Mr. Trimm; and <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i> +accepted it so quickly, printing it in the issue for November +27, 1909, that Cobb gleefully cashed the cheque and +sent them another shortly thereafter. The editor of <i>The +Post</i>, George Horace Lorimer, whom many competent +judges considered the greatest editor in the United States, +realized that a new literary planet had swam into his ken; +and in 1911 he asked Cobb to become a staff contributor, +which the Kentuckian was delighted to do. All of his +stories have appeared in that publication, all save <i>Fishhead</i>, +which Mr. Lorimer regarded as a bit too strong +medicine for his subscribers. Mr. Cobb's next big story<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +in <i>The Post</i> was one that he has come to regard as the +best thing he has done hitherto, "An Occurrence Up a +Side Street," which appeared in the issue for January 21, +1911. This was a real horror tale, a "thriller," making +one couple the name of Cobb with Poe, a comparison +which has gathered strength with the passing of the +months. For <i>The Post</i> Mr. Cobb created Judge Priest, a +character that has made him famous. He did a group of +tales about and around this leading citizen of a certain +Southern town—which town was none other than his own +Paducah; and which character was none other than old +Judge Bishop, whom many Kentuckians recall with pleasure. +Cobb is a great realist and he has never had any +patience with the romanticists. He painted the old town +and the old judge and the judge's friends and enemies—if +he had any—just as he remembered them. The best +of these yarns, perhaps, was "Words and Music," printed +in the issue for October 28, 1911; and when they were +collected the other day and published under the title of +<i>Back Home</i> (New York, 1912), that story, in which the old +judge "rambles," was the first of the ten tales the book +contained. Some reviewers of this work have rather +loosely characterized it as a novel, and in a certain big +sense it is; but the sub-title is a better description: "the +narrative of Judge Priest and his people." The book is +really a series of pictures; and what Francis H. Underwood +did so well in his Kentucky novel, <i>Lord of Himself</i>, +and what William C. Watts did much better in his <i>Chronicles +of a Kentucky Settlement</i>, Irvin S. Cobb has done +in a manner superior to either of them in his <i>Back Home</i>. +Judge Priest is a worthy and welcome addition to the gallery +of American heroes of prose fiction, hung next to +Bret Harte's highest heroes. Cohan and Harris have acquired +the dramatic rights of his book, and it is to be made +into play-form by Bayard Veiller, author of <i>Within the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> +Law</i>, the great "hit" of the 1912 New York season, in +collaboration with the Kentuckian, who once wrote of his +original plays, which have already been listed: "One +was accidentally destroyed, one was lost, and one was +loaned out and never returned." Let us hope that none +of these things may overtake the present work; and that, +when Thomas Wise struts across the boards in the autumn +of 1913 as Judge Priest he may receive a bigger +"hand" than he ever drew in <i>The Gentleman from Mississippi</i>.</p> + +<p>Besides these tales of Judge Priest, Cobb wrote several +detached short-stories, and many humorous articles for +<i>The Post</i> during 1912. The best of this humor appeared +simultaneously with <i>Back Home</i>, in a delightful little book, +called <i>Cobb's Anatomy</i> (New York, 1912). This contained +four essays on the following subjects: "Tummies," perhaps +the funniest thing he has done so far; "Teeth;" +"Hair;" "Hands and Feet." The only adverse criticism +to make of the work was its length: it was too short. +Its sequel will appear in 1913 under the title of <i>Cobb's +Bill of Fare</i>, containing four humorous skits. Aside from +his Judge Priest yarns, which began in <i>The Post</i> in the +autumn of 1911 and ran throughout the year of 1912, and +his humorous papers which also appeared from time to +time, Cobb wrote the greatest short-story ever written by +a Kentuckian (save that first book of stories by James +Lane Allen), entitled "The Belled Buzzard" (<i>The Post</i>, +September 28, 1912). This, with "An Occurrence Up a +Side Street," and "Fishhead," which is to be published +in <i>The Cavalier</i> for January 11, 1913, after having been +rejected by almost every reputable magazine in America, +form a trio of horror tales of such power as to compel +comparison with the best work of Edgar Poe, with the +"shade" going to the Kentuckian in many minds. All +three of them, together with "The Escape of Mr. Trimm";<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> +"The Exit of Anse Dugmore," a Kentucky mountain +yarn; and four unpublished stories, called "Another of +Those Cub Reporter Stories"; "Smoke of Battle"; "To +the Editor of the Sun;" and "Guilty as Charged," will +appear in book form in the autumn of 1913, entitled <i>The +Escape of Mr. Trimm</i>.</p> + +<p>In summing up Cobb's work for the New York <i>Sun</i>, +Robert H. Davis, editor of the Munsey magazines, wrote: +"Gelett Burgess, in a lecture at Columbia College, said +that Cobb was one of the ten great American humorists. +Cobb ought to demand a recount. There are not ten humorists +in the world, although Cobb is one of them.... +Thus in Irvin Cobb we find Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and +Edgar Allan Poe at their best.... If he uses his pen +for an Alpine stock, the Matterhorn is his." And George +Horace Lorimer holds that Cobb is "the biggest writing-man +ever born in Kentucky; and he's going to get better +all the time." This is certainly high praise, but that it +voices the opinions of many people is beyond all question. +"The great 'find' of 1912" may be the trade-mark of his +future.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Everybody's Magazine</i> (April, 1911); <i>Hampton's +Magazine</i> (October, 1911); <i>The American Magazine</i> (November, +1912); <i>Who's Cobb and Why</i>, by R. H. Davis (New +York, 1912, a brochure).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE BELLED BUZZARD<a name="FNanchor_86_86" id="FNanchor_86_86"></a><a href="#Footnote_86_86" class="fnanchor">[86]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i> (Philadelphia, September 28, 1912)]</p> + +<p>There was a swamp known as Little Niggerwool, to distinguish +it from Big Niggerwool, which lay nearer the river. It was +traversable only by those who knew it well—an oblong stretch +of yellow mud and yellower water, measuring, maybe four miles +its longest way and two miles roughly at its widest; and it was +full of cypress and stunted swamp oak, with edgings of cane-break<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> +and rank weeds; and in one place, where a ridge crossed +it from side to side, it was snaggled like an old jaw with dead +tree-trunks, rising close-ranked and thick as teeth. It was untenanted +of living things—except, down below, there were +snakes and mosquitoes, and a few wading and swimming fowl; +and up above, those big woodpeckers that the country people +called logcocks—larger than pigeons, with flaming crests and +spiky tails—swooping in their long, loping flight from snag to +snag, always just out of gunshot of the chance invader, and uttering +a strident cry which matched those surroundings so fitly +that it might well have been the voice of the swamp itself.</p> + +<p>On one side Little Niggerwool drained its saffron waters off +into a sluggish creek, where summer ducks bred, and on the other +it ended abruptly at a natural bank of high ground, along which +the county turnpike ran. The swamp came right up to the road, +and thrust its fringe of reedy, weedy undergrowth forward as +though in challenge to the good farm lands that were spread beyond +the barrier. At the time I am speaking of it was midsummer, +and from these canes and weeds and waterplants there came +a smell so rank as almost to be overpowering. They grew thick as +a curtain, making a blank green wall taller than a man's head.</p> + +<p>Along the dusty stretch of road fronting the swamp nothing +living had stirred for half an hour or more. And so at length +the weedstems rustled and parted, and out from among them +a man came forth silently and cautiously. He was an old man—an +old man who had once been fat, but with age had grown lean +again, so that now his skin was by odds too large for him. It lay +on the back of his neck in folds. Under the chin he was pouched +like a pelican and about the jowls was wattled like a turkey-gobbler.</p> + +<p>He came out upon the road slowly and stopped there, switching +his legs absently with the stalk of a horseweed. He was in his +shirtsleeves—a respectable, snuffy old figure; evidently a man +deliberate in words and thoughts and actions. There was something +about him suggestive of an old staid sheep that had been +engaged in a clandestine transaction and was afraid of being +found out.</p> + +<p>He had made amply sure no one was in sight before he came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> +out of the swamp, but now, to be doubly certain, he watched the +empty road—first up, then down—for a long half minute, and +fetched a sighing breath of satisfaction. His eyes fell upon his +feet and, taken with an idea, he stepped back to the edge of the +road and with a wisp of crabgrass wiped his shoes clean of the +swamp mud, which was of a different color and texture from the +soil of the upland. All his life Squire H. B. Gathers had been a +careful, canny man, and he had need to be doubly careful on this +summer morning. Having disposed of the mud on his feet, he +settled his white straw hat down firmly upon his head, and, crossing +the road, he climbed a stake-and-rider fence laboriously and +went plodding sedately across a weedfield and up a slight slope +toward his house, half a mile away, upon the crest of the little +hill.</p> + +<p>He felt perfectly natural—not like a man who had just taken +a fellowman's life—but natural and safe, and well satisfied with +himself and his morning's work. And he was safe—that was +the main thing—absolutely safe. Without hitch or hindrance +he had done the thing for which he had been planning and waiting +and longing all these months. There had been no slip or mischance; +the whole thing had worked out as plainly and simply as +two and two make four. No living creature except himself knew +of the meeting in the early morning at the head of Little Niggerwool, +exactly where the squire had figured they should meet; none +knew of the device by which the other man had been lured deeper +and deeper in the swamp to the exact spot where the gun was hidden. +No one had seen the two of them enter the swamp; no one +had seen the squire emerge, three hours later, alone. The gun, +having served its purpose, was hidden again, in a place no mortal +eye would ever discover. Face downward, with a hole between +his shoulderblades, the dead man was lying where he might lie +undiscovered for months or for years, or forever. His pedler's +pack was buried in the mud so deep that not even the probing +crawfishes could find it. He would never be missed probably. +There was but the slightest likelihood that inquiry would ever be +made for him—let alone a search. He was a stranger and a +foreigner, the dead man was, whose comings and goings made no +great stir in the neighborhood, and whose failure to come again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> +would be taken as a matter of course—just one of those shiftless, +wandering dagoes, here to-day and gone to-morrow. That was one +of the best things about it—these dagoes never had any people +in this country to worry about them or look for them when they +disappeared. And so it was all over and done with, and nobody +the wiser. The squire clapped his hands together briskly with the +air of a man dismissing a subject from his mind for good, and +mended his gait.</p> + +<p>He felt no stabbings of conscience. On the contrary, a glow of +gratification filled him. His house was saved from scandal; his +present wife would philander no more—before his very eyes—with +these young dagoes, who came from nobody knew where, +with packs on their backs and persuasive, wheedling tongues in +their heads. At this thought the squire raised his head and considered +his homestead. It looked pretty good to him—the small +white cottage among the honey locusts, with beehives and flowerbeds +about it; the tidy whitewashed fence; the sound outbuildings +at the back, and the well-tilled acres roundabout.</p> + +<p>At the fence he halted and turned about, carelessly and casually, +and looked back along the way he had come. Everything was +as it should be—the weedfield steaming in the heat; the empty +road stretching along the crooked ridge like a long gray snake +sunning itself; and beyond it, massing up, the dark, cloaking +stretch of swamp. Everything was all right, but——. The +squire's eyes, in their loose sacs of skin, narrowed and squinted. +Out of the blue arch away over yonder a small black dot had resolved +itself and was swinging to and fro, like a mote. A buzzard—hey? +Well, there were always buzzards about on a clear +day like this. Buzzards were nothing to worry about—almost +any time you could see one buzzard, or a dozen buzzards if you +were a mind to look for them.</p> + +<p>But this particular buzzard now—wasn't he making for Little +Niggerwool? The squire did not like the idea of that. He had +not thought of the buzzards until this minute. Sometimes when +cattle strayed the owners had been known to follow the buzzards, +knowing mighty well that if the buzzards led the way to where +the stray was, the stray would be past the small salvage of hide<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> +and hoofs—but the owner's doubts would be set at rest for good +and all.</p> + +<p>There was a grain of disquiet in this. The squire shook his +head to drive the thought away—yet it persisted, coming back +like a midge dancing before his face. Once at home, however, +Squire Gathers deported himself in a perfectly normal manner. +With the satisfied proprietorial eye of an elderly husband who +has no rivals, he considered his young wife, busied about her +household duties. He sat in an easy-chair upon his front gallery +and read his yesterday's Courier-Journal which the rural carrier +had brought him; but he kept stepping out into the yard to peer +up into the sky and all about him. To the second Mrs. Gathers +he explained that he was looking for weather signs. A day as hot +and still as this one was a regular weather-breeder; there ought +to be rain before night.</p> + +<p>"Maybe so," she said; "but looking's not going to bring rain."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless the squire continued to look. There was really +nothing to worry about; still at midday he did not eat much dinner, +and before his wife was half through with hers he was back +on the gallery. His paper was cast aside and he was watching. +The original buzzard—or, anyhow, he judged it was the first one +he had seen—was swinging back and forth in great pendulum +swings, but closer down toward the swamp—closer and closer—until +it looked from that distance as though the buzzard flew almost +at the level of the tallest snags there. And on beyond this +first buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards. Were +there four of them? No; there were five—five in all.</p> + +<p>Such is the way of the buzzard—that shifting black question-mark +which punctuates a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or +a sheep or a horse lies down to die. At once, coming seemingly +out of nowhere, appears a black spot, up five hundred feet or a +thousand in the air. In broad loops and swirls this dot swings +round and round and round, coming a little closer to earth at +every turn and always with one particular spot upon the earth +for the axis of its wheel. Out of space also other moving spots +emerge and grow larger as they tack and jibe and drop nearer, +coming in their leisurely buzzard way to the feast. There is no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> +haste—the feast will wait. If it is a dumb creature that has +fallen stricken the grim coursers will sooner or later be assembled +about it and alongside it, scrouging ever closer and closer to the +dying thing, with awkward outthrustings of their naked necks +and great dust-raising flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; lifting +their feathered shanks high and stiffly like old crippled grave-diggers +in overalls too tight—but silent and patient all, offering +no attack until the last tremor runs through the stiffening carcass +and the eyes glaze over. To humans the buzzard pays a +deeper meed of respect—he hangs aloft longer; but in the end +he comes. No scavenger shark, no carrion crab, has chambered +more grisly secrets in his digestive processes than this big charnel +bird. Such is the way of the buzzard.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing that had not happened +in years. He stayed on the front gallery and kept count. +Those moving distant black specks typified uneasiness for the +squire—not fear exactly, or panic or anything akin to it, but a +nibbling, nagging kind of uneasiness. Time and again he said +to himself that he would not think about them any more; but he +did—unceasingly.</p> + +<p>By supper-time there were seven of them.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>He slept light and slept badly. It was not the thought of that +dead man lying yonder in Little Niggerwool that made him toss +and fume while his wife snored gently alongside him. It was +something else altogether. Finally his stirrings roused her and +she asked drowsily what ailed him. Was he sick? Or bothered +about anything?</p> + +<p>Irritated, he answered her snappishly. Certainly nothing was +bothering him, he told her. It was a hot-enough night—wasn't +it? And when a man got a little along in life he was apt to be a +light sleeper—wasn't that so? Well, then? She turned upon +her side and slept again with her light, purring snore. The +squire lay awake, thinking hard and waiting for day to come.</p> + +<p>At the first faint pink-and-gray glow he was up and out upon +the gallery. He cut a comic figure standing there, in his shirt in +the half light, with the dewlap at his throat dangling grotesquely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> +in the neck-opening of the unbuttoned garment, and his bare +bowed legs showing, splotched and varicose. He kept his eyes +fixed on the skyline below, to the south. Buzzards are early +risers too. Presently, as the heavens shimmered with the miracle +of sunrise, he could make them out—six or seven, or maybe +eight.</p> + +<p>An hour after breakfast the squire was on his way down +through the weed field to the country road. He went half eagerly, +half unwillingly. He wanted to make sure about those buzzards. +It might be that they were aiming for the old pasture at the head +of the swamp. There were sheep grazing there—and it might +be that a sheep had died. Buzzards were notoriously fond of +sheep, when dead. Or, if they were pointed for the swamp he +must satisfy himself exactly what part of the swamp it was. He +was at the stake-and-rider fence when a mare came jogging down +the road, drawing a rig with a man in it. At sight of the squire +in the field the man pulled up.</p> + +<p>"Hi, squire!" he began. "Goin' somewheres?"</p> + +<p>"No; jest knockin' about," the squire said—"jest sorter lookin' +the place over."</p> + +<p>"Hot agin—ain't it?" said the other.</p> + +<p>The squire allowed that it was, for a fact, mighty hot. Commonplaces +of gossip followed this—county politics, and a neighbor's +wife sick of breakbone fever down the road a piece. The +subject of crops succeeded inevitably. The squire spoke of the +need of rain. Instantly he regretted it, for the other man, who +was by way of being a weather wiseacre, cocked his head aloft to +study the sky for any signs of clouds.</p> + +<p>"Wonder whut all them buzzards are doin' yonder, squire," +he said, pointing upward with his whipstock.</p> + +<p>"Whut buzzards—where?" asked the squire with an elaborate +note of carelessness in his voice.</p> + +<p>"Right yonder, over Little Niggerwool—see 'em there?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," the squire made answer. "Now I see 'em. They +ain't doin' nothin, I reckin—jest flyin' round same as they always +do in clear weather."</p> + +<p>"Must be somethin' dead over there!" speculated the man in +the buggy.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A hawg probably," said the squire promptly—almost too +promptly. "There's likely to be hawgs usin' in Niggerwool. +Bristow, over the other side from here—he's got a big drove of +hawgs."</p> + +<p>"Well, mebbe so," said the man; "but hawgs is a heap more +apt to be feedin' on high ground, seems like to me. Well, I'll be +gittin' along towards town. G'day, squire." And he slapped +the lines down on the mare's flank and jogged off through the +dust.</p> + +<p>He could not have suspected anything—that man couldn't. +As the squire turned away from the road and headed for his +house he congratulated himself upon that stroke of his in bringing +in Bristow's hogs; and yet there remained this disquieting +note in the situation, that buzzards flying, and especially buzzards +flying over Little Niggerwool, made people curious—made them +ask questions.</p> + +<p>He was halfway across the weedfield when, above the hum of +insect life, above the inward clamor of his own busy speculations, +there came to his ear dimly and distantly a sound that made him +halt and cant his head to one side the better to hear it. Somewhere, +a good way off, there was a thin, thready, broken strain of +metallic clinking and clanking—an eery ghost-chime ringing. +It came nearer and became plainer—tonk-tonk-tonk; then the +tonks all running together briskly.</p> + +<p>A cowbell—that was it; but why did it seem to come from +overhead, from up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so +abruptly from one quarter to another—from left to right and +back again to left? And how was it that the clapper seemed to +strike so fast? Not even the breachiest of breachy young heifers +could be expected to tinkle a cowbell with such briskness. The +squire's eye searched the earth and the sky, his troubled mind +giving to his eye a quick and flashing scrutiny. He had it. It +was not a cow at all. It was not anything that went on four legs.</p> + +<p>One of the loathly flock had left the others. The orbit of his +swing had carried him across the road and over Squire Gathers' +land. He was sailing right toward and over the squire now. +Craning his flabby neck the squire could make out the unwholesome +contour of the huge bird. He could see the ragged black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> +wings—a buzzard's wings are so often ragged and uneven—and +the naked throat; the slim, naked head; the big feet folded +up against the dingy belly. And he could see a bell too—an +ordinary cowbell—that dangled at the creature's breast and +jangled incessantly. All his life nearly Squire Gathers had been +hearing about the Belled Buzzard. Now with his own eye he +was seeing him.</p> + +<p>Once, years and years and years ago, some one trapped a buzzard, +and before freeing it clamped about its skinny neck a copper +band with a cowbell pendent from it. Since then the bird so +ornamented has been seen a hundred times—and heard oftener—over +an area as wide as half the continent. It has been reported, +now in Kentucky, now in Florida, now in North Carolina—now +anywhere between the Ohio River and the Gulf. Crossroads +correspondents take their pens in hand to write to the +country papers that on such and such a date, at such a place, So-and-So +saw the Belled Buzzard. Always it is the Belled Buzzard, +never a belled buzzard. The Belled Buzzard is an institution.</p> + +<p>There must be more than one of them. It seems hard to believe +that one bird, even a buzzard in his prime, and protected by +law in every Southern state and known to be a bird of great age, +could live so long and range so far, and wear a clinking cowbell +all the time! Probably other jokers have emulated the original +joker; probably if the truth were known there have been a dozen +such; but the country people will have it that there is only one +Belled Buzzard—a bird that bears a charmed life and on his +neck a never-silent bell.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Squire Gathers regarded it a most untoward thing that the +Belled Buzzard should have come just at this time. The movements +of ordinary, unmarked buzzards mainly concerned only +those whose stock had strayed; but almost anybody with time to +spare might follow this rare and famous visitor, this belled and +feathered junkman of the sky. Supposing now that some one +followed it to-day—maybe followed it even to a certain thick +clump of cypress in the middle of Little Niggerwool!</p> + +<p>But at this particular moment the Belled Buzzard was heading +directly away from that quarter. Could it be following him?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> +Of course not! It was just by chance that it flew along the +course the squire was taking. But, to make sure, he veered off +sharply, away from the footpath into the high weeds. He was +right; it was only a chance. The Belled Buzzard swung off, too, +but in the opposite direction, with a sharp tonking of its bell, and, +flapping hard, was in a minute or two out of hearing and sight, +past the trees to the westward.</p> + +<p>Again the squire skimped his dinner, and again he spent the +long, drowsy afternoon upon his front gallery. In all the sky +there were now no buzzards visible, belled or unbelled—they had +settled to earth somewhere; and it served somewhat to soothe the +squire's pestered mind. This does not mean, though, that he +was by any means easy in his thoughts. Outwardly he was calm +enough, with the ruminative judicial air befitting the oldest justice +of the peace in the county; but, within him, a little something +gnawed unceasingly at his nerves like one of those small white +worms that are to be found in seemingly sound nuts. About once +in so long a tiny spasm of the muscles would contract the dewlap +under his chin. The squire had never heard of that play, made +famous by a famous player, wherein the murdered victim was a +pedler, too, and a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable remorse +in the murderer's ear. As a strict church goer the squire +had no use for players or for play-actors, and so was spared that +added canker to his conscience. It was bad enough as it was.</p> + +<p>That night, as on the night before, the old man's sleep was +broken and fitful, and disturbed by dreaming, in which he heard +a metal clapper striking against a brazen surface. This was one +dream that came true. Just after daybreak he heaved himself +out of bed, with a flop of his broad bare feet upon the floor, and +stepped to the window and peered out. Half seen in the pinkish +light, the Belled Buzzard flapped directly over his roof and flew +due south, right toward the swamp—drawing a direct line +through the air between the slayer and the victim—or, anyway, +so it seemed to the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Kneedeep in yellow swamp water the squire squatted, with his +shotgun cocked and loaded and ready, waiting to kill the bird that +now typified for him guilt and danger and an abiding great fear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> +Gnats plagued him and about him frogs croaked. Almost overhead +a logcock clung lengthwise to a snag, watching him. Snake-doctors, +insects with bronze bodies and filmy wings, went back and +forth like small living shuttles. Other buzzards passed and repassed, +but the squire waited, forgetting the cramps in his elderly +limbs and the discomfort of the water in his shoes.</p> + +<p>At length he heard the bell. It came nearer and nearer, and +the Belled Buzzard swung overhead not sixty feet up, its black +bulk a fair target against the blue. He aimed and fired, both +barrels bellowing at once and a fog of thick powder smoke enveloping +him. Through the smoke he saw the bird careen, and its +bell jangled furiously; then the buzzard righted itself and was +gone, fleeing so fast that the sound of its bell was hushed almost +instantly. Two long wing feathers drifted slowly down; torn +disks of gunwadding and shredded green scraps of leaves descended +about the squire in a little shower.</p> + +<p>He cast his empty gun from him, so that it fell in the water and +disappeared; and he hurried out of the swamp as fast as his shaky +legs would take him, splashing himself with mire and water to his +eyebrows. Mucked with mud, breathing in great gulps, trembling, +a suspicious figure to any eye, he burst through the weed +curtain and staggered into the open, his caution all gone and a +vast desperation fairly choking him—but the gray road was +empty and the field beyond the road was empty; and, except for +him, the whole world seemed empty and silent.</p> + +<p>As he crossed the field Squire Gathers composed himself. With +plucked handfuls of grass he cleaned himself of much of the +swamp mire that coated him over; but the little white worm that +gnawed at his nerves had become a cold snake that was coiled +about his heart, squeezing it tighter and tighter!</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>This episode of the attempt to kill the Belled Buzzard occurred +in the afternoon of the third day. In the forenoon of the fourth, +the weather being still hot, with cloudless skies and no air stirring, +there was a rattle of warped wheels in the squire's lane and a +hail at his yard fence. Coming out upon his gallery from the innermost +darkened room of his house, where he had been stretched +upon a bed, the squire shaded his eyes from the glare and saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> +the constable of his own magisterial district sitting in a buggy +at the gate waiting for some one.</p> + +<p>The old man came down the dirtpath slowly, almost reluctantly, +with his head twisted up sidewise, listening, watching; but the +constable sensed nothing strange about the other's gait and posture; +the constable was full of the news he brought. He began +to unload the burden of it without preamble.</p> + +<p>"Mornin', Squire Gathers. There's been a dead man found in +Little Niggerwool—and you're wanted."</p> + +<p>He did not notice that the squire was holding on with both +hands to the gate; but he did notice that the squire had a sick look +out of his eyes and a dead, pasty color in his face; and he noticed—but +attached no meaning to it—that when the Squire spoke +his voice seemed flat and hollow.</p> + +<p>"Wanted—fur—whut?" The squire forced the words out of +his throat.</p> + +<p>"Why, to hold the inquest," explained the constable. "The +coroner's sick abed, and he said you bein' the nearest jestice of +the peace should serve."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said the squire with more ease. "Well, where is it—the +body?"</p> + +<p>"They taken it to Bristow's place and put it in his stable for +the present. They brought it out over on that side and his place +was the nearest. If you'll hop in here with me, squire, I'll ride +you right over there now. There's enough men already gathered +to make up a jury, I reckin."</p> + +<p>"I—I ain't well," demurred the squire. "I've been sleepin' +porely these last few nights. It's the heat," he added quickly.</p> + +<p>"Well, such, you don't look very brash, and that's a fact," said +the constable; "but this here job ain't goin' to keep you long. +You see it's in such shape—the body is—that there ain't no +way of makin' out who the feller was, nor whut killed him. There +ain't nobody reported missin' in this county as we know of, +either; so I jedge a verdict of a unknown person dead from unknown +causes would be about the correct thing. And we kin git +it all over mighty quick and put him underground right away, +suh—if you'll go along now."</p> + +<p>"I'll go," agreed the squire, almost quivering in his newborn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> +eagerness. "I'll go right now." He did not wait to get his coat +or to notify his wife of the errand that was taking him. In his +shirtsleeves he climbed into the buggy, and the constable turned +his horse and clucked him into a trot. And now the squire asked +the question that knocked at his lips demanding to be asked—the +question the answer to which he yearned for and yet dreaded.</p> + +<p>"How did they come to find—it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, suh, that's a funny thing," said the constable. "Early +this mornin' Bristow's oldest boy—that one they call Buddy—he +heared a cowbell over in the swamp and so he went to look; +Bristow's got cows, as you know, and one or two of 'em is belled. +And he kept on followin' after the sound of it till he got way +down into the thickest part of them cypress slashes that's near +the middle there; and right there he run acrost it—this body.</p> + +<p>"But, suh, squire, it wasn't no cow at all. No, suh; it was a +buzzard with a cowbell on his neck—that's whut it was. Yes, +suh; that there same old Belled Buzzard he's come back agin and +is hangin' round. They tell me he ain't been seen round here +sence the year of the yellow fever—I don't remember myself, +but that's whut they tell me. The niggers over on the other side +are right smartly worked up over it. They say—the niggers do—that +when the Belled Buzzard comes it's a sign of bad luck for +somebody, shore!"</p> + +<p>The constable drove on, talking on, garrulous as a guinea-hen. +The squire didn't heed him. Hunched back in the buggy he +harkened only to those busy inner voices filling his mind with +thundering portents. Even so, his ear was first to catch above +the rattle of the buggy wheels the faraway, faint tonk-tonk! They +were about halfway to Bristow's place then. He gave no sign, +and it was perhaps half a minute before the constable heard it too.</p> + +<p>The constable jerked the horse to a standstill and craned his +neck over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Well, by doctors!" he cried, "if there ain't the old scoundrel +now, right here behind us! I kin see him plain as day—he's +got an old cowbell hitched to his neck; and he's shy a couple of +feathers out of one wing. By doctors, that's somethin' you won't +see every day! In all my born days I ain't never seen the beat of +that!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span></p> + +<p>Squire Gathers did not look; he only cowered back farther +under the buggy-top. In the pleasing excitement of the moment +his companion took no heed, though, of anything except the +Belled Buzzard.</p> + +<p>"Is he followin' us?" asked the squire in a curiously flat voice.</p> + +<p>"Which—him?" answered the constable, still stretching his +neck. "No, he's gone now—gone off to the left—jest a-zoonin', +like he'd forgot somethin'."</p> + +<p>And Bristow's place was to the left! But there might still be +time. To get the inquest over and the body underground—those +were the main things. Ordinarily humane in his treatment +of stock, Squire Gathers urged the constable to greater speed. +The horse was lathered and his sides heaved wearily as they +pounded across the bridge over the creek which was the outlet to +the swamp and emerged from a patch of woods in sight of Bristow's +farm buildings.</p> + +<p>The house was set on a little hill among cleared fields, and was +in other respects much like the squire's own house, except that it +was smaller and not so well painted. There was a wide yard +in front with shade trees and a lye-hopper and a well-box, +and a paling fence with a stile in it instead of a gate. At the +rear, behind a clutter of outbuildings—a barn, a smokehouse +and a corncrib—was a little peach orchard; and flanking the +house on the right there was a good-sized cowyard, empty of +stock at this hour, with feeding racks ranged in a row against the +fence. A two-year-old negro child, bareheaded and barefooted, +and wearing but a single garment, was grubbing busily in the +dirt under one of these feedracks.</p> + +<p>To the front fence a dozen or more riding horses were hitched, +flicking their tails at the flies; and on the gallery men in their +shirtsleeves were grouped. An old negro woman, with her head +tied in a bandanna and a man's old slouch hat perched upon the +bandanna, peeped out from behind a corner. There were hound +dogs wandering about, sniffing uneasily.</p> + +<p>Before the constable had the horse hitched the squire was out +of the buggy and on his way up the footpath, going at a brisker +step than the squire usually traveled. The men on the porch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> +hailed him gravely and ceremoniously, as befitting an occasion of +solemnity. Afterward some of them recalled the look in his eye; +but at the moment they noted it—if they noted it at all—subconsciously.</p> + +<p>For all his haste the squire, as was also remembered later, was +almost the last to enter the door; and before he did enter he +halted and searched the flawless sky as though for signs of rain. +Then he hurried on after the others, who clumped single file along +a narrow little hall, the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly +under their heavy farm shoes, and entered a good-sized room that +had in it, among other things, a high-piled feather bed and a cottage +organ—Bristow's best room, now to be placed at the disposal +of the law's representatives for the inquest. The squire +took the largest chair and drew it to the very center of the room, +in front of a fireplace, where the grate was banked with withering +asparagus ferns. The constable took his place formally at one +side of the presiding official. The others sat or stood about where +they could find room—all but six of them, whom the squire +picked for his coroner's jury, and who backed themselves against +the wall.</p> + +<p>The squire showed haste. He drove the preliminaries forward +with a sort of tremulous insistence. Bristow's wife brought a +bucket of fresh drinking water and a gourd, and almost before +she was out of the room and the door closed behind her the squire +had sworn his jurors and was calling the first witness, who it +seemed likely would also be the only witness—Bristow's oldest +boy. The boy wriggled in confusion as he sat on a cane-bottomed +chair facing the old magistrate. All there, barring one or two, +had heard his story a dozen times already, but now it was to be +repeated under oath; and so they bent their heads, listening as +though it were a brand-new tale. All eyes were on him; none +were fastened on the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head, +listening—listening.</p> + +<p>The witness began—but had no more than started when the +squire gave a great, screeching howl and sprang from his chair +and staggered backward, his eyes popped and the pouch under his +chin quivering as though it had a separate life all its own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> +Startled, the constable made toward him and they struck together +heavily and went down—both on all fours—right in front of +the fireplace.</p> + +<p>The constable scrambled free and got upon his feet, in a squat +of astonishment, with his head craned; but the squire stayed upon +the floor, face downward, his feet flopping among the rustling +asparagus greens—a picture of slavering animal fear. And now +his gagging screech resolved itself into articulate speech.</p> + +<p>"I done it!" they made out his shrieked words. "I done it! +I own up—I killed him! He aimed fur to break up my home +and I tolled him off into Niggerwool and killed him! There's a +hole in his back if you'll look fur it. I done it—oh, I done it—and +I'll tell everything jest like it happened if you'll jest keep +that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy! Don't you hear it? +It's a-comin' clos'ter and clos'ter—it's a-comin' after me! +Keep it away——" His voice gave out and he buried his head +in his hands and rolled upon the gaudy carpet.</p> + +<p>And now they heard what he had heard first—they heard the +tonk-tonk-tonk of a cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them +along the hallway without. It was as though the sound floated +along. There was no creak of footsteps upon the loose, bare +boards—and the bell jangled faster than it would dangling from +a cow's neck. The sound came right to the door and Squire +Gathers wallowed among the chairlegs.</p> + +<p>The door swung open. In the doorway stood a negro child, +barefooted and naked except for a single garment, eying them +with serious, rolling eyes—and, with all the strength of his two +puny arms, proudly but solemnly tolling a small, rusty cowbell +he had found in the cowyard.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="ISAAC_F_MARCOSSON" id="ISAAC_F_MARCOSSON">ISAAC F. MARCOSSON</a></h2> + + +<p>Isaac Frederick Marcosson, editor and author, was born +at Louisville, Kentucky, September 13, 1876, of Jewish ancestry. +He was educated in the public schools of Louisville, +and attended High School for a year. In 1894 he entered +journalism, joining the staff of the Louisville <i>Times</i>, +of which he was subsequently literary and city editor. In +1903 Mr. Marcosson went to New York, and became associate +editor of <i>The World's Work</i>; and in connection with +this work he served its publishers, Doubleday, Page and +Company, as literary adviser. While with <i>The World's +Work</i> he wrote many articles on topics of vital interest. +From March, 1907, to 1910, Mr. Marcosson was financial +editor of <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i> of Philadelphia. +For <i>The Post</i> he conducted three popular departments: +"Your Savings"; "Literary Folks"; and "Wall Street +Men." Every other week he had a signed article upon +some subject of general interest. Some of his articles +upon "Your Savings" have been collected and published +in a small book, called <i>How to Invest Your Savings</i> (Philadelphia, +1907). Mr. Marcosson's latest book, <i>The Autobiography +of a Clown</i> (New York, 1910), written upon an +unusual subject, attracted wide attention. A part of it +was originally published anonymously as a serial in <i>The +Post</i>, and the response it evoked encouraged Mr. Marcosson +to make a little book of his hero, who was none +other than Jules Turnour, the famous Ringling clown. +Jules furnished the facts, or part of them, perhaps, but +Mr. Marcosson made him more attractive in cold type than +he had ever been under the big tent. <i>The Autobiography +of a Clown</i> deserved all the kind things that were said +about it. Since 1910 Mr. Marcosson has been associate +editor of <i>Munsey's Magazine</i> and the other periodicals<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> +that are owned by Mr. Munsey. His articles usually lead +the magazine.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (April; June; December, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE WAGON CIRCUS<a name="FNanchor_87_87" id="FNanchor_87_87"></a><a href="#Footnote_87_87" class="fnanchor">[87]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Autobiography of a Clown</i> (New York, 1910)]</p> + +<p>All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from +town to town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the +hotel in 'buses or snatched what sleep they could in specially +built vans. The start for the next town was usually made about +three o'clock in the morning. No "run" from town to town was +more than twenty miles, and more often it was considerably +less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader, on horseback, +with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the wagons, and +cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles, neighing +horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it +wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their +seats. The elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy +groom alongside. The route was indicated by flaming torches +left at points where the roads turned. Sometimes these torches +went out, and the show got lost. More than once a farmer was +rudely aroused from his slumbers, and nearly lost his wits when +he poked his head out of his window and saw the black bulk of +an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the picturesque +day of the circus.</p> + +<p>My first engagement was with the Burr Robbins circus, which +was a big wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was +new to me, and at first strange. But I got to like it very much. +It was a great relief to lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and +feel the sweet breath of the country. Often the nights were so +still that the only sounds were the creaking of the wagons, and +occasionally the words, "Mile up," that the elephant driver always +used to urge his patient, plodding beast.</p> + +<p>The circus arrangement then was much different from now. +Then the whole outfit halted outside the town, which was never +reached until after daylight. The canvas men would hurry to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> +the "lot" to put up the tents while we remained behind to spruce +up for the parade. Gay flags were hoisted over the dusty wagons; +the tired and sleepy performers turned out of tousled beds +to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous howdah was +placed on the elephant's back, and a dark-eyed beauty, usually +from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and to +be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter +how long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, +everybody, man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of +course, by this time we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping +countrymen. Often the triumphant parade of the town was +made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no let-up until the +people of the community had had every bit of "free doing" that +the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in the +parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers +changed clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. +If there was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But +sleep and the circus man are strangers during the season. Ask +any circus man when he sleeps, and he will say, "In the winter +time."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="GERTRUDE_KING_TUFTS" id="GERTRUDE_KING_TUFTS">GERTRUDE KING TUFTS</a></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Gertrude King Tufts, author of <i>The Landlubbers</i>, +was born in Boone county, Kentucky, in 1877, the daughter +of Col. William S. King. She was educated in Kentucky +and at private schools in Philadelphia, after which +she took a library course and went to New York to work. +The property she had inherited had been squandered, so +she was compelled to seek her own fortune. For a while +she did well, but her struggle for success was most severe. +For nearly two years Miss King knew "physical pain and +the utter want of money." Finally, however, in 1907, +she became editor of the educational department of the +Macmillan Company, and then she set to work upon her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> +novel, <i>The Landlubbers</i> (New York, 1909), which was first +conceived as a short story, and was finished in the hot +summer of 1908. Polly, heroine, is a school teacher out +West, who hates her job, saves her money, and decides to +see the world. On the trip across the Atlantic, she falls +in with Flossie, confidence queen, and she is soon "broke." +Suicide seems to be the only way out of her predicament +and, at midnight, she quits her state-room to silently slip +into the ocean. She is no sooner on deck, however, than +she is confronted with cries from the crew and captain +that the ship has struck an iceberg and is sinking. The +next day Polly finds herself and Dick, hero-lover, on the +old battered ship and alone. They, then, are "the landlubbers," +and their experiences on the drifting, water-soaked +craft, is the story. Miss King dramatized her +novel, as she is anxious to become famous as a playwright, +"not as a mere yarn-spinner." She also prepared a wonderful +human document of her struggles in New York that +was most interesting as an excellent piece of writing, and +as an advertisement for her book. At the present time +Miss King is said to be engaged upon a "long novel——a +leisurely, picturesque thing into which I want to put a +good deal of life." Miss King was married on February +26, 1912, to Mr. Walter B. Tufts, a New York business +man. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Credo Harris, the Kentucky +novelist.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (May, 1909); <i>Lexington Leader</i> +(May 16, 1909).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">SHIPWRECKED<a name="FNanchor_88_88" id="FNanchor_88_88"></a><a href="#Footnote_88_88" class="fnanchor">[88]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Landlubbers</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<p>I woke, not roused by any unusual sound or motion, but disturbed +by a sense of hovering evil, a horror imminent and unescapable. +I sat up, looked at my watch—for I had not turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> +off the light—and saw that it was toward half-past eleven +o'clock. The great ship was silent, save for the throbbing of her +iron pulses. As I listened, the fog-horn moaned out its warning, +and as the deep note died away seven bells rang faintly from +above. My watch, then, was right—and it was time!</p> + +<p>I remembered what I had to do, and obeyed the decision of my +more wakeful self, though I was far more influenced by the sense +of vague, impersonal fear. Still muffled in the stupor of sleep, +and shaken from head to foot by a nervous trembling, I rose, put +on my long cloak, and flung a scarf over my disordered hair, for +if I were to meet anyone I must seem merely a restless passenger +seeking a breath of fresh air. I moved rapidly as I grew more +wakeful, and tried not to think. From habit I folded my rugs +neatly, and plumped up the pillow on which I had been lying. +My throat and lips were dry, and I drank a glass of water before +I unlocked my door and stepped out into the passage.</p> + +<p>There rose above me a long, horrible cry, a shout blent discordantly +of the voices of two-score men, a fearful sound as of +the essence of brute fear. Many feet pattered upon the deck. +There were wordless shouts, shrieked oaths, sharp commands, +the boatswain's whistle piercing through the whole mass of confused +sound. The great horn boomed just once more—I heard +it through my hands upon my ears as I cowered against the wall.</p> + +<p>Then the deck quivered under my feet as a horrible, grinding, +rending crash shut out every other sound, and the great ship +trembled throughout her length, and began to reel drunkenly +from side to side, settling over, with every swing, further and +further to port.</p> + +<p>A new, more deafening clamour arose all about me, as the +sleepers were aroused, and in half a minute the corridor was +filled with whitefaced people in all sorts of dress and undress, +carrying all kinds of queer treasures, weeping, shrieking, cursing; +there was even laughter, hysterical and uncontrollable, and +strange stammered words of blasphemy, prayer, reassurance, +were shaken out between chattering teeth. A fat steward ran by, +shoving rudely aside those whom till now he had lovingly tended +as the source of tips. Now he struck away the trembling hands +which clutched at his white jacket, ignoring the shivering inquiries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> +as to "What was the matter?" The rapid passage of +him gave the excited crowd the impulse it needed, and as one +man they surged toward the stair—I with the rest.</p> + +<p>But at the foot of the stair reason returned to me, and I reflected +that it was absurd for me to join in the struggle for that +life which I had just prepared to renounce. Here was death +held out to me in the cold hand of Fate, as I could not doubt—and +here was I pitiably trying to thrust away the gift!</p> + +<p>I wrenched myself out of that frantic crowd, and made my way +back to my stateroom with some difficulty, owing to the ship's +unusual motion and the increasing list to port. She quivered no +longer, indeed, but there passed through her from time to time +a long, waving shudder, like the throe of a dying thing, unspeakably +fearful and very sickening. As I passed beyond the +close-packed crowd the sounds of their terror became more awful. +I could discern the cries of little children, the quavering clamour +of the very old. The pity of it overcame me, and I staggered +into my stateroom and closed the door upon it all. But overhead +there was still the swift tramp of feet, the harsh sound of voices—steadier +now, and less multiplied, the tokens of a brave and +awful preparation.</p> + +<p>The next quarter of an hour—for I am sure that the time +could not have been as much as twenty minutes, though it seemed +that I sat with clenched hands for several days—was spent in a +struggle with myself which devoured all my strength. I had +heard much, and, in the folly of my peaceful, untempted youth, +had often spoken of the cowardice of suicide. But now it required +more courage and strength of will than I had ever believed +myself capable of just to sit upon that divan, passively waiting +to give back my warm, vigorous life to the infinity whence it +came. Several times I gave in, and rose and laid my hand upon +the doorknob—and conquered myself and went back to the divan +and sat down again. Meanwhile, the noise went on above and +about me; the fat steward, his face green with fear, flung my +door open without knocking. "To the boats, Miss—captain's +orders—no luggage——" He went on to the next room: "To +the boats, sir!" The room was empty, and he passed to the next: +"To the boats——" His teeth knocked against each other, tears<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> +of fright glittered down his broad face, but I heard him open +doors faithfully the length of the starboard passage. It was, I +suppose, his great hour.</p> + +<p>I went to close the door, and found myself confronted by a +man, barefooted, clad in shirt and trousers. It was Champion. +"You awake, miss? I came to call you—All right? I'm going +to get Mr. Darragh on deck," and he vanished.</p> + +<p>His friendly, anxious look broke down something in me, and I +was on a sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity +awoke again, and I longed for life, for life however stern, +painful, hardwrung from peril and deprivation, for life snatched +with bleeding hands out of the fanged jaws of the universe. I +stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my hand, for I know +not how long. The swaying of the ship became less regular, and +the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened me. +I stepped over the threshold—the ship gave a last long trembling +lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there +rose a mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the +hold, louder cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled +in the dark and fell, striking my head, and something warm and +wet trickled down my face as a huge silence settled down upon +me, swift and gentle as the wing of a great brooding bird, and I +was very peaceful and very happy, for was I not being rocked—no, +I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the big backyard +at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that—I was dying, +for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing +and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed +quietly, gently away.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="CHARLES_HANSON_TOWNE" id="CHARLES_HANSON_TOWNE">CHARLES HANSON TOWNE</a></h2> + + +<p>Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided +life, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, +the son of Professor Paul Towne. He left Kentucky before +he was five years old, and he has been living in New +York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in +the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at +the College of the City of New York. He was editor of +<i>The Smart Set</i> for several years, but he resigned this position +to become literary editor of <i>The Delineator</i>. At the +present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of <i>The Designer</i>, +one of the Butterick publications. With H. +Clough-Leighter he published two song-cycles, entitled <i>A +Love Garden</i>, and <i>An April Heart</i>; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden +he collaborated in the preparation of three +song-cycles, entitled <i>A Lover in Damascus</i>, <i>Five Little +Japanese Songs</i>, and <i>A Dream of Egypt</i>. His original and +independent work is to be found in his three volumes of +verse, the first of which was <i>The Quiet Singer and Other +Poems</i> (New York, 1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted +from various magazines; <i>Manhattan: a Poem</i> (New York, +1909), an epic of New York City; and <i>Youth and Other +Poems</i> (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of domestic +happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems. <i>Manhattan</i> +is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The +poem is the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich +and the poor, the famous and the infamous, from many +points of view. The poet has turned the most commonplace +events of every-day life into verse of exceptional +quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing +show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Bookman</i> (March, 1910); <i>The Forum</i> (June, +1911); <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> (December, 1912).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">SPRING<a name="FNanchor_89_89" id="FNanchor_89_89"></a><a href="#Footnote_89_89" class="fnanchor">[89]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Manhattan, a Poem</i> (New York, 1909)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With silver feet upon the Avenue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first young blossoms—purple violets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And golden daffodils. These are enough—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make the monster City feel the Spring!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One dash of color on her dun-grey hood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One flash of yellow near her pallid face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she and April are the best of friends—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Benighted town that needs a friend so much!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How she responds to that first soft caress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thrills and sings, and for one little time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgets the foolish panic of her sons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wise old crone upon a holiday!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">SLOW PARTING<a name="FNanchor_90_90" id="FNanchor_90_90"></a><a href="#Footnote_90_90" class="fnanchor">[90]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Youth and Other Poems</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was no certain hour<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wherein we said good-bye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But day by day, and year by year<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We parted—you and I;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ever as we met, each felt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shadow of a lie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It would have been too hard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To say a swift farewell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You could not goad your tongue to name<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> +<span class="i2">The words that rang my knell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But better that quick death than this<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Glad heaven and mad hell!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center">OF DEATH</p> + +<p class="center">(To Michael Monahan)</p> + +<p class="center">[From the same]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why should I fear that ultimate thing—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Great Release of clown and king?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why should I dread to take my way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the same shadowed path as they?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But can it be a shadowy road<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereon both Youth and Genius strode?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its unknown length, to meet our God;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since Shelley, with his valiant youth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fared forth to learn the final Truth;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since Milton in his blindness went<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With wisdom and a high content;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Angelo lit with white flame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pathway when God called his name;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Dante, seeking Beatrice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marched fearless down the deep abyss?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where Plutarch went, and Socrates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Browning and Keats, and such as these,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Homer, and Sappho with her song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That echoes still for the vast throng;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lincoln and strong Napoleon,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And calm, courageous Washington;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Great Alexander, Nero—names<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That swept the world with deathless flames—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I need not fear that I shall fall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the Lord God's great Voice shall call;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For I shall find the roadway bright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I go forth some quiet night.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_E_WALLING" id="WILLIAM_E_WALLING">WILLIAM E. WALLING</a></h2> + + +<p>William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, +was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. +When twenty years of age he was graduated from the University +of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he subsequently +did graduate work in economics and sociology for +a year at the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling +has been a resident at the University Settlement in New +York. He has contributed to many of the high-class magazines, +but he is best seen as a writer in his two books, entitled +<i>Russia's Message</i> (New York, 1908); and <i>Socialism +As It Is</i> (New York, 1912). The first title, <i>Russia's Message</i>, +is one of the authoritative works upon that race; and +it has been received as such in many quarters. And the +same statement may be made of his excellent discussion +of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political +and social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, +Long Island. In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan +Company will issue another book for Mr. Walling, +entitled <i>The Larger Aspects of Socialism</i>.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Nation</i> (August 6, 1908); <i>Review of Reviews</i> +(August, 1908); <i>The Independent</i> (May 16, 1912).</p></blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">RUSSIA AND AMERICA<a name="FNanchor_91_91" id="FNanchor_91_91"></a><a href="#Footnote_91_91" class="fnanchor">[91]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Russia's Message</i> (New York, 1908)]</p> + +<p>Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more +than a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world +forms an almost complete economic whole, embracing under a +single government nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all +the raw products used in modern life; both countries are large +exporters of agricultural products, both are devoted more to +agriculture than to manufacturing industry. Both of these +worlds are composed largely of newly acquired and newly settled +territory; though both are inhabited by very many races, in each +a single race prevails numerically and in most other respects over +all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole. As the +result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large +parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture, +unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic +tendencies of England, Germany, or France. We may look, according +to a great German publicist, Kautsky, to America for the +great economic experiments of the near future and to Russia +for the new (social) politics.</p> + +<p>America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, +while Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. +America is the country of economic genius, a nation +whose conceptions of material development have reached even a +spiritual height. The great American qualities, the American +virtues, the American imagination, have thrown themselves almost +wholly into business, the material development of the country. +Americans are the first of modern peoples that have learned +to respect the repeated failures of enterprising individuals with +a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures often lead to +greater heights of success. They have learned how to excuse +enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying +in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of +persons who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, +know how to wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing +the brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> +are satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes +until the time is ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements +in architecture, in which we so clearly lead. All three of +these types of men we admire are true revolutionists, who prefer +to wait, to waste, or to fail, rather than to accept the lesser +for the greater good.</p> + +<p>So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason +for doubting that the near future will show that the political failures +now being made by the Russians are the failures of political +genius, that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later +a hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with +which the Russians are looking forward and working to a great +social transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent +results when that transformation is achieved. Already the political +revolution of the Russian people, though not yet embodied in +political institutions, is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, +as the economic revolution of the United States.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="THOMPSON_BUCHANAN" id="THOMPSON_BUCHANAN">THOMPSON BUCHANAN</a></h2> + + +<p>Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born +at New York City, June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen +years of age his family settled at Louisville, Kentucky; +and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male High School +in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the +Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the +University of the South as his college, and in September, +1895, he reached the little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee +mountains, and matriculated in the University. He +left college without a degree in July, 1897, and returned +to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards +became police court reporter for the now defunct <i>Louisville +Commercial</i>. Mr. Buchanan was connected with the +<i>Commercial</i> until 1900, save six months of service as a +private in the First Kentucky Volunteer Infantry during<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> +the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto +Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared, +returned to his home and to his position on the +paper. In 1900 Mr. Buchanan went with <i>The Courier-Journal</i>; +and during the same year he was dubbed a lieutenant +in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left +Colonel Watterson's paper for <i>The Louisville Herald</i>, of +which he was dramatic critic for more than a year. The +year of 1904 found Mr. Buchanan in New York on <i>The +Evening Journal</i>, with which he was connected for four +years, when he abandoned journalism in order to devote +his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first +book, <i>The Castle Comedy</i> (New York, 1904), a romance of +the time of Napoleon, which many critics compared to +Booth Tarkington's <i>Monsieur Beaucaire</i>, was followed by +<i>Judith Triumphant</i> (New York, 1905), another novel, set +in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of the +Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of <i>The +Castle Comedy</i> was so generally commended, that he decided +to desert the field of fiction for the writing of plays. +His first effort, <i>Nancy Don't Care</i>, was met with a like response +from the public, and the young playwright presented +<i>The Intruder</i>, which certainly justified belief in his +ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. +The play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than +anything he has done hitherto was <i>A Woman's Way</i>, a +comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace George created +the character of the wife with convincing power. <i>Marion +Stanton</i> is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly +rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks +the society of other women, one of whom happens to be +with him when his motor car is wrecked near New Haven +at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows" are +advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details—which +desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> +in type the size of an ordinary country weekly, is +flashed across the "heads" of the big dailies, extras are +put forth hourly, a family conference is called at the +home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South +is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the +accident, and a very merry time is had by all concerned. +The way the woman took out of her difficulties is unfrequented +by many, although it should have been well-worn +long before <i>Marion</i> made it famous. The drama was one +of the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established +its author's reputation. A novelization of <i>A Woman's +Way</i> (New York, 1909), was made by Charles Somerville, +and accorded a large sale, but how infinitely better +would have been a publication of the play as produced! +Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present +time one of the literary fads which should have been in at +the birth and death of Charles Lamb. <i>The Cub</i>, produced +in 1910, a comedy with a mixture of melodrama and farce, +was concerned with a young Louisville newspaper man, "a +cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in the +Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations, +pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated +critic called <i>The Cub</i> "one of the wittiest of plays"—which +opinion was shared by many who saw it. <i>Lula's +Husbands</i>, a farce from the French, was also produced in +1910. <i>The Rack</i>, produced in 1911, was followed by <i>Natalie</i>, +and <i>Her Mother's Daughter</i>, all of which were given +stage presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year +of 1912 writing and rehearsing his new play, <i>The Bridal +Path</i>, a matrimonial comedy in three acts, which is to be +produced in February, 1913. None of his plays have been +issued in book form, but, besides his first two romances +and the novelization of <i>A Woman's Way</i>, two other novels +have appeared, entitled <i>The Second Wife</i> (New York, +1911); and <i>Making People Happy</i> (New York, 1911).<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span> +That Thompson Buchanan is the ablest playwright Kentucky +has produced is open to no sort of serious discussion; +with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is, indeed, +quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists +almost without number, but the practical playwright, +whose lines reach his audience across the footlights, is a +<i>rara avis</i>. Augustus Thomas, the foremost living American +playwright, resided at Louisville for a short time, and +his finest drama, <i>The Witching Hour</i>, is set wholly at +Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's +claim upon him is too slender to admit of much investigation. +Mr. Buchanan has done so much in such a short +space of time that one is tempted to turn his own favorite +shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!"</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Theatre Magazine</i> (April; May, 1909); <i>The +American Magazine</i> (November, 1910); <i>The Green Book</i> (January, +1911).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP<a name="FNanchor_92_92" id="FNanchor_92_92"></a><a href="#Footnote_92_92" class="fnanchor">[92]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>A Woman's Way</i> (<i>Current Literature</i>, New York, June, 1909)]</p> + +<p><i>Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining +General Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and +Whitney, all of whom have had escapades with the winsome +widow.</i></p> + +<blockquote><p><i>General Livingston.</i> I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you, sir, +I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion +any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since +three o'clock.</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> (<i>Sharp.</i>) What!</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall +certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the +story spread on the front page, sure—"Famous old soldier +fined for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man."</p></blockquote> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span></p> +<p>(<i>General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands +twitching, quivering with rage.</i>)</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><i>General Livingston.</i> (<i>Gasps almost tearfully.</i>) Have you newspaper +men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Don't be too hard on us, General. During business +hours, our associations are very bad.</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> What do you mean?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton +in his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all +about the trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come +to give Mr. Stanton a——</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> (<i>Interrupting.</i>) Would the papers print +that?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Would they print it? Well—(<i>Smiles significantly.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers +will take action.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters +up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say +anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in +the car with him at the time of his automobile accident was——(<i>Pauses, +then with dramatic emphasis.</i>) Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore.</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> (Starting back in amazement.) Good gracious!!</p> + +<p><i>Bob and Morris.</i> (<i>Turn, face each other, absolute amazement +showing on their faces, speak together.</i>) Well, what do you +think of that? (<i>Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation +is held a moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch +at first.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Stanton.</i> (<i>As he comes on.</i>) General, I wish to apologize——(<i>Stops +short, seeing Lynch.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> (<i>Whirling on Stanton.</i>) Apologize! Apologize! +How dare you, sir! (<i>Losing his self-control.</i>) My +great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult——</p></blockquote> + +<p>[<i>Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws +for a moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore +must leave the house at once. Marion demurs.</i>]</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> + +<blockquote><p><i>Marion.</i> Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I +must settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, +but you cannot coerce me in my own house. (<i>Walks past him +to the door and opens it.</i>) Good evening, Mr. Lynch.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> (<i>Sincere tone.</i>) I hope you will believe me, Mrs. Stanton, +when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to come +on this errand.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Thank you, Mr. Lynch.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Sorry, but——(<i>Her manner is pleasant and friendly, +but firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts +situation.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Then please understand my position, and how I regret +personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put. +(<i>Marion bows.</i>) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of +that woman.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Yes.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven +wrong.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> I'd expect that. Who is she?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (<i>Lynch pronounces the +name regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, +then throws back her head and gives way to a peal of +laughter. The men on the stage stare at Marion amazed.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. +Lynch. (<i>Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the +men.</i>) Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a +splendid joke! (<i>The men try awkwardly to back her up.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>General Livingston.</i> Splendid! Haw! Haw!</p> + +<p><i>Bob.</i> Fine, he, he!</p> + +<p><i>Morris.</i> (<i>At head of table.</i>) Ho, ho. I never knew anything +like it.</p> + +<p><i>Whitney.</i> I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> (<i>Grimly.</i>) You can't laugh me off.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> (<i>Struggling for self-control.</i>) Of course not. But you +must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial +proof. (<i>Opens door, letting in immediately the sound<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +of women's talking and laughter which stop short as though the +women had looked around at the opening of the door. Calling +in her most dulcet tone.</i>) Elizabeth!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Blakemore.</i> (<i>Her voice heard off stage.</i>) Yes, Marion, +dear. (<i>An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears +at the door.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Come in! (<i>Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly, +almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's +waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving +Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm.</i>) Don't +say a word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! +(<i>Mrs. Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. +They come down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's +waist most affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. +Marion and Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. +Marion speaks gaily.</i>) Mr. Lynch, of the City News, may I +present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> (<i>In amazement.</i>) Mrs. Blakemore!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Blakemore.</i> (<i>Bowing pleasantly.</i>) Glad to meet you, Mr. +Lynch.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> (<i>Repeating, dazed.</i>) Mrs. Blakemore!</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> (<i>Gaily.</i>) And you see she's not lame a bit from her +broken leg.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Blakemore.</i> What's the joke?</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> (<i>Taunting.</i>) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to +find plaintiff and corespondent so friendly.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Blakemore.</i> (<i>Gasping.</i>) Plaintiff! Corespondent!</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down +town to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against +Howard, naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet +of him? (<i>She keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's +waist.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Blakemore.</i> (<i>Taking the cue.</i>) This is awful! Horrible!</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (<i>To +Lynch.</i>) Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch?</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded +clever you might run in a "ringer." (<i>Reaches in his pocket,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span> +brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with +Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up.</i>) Guess you win, Mrs. +Stanton.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Thanks. (<i>Bows satirically.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could +put your arm about the <i>other woman</i>. (<i>A suppressed, gasping +exclamation from the men.</i>)</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch.</p> + +<p><i>Lynch.</i> Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night!</p> + +<p><i>All.</i> (<i>With relief.</i>) Good night.</p> + +<p>[<i>The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps +her arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if +he had forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. +Mrs. Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, +followed by the others.</i> "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks, +"you'll get all that is coming to you." <i>Stanton calls +back Marion who has also deserted the room.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Stanton.</i> Marion! Marion!</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> (<i>Enters.</i>) Has she gone?</p> + +<p><i>Stanton.</i> Who?</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Puss?</p> + +<p><i>Stanton.</i> Oh, she's not my Puss.</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she?</p> + +<p><i>Stanton.</i> God knows—maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the +time. I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't +you forgive me and take me back?</p> + +<p><i>Marion.</i> Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. +Do you think I could stand for that cat—Puss, I mean—in +this house and me off to Reno?</p></blockquote> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Curtain.</span></p> + +<hr class="chap" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="WILL_LEVINGTON_COMFORT" id="WILL_LEVINGTON_COMFORT">WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT</a></h2> + + +<p>Will Levington Comfort, "the new style novelist," was +born at Kalamazoo, Michigan, January 17, 1878. He was +educated in the grammar and high schools of Detroit, and +was at Albion College, Albion, Michigan, for a short time. +Mr. Comfort was a newspaper reporter in Detroit for a +few months, but, in 1898, he did his first real reporting +on papers in Cincinnati, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. +During the Spanish-American War he served in the Fifth +United States Cavalry; and in 1899 he was war correspondent +in the Philippines and China for the "Detroit +Journal Newspaper Syndicate;" and in 1904 he was in +Russia and Japan during the war for the "Pittsburgh +Dispatch Newspaper Syndicate." Thus he followed the +war-god almost around the world; and out of his experiences +he wrote his anti-war novel, <i>Routledge Rides Alone</i> +(Philadelphia, 1909). This proved to be one of the most +popular of recent American novels, now in its ninth edition. +It was followed by <i>She Buildeth Her House</i> (Philadelphia, +1911), his quasi-Kentucky novel. In order to +get the local color for this book, Mr. Comfort spent some +months at Danville, Kentucky, the <i>Danube</i> of the story, +and of his stay in the little town, together with his opinion +of the Kentucky actress in the book, Selma Cross, he has +written: "I always considered Selma Cross the real +thing. I had quite a wonderful time doing her, and she +came to be most emphatically in Kentucky. It was a +night in Danville when some amateur theatricals were put +on, that I got the first idea of a big crude woman with a +handicap of beauty-lack, but big enough to win against +every law. She had to go on the anvil, hard and long. I +was interested to watch her in the sharp odor of decadence +to which her life carried her. She wabbles, becomes +tainted a bit, but rises to shake it all off. I did the Selma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> +Cross part of <i>She Buildeth Her House</i> in the Clemons +House, Danville.... I also did a novelette while I was +in Kentucky. The Lippincotts published it under the +caption, <i>Lady Thoroughbred, Kentuckian</i>." No critic has +written nearer the truth of Selma Cross than the author +himself: "She was a bit strong medicine for most people." +Mr. Comfort has made many horseback trips +through Kentucky, and he has "come to feel authoritative +and warmly tender in all that concerns the folk and the +land." His latest novel, <i>Fate Knocks at the Door</i> (Philadelphia, +1912), is far and away the strongest story he has +written. Mr. Comfort has created a style that the critics +are calling "new, big, but crude in spots;" and it certainly +does isolate him from any other American novelist of today. +Whatever may be said for or against his style, this +much is certain: he who runs may read it—some other +time! His work is seldom clear at first glances. Mr. Comfort +devoted the year 1912 to the writing of a new novel, +<i>The Road of Living Men</i>, which will be issued by his publishers, +the Lippincotts, in March, 1913. He has an attractive +home and family at Detroit.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Lippincott's Magazine</i> (March, 1908); <i>Lippincott's +Magazine</i> (March; April; August, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">AN ACTRESS'S HEART<a name="FNanchor_93_93" id="FNanchor_93_93"></a><a href="#Footnote_93_93" class="fnanchor">[93]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>She Buildeth Her House</i> (Philadelphia, 1911)]</p> + +<p>Selma Cross was sick for a friend, sick from containing herself. +On this night of achievement there was something pitiful in +the need of her heart.</p> + +<p>"New York has turned rather too many pages of life before +my eyes, Selma, for me to feel far above any one whose struggles +I have not endured."</p> + +<p>The other leaned forward eagerly. "I liked you from the first +moment, Paula," she said. "You were so rounded—it seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> +to me. I'm all streaky, all one-sided. You're bred. I'm cattle.... +Some time I'll tell you how it all began. I said I +would be the greatest living tragedienne—hurled this at a lot +of cat-minds down in Kentucky fifteen years ago. Of course, I +shall. It does not mean so much to me as I thought, and it may +be a bauble to you, but I wanted it. Its far-away-ness doesn't +torture me as it once did, but one pays a ghastly price. Yes, it's +a climb, dear. You must have bone and blood and brain—a sort +of brain—and you should have a cheer from below; but I didn't. +I wonder if there ever was a fight that can match mine? If so, +it would not be a good tale for children or grown-ups with delicate +nerves. Little women always hated me. I remember one +restaurant cashier on Eighth Avenue told me I was too unsightly +to be a waitress. I have done kitchen pot-boilers and scrubbed +tenement-stairs. Then, because I repeated parts of plays in those +horrid halls—they said I was crazy.... Why, I have felt a +perfect lust for suicide—felt my breast ache for a cool knife and +my hand rise gladly. Once I played a freak part—that was my +greater degradation—debased my soul by making my body look +worse than it is. I went down to hell for that—and was forgiven. +I have been so homesick, Paula, that I could have eaten +the dirt in the road of that little Kentucky town.... Yes, I +pressed against the steel until something broke—it was the steel, +not me. Oh, I could tell you much!"...</p> + +<p>She paused but a moment.</p> + +<p>"The thing so dreadful to overcome was that I have a body like +a great Dane. It would not have hurt a writer, a painter, even +a singer, so much, but we of the drama are so dependent upon the +shape of our bodies. Then, my face is like a dog or a horse or a +cat—all these I have been likened to. Then I was slow to learn +repression. This a part of culture, I guess—breeding. Mine +is a lineage of Kentucky poor white trash, who knows, but a speck +of 'nigger'? I don't care now, only it gave me a temper of seven +devils, if it was so. These are some of the things I have contended +with. I would go to a manager and he would laugh me along, +trying to get rid of me gracefully, thinking that some of his +friends were playing a practical joke on him. Vhruebert thought +that at first. Vhruebert calls me <i>The Thing</i> now. I could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span> +done better had I been a cripple; there are parts for a cripple. +And you watch, Paula, next January when I burn up things here, +they'll say my success is largely due to my figure and face!"</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="FRANK_WALLER_ALLEN" id="FRANK_WALLER_ALLEN">FRANK WALLER ALLEN</a></h2> + + +<p>Frank Waller Allen, novelist, was born at Milton, Kentucky, +September 30, 1878, the son of a clergyman. He +spent his boyhood days at Louisville, and, in the fall of +1896, he entered Kentucky (Transylvania) University, +Lexington, Kentucky. While in college he was editor of +<i>The Transylvanian</i>, the University literary magazine; +and he also did newspaper work for <i>The Louisville Times</i>, +and <i>The Courier-Journal</i>. Mr. Allen quit college to become +a reporter on the Kansas City <i>Journal</i>, later going +with the Kansas City <i>Times</i> as book editor. He resigned +this position to return to Kentucky University to study +theology. He is now pastor of the First Christian (Disciples) +church, at Paris, Missouri. Mr. Allen's first stories +were published in <i>Munsey's</i>, <i>The Reader</i>, and other periodicals, +but it is upon his books that he has won a wide reputation +in Kentucky and the West. The first title was a +sketch, <i>My Ships Aground</i> (Chicago, 1900), and his next +work was an exquisite tale of love and Nature, entitled +<i>Back to Arcady</i> (Boston, 1905), which has sold far into +the thousands and is now in its third edition. A more +perfect story has not been written by a Kentuckian of Mr. +Allen's years. <i>The Maker of Joys</i> (Kansas City, 1907), +was so slight that it attracted little attention, yet it is +exceedingly well-done; and in his latest book, <i>The Golden +Road</i> (New York, 1910), he just failed to do what one or +two other writers have recently done so admirably. His +Nature-loving tinker falls a bit short, but some excellent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> +writing may be found in this book. Mr. Allen has recently +completed another novel, <i>The Lovers of Skye</i>, which +will be issued by the Bobbs-Merrill Company in the spring +of 1913.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>The Reader Magazine</i> (October, 1905); <i>Who's +Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">A WOMAN ANSWERED</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Maker of Joys</i> (Kansas City, Missouri, 1907)]</p> + +<p>At this moment the servant lifted the tapestries and announced: +"The lady, sir."</p> + +<p>This time, before he could stop her, she took his hand and +kissed it.</p> + +<p>"There was little use in my coming today," she said, "except +to thank you."</p> + +<p>"Why, I do not quite understand you. What for?" asked the +rector in surprise.</p> + +<p>"For answering my question."</p> + +<p>"Tell me?" he replied.</p> + +<p>"You've known me a long time," she answered, "and being +Jimmy Duke, it isn't necessary for me to tell you how I've lived. +But you and me—once youth is gone, sir, and people are a long +time old. I've thought of this a great deal lately, and I've been +trying to decide what's right and what's wrong.... Then I +read in the papers about you. About the things you preach and +the like, and I knew you could tell me. I knew you'd know +whether good people are faking, and which life is best. You see, +I'd never thought of it in all my life before until just a little +while ago. Just a month or such a matter."</p> + +<p>"And now?" asked the Shepherd of St. Mark's.</p> + +<p>"I could have left the old life years ago if I had wanted to," +she continued, ignoring his question. "There is a man—well, +there's several of them—but this a special one, who, for years, +has wanted me to marry him. I always liked him better than +anybody I knew, but I just couldn't give up the life. He is a +plain man in a little village in Missouri, and I thought I'd die if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> +I went. He offered to move to the city and I was afraid for him. +You see I just didn't know what was good and what was bad, yet +I didn't want this man to become like other men I knew."</p> + +<p>"Tell me, what are you going to do?" he asked eagerly. He +had almost said, "Tell me what to do."</p> + +<p>"Well," she answered, "since I have been thinking it all over, +things as they are have become empty. There is no joy in it, and +I am weary of it all.... Yesterday I came to you. I wanted +to ask you whether it was best or not to leave the old life. But I +did not have to ask you. I saw how it was when you told me +what you had done. And O, how I thank you for straightening +it all out for me. Besides," she added with hesitancy, "after I +left you last night I telegraphed for the man in the little village +out west."</p> + +<p>When she had gone he gazed out of the window after her as she +walked buoyant and happy through the night.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," softly said the Maker of Joys, "it is the memory +of the old days that is sweetest after all."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="VENITA_SEIBERT" id="VENITA_SEIBERT">VENITA SEIBERT</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Venita Seibert, whose charming stories of German-American +child life have been widely read and appreciated, +was born at Louisville, Kentucky, December 29, 1878. +Miss Seibert was educated in the Louisville public schools, +and almost at once entered upon a literary career. She +contributed short stories and verse to the leading periodicals, +her first big serial story being published in <i>The +American Magazine</i> during 1907 and 1908, entitled <i>The +Different World</i>. This dealt with the life and imaginings +of a little German-American girl, a dreamy, sensitive +child, and showing the poetry of German home life and the +originality of childhood. The story was highly praised +by Miss Ida M. Tarbell and other able critics. Under the +title of <i>The Gossamer Thread</i> (Boston, 1910), Miss Seibert<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> +brought these tales together in one volume. There +"the chronicles of Velleda, who understood about 'the +different world,'" may be read to the heart's desire. Miss +Seibert, who resides at Louisville, Kentucky, promises +big for the future, and her next book should bring her a +wider public, as well as greater growth in literary power.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>McClure's Magazine</i> (September, 1903); <i>Library +of Southern Literature</i> (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE ORIGIN OF BABIES<a name="FNanchor_94_94" id="FNanchor_94_94"></a><a href="#Footnote_94_94" class="fnanchor">[94]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Gossamer Thread</i> (Boston, 1910)]</p> + +<p>Oh, it was a puzzling world. Not the least puzzling thing was +babies. Mrs. Katzman had come several times with a little brown +satchel and brought one to Tante—a little, little thing that had +to be fed catnip tea and rolled in a shawl and kept out of draughts. +The advantage of having a new baby in the house was that it +meant a glorious period of running wild, for of course one did not +pretend to obey the girl who came to cook. Also, there was much +company who brought nice things to eat for Tante, who naturally +left the biggest part for the children.</p> + +<p>Of course God sent the little babies, but how did he get them +down to Mrs. Katzman? She averred that she got them out of +the river, but this Velleda knew to be a fib, for of course they +would drown in the river. Tante said they fell down from +Heaven, but of course such a fall would kill a little baby. Gros-mamma +Wallenstein said a stork brought them, and for a time +Velleda thought Mrs. Katzman must be a stork; but when she +saw a picture of one she knew that it was only a bird. Then she +decided that the stork carried the babies to Mrs. Katzman's and +she divided them around; but Mrs. Katzman's little boy, questioned +in the most searching manner, declared that he had never +seen a sign of any stork about the premises.</p> + +<p>Just after Baby Ernest's coming, Velleda and Freddy went all +the way to Mrs. Katzman's house—and it was quite a long way, +fully three blocks—to beg her to exchange him for a girl.</p> + +<p>"We've only used him two days and he's just as good as new,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> +stated Velleda, guiltily concealing the fact that he cried a great +deal. But Mrs. Katzman said she really couldn't think of it, as +God settled all those matters himself. It was on this occasion +that Velleda had cross-examined Mrs. Katzman's little boy regarding +the stork. There was no doubting the truth of Georgie's +statements, for he told Velleda dolefully that he himself had +long desired a brother or a sister, but never a baby had he seen +in that house. Evidently Mrs. Katzman fetched them from +somewhere else in the brown satchel.</p> + +<p>"You might have had ours," said Velleda. "We didn't want +him. We prayed for a girl."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you'll soon find out <i>that</i> don't do any good." Georgie +kicked gloomily at a stone. "I used to pray, too, but God's awful +stubborn when it comes to babies."</p> + +<p>Velleda wondered at the strangeness of things. All the little +girls and some of the little boys who had no baby brother or sister +to take care of, thought it a great treat to be allowed to wheel +the baby-buggy up and down the square, really a most irksome +task, as Velleda could testify. At Velleda's house they believed +with the poet that "Time's noblest offspring is the last," so the +baby reigned king, which was not always pleasant for his smaller +slaves. Therefore she wondered at Georgie's taste. However, +since he evidently regarded his brotherless state as a deep misfortune, +she was full of sympathy and would do what she could +for him.</p> + +<p>"You just pray a little harder," she advised; "and," struck +by a brilliant thought, "look in the brown satchel every night! +Maybe you'll find one left over."</p> + +<p>She and Freddy went home feeling very sorry for Georgie. He +was only another illustration of the old saying which Onkel often +commented on—the shoemaker's children wear ragged shoes, the +painter's own house is the last to receive a fresh coat, and the +stork woman has no baby of her own.</p> + +<p>Regarding this great question there was one point upon which +everybody agreed. Velleda had her own system of deciding questions; +she sifted the versions of her various informants, retained +those points upon which all agreed, and upon this common ground +proceeded to erect the structure of her own reasoning. Grown-ups,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span> +she knew, had a weakness for mild fibbing, which was not +lying and not wrong at all, but was naturally very disconcerting +when one burned to learn the real truth about a thing. The +stork theory, the river theory, the falling from Heaven theory—all +possessed one mutual starting point: God sent the little babies. +There was of course no doubt in that regard, and Velleda +finally decided that God placed them in the woods in a certain +spot, marked where they were to go, and then vanished into +Heaven (for of course no one had ever seen God), whereupon +Mrs. Katzman approached with the brown satchel.</p> + +<p>This was a most satisfactory theory, with no flaws in its logic, +reasonable and probable, and conflicting with no known law. The +question was shelved.</p> + +<p>Velleda, going up to the third floor room of Nellie Johnson with +a pitcher of milk which the dairywoman had asked her to deliver, +found the girl huddled up before a small stove, looking so white +and miserable that Velleda's heart ached for her, although she +knew that Nellie was a very wicked person and nobody in the +neighborhood spoke to her. Across her knees lay a white bundle. +Velleda considered the matter.</p> + +<p>"I guess God loves you anyway, Nellie," she concluded. "He +has sent you a little baby."</p> + +<p>The girl tossed the bundle upon the bed with a fierce gesture.</p> + +<p>"God?" she said bitterly. "It ain't God sent that baby. The +Devil sent him!"</p> + +<p>Velleda fled down the stairs.</p> + +<p>It is indeed a puzzling world.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="CHARLES_NEVILLE_BUCK" id="CHARLES_NEVILLE_BUCK">CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK</a></h2> + + +<p>Charles Neville Buck, novelist and short-story writer, +was born near Midway, Kentucky, April 15, 1879. He +spent the first fifteen years of his life at his birthplace, +save the four years he was in South America with his +father, the Hon. C. W. Buck, who was United States Minister +to Peru from 1885 to 1889, and the author of <i>Under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> +the Sun</i>, a Peruvian romance. At the age of fifteen years, +Charles Neville Buck went to Louisville to enter the high +school; and, in 1898, he was graduated from the University +of Louisville. He studied art and joined the staff of +<i>The Evening Post</i>, of Louisville, as cartoonist, which position +he held for a year, when he became an editorial writer +on that paper. Mr. Buck studied law and was admitted to +the bar, but he did not practice. In 1908 he quit journalism +for prose fiction. His short-stories were accepted by +American and English magazines, but he won his first real +reputation with a novel of mental aberration, entitled <i>The +Key to Yesterday</i> (New York, 1910), the scenes of which +were set against Kentucky, France, and South America. +Mr. Buck's next novel, <i>The Lighted Match</i> (New York, +1911), was an international love romance in which a rich +young American falls in love with the princess, and about-to-be-queen, +of a bit of a kingdom near Spain. Benton, +hero, has a rocky road to travel, but he, of course, demolishes +every barrier and proves again that love finds a way. +<i>The Lighted Match</i> is a rattling good story, and it contains +many purple patches between the hiss of the revolutionist's +bomb and lovers' sighs. Mr. Buck's latest novel, +<i>The Portal of Dreams</i> (New York, 1912), was a very clever +story. His first Kentucky novel, and the finest thing +he has done, he and his publisher think, is <i>The Strength of +Samson</i>, which will appear in four parts in <i>The Cavalier</i>, +a weekly magazine, for February, 1913, after which it will +be almost immediately published in book form under the +title of <i>The Call of the Cumberlands</i>. Mr. Buck's home is +at Louisville, Kentucky, but he spends much of his time in +New York, where he lives at the Hotel Earle, in Waverly +Place, a stone's throw from the apartments of his friend, +Thompson Buchanan, the Kentucky playwright.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span></p><blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Harper's Weekly</i> (October 8, 1910); <i>Cosmopolitan +Magazine</i> (August, 1911); <i>Who's Who in America</i> (1912-1913).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY<a name="FNanchor_95_95" id="FNanchor_95_95"></a><a href="#Footnote_95_95" class="fnanchor">[95]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Lighted Match</i> (New York, 1911)]</p> + +<p>Despite the raw edge on the air, the hardier guests at "Idle +Times" still clung to those outdoor sports which properly belonged +to the summer. That afternoon a canoeing expedition +was made up river to explore a cave which tradition had endowed +with some legendary tale of pioneer days and Indian warfare.</p> + +<p>Pagratide, having organized the expedition with that object in +view, had made use of his prior knowledge to enlist Cara for the +crew of his canoe, but Benton, covering a point that Pagratide +had overlooked, pointed out that an engagement to go up the +river in a canoe is entirely distinct from an engagement to come +down the river in a canoe. He cited so many excellent authorities +in support of his contention that the matter was decided in +his favor for the return trip, and Mrs. Porter-Woodleigh, all unconscious +that her escort was a Crown Prince, found in him an +introspective and altogether uninteresting young man.</p> + +<p>Benton and the girl in one canoe, were soon a quarter of a mile +in advance of the others, and lifting their paddles from the water +they floated with the slow current. The singing voices of the +party behind them came softly adrift along the water. All of the +singers were young and the songs had to do with sentiment.</p> + +<p>The girl buttoned her sweater closer about her throat. The +man stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and bent low to +kindle it into a cheerful spot of light.</p> + +<p>A belated lemon afterglow lingered at the edge of the sky +ahead. Against it the gaunt branches of a tall tree traced themselves +starkly. Below was the silent blackness of the woods.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Benton raised his head.</p> + +<p>"I have a present for you," he announced.</p> + +<p>"A present?" echoed the girl. "Be careful, Sir Gray Eyes. +You played the magician once and gave me a rose. It was such +a wonderful rose"—she spoke almost tenderly—"that it has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> +spoiled me. No commonplace gifts will be tolerated after that."</p> + +<p>"This is a different sort of present," he assured her. "This +is a god."</p> + +<p>"A what!" Cara was at the stern with the guiding paddle. +The man leaned back, steadying the canoe with a hand on each +gunwale, and smiled into her face.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "he is a god made out of clay with a countenance +that is most unlovely and a complexion like an earthenware +jar. I acquired him in the Andes for a few <i>centavos</i>. Since +then we have been companions. In his day he had his place in a +splendid temple of the Sun Worshipers. When I rescued him he +was squatting cross-legged on a counter among silver and copper +trinkets belonging to a civilization younger than his own. When +you've been a god and come to be a souvenir of ruins and dead +things—" the man paused for a moment, then with the ghost of +a laugh went on "—it makes you see things differently. In the +twisted squint of his small clay face one reads slight regard for +mere systems and codes."</p> + +<p>He paused so long that she prompted him in a voice that threatened +to become unsteady. "Tell me more about him. What is +his godship's name?"</p> + +<p>"He looked so protestingly wise," Benton went on, "that I +named him Jonesy. I liked that name because it fitted him so +badly. Jonesy is not conventional in his ideas, but his morals +are sound. He has seen religions and civilizations and dynasties +flourish and decay, and it has all given him a certain perspective +on life. He has occasionally given me good council."</p> + +<p>He paused again, but, noting that the singing voices were drawing +nearer, he continued more rapidly.</p> + +<p>"In Alaska I used to lie flat on my cot before a great open fire +and his god-ship would perch crosslegged on my chest. When I +breathed, he seemed to shake his fat sides and laugh. When a +pagan god from Peru laughs at you in a Yukon cabin, the situation +calls for attention. I gave attention.</p> + +<p>"Jonesy said that the major human motives sweep in deep +channels, full-tide ahead. He said you might in some degree regulate +their floods by rearing abutments, but that when you tried +to build a dam to stop the Amazon you are dealing with folly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span> +He argued that when one sets out to dam up the tides set flowing +back in the tributaries of the heart it is written that one must +fail. That is the gospel according to Jonesy."</p> + +<p>He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward. +There was silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, +the dripping of the water from the lifted blades, and the song +drifting down river. Finally Benton added:</p> + +<p>"I don't know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give +you good advice—on those matters which the centuries can't +change."</p> + +<p>Cara's voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears.</p> + +<p>"He has already given me good advice, dear—" she said, +"good advice that I can't follow."</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="GEORGE_BINGHAM" id="GEORGE_BINGHAM">GEORGE BINGHAM</a></h2> + + +<p>George Bingham ("Dunk Botts"), newspaper humorist, +was born near Wallonia, Kentucky, August 1, 1879. He +quit school at the age of ten years to become "the devil" +in a printing office at Eddyville, Kentucky. Two years +later he removed to Mayfield, Kentucky, and accepted a +position on <i>The Mirrow</i>. Shortly afterwards he wrote +his first ficticious "news-letter" from an imaginary +town called Boney Ridge, Kentucky, and submitted it to +the critical eye of a tramp printer. This nomad at once +saw the boy's design: to burlesque the letters received +from the <i>Mirrow's</i> crossroad correspondents; and he encouraged +him. Mr. Bingham remained at Mayfield until +he was twenty years of age, at which time he felt important +enough to go out and see the world. Like most prodigals +homesickness seized him for its very own; and he +started home perched high on a freight train. Homeward +bound he first had the name of his future paper suggested +to him. Battling through a tiny town in Tennessee he +enquired of the brakeman as to its name.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Walhalla," answered the "shack."</p> + +<p>"Hogwallow?" repeated the young Kentuckian.</p> + +<p>"Hell no! Who ever heard of a place called 'Hogwallow'?"</p> + +<p>Upon reaching home Mr. Bingham decided to put the +village of Hogwallow, Kentucky, on the map. His first +letter from that town was printed in the old <i>Mayfield Monitor</i>, +under the pen-name of "Dunk Botts," which he has +retained hitherto. After having written several Hogwallow +letters, he was compelled to accept a position on +a small newspaper; then nothing more was heard of Hogwallow +until 1901, when he wrote a letter every few weeks, +for a year, and then went to California. He "arrived back +home on June 1, 1905, had a chill a week later, and launched +<i>The Hogwallow Kentuckian</i> on July 15." He took the +public into his confidence, telling them that his object was +to conduct a burlesque newspaper, or, rather, a parody on +one. He peopled his imaginary town and its environs +with forty or more characters whose names summed them +up without further ado; and he founded such important +places as Rye Straw, Tickville, Hog Hill church and graveyard, +Wild Onion schoolhouse, Gander Creek, and several +other necessary hamlets and institutions. On May 15, +1909, Mr. Bingham suspended publication in order to make +another trip to California. Two years later he returned +to Kentucky for the sole purpose of resurrecting his paper. +He resumed publication on June 17, 1911, at Paducah, +but Irvin Cobb's town seemingly got on his nerves +and, after three months, he tucked his "sheet" under his +arm and returned to his first love, Mayfield, where he has +remained ever since. <i>The Hogwallow Kentuckian</i> is published +every Saturday night, read in thirty-seven states, +and copied by the leading newspapers of America and +England. Mr. Bingham has written more than five thousand +"news items" for the paper, besides some five hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> +short-stories, sketches, and paragraphs. He contributes +considerable Hogwallow news to Charles Hamilton +Musgrove's<a name="FNanchor_96_96" id="FNanchor_96_96"></a><a href="#Footnote_96_96" class="fnanchor">[96]</a> page in <i>The Evening Post</i> of Louisville; but +he is an "outside contributor," doing his work at Mayfield.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> Letters from Mr. Bingham to the Author; the St. +Louis <i>Post-Dispatch</i> (January 14, 1912).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">HOGWALLOW NEWS</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Hogwallow Kentuckian</i> (December 21, 1912)]</p> + +<p>Atlas Peck can't see why his left shoe wears out so much +quicker than his right one, when his right one does just as much +walking as his left.</p> + +<p>Until times get better and the financial questions of the nation +gets fully settled the Old Miser on Musket Ridge will live on two +hickorynuts per day.</p> + +<p>Sim Flinders has brought back with him from the Calf Ribs +neighborhood a feather bed made of owl feathers. While coming +home with it on his back the other night it was so soft and downy +he fell to sleep while walking along the road.</p> + +<p>Yam Sims appeared in public last Sunday with a new pair of +pants and a striped necktie. They have made a wonderful change +in his appearance, and until they wear out he will rank among +our best people.</p> + +<p>A dawg fight attracted a lot of attention and broke up the conversation +at the Hog Ford moonshine still house the other day. +One of the dawgs belonged to Poke Eazley and the other to Jefferson +Potlocks, and the difficulty came up over some misunderstanding +between their owners.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span></p> +<p>Ellick Hellwanger is fixing to celebrate his wooden wedding +next week with a quart of wood alcohol.</p> + +<p>Tobe Moseley's mule is able to walk around again after being +propped up against a persimmon tree for several days.</p> + +<p>Tobe Moseley took his jug over to the sorghum mill early Tuesday +morning of last week after some molasses, and has not yet +returned. No grave fears, however, are entertained on account +of his protracted absence, as sorghum molasses run slow in cold +weather.</p> + +<p>Bullets have been falling in Hogwallow for the past few days. +They are thought to be those Raz Barlow fired at the moon a few +nights ago.</p> + +<p>Luke Mathewsla has a good hawg pen for sale cheap. It would +make a good front yard, and Luke may move his house up behind +it.</p> + +<p>Cricket Hicks has gone up to Tickville to get an almanac, as he +is on the program for a lot of original jokes at Rye Straw Saturday +night.</p> + +<p>Isaac Hellwanger fell off of a foot lawg while watching a panel +of fence float down Gander creek the other morning. He says it +don't pay to get too interested in one thing.</p> + +<p>Slim Pickens has received through the mails a bottle of dandruff +cure, and he is taking two teaspoonfuls after each meal.</p> + +<p>Poke Eazley has been puny this week with lumbago, and had +to be excused from singing at the Dog Hill church Sunday, being +too weak to carry a tune, or lift his voice.</p> + +<p>Fit Smith is having his shoes remodeled, and will occupy them +next week.</p> + +<p>Columbus Allsop's head has been itching for several days. He +says that is a sign Christmas is coming.</p> + +<p>The Dog Hill Preacher will be surprised by his congregation +next Sunday morning when they will give him a Christmas present, +which they have already bought. The preacher is greatly +surprised every time his congregation gives him anything.</p> + +<p>Fletcher Henstep's geese are being fattened for Christmas, and +have been turned loose in the Musket Ridge corn patches. They +all wear lanterns as it is late before they get in at night.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="MABEL_PORTER_PITTS" id="MABEL_PORTER_PITTS">MABEL PORTER PITTS</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, +Kentucky, January 5, 1884. Her family removed +to Seattle, Washington, when she was a girl, and her education +was received at the Academy of the Holy Names. +Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she +now resides at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories +have appeared in several of the eastern magazines, and +they have been read with pleasure by many people. Her +first book of poems, <i>In the Shadow of the Crag and Other +Poems</i> (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, +five thousand copies having been sold so far. This +seems to show that there are people in the United States +who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is well-known on the +Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her life, but +she must be introduced to the people of her native State, +Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her +poems, a collection of them is promised for early publication, +and she should have a permanent place in the literature +of Kentucky.</p> + +<blockquote class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Overland Monthly</i> (January; December, 1904; +April, 1908).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">ON THE LITTLE SANDY<a name="FNanchor_97_97" id="FNanchor_97_97"></a><a href="#Footnote_97_97" class="fnanchor">[97]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems</i> (Denver, 1907)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its border<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="chap" /> +<h2><a name="MARION_FORSTER_GILMORE" id="MARION_FORSTER_GILMORE">MARION FORSTER GILMORE</a></h2> + + +<p>Miss Marion Forster Gilmore, the young Louisville poet +and dramatist, was born at Anchorage, Kentucky, November +27, 1887. She was educated at Hampton College, +Louisville, and at a private school in Washington, D. C. +At the age of fourteen years she wrote a poem while crossing +the Rocky Mountains that attracted the attention of +Joaquin Miller and Madison Cawein, and won her the +friendship of both poets. When but fifteen years old she +had completed her three-act tragedy of <i>Virginia</i>, set in +Rome during the days of the Decemvirs. This is purely a +play for the study, and hardly fitted for stage presentation, +yet it has been praised by William Faversham, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> +famous actor. Miss Gilmore contributed lyrics to the +<i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> and <i>Leslie's Weekly</i>, which, with +her play, she published in a charming book, entitled <i>Virginia, +a Tragedy, and Other Poems</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, +1910). <i>The Cradle Song</i>, originally printed in the <i>Cosmopolitan</i> +for May, 1908, is one of the best of her shorter +poems. Miss Gilmore has recently returned to her home +at Louisville, after having spent a year in European +travel and study.<a name="FNanchor_98_98" id="FNanchor_98_98"></a><a href="#Footnote_98_98" class="fnanchor">[98]</a></p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Bibliography.</span> <i>Cosmopolitan Magazine</i> (January, 1909); <i>Current +Literature</i> (August, 1910).</p></blockquote> + + +<p class="center">THE CRADLE SONG<a name="FNanchor_99_99" id="FNanchor_99_99"></a><a href="#Footnote_99_99" class="fnanchor">[99]</a></p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems</i> (Louisville, Kentucky, 1910)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Adown the vista of the years,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I turn and look with silent soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As though to catch a muted strain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of melody, that seems to roll<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In tender cadence to my ear.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But, as I wait with eyes that long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The singer to behold—it fades,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And silence ends the Cradle Song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when the shadows of the years<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have lengthened slowly to the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And once again I lay me down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sleep, upon my mother's breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then well I know I ne'er again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall cry to God, "How long? How long?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For, to my soul, her voice will sing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A never-ending Cradle Song.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a><br /><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a><br /><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX">APPENDIX</a></h2> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MRS_AGNES_E_MITCHELL" id="MRS_AGNES_E_MITCHELL">MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL</a></h2> + + +<p>Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority +for the statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author +of <i>When the Cows Come Home</i>, one of the loveliest +lyrics in the language, lived at Louisville for some years, +and that she wrote her famous poem within the confines +of that city. The date of its composition must have been +about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, +but little else is known of her life and literary labors. It +is a real pity that her career has not come down to us in +detail. She certainly "lodged a note in the ear of time," +and firmly fixed her fame with it.</p> + + +<p class="center">WHEN THE COWS COME HOME</p> + +<p class="center">[From <i>The Humbler Poets</i>, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Way down the dusty dingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows are coming home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now sweet and clear, and faint and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The airy tinklings come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like chimings from some far-off tower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or patterings of an April shower<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That makes the daisies grow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Way down the darkening dingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows come slowly home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And old-time friends, and twilight plays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And starry nights and sunny days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come trooping up the misty ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the cows come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft sounds that sweetly mingle,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span> +<span class="i2">The cows are coming home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the fields I hear her OO-OO,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And clang her silver bell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With faint far sounds that mingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows come slowly home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mother-songs of long-gone years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And baby joys, and childish tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And youthful hopes, and youthful fears,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the cows come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By twos and threes and single,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows are coming home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the violet air we see the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the summer sun a-slipping down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maple in the hazel glade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throws down the path a longer shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the hills are growing brown;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By threes and fours and single,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows come slowly home.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same sweet June-day rest and calm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same sweet scent of bud and balm,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the cows come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through fern and periwinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows are coming home.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A-loitering in the checkered stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a drowsy dream;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> +<span class="i0">To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows come slowly home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And up through memory's deep ravine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come the brook's old song—its old-time sheen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the crescent of the silver queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the cows come home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows are coming home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And over there on Morlin hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And over the poplars Venus shines.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And over the silent mill;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a ting-a-ling and jingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cows come slowly home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let down the bars; let in the train<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For dear old times come back again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the cows come home.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a><br /><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span></p> + + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a><br /><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span></p><h2><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX">INDEX</a></h2> + + +<p> +Ainslie, Hew, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_87">87</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_91">91</a><br /> +<br /> +Allen, Frank Waller, II, <a href="#Page_366">366</a>-<a href="#Page_368">368</a><br /> +<br /> +Allen, James Lane, II, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>-<a href="#Page_17">17</a><br /> +<br /> +Allison, Young E., II, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>-<a href="#Page_56">56</a><br /> +<br /> +Altsheler, Joseph A., II, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>-<a href="#Page_149">149</a><br /> +<br /> +Anderson, Miss Margaret S., II, <a href="#Page_318">318</a>-<a href="#Page_320">320</a><br /> +<br /> +Andrews, Mrs. Mary R. S., II, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>-<a href="#Page_110">110</a><br /> +<br /> +Aroni, Ernest, II, <a href="#Page_206">206</a><br /> +<br /> +Audubon, John J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_45">45</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_51">51</a><br /> +<br /> +Audubon, John W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_185">185</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_187">187</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Badin, Stephen T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_30">30</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_34">34</a><br /> +<br /> +Banks, Mrs. Nancy Huston, II, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>-<a href="#Page_20">20</a><br /> +<br /> +Barnett, Mrs. Evelyn S., II, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>-<a href="#Page_122">122</a><br /> +<br /> +Bartlett, Elisha, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_147">147</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_150">150</a><br /> +<br /> +Barton, William E., II, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>-<a href="#Page_129">129</a><br /> +<br /> +Bascom, Henry B., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_98">98</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_102">102</a><br /> +<br /> +Baskett, James Newton, II, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>-<a href="#Page_4">4</a><br /> +<br /> +Bayne, Mrs. Mary Addams, II, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>-<a href="#Page_205">205</a><br /> +<br /> +Beck, George, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_23">23</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_26">26</a><br /> +<br /> +Betts, Mary E. W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_237">237</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_239">239</a><br /> +<br /> +Bingham, George, II, <a href="#Page_375">375</a>-<a href="#Page_378">378</a><br /> +<br /> +Bird, Robert M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_135">135</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_139">139</a><br /> +<br /> +Birney, James G., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_91">91</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_95">95</a><br /> +<br /> +Blackburn, J. C. S., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_232">232</a><br /> +<br /> +Bledsoe, Albert T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_169">169</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_172">172</a><br /> +<br /> +Bolton, Mrs. Sarah T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_228">228</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_230">230</a><br /> +<br /> +Bradford, John, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_5">5</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_7">7</a><br /> +<br /> +Breckinridge, John C., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_231">231</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_234">234</a><br /> +<br /> +Breckinridge, Robert J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_112">112</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_114">114</a><br /> +<br /> +Breckinridge, W. C. P., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_319">319</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_323">323</a><br /> +<br /> +Brodhead, Mrs. Eva Wilder, II, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>-<a href="#Page_273">273</a><br /> +<br /> +Broadus, John A., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_261">261</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_265">265</a><br /> +<br /> +Bronner, Milton, II, <a href="#Page_303">303</a>-<a href="#Page_305">305</a><br /> +<br /> +Brown, John Mason, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Browne, J. Ross, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_200">200</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_204">204</a><br /> +<br /> +Bruner, James D., II, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>-<a href="#Page_186">186</a><br /> +<br /> +Buchanan, Thompson, II, <a href="#Page_355">355</a>-<a href="#Page_362">362</a><br /> +<br /> +Buck, Charles Neville, II, <a href="#Page_371">371</a>-<a href="#Page_375">375</a><br /> +<br /> +Burton, George Lee, II, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>-<a href="#Page_228">228</a><br /> +<br /> +Butler, Mann, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_59">59</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_62">62</a><br /> +<br /> +Butler, William O., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_84">84</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_87">87</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Caldwell, Charles, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_34">34</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_37">37</a><br /> +<br /> +Call, Richard E., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Cawein, Madison, II, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>-<a href="#Page_198">198</a><br /> +<br /> +Childs, Mrs. Mary F., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_356">356</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_359">359</a><br /> +<br /> +Chivers, Thomas H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_152">152</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_156">156</a><br /> +<br /> +Clay, Henry, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_39">39</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_44">44</a><br /> +<br /> +Clay, Mrs. Mary R., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Cobb, Irvin S., II, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>-<a href="#Page_342">342</a><br /> +<br /> +Collins, Lewis, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_104">104</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_106">106</a><br /> +<br /> +Collins, Richard H., 244-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_247">247</a><br /> +<br /> +Comfort, Will Levington, II, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>-<a href="#Page_366">366</a><br /> +<br /> +Connelley, Wm. E., II, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>-<a href="#Page_67">67</a><br /> +<br /> +Conrard, Harrison, II, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>-<a href="#Page_237">237</a><br /> +<br /> +Corwin, Thomas, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_95">95</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_98">98</a><br /> +<br /> +Cosby, Fortunatus, Jr., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_119">119</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_123">123</a><br /> +<br /> +Cottell, Dr. Henry A., II, <a href="#Page_384">384</a><br /> +<br /> +Cotter, Joseph S., II, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>-<a href="#Page_116">116</a><br /> +<br /> +Crittenden, John J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_71">71</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_74">74</a><br /> +<br /> +Crittenden, William L., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_238">238</a><br /> +<br /> +Crockett, Ingram, II, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>-<a href="#Page_80">80</a><br /> +<br /> +Cutter, George W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_176">176</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_179">179</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Dargan, Mrs. Olive Tilford, II, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>-<a href="#Page_262">262</a><br /> +<br /> +Davie, George M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_363">363</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_364">364</a><br /> +<br /> +Daviess, Miss Maria Thompson, II, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>-<a href="#Page_283">283</a><br /> +<br /> +Davis, Jefferson, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_156">156</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_160">160</a><br /> +<br /> +Dazey, Chas. Turner, II, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>-<a href="#Page_71">71</a><br /> +<br /> +Dinsmore, Miss Julia S., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_295">295</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_297">297</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span>Dixon, Mrs. Susan B., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_220">220</a><br /> +<br /> +Doneghy, George W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_146">146</a><br /> +<br /> +Doty, Douglas Z., II, <a href="#Page_239">239</a><br /> +<br /> +Drake, Daniel, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_65">65</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_68">68</a><br /> +<br /> +Duke, Basil W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_323">323</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_325">325</a><br /> +<br /> +Durbin, John P., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_117">117</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_119">119</a><br /> +<br /> +Durrett, Reuben T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_239">239</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_243">243</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Ellis, James Tandy, II, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>-<a href="#Page_230">230</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Filson, John, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_1">1</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_4">4</a><br /> +<br /> +Filson Club, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_241">241</a><br /> +<br /> +Finck, Bert, II, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>-<a href="#Page_255">255</a><br /> +<br /> +Flagg, Edmund, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_194">194</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_196">196</a><br /> +<br /> +Fleming, Walter L., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_158">158</a><br /> +<br /> +Flexner, Mrs. Anne Crawford, II, <a href="#Page_239">239</a><br /> +<br /> +Flexner, Miss Hortense, II, <a href="#Page_381">381</a><br /> +<br /> +Ford, Mrs. Sallie R., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_272">272</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_275">275</a><br /> +<br /> +Foster, Stephen C., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_255">255</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_257">257</a><br /> +<br /> +Fox, John, Jr., II, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>-<a href="#Page_181">181</a><br /> +<br /> +Frazee, Lewis J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_216">216</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_218">218</a><br /> +<br /> +Fruit, John Phelps, II, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>-<a href="#Page_74">74</a><br /> +<br /> +Furman, Miss Lucy, II, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>-<a href="#Page_253">253</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Gallagher, Wm. D., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_160">160</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_163">163</a><br /> +<br /> +Geppert, Mrs. Hester Higbee, II, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>-<a href="#Page_60">60</a><br /> +<br /> +Gilmore, Miss Marion F., II, <a href="#Page_380">380</a>-<a href="#Page_381">381</a><br /> +<br /> +Giltner, Miss Leigh Gordon, II, <a href="#Page_311">311</a>-<a href="#Page_317">317</a><br /> +<br /> +Goodloe, Miss Carter, II, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>-<a href="#Page_222">222</a><br /> +<br /> +Green, Thomas M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_310">310</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_313">313</a><br /> +<br /> +Griffin, Gilderoy W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_331">331</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_333">333</a><br /> +<br /> +Gross, A. Haller, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_151">151</a><br /> +<br /> +Gross, Samuel D., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_150">150</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_152">152</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Harney, John M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_74">74</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_78">78</a><br /> +<br /> +Harney, Will Wallace, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_291">291</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_292">292</a><br /> +<br /> +Harris, Credo, II, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>-<a href="#Page_297">297</a><br /> +<br /> +Hatcher, John E., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_276">276</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_278">278</a><br /> +<br /> +Hentz, Mrs. Caroline L., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_114">114</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_116">116</a><br /> +<br /> +Herrick, Mrs. Sophia, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_171">171</a><br /> +<br /> +Holley, Horace, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_52">52</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_56">56</a><br /> +<br /> +Holley, Mrs. Mary A., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_69">69</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_71">71</a><br /> +<br /> +Holmes, Daniel Henry, II, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>-<a href="#Page_47">47</a><br /> +<br /> +Holmes, Mrs. Mary J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_265">265</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_269">269</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Imelda, Sister, II, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>-<a href="#Page_235">235</a><br /> +<br /> +Imlay, Gilbert, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_11">11</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_16">16</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Jeffrey, Mrs. Rosa V., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_269">269</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_272">272</a><br /> +<br /> +Johnson, Thomas, Jr., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_19">19</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_23">23</a><br /> +<br /> +Johnston, Mrs. Annie Fellows, II, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>-<a href="#Page_169">169</a><br /> +<br /> +Johnston, J. Stoddard, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_292">292</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_294">294</a><br /> +<br /> +Johnston, William P., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_288">288</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_290">290</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Kelley, Andrew W., II, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>-<a href="#Page_53">53</a><br /> +<br /> +Ketchum, Mrs. Annie C., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_247">247</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_249">249</a><br /> +<br /> +Kinkead, Miss Eleanor T., II, <a href="#Page_175">175</a><br /> +<br /> +Knott, J. Proctor, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_282">282</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_284">284</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Lampton, Will J., II, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>-<a href="#Page_101">101</a><br /> +<br /> +Leonard, Miss Mary F., II, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>-<a href="#Page_144">144</a><br /> +<br /> +Litsey, Edwin Carlile, II, <a href="#Page_300">300</a>-<a href="#Page_302">302</a><br /> +<br /> +Lloyd, John Uri, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_364">364</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_368">368</a><br /> +<br /> +Lorimer, George Horace II, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>-<a href="#Page_233">233</a><br /> +<br /> +Lyon, Matthew, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_8">8</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_11">11</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +McAfee, Mrs. Nelly M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_353">353</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_356">356</a><br /> +<br /> +McClung, John A., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_139">139</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_142">142</a><br /> +<br /> +McElroy, Mrs. Lucy Cleaver, II, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>-<a href="#Page_142">142</a><br /> +<br /> +McElroy, Robert M., II, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>-<a href="#Page_293">293</a><br /> +<br /> +McKinney, Mrs. Kate S., II, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>-<a href="#Page_86">86</a><br /> +<br /> +Macaulay, Mrs. Fannie C., II, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>-<a href="#Page_184">184</a><br /> +<br /> +MacKenzie, A. S., II, <a href="#Page_305">305</a>-<a href="#Page_307">307</a><br /> +<br /> +Madden, Miss Eva A., II, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>-<a href="#Page_172">172</a><br /> +<br /> +Magruder, Allan B., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_37">37</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_39">39</a><br /> +<br /> +Marcosson, Isaac F., II, <a href="#Page_343">343</a>-<a href="#Page_345">345</a><br /> +<br /> +Marriner, Harry L., II, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>-<a href="#Page_264">264</a><br /> +<br /> +Marriott, Crittenden, II, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>-<a href="#Page_217">217</a><br /> +<br /> +Martin, Mrs. George M., II, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>-<a href="#Page_202">202</a><br /> +<br /> +Marshall, Humphrey, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_26">26</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_29">29</a><br /> +<br /> +Marshall, Thomas F., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_123">123</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_126">126</a><br /> +<br /> +Marvin, William F., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_145">145</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_147">147</a><br /> +<br /> +Mason, Miss Emily V., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_191">191</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_193">193</a><br /> +<br /> +Menefee, Richard H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_173">173</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_175">175</a><br /> +<br /> +Mulligan, James H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_348">348</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_352">352</a><br /> +<br /> +Murphy, Miss Ethel Allen, II, <a href="#Page_381">381</a><br /> +<br /> +Musgrove, Charles Hamilton, II, <a href="#Page_377">377</a><br /> +<br /> +Mitchel, Ormsby M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_166">166</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_169">169</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span>Mitchell, Mrs. Agnes E., II, <a href="#Page_385">385</a>-<a href="#Page_386">386</a><br /> +<br /> +Morehead, James T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_102">102</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_104">104</a><br /> +<br /> +Morehead, Mrs. L. M., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_103">103</a><br /> +<br /> +Morris, Rob, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_205">205</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_207">207</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Navarro, Mary Anderson de, II, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>-<a href="#Page_104">104</a><br /> +<br /> +Norris, Mrs. Zoe A., II, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>-<a href="#Page_139">139</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Obenchain, Mrs. Eliza Calvert, II, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>-<a href="#Page_84">84</a><br /> +<br /> +O'Hara, Theodore, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_218">218</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_228">228</a><br /> +<br /> +O'Malley, Charles J., II, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>-<a href="#Page_91">91</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Patterson, John, II, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>-<a href="#Page_125">125</a><br /> +<br /> +Pattie, James O., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_142">142</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_144">144</a><br /> +<br /> +Penn, Shadrach, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_82">82</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_83">83</a><br /> +<br /> +Perrin, William H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Perry, Bliss, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_252">252</a><br /> +<br /> +Peter, Dr. Robert, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_241">241</a><br /> +<br /> +Petrie, Mrs. Cordia G., II, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>-<a href="#Page_279">279</a><br /> +<br /> +Piatt, Mrs. Sarah M. B., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_303">303</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_307">307</a><br /> +<br /> +Pickett, Thomas E., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_241">241</a><br /> +<br /> +Pirtle, Alfred, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Pitts, Miss Mabel Porter, II, <a href="#Page_379">379</a>-<a href="#Page_380">380</a><br /> +<br /> +Plaschke, Paul, II, <a href="#Page_377">377</a><br /> +<br /> +Polk, Jefferson J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_126">126</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_128">128</a><br /> +<br /> +Portor, Miss Laura S., II, <a href="#Page_308">308</a>-<a href="#Page_310">310</a><br /> +<br /> +Prentice, George D., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_129">129</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_135">135</a><br /> +<br /> +Price, Samuel W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Price, William T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_359">359</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_362">362</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Quisenberry, A. C., II, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>-<a href="#Page_28">28</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Rafinesque, C. S., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_56">56</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_58">58</a><br /> +<br /> +Ranck, George W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Rankin, Adam, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_17">17</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_19">19</a><br /> +<br /> +Rice, Mrs. Alice Hegan, II, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>-<a href="#Page_243">243</a><br /> +<br /> +Rice, Cale Young, II, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>-<a href="#Page_289">289</a><br /> +<br /> +Ridgely, Benj. H., II, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>-<a href="#Page_135">135</a><br /> +<br /> +Rives, Mrs. Hallie Erminie, II, <a href="#Page_297">297</a>-<a href="#Page_300">300</a><br /> +<br /> +Roach, Mrs. Abby Meguire, II, <a href="#Page_320">320</a>-<a href="#Page_323">323</a><br /> +<br /> +Robertson, George, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_78">78</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_82">82</a><br /> +<br /> +Robertson, Harrison, II, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>-<a href="#Page_77">77</a><br /> +<br /> +Robins, Miss Elizabeth, II, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>-<a href="#Page_162">162</a><br /> +<br /> +Rouquette, Adrien E., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_187">187</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_191">191</a><br /> +<br /> +Rule, Lucien V., II, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>-<a href="#Page_266">266</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Schoonmaker, E. D., II, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>-<a href="#Page_294">294</a><br /> +<br /> +Seibert, Miss Venita, II, <a href="#Page_368">368</a>-<a href="#Page_371">371</a><br /> +<br /> +Semple, Miss Ellen C., II, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>-<a href="#Page_165">165</a><br /> +<br /> +Shaler, Nathaniel S., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_336">336</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_342">342</a><br /> +<br /> +Sherley, Douglass, II, <a href="#Page_110">110</a><br /> +<br /> +Shindler, Mrs. Mary P., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_179">179</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_180">180</a><br /> +<br /> +Shreve, Thomas H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_163">163</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_166">166</a><br /> +<br /> +Slaughter, Mrs. Elvira M., II, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>-<a href="#Page_114">114</a><br /> +<br /> +Smith, Langdon, II, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>-<a href="#Page_96">96</a><br /> +<br /> +Smith, William B., II, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>-<a href="#Page_26">26</a><br /> +<br /> +Smith, Z. F., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_258">258</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_261">261</a><br /> +<br /> +Spalding, John L., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_334">334</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_335">335</a><br /> +<br /> +Spalding, Martin J., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_181">181</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_184">184</a><br /> +<br /> +Speed, Thomas, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Stanton, Henry T., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_297">297</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_302">302</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Taylor, Zachary, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_62">62</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_65">65</a><br /> +<br /> +Tevis, Mrs. Julia A., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_107">107</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_111">111</a><br /> +<br /> +Towne, Charles Hanson, II, <a href="#Page_350">350</a>-<a href="#Page_353">353</a><br /> +<br /> +Tufts, Mrs. Gertrude King, II, <a href="#Page_345">345</a>-<a href="#Page_349">349</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Underwood, Francis H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_250">250</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_254">254</a><br /> +<br /> +Underwood, Oscar W., II, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>-<a href="#Page_155">155</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Verhoeff, Miss Mary, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_241">241</a><br /> +<br /> +Vest, George G., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_285">285</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_287">287</a><br /> +<br /> +Visscher, William L., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_342">342</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_344">344</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Walling, W. E., II, <a href="#Page_353">353</a>-<a href="#Page_355">355</a><br /> +<br /> +Waltz, Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry, II, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>-<a href="#Page_209">209</a><br /> +<br /> +Walworth, Miss Reubena H., II, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>-<a href="#Page_211">211</a>.<br /> +<br /> +Warfield, Mrs. Catherine A., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_197">197</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_200">200</a><br /> +<br /> +Warfield, Ethelbert D., II, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>-<a href="#Page_118">118</a><br /> +<br /> +Watterson, Henry, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_325">325</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_331">331</a><br /> +<br /> +Watts, William C., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_279">279</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_282">282</a><br /> +<br /> +Webber, Charles W., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_211">211</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_215">215</a><br /> +<br /> +Weir, James, Senior, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_234">234</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_237">237</a><br /> +<br /> +Welby, Mrs. Amelia B., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_207">207</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_211">211</a><br /> +<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span>Whitsitt, William H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_240">240</a><br /> +<br /> +Willson, Forceythe, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_313">313</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_319">319</a><br /> +<br /> +Wilson, Richard H., II, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>-<a href="#Page_247">247</a><br /> +<br /> +Wilson, Robert Burns, II, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>-<a href="#Page_35">35</a><br /> +<br /> +Winchester, Boyd, I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_307">307</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_310">310</a><br /> +<br /> +Wood, Henry Cleveland, II, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>-<a href="#Page_63">63</a><br /> +<br /> +Woods, William Hervey, II, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>-<a href="#Page_49">49</a><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +Young, Bennett H., I, <a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_344">344</a>-<a href="../../39406/39406-h/39406-h.htm#Page_348">348</a><br /> +</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<div class="fn"><h4>FOOTNOTES</h4> + +<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Copyright, 1900, by the Macmillan Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Copyright, 1908, by the Outlook Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Copyright, 1908, by the Curtis Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Copyright, 1903, by the Macmillan Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by McClure, Phillips and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by Richard G. Badger.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by the Filson Club.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Copyright, 1887, by O. M. Dunham.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Mrs. Geppert died at Scarsborough-on-the-Hudson, New York, February +23, 1913. Her remains were not brought to Kentucky for interment.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Copyright, 1890, by the Belford Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Copyright, 1897, by Jacob Litt.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Copyright, 1908, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by Little, Brown and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Copyright, 1887, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> Copyright, 1894, by the Advocate Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by L. E. Bassett and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by the Pearson Publishing Company, New York.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Copyright, 1908, by the Pearson Publishing Co., New York.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Copyright, 1896, by Osgood, McIlvaine and Company, London.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> (George) Douglass Sherley, born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 27, +1857; educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and University of +Virginia; joined staff of the old Louisville <i>Commercial</i>; made lecture tour +with James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet; now resides near Lexington, +Kentucky. Author of: <i>The Inner Sisterhood</i> (Louisville, 1884); <i>The Valley +of Unrest</i> (New York, 1884); <i>Love Perpetuated</i> (Louisville, 1884); <i>The +Story of a Picture</i> (Louisville, 1884). Mr. Sherley has done much occasional +writing since his four books were published, which has appeared in the form +of calendars, leaflets, and in newspapers.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by B. W. Huebsch and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> Copyright, 1893, by Robert Clarke and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> Copyright, 1897, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Copyright, 1900, by D. Appleton and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Macmillan Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by Henry Holt and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Copyright, 1901, by L. C. Page and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> Copyright, 1902, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> When Mr. Fox followed the trail of the Goebel tragedy he was poaching +upon the especial preserves of Miss Eleanor Talbot Kinkead, whose romance +of the "autocrat," <i>The Courage of Blackburn Blair</i> (New York, 1907), +was widely read and reviewed. Miss Kinkead was born in Kentucky, and, +besides the story mentioned above, is the author of <i>'Gainst Wind and Tide</i> +(Chicago, 1892); <i>Young Greer of Kentucky</i> (Chicago, 1895); <i>Florida Alexander</i> +(Chicago, 1898); and <i>The Invisible Bond</i> (New York, 1906).</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by P. F. Collier and Son.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by the Century Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> Copyright, 1896, by Copeland and Day.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> Copyright, 1903, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by the Macmillan Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by the Standard Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic +Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be gathered +from the files of <i>The Courier-Journal</i>. Mr. Aroni's fame has lingered +in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never published a book or +wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial writer on <i>The North +American</i>, Philadelphia.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_56_56" id="Footnote_56_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_56"><span class="label">[56]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_57_57" id="Footnote_57_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor_57_57"><span class="label">[57]</span></a> Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_58_58" id="Footnote_58_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor_58_58"><span class="label">[58]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_59_59" id="Footnote_59_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor_59_59"><span class="label">[59]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_60_60" id="Footnote_60_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor_60_60"><span class="label">[60]</span></a> <i>Mr. Opp</i> was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor, and +presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly sent to the +store-house. <i>Mrs. Wiggs</i> was put into play-form by Mrs. Anne (Laziere) +Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the title-role. Mrs. +Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at Vassar; married +Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at Louisville until June, +1905, since which time she has spent a year in Cambridge, Mass., and a year +abroad; now residing in New York City. She has written two original plays: +<i>A Man's Woman</i>, in four acts; and <i>A Lucky Star</i>, the fount of inspiration +being a novel by C. N. and A. M. Williamson, entitled <i>The Motor Chaperon</i>, +which was produced by Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller +part, at the Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. +W. Mason's story, <i>Miranda of the Balcony</i> (London, 1899), which was produced +in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only successful +woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real pity that none +of her plays have been published. <i>Mrs. Wiggs</i> has held the "boards" for +eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_61_61" id="Footnote_61_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor_61_61"><span class="label">[61]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_62_62" id="Footnote_62_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor_62_62"><span class="label">[62]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by Henry Holt and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_63_63" id="Footnote_63_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63_63"><span class="label">[63]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Century Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_64_64" id="Footnote_64_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor_64_64"><span class="label">[64]</span></a> Copyright, 1900, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_65_65" id="Footnote_65_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65_65"><span class="label">[65]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_66_66" id="Footnote_66_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor_66_66"><span class="label">[66]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_67_67" id="Footnote_67_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor_67_67"><span class="label">[67]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_68_68" id="Footnote_68_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor_68_68"><span class="label">[68]</span></a> Copyright, 1903, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_69_69" id="Footnote_69_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69_69"><span class="label">[69]</span></a> Copyright, 1894, by Harper and Brothers.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_70_70" id="Footnote_70_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor_70_70"><span class="label">[70]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_71_71" id="Footnote_71_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor_71_71"><span class="label">[71]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_72_72" id="Footnote_72_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor_72_72"><span class="label">[72]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_73_73" id="Footnote_73_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor_73_73"><span class="label">[73]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Phillips Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_74_74" id="Footnote_74_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor_74_74"><span class="label">[74]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by Moffat, Yard and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_75_75" id="Footnote_75_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75_75"><span class="label">[75]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_76_76" id="Footnote_76_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor_76_76"><span class="label">[76]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by Little, Brown and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_77_77" id="Footnote_77_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor_77_77"><span class="label">[77]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by L. E. Bassett.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_78_78" id="Footnote_78_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor_78_78"><span class="label">[78]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_79_79" id="Footnote_79_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor_79_79"><span class="label">[79]</span></a> Copyright, 1905, by Houghton, Mifflin Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_80_80" id="Footnote_80_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor_80_80"><span class="label">[80]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_81_81" id="Footnote_81_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81_81"><span class="label">[81]</span></a> Copyright, 1904, by the Frank A. Munsey Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_82_82" id="Footnote_82_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor_82_82"><span class="label">[82]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_83_83" id="Footnote_83_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83_83"><span class="label">[83]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_84_84" id="Footnote_84_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor_84_84"><span class="label">[84]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by the Atlantic Monthly Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_85_85" id="Footnote_85_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor_85_85"><span class="label">[85]</span></a> Copyright, 1906, by Harper and Brothers.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_86_86" id="Footnote_86_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor_86_86"><span class="label">[86]</span></a> Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_87_87" id="Footnote_87_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor_87_87"><span class="label">[87]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by Moffat, Yard and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_88_88" id="Footnote_88_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88_88"><span class="label">[88]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_89_89" id="Footnote_89_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor_89_89"><span class="label">[89]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by Mitchell Kennerley.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_90_90" id="Footnote_90_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor_90_90"><span class="label">[90]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by Mitchell Kennerley.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_91_91" id="Footnote_91_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor_91_91"><span class="label">[91]</span></a> Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday, Page and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_92_92" id="Footnote_92_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor_92_92"><span class="label">[92]</span></a> Copyright, 1909, by the Current Literature Publishing Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_93_93" id="Footnote_93_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93_93"><span class="label">[93]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by J. B. Lippincott Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_94_94" id="Footnote_94_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor_94_94"><span class="label">[94]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by Small, Maynard and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_95_95" id="Footnote_95_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor_95_95"><span class="label">[95]</span></a> Copyright, 1911, by W. J. Watt and Company.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_96_96" id="Footnote_96_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor_96_96"><span class="label">[96]</span></a> Mr. Musgrove, who is to leave <i>The Post</i> at the end of 1912 to become +humorist editor of <i>The Louisville Times</i>, was born in Kentucky, and is the author +of a charming volume of verse, <i>The Dream Beautiful and Other Poems</i> +(Louisville; 1898). He is to issue in 1913 another book of poems, through a +Louisville firm, to be entitled <i>Pan and Aeolus</i>. When Mr. Musgrove joins +<i>The Times</i> he will take <i>The Post's</i> clever cartoonist, Paul Plaschke, with him; +and they will occupy an office next to Colonel Henry Watterson's in the new +Courier-Journal and Times building.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_97_97" id="Footnote_97_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor_97_97"><span class="label">[97]</span></a> Copyright, 1907, by the Author.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_98_98" id="Footnote_98_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor_98_98"><span class="label">[98]</span></a> There are two other young women poets of Louisville who should be +mentioned in the same breath with Miss Gilmore: Miss Ethel Allen Murphy, +author of <i>The Angel of Thought and Other Poems</i> (Boston, 1909), and contributor +of brief lyrics to <i>Everybody's Magazine</i>; and Miss Hortense Flexner, +on the staff of <i>The Louisville Herald</i>, whose poems in the new <i>Mammoth +Cave Magazine</i> have attracted much attention. Miss Flexner is to have a +poem published in <i>The American Magazine</i> in 1913.</p> + +<p><a name="Footnote_99_99" id="Footnote_99_99"></a><a href="#FNanchor_99_99"><span class="label">[99]</span></a> Copyright, 1910, by the Author.</p></div> + +<hr class="chap" /> +<div class="tn"> + +<h4>Transcriber's Notes:</h4> + +<ul class="corrections"> + +<li>Obvious punctuation and spelling errors fixed throughout.</li> + +<li>The oe ligature in this etext has been replaced with œ.</li> + +<li>Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original.</li> + +<li>Page 106: The title and italicization has been changed from (... little +story, <i>With A Good Samaritan</i> ...) to this (... little story, with <i>A +Good Samaritan</i> ...) to match the title in the rest of the text.</li> + +<li>Page 392: In the Index Mulligan, Murphy and Musgrove are entered out +of alphabetic order as in the original.</li> + +</ul></div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2, by +John Wilson Townsend + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + +***** This file should be named 39407-h.htm or 39407-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/0/39407/ + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2 + 1784-1912 + +Author: John Wilson Townsend + +Release Date: July 6, 2012 [EBook #39407] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + + + + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. Alley, III and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images generously made +available by The Internet Archive/Million Book Project) + + + + + + + + + + + +KENTUCKY IN +AMERICAN LETTERS + + +OTHER WORKS BY MR. TOWNSEND + + _Richard Hickman Menefee._ 1907 + _Kentuckians in History and Literature._ 1907 + _The Life of James Francis Leonard._ 1909 + _Kentucky: Mother of Governors._ 1910 + _Lore of the Meadowland._ 1911 + + + + +KENTUCKY IN +AMERICAN LETTERS + +1784-1912 + + +BY + +JOHN WILSON TOWNSEND + + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY + +JAMES LANE ALLEN + + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. II + + +THE TORCH PRESS +CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA +NINETEEN THIRTEEN + +_Of this edition one thousand sets have been printed, of which +this is number_ +241 + +COPYRIGHT 1913 +BY THE TORCH PRESS +PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 1913 + +[Illustration] + + + To + Mary Katherine Bullitt + and + Samuel Judson Roberts + and to their memories + + + + +CONTENTS + + + JAMES N. BASKETT 1 + "I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUSE 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL" 2 + + JAMES LANE ALLEN 4 + KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY: AN ADDRESS 9 + THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE 13 + + NANCY HUSTON BANKS 17 + ANVIL ROCK 18 + THE OLD FASHIONED FIDDLERS 19 + + WILLIAM B. SMITH 20 + A SOUTHERN VIEW OF THE NEGRO PROBLEM 22 + THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH 24 + + ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY 27 + THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN 27 + + ROBERT BURNS WILSON 29 + LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER 32 + WHEN EVENING COMETH ON 32 + + DANIEL HENRY HOLMES 36 + BELL HORSES 39 + MY LADY'S GARDEN 40 + LITTLE BLUE BETTY 42 + THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL 44 + MARGERY DAW 45 + + WILLIAM H. WOODS 47 + SYCAMORES 48 + + ANDREW W. KELLEY 49 + THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY 50 + LATE NEWS 52 + + YOUNG E. ALLISON 53 + ON BOARD THE DERELICT 54 + + HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT 57 + THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL 58 + + HENRY C. WOOD 60 + THE WEAVER 61 + + WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY 63 + KANSAS HISTORY 65 + + CHARLES T. DAZEY 67 + THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE 70 + + JOHN P. FRUIT 72 + THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY 72 + + HARRISON ROBERTSON 74 + TWO TRIOLETS 75 + STORY OF THE GATE 75 + + INGRAM CROCKETT 77 + AUDUBON 78 + THE LONGING 79 + DEAREST 80 + + ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN 81 + "SWEET DAY OF REST" 82 + + KATE SLAUGHTER MCKINNEY 85 + A LITTLE FACE 85 + + CHARLES J. O'MALLEY 86 + ENCELADUS 88 + NOON IN KENTUCKY 90 + + LANGDON SMITH 91 + EVOLUTION 92 + + WILL J. LAMPTON 98 + THESE DAYS 98 + OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR 99 + CHAMPAGNE 100 + + MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO 101 + LAZY LOUISVILLE 102 + + MARY R. S. ANDREWS 104 + THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT 106 + + ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER 110 + THE SOUTH AND SONG 111 + SUNDOWN LANE 113 + + JOSEPH S. COTTER 115 + NEGRO LOVE SONG 115 + + ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD 116 + CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 117 + + EVELYN S. BARNETT 119 + THE WILL 119 + + JOHN PATTERSON 123 + A CLUSTER OF GRAPES 124 + CHORAL ODE FROM EURIPIDES 125 + + WILLIAM E. BARTON 126 + A WEARY WINTER 128 + + BENJ. H. RIDGELY 129 + A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT 131 + + ZOE A. NORRIS 135 + THE CABARET SINGER 137 + IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS 138 + + LUCY CLEAVER MCELROY 139 + OLD ALEC HAMILTON 140 + + MARY F. LEONARD 142 + GOODBY 143 + + JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 144 + THE CALL OF THE DRUM 146 + + OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD 150 + THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS 151 + + ELIZABETH ROBINS 156 + A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT 158 + + ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE 162 + MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE 163 + + ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON 165 + THE MAGIC KETTLE 167 + + EVA A. MADDEN 170 + THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL" 170 + + JOHN FOX, JR. 172 + THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON 176 + + FANNIE C. MACAULAY 181 + APPROACHING JAPAN 183 + + JAMES D. BRUNER 184 + THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA 185 + + MADISON CAWEIN 187 + CONCLUSION 191 + INDIAN SUMMER 192 + HOME 193 + LOVE AND A DAY 193 + IN A SHADOW GARDEN 195 + UNREQUITED 196 + A TWILIGHT MOTH 196 + + GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 198 + EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE 199 + + MARY ADDAMS BAYNE 202 + THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER 203 + + ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ 205 + PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN 207 + + REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH 209 + THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES 210 + + CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT 211 + THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY 213 + + ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE 217 + A COUNTESS OF THE WEST 218 + + GEORGE LEE BURTON 222 + AFTER PRISON--HOME 223 + + JAMES TANDY ELLIS 228 + YOUTHFUL LOVERS 229 + + GEORGE HORACE LORIMER 230 + HIS SON'S SWEETHEART 232 + + SISTER IMELDA 233 + A JUNE IDYL 234 + HEART MEMORIES 235 + A NUN'S PRAYER 235 + + HARRISON CONRAD 236 + IN OLD TUCSON 236 + A KENTUCKY SUNRISE 237 + A KENTUCKY SUNSET 237 + + ALICE HEGAN RICE 238 + THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES 239 + + RICHARD H. WILSON 244 + SUSAN--VENUS OF CADIZ 245 + + LUCY FURMAN 247 + A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE 249 + + BERT FINCK 254 + BEHIND THE SCENES 254 + + OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN 255 + NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS 258 + + HARRY L. MARRINER 262 + WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR 263 + SIR GUMSHOO 264 + + LUCIEN V. RULE 265 + WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU? 265 + THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD 266 + + EVA WILDER BRODHEAD 267 + THE RIVALS 269 + + CORDIA GREER PETRIE 273 + ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR 274 + + MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS 279 + MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES 281 + + CALE YOUNG RICE 284 + PETRARCA AND SANCIA 285 + + ROBERT M. MCELROY 289 + GEORGE ROGERS CLARK 290 + + EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER 293 + THE PHILANTHROPIST 294 + + CREDO HARRIS 295 + BOLOGNA 295 + + HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES 297 + THE BISHOP SPEAKS 298 + + EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY 300 + THE RACE OF THE SWIFT 301 + + MILTON BRONNER 303 + MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN 304 + + A. S. MACKENZIE 305 + A KELTIC TALE 306 + + LAURA SPENCER PORTOR 308 + THE LITTLE CHRIST 309 + BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH 310 + + LEIGH GORDON GILTNER 311 + THE JESTING GODS 311 + + MARGARET S. ANDERSON 318 + THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK 318 + NOT THIS WORLD 319 + WHISTLER 320 + + ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH 320 + UNREMEMBERING JUNE 321 + + IRVIN S. COBB 323 + THE BELLED BUZZARD 327 + + ISAAC F. MARCOSSON 343 + THE WAGON CIRCUS 344 + + GERTRUDE KING TUFTS 345 + SHIPWRECKED 346 + + CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 350 + SPRING 351 + SLOW PARTING 351 + OF DEATH 352 + + WILLIAM E. WALLING 353 + RUSSIA AND AMERICA 354 + + THOMPSON BUCHANAN 355 + THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP 358 + + WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT 363 + AN ACTRESS'S HEART 364 + + FRANK WALLER ALLEN 366 + A WOMAN ANSWERED 367 + + VENITA SEIBERT 368 + THE ORIGIN OF BABIES 369 + + CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK 371 + THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY 373 + + GEORGE BINGHAM 375 + HOGWALLOW NEWS 377 + + MABEL PORTER PITTS 379 + ON THE LITTLE SANDY 379 + + MARION FORSTER GILMORE 380 + THE CRADLE SONG 381 + + APPENDIX 383 + + MRS. AGNES B. MITCHELL 385 + WHEN THE COWS COME HOME 385 + + + + +KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN LETTER + + + + +JAMES NEWTON BASKETT + + +James Newton Baskett, novelist and scientist, was born near Carlisle, +Kentucky, November 1, 1849. He was taken to Missouri in early life by +his parents. He was graduated from the University of Missouri in 1872, +since which time he has devoted himself almost exclusively to fiction +and to comparative vertebrate anatomy, with ornithology as his +particular specialty. At the world's congress of ornithologists at the +Columbian Exposition in 1893, Mr. Baskett presented a paper on _Some +Hints at the Kinship of Birds as Shown by Their Eggs_, which won him the +respect of scientists from many lands. He has published three scientific +works and three novels: _The Story of the Birds_ (New York, 1896); _The +Story of the Fishes_ (New York, 1899); _The Story of the Amphibians and +Reptiles_ (New York, 1902); and his novels: _At You All's House_ (New +York, 1898); _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900); and his most recent +book, _Sweet Brier and Thistledown_ (Boston, 1902). Of this trio of +tales the first one, _At You All's House_, is the best and the best +known, Mr. Baskett's masterpiece hitherto. For the Texas Historical +Society he wrote, in 1907, a series of papers upon the _Early Spanish +Expedition in the South and Southwest_. With the exception of three +years spent in Colorado for the benefit of his health, Mr. Baskett has +resided at Mexico, Missouri, since leaving Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Athenaeum_ (July 28, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (October, 1900); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, + v. i). + + +"I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUS 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL"[1] + +[From _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900)] + +They had been boy and girl together, not schoolmates nor next-farm +neighbors, but their homes were in the same region. Her father's house +was far enough away to make the boy's visits not so frequent as to +foster the familiarity which breeds contempt, yet they gave him an +occasional little journey out of the humdrum of home lanes, and away +from the monotonous sweep of the prairie's flat horizon. + +Hers was rather a timber farm, located on the other side of Flint +Creek, where the woods began to fringe out upon the treeless plain +again; but his was high out eastward upon the prairie swell, several +miles from water. From his place the wooded barrier between them +seemed only a brown level brush-stroke upon the sky's western margin. + +Sometimes, when he was tired from his day's work afield, he watched the +sun sink behind this border, which the distance made so velvety; and, if +the day were clear, it looked to him as if the great glowing ball were +lying down upon a cushion for its comfort. If it set in a bank of cloud +or storm, it seemed to send up long streaming, reaching stripes, as if +it waved a farewell to the sky, and stretched a last grasp at the day as +it left it, or shot a rocket of distress as it sank. + +When a child he had often sent her his good-will upon the westering +messenger, and he imagined that the beams, sometimes shot suddenly out +from beneath a low-hung cloudy curtain, were answers to his greetings. +Long after it was dreary at his place, he fancied the light was still +cuddling somewhere in the brush near her and that it was cheery yet +over there. + +When he was seven and she was three, he was visiting at her house one +day. She was sitting on a bench in the old, long porch, shouting to +him, her elder brother, and some others, as they came toward her from +a romp out in the orchard. Suddenly Bent bantered the boys for a race +to the baby; and, swinging their limp wool hats in their hands, they +sped toward her. The child caught the jubilance of the race, and when +Bent dropped first beside her, she grabbed him about the neck, laid +the rose of her cheek against the tan of his, and said: + +"I 'oves 'oo best, 'tause 'oo beat 'em all." + +The act was an infant tribute to prowess, a bound here in babyhood of +the heart which wants but does not weigh; of the body which asks but +does not question. The boy felt his heart go to meet hers, so that the +little girl stood ever after as his idol. As time went on, his +reverence for her as a lisper grew as she became a lass; and though, +out of the dawning to them of what the years might bring, there came +eras of pure embarrassment, wherein their firmness and trust wavered a +little, yet confiding companionship came anew and stayed, till some +new revelation of each to self or other barred for a time again their +ease and intimacy. They were man and woman now, with a consciousness +of much that the grown-up state must finally mean to them, if this +continued. There was the freedom from embarrassment which experience +brings; but there came with all this a sort of proximity of hopes and +aims, which, burdened sweetly with its own importance, persisted with +a presage of a crisis down the line. + +He could no longer ride up to her side as she left the stile at church, +and, without a previous engagement or the lubricant of a commonplace, +open a conversation right into the heart of things. When she responded +to him now it was with a shy sort of confidence which admits so much yet +defines so little. Yet never when they met did they fail to pick up the +thread, which tended to bind them closer and closer, and give it a +conscious snatch of greater strain, till, as either looked back at the +skein of incidents, there came a delightful feeling of hopeless +entanglement in this fibre of their fate. However, the ends of the +filament were free and floating yet, as the fray of a swirling gossamer +in the autumn wind. Day by day these two felt that these frayed ends +would meet sometime; and hold? or snap? and then? and then! + +Nothing had ever strongly tried their attachment. Yet there was +creeping now into the heart of each a sort of heaviness--a wondering, +at least--if the other was still holding true to the childish troth; a +definite sort of mental distrust was abiding between them, along with +a readiness to be equal to anything which an emergency might bring. +But in their hearts they were lovers still. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[1] Copyright, 1900, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +JAMES LANE ALLEN + + +James Lane Allen, the foremost living American master of English +prose, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, December 21, 1849. His home +was situated some five miles from Lexington, on the old Parker's Mill +road, and it was burned to the ground more than thirty years ago. He +was the seventh and youngest child of Richard Allen, a Kentuckian, and +his wife, Helen Foster Allen, a native of Mississippi. Lane Allen, as +he was known in Kentucky until he became a distinguished figure in +contemporary letters, was interested in books and Nature when a boy +under his mother's tutelage. He was early at Kentucky University, now +rechristened with its ancient name, Transylvania. Mr. Allen was +valedictorian of the class of 1872; and five years later the degree of +Master of Arts was granted him, after an amusing quibble with the +faculty regarding the length of his oration, _The Survival of the +Fittest_. He began his career as teacher of the district school at the +rural village of Slickaway, which is now known as Fort Spring, about +two miles from his birthplace. He taught this school but one year, +when he went to Richmond, Missouri, to become instructor of Greek in +the high school there. A few years later he established a school for +boys at Lexington, Missouri. Mr. Allen returned to Kentucky to act as +tutor in a private family near Lexington; and in 1878, he was elected +principal of the Kentucky University Academy. He resigned this +position, in 1880, to accept the chair of Latin and English in Bethany +College, Bethany, West Virginia, which he occupied for two years, when +he returned once more to Lexington, Kentucky, to open a private school +for boys in the old Masonic Temple. In 1884 Mr. Allen discarded the +teacher's garb for that of a man of letters, and since that time he +has devoted his entire attention to literature. + +While his kinsfolk and acquaintances regarded him with quiet wonder, +if not alarmed astonishment, he carefully arranged his traveling bags +and set his face toward the city of his dreams and thoughts--New York. +Once there he shortly discovered that it was a deal easier to get into +the kingdom of heaven than into the pages of the great periodicals, +yet he had come to the city to make a name for himself in literature +and he was not to be denied. His struggle was most severe, but his +victory has been so complete that the bitterness of those days has +been blown aside. The first seven or eight years of his life as a +writer, Mr. Allen divided between New York, Cincinnati, and Kentucky. +He finally quit Kentucky in 1893, and he has not been in the state +since 1898, at which time his _alma mater_ conferred the honorary +degree of LL. D. upon him. He now resides in New York. + +Mr. Allen began with short essays for _The Critic_, _The Continent_, +_The Independent_, _The Manhattan_, and other periodicals; and he +contributed some strong and fine poems to _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The +Interior_, _Harper's Monthly_, _Lippincott's Magazine_, _The +Independent_, and elsewhere. But none of these represented the true +beginning of his work, of his career. His first short-story to attract +general attention was _Too Much Momentum_, published in _Harper's +Magazine_ for April, 1885. It, however, was naturally rather stiff, as +the author was then wielding the pen of a 'prentice. This was followed +by a charming essay, _The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky_, in +_Harper's_ for February, 1886, and which really pointed the path he +was to follow so wonderfully well through the coming years. + +His first noteworthy story, _Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_, appeared in +_The Century Magazine_ for April, 1888. Then followed fast upon each +other's heels, _The White Cowl_; _King Solomon of Kentucky_, perhaps +the greatest short-story he has written; _Posthumous Fame_; _Flute +and Violin_; and _Sister Doloroso_, all of which were printed in the +order named, and in _The Century_, save _Flute and Violin_, which was +originally published in _Harper's Magazine_ for December, 1890. These +"Kentucky tales and romances" were issued as Mr. Allen's first book, +entitled _Flute and Violin_ (New York, 1891; Edinburgh, 1892, two +volumes). Many of the author's admirers have come to regard these +stories as the finest work he has done. As backgrounds for them he +wrote a series of descriptive and historical papers upon Kentucky, +originally published in _The Century_ and _Harper's_, and collected in +book form under the title of the first of them, _The Blue Grass Region +of Kentucky_ (New York, 1892). Up to this time Mr. Allen had written +nothing but short-stories, verses, and sketches. While living at +Cincinnati he wrote his first novelette, _John Gray_ (Philadelphia, +1893), which first appeared in _Lippincott's Magazine_ for June, 1892. +This is one of the author's strongest pieces of prose fiction, though +it has been well-nigh forgotten in its original form. + +These three books fitted Mr. Allen for the writing of an American +classic, _A Kentucky Cardinal_ (New York, 1894), another novelette, +which was published in two parts in _Harper's Magazine_ for May and +June, 1894, prior to its appearance in book form. This, with its +sequel, _Aftermath_ (New York, 1895), is the most exquisite tale of +nature yet done by an American hand. It at once defies all praise, or +adverse criticism, being wrought out as perfectly as human hands can +well do. At the present time the two stories may be best read in the +large paper illustrated edition done by Mr. Hugh Thomson, the +celebrated English artist, to which Mr. Allen contributed a charming +introduction. _Summer in Arcady_ (New York, 1896), which passed +through the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ as _Butterflies_, was a rather +realistic story of love and Nature, and somewhat strongly drawn for +the tastes of many people. When his complete works appear in twelve +uniform volumes, in 1913 or 1914, this "tale of nature" will be +entitled _A Pair of Butterflies_. + +_The Choir Invisible_ (New York, 1897), Mr. Allen's first really long +novel, was an augmented _John Gray_, and it placed him in the forefront +of American novelists. Mr. Orson Lowell's illustrated edition of this +work is most interesting; and it was dramatized in 1899, but produced +without success, as the author had prophesied. Later in the same year +_Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_ appeared as a bit of a book, and was +cordially received by those of the author's admirers who continued to +regard it as his masterpiece. _The Reign of Law_ (New York, 1900), a +tale of the Kentucky hemp-fields, of love, and evolution, was published +in London as _The Increasing Purpose_, because of the Duke of Argyll's +prior appropriation of that title for his scientific treatise. The +prologue upon Kentucky hemp strengthened Mr. Allen's reputation as one +of the greatest writers of descriptive prose ever born out of Europe. It +was widely read and discussed--in at least one quarter of the +country--with unnecessary bitterness, if not with blind bigotry. + +_The Mettle of the Pasture_ (New York, 1903), which was first +announced as _Crypts of the Heart_, is a love story of great beauty, +saturated with the atmosphere of Kentucky to a wonderful degree, yet +it has not been sufficiently appreciated. For the five years following +the publication of _The Mettle_, Mr. Allen was silent; but he was +working harder than ever before in his life upon manuscripts which he +has come to regard as his most vital contributions to prose fiction. +In the autumn of 1908 his stirring speech at the unveiling of the +monument to remember his hero, King Solomon of Kentucky, was read; and +three months later _The Last Christmas Tree_, brief prelude to his +Christmas trilogy, appeared in _The Saturday Evening Post_. _The Bride +of the Mistletoe_ (New York, 1909), part first of the trilogy, is one +of the finest fragments of prose yet published in the United States. +It aroused criticism of various kinds in many quarters, one declaring +it to be one thing, and one another, but all agreeing that it was +something new and wonderful under our literary sun. The critics of +to-morrow may discover that _The Bride_ was the foundation-stone of +the now much-heralded _Chunk of Life School_ which has of late taken +London by the ears. Yet, between _The Bride_ and _The Widow of the Bye +Street_ a great gulf is fixed. Part two of the trilogy was first +announced as _A Brood of the Eagle_, but it was finally published as +_The Doctor's Christmas Eve_ (New York, 1910). This, one of Mr. +Allen's longest novels, was met by adverse criticism based on several +grounds, but upon none more pointedly than what was alleged to be the +unnatural precocity of the children, who do not appear to lightly flit +through the pages in a way that our old-fashioned conventions would +prescribe they should, but somewhat seem to clog the unfolding of the +tale. Whatever estimate one may place upon _The Doctor_, he can +scarcely be held to possess the subtile charm of _The Bride_. The +third and final part of this much-discussed trilogy will hardly be +published before 1914, or perhaps even subsequent to that date. + +_The Heroine in Bronze_ (New York, 1912), is Mr. Allen's latest novel. +It is an American love story with all of the author's exquisite +mastery of language again ringing fine and true. For the first time +Mr. Allen largely abandons Kentucky as a landscape for his story, the +action being in New York. The phrase "my country," that recurs +throughout the book, succeeds the "Shield," which, in _The Bride of +the Mistletoe_, was the author's appellation for Kentucky. The sequel +to _The Heroine_--the story the boy wrote for the girl--is now +preparing. + +Twenty years ago Mr. Allen wrote, "Kentucky has little or no +literature;" and while he did not write, perhaps, with the whole +horizon of its range before him, there was substantial truth in the +statement. The splendid sequel to his declaration is his own +magnificent works. He pointed out the lack of merit in our literature, +but he did a far finer and more fitting thing: he at once set out upon +his distinguished career and has produced a literature for the state. +He has created Kentucky and Kentuckians as things apart from the +outside world, a miniature republic within a greater republic; and no +one knows the land and the people other than imperfectly if one cannot +see and feel that his conception is clear and sentient. With a light +but firm touch he has caught the shimmering atmosphere of his own +native uplands and the idiosyncrasies of their people with all the +fidelity with which the camera gives back a material outline. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Stories of James Lane Allen_, by L. W. Payne, + Jr., in _The Sewanee Review_ (January, 1900); _James Lane Allen's + Country_, by Arthur Bartlett, _The Bookman_ (October, 1900); + _Famous Authors_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1901); _Authors of Our + Day in Their Homes_, by F. W. Halsey (New York, 1902); _Social + Historians_, by H. A. Toulmin, Jr. (Boston, 1911). + + +KING SOLOMON OF KENTUCKY: AN ADDRESS[2] + +[From _The Outlook_ (December 19, 1908)] + +We are witnessing at present a revival of conflict between two ideas +in our civilization that have already produced a colossal war; the +idea of the greatness of our Nation as the welded and indissoluble +greatness of the States, and the idea of the separate dignity and +isolated power of each sovereign commonwealth. The spirit of the +Nation reaches out more and more to absorb into itself its own parts, +and each part draws back more and more into its own Attic supremacy +and independence, feeling that its earlier struggles were its own +struggles, that its heroes were its own heroes, and that it has +memories which refuse to blend with any other memories. It will +willingly yield the luster of its daily life to the National sun, but +by night it must see its own lighthouses around its frontiers--beacons +for its own wandering mariner sons and a warning to the Nation itself +that such lights are sacred wherever they stand and burn. + +But if the State more and more resists absorption into the Federal +life, then less and less can it expect the Nation to do what it +insists is its own peculiar work; the greater is the obligation +resting upon it to make known to the Nation its own peculiar past and +its own incommunicable greatness. Among the States of the Union none +belongs more wholly to herself and less to the Nation than does +Kentucky; none perhaps will resist more passionately the encroachments +of Federal control; and upon her rests the very highest obligation to +write her own history and make good her Attic aloofness. + +But there is no nobler or more eloquent way in which a State can set +forth its annals than by memorializing its great dead. The flag of a +nation is its hope; its monuments are its memories. But it is also true +that the flag of a country is its memory, and that its monuments are its +hopes. And both are needed. Each calls aloud to the other. If you should +go into any land and see it covered with monuments and nowhere see its +flag, you would know that its flag had gone down into the dust and that +its hope was ended. If you should travel in a land and everywhere see +its flag and nowhere its monuments, you would ask yourself, Has this +people no past that it cares to speak of? and if it has, why does it not +speak of it? But when you visit a country where you see the flag proudly +flying and proud monuments standing everywhere, then you say, Here is a +people who are great in both their hopes and in their memories, and who +live doubly through the deeds of their dead. + +Where are Kentucky's monuments for her battlefields? There are some; +where are the others? Where are her monuments for her heroes that she +insists were hers alone? Over her waves the flag of her hopes; where +are the monuments that are her memories? + +This man whom you memorialize to-day was not, in station or +habiliment, one of Kentucky's higher heroes; his battlefield was the +battlefield of his own character; but the honor rightly heaped upon +him at last makes one remember how many a battlefield and how many a +hero remain forgotten. Not alone the fields and heroes of actual war, +but of civic and moral and scientific and artistic leadership. These +ceremonies--whom will they incite to kindred action elsewhere? What +other monuments will they build? + +There is a second movement broader than any question of State or +National patriotism, in which these ceremonies also have their place. +It is the essential movement of our time in the direction of a new +philanthropy. + +No line of Shakespeare has ever been perhaps more quoted than this: +"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with +their bones." It is true that he put the words into the mouth of a +Roman of old; but they were true of the England of his time and they +remained true for centuries after his death. But within the last one +hundred years or less an entirely new spirit has been developed; a +radically new way of looking at human history and at human character +has superseded the old. The spirit and genius of our day calls for the +recasting of Shakespeare's lines: Let the evil that men do be buried +with them; let the good they did be found out and kept alive. + +I wish to take one illustration of the truth of this from the history +of English literature. + +Do you know when and where it was that satire virtually ceased to exist +in English literature? It was at the birthplace and with the birth of +Charles Darwin. From Darwin's time, from the peak on which he stood, a +long slope of English literature sinks backward and downward toward the +past; and on that shadowy slope stand somewhere the fierce satirists of +English letters. Last of them all, and standing near where Darwin stood, +is the great form of Thackeray. All his life he sought for perfection in +human character and never found it. He searched England from the throne +down for the gentleman and never found the gentleman. The life-long +quest sometimes left him bitter, always left him sad. For all of +Thackeray's work was done under the influence of the older point of +view, that the frailties of men should be scourged out of them and +could be. Over his imagination brooded the shadow of a vast myth--that +man had thrown away his own perfection, that he was a fallen angel, who +wantonly refused to regain his own paradise. + +And now from the peak of the world's thought on which Darwin stood, +the other slope of English literature comes down to us and will pass +on into the future. And as marking the beginning of the modern spirit +working in literature, there on this side of Darwin, near to him as +Thackeray stood near to him on the other side, is the great form of +George Eliot. George Eliot saw the frailties of human nature as +clearly as Thackeray saw them; she loved perfection as greatly as he +loved perfection; but on her lips satire died and sympathy was born. +She was the first of England's great imaginative writers to breathe in +the spirit of modern life and of modern knowledge--that man himself is +a developing animal--a creature crawling slowly out of utter darkness +toward the light. You can satirize a fallen angel who willfully +refuses to regain his paradise; but you cannot satirize an animal who +is developing through millions of years his own will to be used +against his own instincts. + +And this new spirit of charity not only pervades the new literature of +the world, but has made itself felt in every branch of human action. + +It has affected the theatre and well-nigh driven the drama of satire +from the stage. Every judge knows that it goes with him to the bench; +every physician knows that it accompanies him into the sick-room; +every teacher knows that he must reckon with it as he tries to govern +and direct the young; every minister knows that it ascends with him +into his pulpit and takes wing with his prayer. + +And thus we come back around a great circle of the world's endeavor to +the simple ceremony of this hour and place. There is but one thing to +be said; it is all that need be said; it is an attempt to burnish one +corner of a hero's dimmed shield. + +It is autumn now, the season of scythe and sickle. Time, the Reaper, +long ago reaped from the field of this man's life its heroic deed; and +now after so many years it has come back to his grave and thrown down +the natural increase. On the day when King Solomon was laid here the +grass began to weave its seamless mantle across his frailties; but out +of his dust sprang what has since been growing--what no hostile hand can +pluck away, nor any wind blow down--the red flower of a man's passionate +service to his fellow-men when they were in direst need of him. + +And so, long honor to his name! A new peace to his ashes! + + +THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE[3] + +[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, December 5, 1908)] + +The stars burn out one by one like candles in too long a night. + +Children, you love the snow. You play in it, you hunt in it; it brings +the tinkling of sleighbells, it gives white wings to the trees and new +robes to the world. Whenever it falls in your country, sooner or later +it vanishes: forever falling and rising, forming and falling and +melting and rising again--on and on through the ages. + +If you should start from your homes and travel northward, after a +while you would find that everything is steadily changing: the air +grows colder, living things begin to be left behind, those that remain +begin to look white, the music of the earth begins to die out; you +think no more of color and joy and song. On you journey, and always +you are traveling toward the silent, the white, the dead. And at last +you come to the land of sunlessness and silence--the reign of snow. + +If you should start from your homes and travel southward, as you crossed +land after land, in the same way you would begin to see that life was +failing, colors fading, the earth's harmonies being replaced by the +discords of Nature's lifeless forces, storming, crushing, grinding. And +at last you would reach the threshold of another world that you dared +not enter and that nothing alive ever faces--the home of the frost. + +If you should rise straight into the air above your housetops, as +though you were climbing the side of an unseen mountain, you would +find at last that you had ascended to a height where the mountain +would be capped with snow. All round the earth, wherever its mountains +are high enough, their summits are capped with the one same snow; for +above us, everywhere, lies the upper land of eternal cold. + +Some time in the future, we do not know when, but some time in the +future, the Spirit of the Cold at the north will move southward; the +Spirit of the Cold at the south will move northward; the Spirit of the +Cold in the upper air will move downward to meet the other two. When the +three meet there will be for the earth one whiteness and silence--rest. + + * * * * * + +A great time had passed--how great no one knew; there was none to +measure it. + +It was twilight and it was snowing. On a steep mountainside, near its +bald summit, thousands of feet above the line that any other living +thing had ever crossed, stood two glorious fir trees, strongest and last +of their race. They had climbed out of the valley below to this lone +height, and there had so rooted themselves in rock and soil that the +sturdiest gale had never been able to dislodge them; and now the twain +occupied that beetling rock as the final sentinels of mortal things. + +They looked out toward the land on one side of the mountain; at the +foot of it lay a valley, and there, in old human times, a village had +thriven, church spires had risen, bridal candles had twinkled at +twilight. On the opposite side they looked toward the ocean--once the +rolling, blue ocean, singing its great song, but level now and white +and still at last--its voice hushed with all other voices--the roar of +its battleships ended long ago. One fir tree grew lower down than the +other, its head barely reached up to its comrade's breast. They had +long shared with each other the wordless wisdom of their race; and +now, as a slow, bitter wind wandered across the delicate green harps +of their leaves, they began to chant--harping like harpers of old who +never tired of the past. + +The fir below, as the snowflakes fell on its locks and sifted closely +in about its throat, shook itself bravely and sang: + +"Comrade, the end for us draws nigh; the snow is creeping up. To-night +it will place its cap upon my head. I shall close my eyes and follow +all things into their sleep." + +"Yes," thrummed the fir above, "follow all things into their sleep. +If they were thus to sleep at last, why were they ever awakened? It is +a mystery." + +The whirling wind caught the words and bore them to the right and to +the left over land and over sea: + +"Mystery--mystery--mystery." + +Twilight deepened. The snow scarcely fell; the clouds trailed through +the trees so close and low that the flakes were formed amid the boughs +and rested where they were created. At intervals out of the clouds and +darkness the low musings went on: + +"Where now is the Little Brother of the Trees--him of the long +thoughts and the brief shadow?" + +"He thought that he alone of earthly things was immortal." + +"Our people, the Evergreens, were thrust forth on the earth a million +ages before he appeared; and we are still here, a million ages since +he left, leaving not a trace of himself behind." + +"The most fragile moss was born before he was born; and the moss +outlasted him." + +"The frailest fern was not so perishable." + +"Yet he believed he should have eternal youth." + +"That his race would return to some Power who had sent it forth." + +"That he was ever being borne onward to some far-off, divine event, +where there was justice." + +"Yes, where there was justice." + +"Of old it was their custom to heap white flowers above their dead." + +"Now white flowers cover them--the frozen white flowers of the sky." + +It was night now about the mountaintop--deep night above it. At +intervals the communing of the firs started up afresh: + +"Had they known how alone in the universe they were, would they not +have turned to each other for happiness?" + +"Would not all have helped each?" + +"Would not each have helped all?" + +"Would they have so mingled their wars with their prayers?" + +"Would they not have thrown away their weapons and thrown their arms +around one another? It was all a mystery." + +"Mystery--mystery." + +Once in the night they sounded in unison: + +"And all the gods of earth--its many gods in many lands with many +faces--they sleep now in their ancient temples; on them has fallen at +last their unending dusk." + +"And the shepherds who avowed that they were appointed by the Creator +of the universe to lead other men as their sheep--what difference is +there now between the sheep and the shepherds?" + +"The shepherds lie with the sheep in the same white pastures." + +"Still, what think you became of all that men did?" + +"Whither did Science go? How could it come to naught?" + +"And that seven-branched golden candlestick of inner light that was +his Art--was there no other sphere to which it could be transferred, +lovely and eternal?" + +"And what became of Love?" + +"What became of the woman who asked for nothing in life but love and +youth?" + +"What became of the man who was true?" + +"Think you that all of them are not gathered elsewhere--strangely +changed, yet the same? Is some other quenchless star their safe +habitation?" + +"What do we know; what did he know on earth? It was a mystery." + +"It was all a mystery." + +If there had been a clock to measure the hour it must now have been +near midnight. Suddenly the fir below harped most tenderly: + +"The children! What became of the children? Where did the myriads of +them march to? What was the end of the march of the earth's children?" + +"Be still!" whispered the fir above. "At that moment I felt the soft +fingers of a child searching my boughs. Was not this what in human +times they called Christmas Eve?" + +"Hearken!" whispered the fir below. "Down in the valley elfin horns +are blowing and elfin drums are beating. Did you hear that--faint and +far away? It was the bells of the reindeer! It passed: it was the +wandering soul of Christmas." + +Not long after this the fir below struck its green harp for the last +time: + +"Comrade, it is the end for me. Good-night!" + +Silently the snow closed over it. + +The other fir now stood alone. The snow crept higher and higher. It +bravely shook itself loose. Late in the long night it communed once +more, solitary: + +"I, then, close the train of earthly things. And I was the emblem of +immortality; let the highest be the last to perish! Power, that put +forth all things for a purpose, you have fulfilled, without explaining +it, that purpose. I follow all things into their sleep." + +In the morning there was no trace of it. + +The sun rose clear on the mountaintops, white and cold and at peace. + +The earth was dead. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[2] Copyright, 1908, by the Outlook Company. + +[3] Copyright, 1908, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +NANCY HUSTON BANKS + + +Mrs. Nancy Huston Banks, novelist, was born at Morganfield, Kentucky, +about 1850. She is the daughter of the late Judge George Huston, who +for many years was an attorney and banker of her native town. When a +young woman Miss Huston was married to Mr. James N. Banks, now a +lawyer of Henderson, Kentucky. Mrs. Banks's first book, _Stairs of +Sand_ (Chicago, 1890), has been forgotten by author and public alike, +but shortly after its publication, she went to New York, and there she +resided at the Hotel St. James for many years. At the present time she +is living in London. She became a contributor to magazines, her +critical paper on Mr. James Lane Allen and his novels, which appeared +in _The Bookman_ for June, 1895, being her first work to attract +serious attention. A few years later Mrs. Banks dropped her magazine +work in order to write her charming novel of life in southern +Kentucky, _Oldfield_ (New York, 1902). This story was highly praised +in this country and in England, the critics of London coining a +descriptive phrase for it that has stuck--"the Kentucky Cranford." Her +next novel, _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903), was a worthy +follower of _Oldfield_. One reviewer called it "a blend of an +old-fashioned love story and an historical study." Mrs. Banks's most +recent novel is _The Little Hills_ (New York, 1905). The opening words +of this story: "The air was the breath of spice pinks," was seized +upon by the critics and set up as a sign-post for the book's tone. +Mrs. Banks has been a great traveler. She was sent to South Africa +during the Boer war by _Vanity Fair_ of London, and her letters to +that publication were most interesting. She knew Cecil Rhodes and +George W. Steevens, the war correspondent, and, with her beauty and +charm, she became a social "star" in the life about her. Mrs. Banks's +one eccentricity--according to the literary gossips of New York--is +her distaste for classical music; and that much of her success is due +to the fact that she knows how to handle editors and publishers, we +also learn from the same source. At least one of her contemporaries +once held--though he has since wholly relented and regretted +much--that, in a now exceedingly scarce first edition, she +out-ingramed Ingram! But, of course, that is another story. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1902); _The Nation_ + (February 5, 1903); _The Bookman_ (February, 1904). + + +ANVIL ROCK[4] + +[From _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903)] + +The courage and calmness which he had found in himself under this test, +heartened him and made him the more determined to control his wandering +fancy. Looking now neither to the right nor the left, he pressed on +through the clearing toward the buffalo track in the border of the +forest which would lead him into the Wilderness Road. Sternly setting +his thoughts on the errand that was taking him to the salt-works, he +began to think of the place in which they were situated, and to wonder +why so bare, so brown, and so desolate a spot should have been called +Green Lick. There was no greenness about it, and not the slightest sign +that there ever had been any verdure, although it still lay in the very +heart of an almost tropical forest. It must surely have been as it was +now since time immemorial. Myriads of wild beasts coming and going +through numberless centuries to drink the salt water, had trodden the +earth around it as hard as iron, and had worn it down far below the +surface of the surrounding country. The boy had seen it often, but +always by daylight, and never alone, so that he noted many things now +which he had not observed before. The huge bison must have gone over +that well-beaten track one by one, to judge by its narrowness. He could +see it dimly, running into the clearing like a black line beginning far +off between the bordering trees; but as he looked, the darkness +deepened, the mists thickened, and a look of unreality came over +familiar objects. And then through the wavering gloom there suddenly +towered a great dark mass topped by something which rose against the +wild dimness like a colossal blacksmith's anvil. It might have been +Vulcan's own forge, so strange and fabulous a thing it seemed! The boy's +heart leaped with his pony's leap. His imagination spread its swift +wings ere he could think; but in another instant he reminded himself. +This was not an awful apparition, but a real thing, wondrous and +unaccountable enough in its reality. It was Anvil Rock--a great, +solitary rock rising abruptly from the rockless loam of a level country, +and lifting its single peak, rudely shaped like a blacksmith's anvil, +straight up toward the clouds. + + +THE OLD-FASHIONED FIDDLERS + +[From the same] + +Those old-time country fiddlers--all of them, black or white--how +wonderful they were! They have always been the wonder and the despair +of all musicians who have played by rule and note. The very way that +the country fiddler held his fiddle against his chest and never +against his shoulder like the trained musician! The very way that the +country fiddler grasped his bow, firmly and squarely in the middle, +and never lightly at the end like a trained musician! The very way +that he let go and went off and kept on--the amazing, inimitable +spirit, the gayety, the rhythm, the swing! No trained musician ever +heard the music of the country fiddler without wondering at its power, +and longing in vain to know the secret of its charm. It would be worth +a good deal to know where and how they learned the tunes that they +played. Possibly these were handed down by ear from one to another; +some perhaps may have never been pent up in notes, and others may have +been given to the note reader under other names than those by which +the country fiddlers knew them. This is said to have been the case +with "Old Zip Coon," and the names of many of them would seem to prove +that they belonged to the time and the country. But there is a +delightful uncertainty about the origin and the history of almost all +of them--about "Leather Breeches" and "Sugar in the Gourd" and +"Wagoner" and "Cotton-eyed Joe," and so on through a long list. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[4] Copyright, 1903, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +WILLIAM B. SMITH + + +William Benjamin Smith, perhaps the greatest scholar ever born on +Kentucky soil, first saw the light at Stanford, Kentucky, October 26, +1850. Kentucky (Transylvania) University conferred the degree of +Master of Arts upon him in 1871; and the University of Goettengen +granted him his Doctor of Philosophy degree in 1879. Dr. Smith was +professor of mathematics in Central College, Missouri, from 1881 to +1885, when he accepted the chair of physics in the University of +Missouri. In 1888 he was transferred to the department of mathematics +in the same institution, which he held until 1893, when he resigned +to accept a similar position at Tulane University. In 1906 Dr. Smith +was elected head of the department of philosophy at Tulane, which +position he holds at the present time. He was a delegate of the United +States government to the first Pan-American Scientific Congress, held +at Santiago, Chile, in 1908. Dr. Smith is the author of the following +books, the very titles of which will show his amazing versatility: +_Co-ordinate Geometry_ (Boston, 1885); _Clew to Trigonometry_ (1889); +_Introductory Modern Geometry_ (New York, 1893); _Infinitesimal +Analysis_ (New York, 1898); _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905), a +stirring discussion of the Negro problem from a rather new +perspective; two theological works, written originally in German, _Der +Vorchristliche Jesus_ (Jena, Germany, 1906); and _Ecce Deus_ (Jena, +Germany, 1911), the English translation of which was issued at London +and Chicago in 1912. These two works upon proto-Christianity have +placed Dr. Smith among the foremost scholars of his day and generation +in America. Besides his books he wrote two pamphlets of more than +fifty pages each upon _Tariff for Protection_ (Columbia, Missouri, +1888); and _Tariff Reform_ (Columbia, Missouri, 1892). These show the +author at his best. And his biography of James Sidney Rollins, founder +of the University of Missouri, was published about this time. During +the month of October, 1896, Dr. Smith published six articles in the +Chicago _Record_, on the sliver question and in defense of the gold +standard, which were certainly the most thorough brought out by the +presidential campaign of that year. Among his many public addresses, +essays, and articles, _The Pauline Codices F and G_ may be mentioned, +as well as his articles on _Infinitesimal Calculus_ and _New Testament +Criticism_ in the _Encyclopaedia Americana_ (New York, 1906); and he +compiled the mathematical definitions for the _New International +Dictionary_ (New York, 1908). Dr. Smith's fine poem, _The Merman and +the Seraph_, was crowned in the _Poet Lore_ competition of 1906. As a +mathematician, philosopher, sociologist, New Testament critic, +publicist, poet, and alleged prototype of _David_, hero of Mr. James +Lane Allen's _The Reign of Law_--which he most certainly was not!--Dr. +Smith stands supreme among the sons of Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (June, 1905); _The Nation_ + (November 23, 1911). + + +A SOUTHERN VIEW OF THE NEGRO PROBLEM[5] + +[From _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905)] + +It is idle to talk of education and civilization and the like as +corrective or compensative agencies. All are weak and beggarly as over +against the almightiness of heredity, the omniprepotence of the +transmitted germ-plasma. Let this be amerced of its ancient rights, +let it be shorn in some measure of its exceeding weight of ancestral +glory, let it be soiled in its millenial purity and integrity, and +nothing shall ever restore it; neither wealth, nor culture, nor +science, nor art, nor morality, nor religion--not even Christianity +itself. Here and there these may redeem some happy spontaneous +variation, some lucky freak of nature; but nothing more--they can +never redeem the race. If this be not true, then history and biology +are alike false; then Darwin and Spencer, Haeckel and Weismann, Mendel +and Pearson, have lived and laboured in vain. + +Equally futile is the reply, so often made by our opponents, that +miscegenation has already progressed far in the Southland, as witness +millions of Mulattoes. Certainly; but do not such objectors know in +their hearts that their reply is no answer, but is utterly irrelevant? +We admit and deplore the fact that unchastity has poured a broad stream +of white blood into black veins; but we deny, and perhaps no one will +affirm, that it has poured even the slenderest appreciable rill of Negro +blood into the veins of the Whites. We have no excuse whatever to make +for these masculine incontinences; we abhor them as disgraceful and +almost bestial. But, however degrading and even unnatural, they in +nowise, not even in the slightest conceivable degree, defile the +Southern Caucasian blood. That blood to-day is absolutely pure; and it +is the inflexible resolution of the South to preserve that purity, no +matter how dear the cost. We repeat, then, it is not a question of +individual morality, nor even of self-respect. He who commerces with a +negress debases himself and dishonours his body, the temple of the +Spirit; but he does not impair, in anywise, the dignity or integrity of +his race; he may sin against himself and others, and even against his +God, but not against the germ-plasma of his kind. + +Does some one reply that some Negroes are better than some Whites, +physically, mentally, morally? We do not deny it; but this fact, +again, is without pertinence. It may very well be that some dogs are +superior to some men. It is absurd to suppose that only the elect of +the Blacks would unite with only the non-elect of the Whites. Once +started, the _pamnixia_ would spread through all classes of society +and contaminate possibly or actually all. Even a little leaven may +leaven the whole lump. + +Far more than this, however, even if only very superior Negroes formed +unions with non-superior Whites, the case would not be altered; for it +is a grievous error to suppose that the child is born of its proximate +parents only; it is born of all its ancestry; it is the child of its +race. The eternal past lays hand upon it and upon all its descendants. +However weak the White, behind him stands Europe; however strong the +Black, behind lies Africa. + +Preposterous, indeed, is this doctrine that _personal excellence is +the true standard_, and that only such Negroes as attain a certain +grade of merit should or would be admitted to social equality. A +favourite evasion! _The Independent_, _The Nation_, _The Outlook_, the +whole North--all point admiringly to Mr. Washington, and exclaim: "But +only see what a noble man he is--so much better than his would-be +superiors!" So, too, a distinguished clergyman, when asked whether he +would let his daughter marry a Negro, replied: "We wish our daughters +to marry Christian gentlemen." Let, then, the major premise be, "All +Christian gentlemen are to be admitted to social equality;" and add, +if you will, any desired degree of refinement or education or +intellectual prowess as a condition. Does not every one see that any +such test would be wholly impracticable and nugatory? If Mr. +Washington be the social equal of Roosevelt and Eliot and Hadley, how +many others will be the social equals of the next circle, and the +next, and the next, in the long descent from the White House and +Harvard to the miner and the ragpicker? And shall we trust the hot, +unreasoning blood of youth to lay virtues and qualities so evenly in +the balance and decide just when some "olive-coloured suitor" is +enough a "Christian gentleman" to claim the hand of some +simple-hearted milk-maid or some school-ma'am "past her bloom?" The +notion is too ridiculous for refutation. If the best Negro in the land +is the social equal of the best Caucasian, then it will be hard to +prove that the lowest White is higher than the lowest Black; the +principle of division is lost, and complete social equality is +established. We seem to have read somewhere that, when the two ends of +one straight segment coincide with the two ends of another, the +segments coincide throughout their whole extent. + + +THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH[6] + +[From _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, 1906)] + + I + + Deep the sunless seas amid, + Far from Man, from Angel hid, + Where the soundless tides are rolled + Over Ocean's treasure-hold, + With dragon eye and heart of stone, + The ancient Merman mused alone. + + II + + And aye his arrowed Thought he wings + Straight at the inmost core of things-- + As mirrored in his magic glass + The lightning-footed Ages pass-- + And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress, + But broods on Everlastingness. + + "Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not, + Thoughts that Age and Change await not, + All unfeeling, + All revealing, + Scorning height's and depth's concealing, + These be mine--and these alone!"-- + Saith the Merman's heart of stone. + + III + + Flashed a radiance far and nigh + As from the vortex of the sky-- + Lo! a maiden beauty-bright + And mantled with mysterious might + Of every power, below, above, + That weaves resistless spell of Love. + + IV + + Through the weltering waters cold + Shot the sheen of silken gold; + Quick the frozen heart below + Kindled in the amber glow; + Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned, + Rose to where the Glory burned. + + "Deeper, bluer than the skies are, + Dreaming meres of morn thine eyes are; + All that brightens + Smile or heightens + Charm is thine, all life enlightens, + Thou art all the soul's desire"-- + Sang the Merman's heart of fire. + + "Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given + Thee to walk the ways of Heaven; + Vain the vision, + Fate's derision, + Thee that raps to realms elysian, + Fathomless profounds are thine"-- + Quired the answering voice divine. + + V + + Came an echo from the West, + Pierced the deep celestial breast; + Summoned, far the Seraph fled, + Trailing splendours overhead; + Broad beneath her flying feet, + Laughed the silvered ocean-street. + + VI + + On the Merman's mortal sight + Instant fell the pall of Night; + Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor + He dreams the vanished vision o'er, + Hears anew the starry chime, + Ponders aye Eternal Time. + + "Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not, + Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not, + Times unending + Comprehending, + Space and worlds of worlds transcending, + These are mine--but these alone!"-- + Sighs the Merman's heart of stone. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[5] Copyright, 1905, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + +[6] Copyright, 1906, by Richard G. Badger. + + + + +ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY + + +Anderson Chenault Quisenberry, historical writer, was born near +Winchester, Kentucky, October 26, 1850. He was educated at Georgetown +College, Georgetown, Kentucky. In 1870 Mr. Quisenberry engaged in +Kentucky journalism, being editor of several papers at different +periods, until 1889, when he went to Washington to accept a position +in the War Department; but he has continued his contributions to the +Kentucky press to the present time. His first volume was _The Life and +Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_ (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). This +was followed by his other works: _Revolutionary Soldiers in Kentucky_ +(1896); _Genealogical Memoranda of the Quisenberry Family and Other +Families_ (Washington, D. C., 1897); _Memorials of the Quisenberry +Family in Germany, England, and America_ (Washington, D. C., 1900); +_Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-51_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906), +one of the most attractive of the Filson Club publications; and +_History by Illustration: General Zachary Taylor and the Mexican War_ +(Frankfort, Kentucky, 1911), the most recent volume in the Kentucky +Historical Series of the State Historical Society. Mr. Quisenberry +resides at Hyattsville, Maryland, going into Washington every day for +his official duties. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Quisenberry to the present writer; + _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN[7] + +[From _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-1851_ (Louisville, Kentucky, +1906)] + +The victims, bound securely, were brought out of the boat twelve at a +time; of these, six were blindfolded and made to kneel down with their +backs to the soldiers, who stood some three or four paces from them. +These six executed, the other six were put through the same ghastly +ceremony; then twelve others were brought from the boat; and so on, +until the terrible and sickening tragedy was over. As each lot were +murdered their bodies were cast aside to make room for the next lot. + +An eyewitness says of these martyrs to liberty: "They behaved with +firmness, evincing no hesitation or trepidation whatever." Among those +shot was a lad of fifteen who begged earnestly on his knees that some +one be sent to him who could speak English, but not the slightest +attention was paid to him. One handsome young man desired that his +watch be sent to his sweetheart. After the first discharge those who +were not instantly killed were beaten upon the head until life was +extinct. One poor fellow received three balls in his neck, and, +raising himself in the agonies of death, was struck by a soldier with +the butt of a musket and his brains dashed out. + +Colonel Crittenden, as the leader of the party, was shot first, and +alone. One of the rabble pushed through the line of soldiers, and +rushed up to Crittenden and pulled his beard. The gallant Kentuckian, +with the utmost coolness, spit in the coward's face. He refused to +kneel or to be blindfolded, saying in a clear, ringing voice: "A +Kentuckian kneels to none except his God, and always dies facing his +enemy!"--an expression that became famous. Looking into the muzzles of +the muskets that were to slay him, standing heroically erect in the +very face of death, with his own hands, which had been unbound at his +request, he gave the signal for the fatal volley; and died, as he had +lived, "Strong in Heart." Captain Ker also refused to kneel. They +stood up, faced their enemies, were shot down, and their brains were +beaten out with clubbed muskets. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[7] Copyright, 1906, by the Filson Club. + + + + +ROBERT BURNS WILSON + + +Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a Pennsylvania +father and a Virginia mother, was born in his grandfather's house near +Washington, Pennsylvania, October 30, 1850. When a very small child he +was taken to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother died +when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened his +subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in the schools of Wheeling, +West Virginia, after which he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to +study art. When but nineteen he was painting portraits for a living. +In 1871 he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York artist, +chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river from Pittsburgh, +hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, Kentucky. They had hardly +reached the Kentucky shore, however, when they disagreed about +something or other, and young Alexander left him in the night and +returned to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his boat into a +bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in that county a year, when +he went up to Louisville. He gained more than a local reputation with +a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making +considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered by the late +Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, who persuaded him to remove to +that town. Mr. Wilson settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there +for the following twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors +are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions of that +interesting old town, for he was its "great man" for many years, and +its toast. As painter and poet he was heralded by the folk of +Frankfort until the outside world was attracted and nibbled at his +work. The first public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the +Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884. + +Mr. Wilson's first poem, _A Wild Violet in November_, was followed by +the finest flower of his genius, _When Evening Cometh On_, which was +originally printed in _Harper's Magazine_ for October, 1885. This is the +only Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned in the +same breath with Gray's _Elegy_. Many of his poems and prose papers were +published in _Harper's_, _The Century_, and other periodicals. His first +book, _Life and Love_ (New York, 1887), contained the best work he has +ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of his mother were lovely; +and there are many more poems to be found in the volume that are very +fine. _Chant of a Woodland Spirit_ (New York, 1894), a long poem of more +than fifty pages, portions of which had originally appeared in +_Harper's_ and _The Century_, was dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom +Mr. Wilson was friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the +poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent collection of +lyrics, _The Shadows of the Trees_ (New York, 1898), was widely read and +warmly received by all true lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's +striking poem, _Remember the Maine_, provoked by the tragedy in Havana +harbor, was printed in _The New York Herald_; and another of his several +poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight that is remembered, _Such is +the Death the Soldier Dies_, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_. The +Kentucky poet's battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no +other American singer, unless it was by the late William Vaughn Moody. +Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a novel, _Until the Day Break_ (New +York, 1900), is unreadable as a story, but the passages of nature prose +are many and exquisite. + +While he has always been a writing-man of very clear and definite gifts, +Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits and landscapes, working with equal +facility in oils, water-color, and crayon. He is held in esteem by many +competent critics as an artist of ability, but nearly all of his work in +any of three mediums indicated, is exceedingly moody and pessimistic; +and his water-colors, especially, are "muddy." It is greatly to be +regretted that he did not remain the poet he was born to be, instead of +drawing his dreams--many use a stronger word--in paints. + +As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius of the town of +Frankfort during his life there; and he was a bachelor! Thereby hangs +a tale with a meaning and a moral. For many years the widows and the +other women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of the +mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, dash through a +field and over a fence, punching plants with his never-absent stick, +and return to town with a poem pounding in his pulses, and another +landscape in his brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of +it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious to +get him into their nets, they awoke one morning in 1901 to find that +little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, and daughter of a former +attorney-general of Kentucky, had married their heart's desire, that +their dreams were day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New +York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following year their +child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short time afterwards he removed to +New York, where he has lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions +have reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been prose +papers and lyrics in the magazines. + +A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, the famous +Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: "The old man whose head has +grown gray in the service of the Muses, who is about to leave the +lists of poetry forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place +to twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among the +stars,' extends his hand to a younger brother of his art with an +earnest _Te moriturus saluto_." These charming words were elicited by +_June Days_, and _When Evening Cometh On_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Recent Movement in Southern Literature_, by C. + W. Coleman, Jr. (_Harper's Magazine_, May, 1887); _Who's Who in + America_ (1901-1902); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, + v. xv, 1910), an excellent study by Mrs. Ida W. Harrison. + + +LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER[8] + +[From _Life and Love. Poems_ (New York, 1887)] + + The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, + And we were plucking violets--thou and I. + A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; + Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, + And I was mad with hope that God would stay + Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by! + Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why + Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away. + + First loved; first lost; my mother:--time must still + Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best + In me, and in my art, is thine:--Me-seems, + Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, + My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams + I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest. + +Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887. + + +WHEN EVENING COMETH ON + +[From the same] + + When evening cometh on, + Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky + The fane-like, purple-shadowed clouds arise; + Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh; + Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes + The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly + Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries + His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands + Of misty silence cross the far-off lands + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell, + Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold, + Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell + In moveless waves against the shimmering gold. + Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell + Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold + Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool + Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Along their well-known paths with heavier tread + The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return; + The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led, + Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn + Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread; + And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn; + Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream, + Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams, + With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways, + Their gearings glinted by the waning beams; + Close by their heels the heedful collie strays; + All slowly fading in a land of dreams, + Transfigured specters of the shrouding haze. + Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade, + Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade, + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Across the dotted fields of gathered grain + The soul of summer breathes a deep repose, + Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain, + And from the blurred and blended brake there flows + The undulating echoes of some strain + Once heard in paradise, perchance--who knows? + But now the whispering memory sadly strays + Along the dim rows of the rustling maize + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Anon there spreads upon the lingering air + The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank, + And odors from far fields, unseen but fair, + With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank. + O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there? + Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank? + Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair; + Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest. + The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream, + The bars that lie along the smouldering west, + The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem + To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest + This wavering flame, this agonizing dream, + Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain, + And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown, + In darkness reaching out her sentient hands; + Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown + Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands, + Close on the brink, unfearing and alone, + And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands; + Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears, + So lonely and so sad the sound she hears + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought. + All colors vanish when the sun goeth down. + Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught + No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown + Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot. + Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown. + The fair enchantment of the golden day + Far through the vale of shadows melts away + When evening cometh on. + + When evening cometh on, + Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul, + And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow: + The wounded heart Love only can console. + Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now, + So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll; + Take then the portion which the gods allow. + Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast + Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest + When evening cometh on? + +FOOTNOTE: + +[8] Copyright, 1887, by O. M. Dunham. + + + + +DANIEL HENRY HOLMES + + +Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions of Theodore O'Hara +and Madison Cawein, the foremost lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully +claim, although he happened to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851; +and that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple title to +his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, was a native of +Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, +settled at New Orleans when a young man as a merchant; but a year after +the birth of Daniel Henry Junior--as the future poet always signed +himself while his father lived--or in 1852, he purchased an old colonial +house back of Covington, Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and +called it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became a +warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and he spent the +following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning each fall to New Orleans +for the winter. When the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies +were entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where eight years +were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at the age of eighteen years, +Daniel Henry Junior, with his family, returned to the United States, and +entered his father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for +commercialism in any form became so great that his father wisely +permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which was then in charge of an +uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. In the same year that he returned +to Holmesdale (1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact +to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and Holmesdale became +the manor-place of his people for many years. Holmes was graduated in +law in 1872, and he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In +1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter of one of the +old and wealthy families of that city. He and his bride spent the year +of their marriage at Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad. + +Holmes's first and finest book of poems, written at Covington, was +entitled _Under a Fool's Cap: Songs_ (London, 1884), and contained one +hundred and forty-four pages in an edition that did not exceed five +hundred copies. The poet whimsically placed his boyhood name of +"Daniel Henry Junior" upon the title-page. This little volume is one +of the most unique things ever done by an American hand. Holmes took +twenty-four old familiar nursery jingles, which are printed in +black-face type at the top of the lyrics relating to them, and he +worked them over and turned them over and did everything but parody +them; and in only one of them--_Margery Daw_--did he discard the +original metres. He employed "three methods of dealing with his +nursery rhymes; he either made them the basis of a story, or he took +them as an allegory and gave the 'modern instance,' or he simply +continued and amplified. The last method is, perhaps, the most +effective and successful of all," the poems done in this manner being +far and away the finest in the book. Holmes spent the seven years +subsequent to the appearance of _Under a Fool's Cap_, in France, +Italy, and Germany. In 1890 his father gave him Holmesdale. He +returned to Kentucky, and the remaining years of his life were spent +at Covington, save several winters abroad. + +Holmes's second book of lyrics, _A Pedlar's Pack_ (New York, 1906), +which was largely written at Holmesdale, contained many exceedingly +clever and charming poems, but, with the exception of some fine +sonnets, _A Pedlar's Pack_ is verse, while _Under a Fool's Cap_ is +genuine poetry. Holmes was an accomplished musician, and his _Hempen +Homespun Songs_ (Cincinnati, 1906), mostly written in Dresden, +contained fourteen songs set to music, of which four had words by the +poet. Of the other ten songs, three were by W. M. Thackeray, two by +Alfred de Musset, and Austin Dobson, Henri Chenevers, W. E. Henley, +Edgar Allan Poe, and Alfred Tennyson were represented by having one of +their songs set to music. This was his only publication in the field +of music, and his third and final book. Holmes's last years were spent +at the old house in Covington, devoted to arranging his large library, +collected from the bookshops of the world, and to his music. His life +was one of endless ease, the universal pursuit of wealth being neither +necessary nor engaging. He had lived parts of more than forty years of +his life at Holmesdale when he left it for the last time in the fall +of 1908 to spend the winter at Hot Springs, Virginia, where he died +suddenly on December 14, 1908. He had hardly found his grave at +Cincinnati before lovers of poetry on both sides of the Atlantic arose +and demanded word of his life and works. This demand has been in part +supplied by Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, the Maine publisher, who has +exquisitely reprinted _Under a Fool's Cap_, and written this beautiful +tribute to the poet's memory: + + "One vital point of interest should be restated: the man who took + these old tags of nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them some of + the tenderest lyrics ever written was an American by birth and in + the doing of this unique thing did it perfectly. That he never + repeated these first fine careless raptures is nothing to his + discredit. That he _did_ accomplish what he set himself to do with + an originality and a proper regard to the quality of his work + rather than its quantity is the essential fact; and in his ability + to touch a vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have come + across these lyrics we feel that the mission of Daniel Henry + Holmes was fulfilled both in letter and in spirit." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_, edited by J. J. Piatt + (Cincinnati, 1900); _The Cornhill Magazine_ (August, 1909), review + of _Under a Fool's Cap_, by Norman Roe; _The Bibelot_ (May, 1910); + _Under a Fool's Cap_ (Portland, Maine, 1910; 1911), lovely + reprints of the 1884 edition, with Mr. Roe's review and foreword + by Mr. Mosher; letters from Mrs. Holmes, the poet's widow, who has + recently reopened Holmesdale. + + +BELL HORSES + +[From _Under a Fool's Cap_ (London, 1884)] + + Bell horses, Bell horses, + What time of day? + One o'clock! Two o'clock! + Three! and away. + + I shall wait by the gate + To see you pass, + Closely press'd, three abreast, + Clanking with brass: + + With your smart red mail-cart + Hard at your heels, + Scarlet ground, fleck'd around + With the Queen's seals. + + Up the hills, down the hills, + Till the cart shrink + To a faint dab of paint + On the sky-brink, + + Never stop till you drop, + On to the town, + Bearing great news of state + To Lords and Crown. + + And down deep in the keep + Of your mail-cart, + There's a note that I wrote + To my sweetheart. + + I had no words that glow, + No penman's skill, + And high-born maids would scorn + Spelling so ill; + + But what if it be stiff + Of hand and thought, + And ink-blots mark the spots + Where kisses caught, + + He will read without heed + Of phrases' worth, + That I love him above + All things on earth. + + I must wait here, till late + Past Evensong, + Ere you come tearing home-- + Days are so long!-- + + But I'll watch, till I catch + Your bell's chime clear ... + If you'll bring _me_ something-- + Won't you please, dear? + + +MY LADY'S GARDEN + +[From the same] + + How does my Lady's garden grow? + How does my Lady's garden grow? + With silver bells, and cockle-shells, + And pretty girls all in a row. + + All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair, + And wholly unconscious they are so fair, + With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep, + And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air. + + They all have crowns and all have wings, + Pale silver crowns and faint green wings, + And each has a wand within her hand, + And raiment about her that cleaves and clings. + + But what have my Lady's girls to do? + What maiden toil or spinning to do? + They swing and sway the live-long day + While beams and dreams shift to and fro. + + And are so still that one forgets, + So calm and restful, one forgets + To think it strange they never change, + Mistaking them for Margarets. + + But when night comes and Earth is dumb, + When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb, + The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse, + For the time of their magic toil has come. + + They deck themselves in their bells and shells, + Their silver bells and their cockle-shells, + Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves + And chaunting Runic hymns and spells, + + They spread their faint green wings abroad, + Their wings and clinging robes abroad, + And upward through the pathless blue + They soar, like incense smoke, to God. + + Who gives them crystal dreams to hold, + And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, + And laughter spun of beams of the sun, + And tears that shine like molten-gold. + + And when their hands can hold no more, + Their chaliced hands can hold no more, + And when their bells, and cockle-shells, + With holy gifts are brimming o'er, + + With swift glad wings they cleave the deep, + As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, + Through Space and Night they take their flight + To where my Lady lies asleep; + + And there, they coil above her bed,-- + A fairy crown above her bed-- + While from their hands, like sifted sands, + Falls their harvest winnowed. + + And this is why my Lady grows, + My own sweet Lady daily grows, + In sorcery such, that at her touch, + Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose. + + And this is what the pretty girls do, + This is the toil appointed to do, + With silver bells, and cockle-shells, + Like Margarets all in a row. + + +LITTLE BLUE BETTY + +[From the same] + + Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, + She sold good ale to gentlemen. + Gentlemen came every day, + And little Blue Betty hopp'd away. + + A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove," + That Little Blue Betty was mistress of; + But rarer still than its far-famed taps + Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps. + + So gentlemen came every day-- + As much for the caps as the ale, they say-- + And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot: + If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't; + + For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms + Which come of inordinate singing of psalms, + Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale, + To freshen the lips and smarten the ale. + + So gallants came, by the dozen and score, + To sit on the bench by the trellised door, + From the full high noon till the shades grew long, + With their pots of ale, and snatches of song. + + While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts, + And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts, + Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence, + Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence. + + How well I remember! I used to sit down + By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown + Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,-- + Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be, + + Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug, + Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug, + And wheedle and coax my young vanity back, + So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack. + + Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way, + As I travell'd westward the other day, + For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine, + And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign. + + The inn was gone--to make room, alas! + For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass, + Where sat a proper young person in pink, + Selling ale--which I hadn't the heart to drink. + + +THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL + +[From the same] + + There was an old woman lived under the hill, + And if she's not gone, she lives there still; + Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies, + And she's the old woman who never told lies. + + A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown, + In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown, + Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, + Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads. + + In winter or summer, come shine or come rain, + When the bustles and beams into twilight wane, + To the top of her hill, one can see her climb, + To sit out her watch through the long night-time. + + The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell-- + As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well + Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill + When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still. + + She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair + As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air, + When under the hill--one fine evening--she met + A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet: + + From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, + And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed; + Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand, + Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland. + + What befell her there no mortal can tell, + But it must have been things indescribable, + For when she returned, at last, alone, + Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone. + + They gather'd about her: she shook her head + --She had been through Hell--that was all she said + In answer to whens, and hows, and whys; + So they took her word, for she never told lies. + + And now, they say, when the sun goes down + This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown + Turns into a beautiful lass, once more, + With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore, + + And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams + Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, + In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, + To woo her again--till the Chanticleer crows. + + And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill + Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill, + And suffers in silence and patience alway, + In the hope that God will forgive, some day. + + +MARGERY DAW + +[From the same] + + See-Saw! Margery Daw! + Sold her bed to lie upon straw; + Was she not a dirty slut + To sell her bed, and live in dirt? + + And yet perchance, were the circumstance + But known, of Margery's grim romance, + As sacred a veil might cover her then + As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen. + + It's a story told so often, so old, + So drearily common, so wearily cold: + A man's adventure,--a poor girl's fall-- + And a sinless scapegoat born--that's all. + + She was simple and young, and the song was sung + With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue, + That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song + Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong. + + And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard, + Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, + Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn-- + God pity the woman who falls before them! + + They closed the door for evermore + On the contrite heart which repented sore, + And she stood alone, in the outer night, + To feed her baby as best she might. + + So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, + The gown off her back, the shawl off her head, + Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, + Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself. + + And so it came that Margery's name + Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame, + And Margery's face grew familiar in + The market-place where they trade in sin. + + What use to dwell on this premature Hell? + Suffice it to say that the child did well, + Till one night that Margery prowled the town, + Sickness was stalking, and struck her down. + + Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast + In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last, + Of all she had to be pawned or sold, + To keep her darling from hunger and cold. + + So the baby pined, till Margery, blind + With hunger of fever, in body and mind, + At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand, + Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand. + + Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw, + And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw: + Not a sparrow falls, they say--Oh well! + God was not looking when Margery fell. + + With irons girt, in her felon's shirt, + Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt, + A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray, + With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay. + + See-saw! Margery Daw! + What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law! + It makes all smooth--for she's out of her head, + And her brat is provided for. It's dead. + + + + +WILLIAM H. WOODS + + +William Hervey Woods, poet, was born near Greensburg, Kentucky, +November 17, 1852, the son of a clergyman. He was educated at +Hampden-Sidney College, in Virginia, after which he studied for the +church at Union Theological Seminary, Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Woods +was ordained to the ministry of the Southern Presbyterian church in +1878; and since 1887 he has been pastor of the Franklin Square church +at Baltimore. For the past several years he has contributed poems to +_Scribner's_, _Harper's_, _The Century_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The +Youth's Companion_, _The Independent_, and several other periodicals. +This verse was collected and published in a pleasing little volume of +some hundred and fifty pages under the title of _The Anteroom and +Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911). As is true of the purely literary +labors of most clergymen, a few of the poems are somewhat marred by +the homiletical tone--they simply must point a moral, even though that +moral does not adorn the tale. Several of the poems reveal the +author's love for his birthplace, Kentucky; and, taken as a whole, the +book is one of which any of our singers might be proud. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (January 16, 1912); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (July; August, 1912). + + +SYCAMORES[9] + +[From _The Anteroom and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911)] + + They love no crowded forest dark, + They climb no mountains high, + But ranged along the pleasant vale + Where shining waters lie, + Their brown coats curling open show + A silvery undergleam, + Like the white limbs of laughing boys + Half ready for the stream. + + What if they yield no harvests sweet, + Nor massive timbers sound, + And all their summer leafage casts + But scanty shade around; + Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance, + Their young leaves laugh in tune, + And there's no lad in all the land + Knows better when 'tis June. + + They come from groves of Arcady, + Or some lost Land of Mirth, + That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed + May not possess the earth, + And though they neither toil nor spin, + Nor fruitful duties pay, + They also serve, mayhap, who help + The world keep holiday. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[9] Copyright, 1911, by the Author. + + + + +ANDREW W. KELLEY + + +Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preeminent of life on a country +newspaper, was born in the state of New York about 1852. When twenty +years of age he left Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873 +he settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder of his +life. He was associate editor of Opie Read's paper, _The Patriot_, for +some time, but when that sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post +until a kindly death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little +town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding +Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York girl, all things were +ready for the celebration of the ceremony, when the bride-to-be suddenly +changed her mind, and poor _Parmenas Mix_ was thus started in the +drunkard's path. He planned to go East for several years prior to his +death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he sat in his room and dreamed +his life away. Kelley died at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried +in the potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition was +wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place of his grave can +only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote many poems, nearly all of which +celebrated some phase of life on a country newspaper, but his +masterpiece is _The Old Scissors' Soliloquy_, which was originally +published in _Scribner's Monthly_--now _The Century Magazine_--for +April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac Department," illustrated +with a single tail-piece sketch of editorial scissors "lying at rest" +upon newspaper clippings, with "a whopping big rat in the paste." Many +of his other poems were also published in _Scribner's_. _The New +Doctor_, _Accepted and Will Appeal_, and _He Came to Pay_, done in the +manner of Bret Harte's _The Aged Stranger_, are exceedingly clever. A +slender collection of his poems could be easily made, and should be. +Opie Read wrote a tender tribute to the memory of his former friend, in +which his merits were thus summed up: "The country has surely produced +greater poets than 'Parmenas Mix,' but I doubt if we shall ever know a +truer lover of Nature's divine impulses. He lightened the heart and made +it tender, surely a noble mission; he talked to the lowly, he flashed +the diamond of his genius into many a dark recess. He preached the +gospel of good will; he sang a beautiful song." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Poetry of American Wit and Humor_, by R. L. + Paget (Boston, 1899). + + +THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY + +[From _Scribner's Monthly_, April, 1876] + + I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,-- + The place is deserted and still,-- + To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, + To my left are the ink and the quill-- + Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint, + And refuses to write with a pen; + He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, + Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben. + + I love the old fellow--together for years + We have managed the _Farmer's Gazette_, + And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears + And can crowd the compositors yet. + But my duties are rather too heavy, I think, + And I oftentimes envy the quill + As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink + While I'm slashing away with a will. + + But when I was new,--I remember it well, + Though a score of long years have gone by,-- + The heaviest share of the editing fell + On the quill, and I think with a sigh + Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two + From a neighboring editor's leader, + Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew + In behalf of the general reader. + + I am being paid off for my merriment then, + For my master is wrinkled and gray, + And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen + Except when he wishes to say: + "We are needing some money to run this machine, + And subscribers will please to remit;" + Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green, + And so knotty it couldn't be split." + + He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind + (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter), + And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find + Head or tale to the most of his matter. + The compositors plague him whenever they see + The result of a luckless endeavor, + But the darling old rascal just lays it to me, + And I make no remonstrance whatever. + + Yes, I shoulder the blame--very little I care + For the jolly compositor's jest, + For I think of a head with the silvery hair + That will soon, very soon be at rest. + He has labored full long for the true and the good + 'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us-- + His only emolument raiment and food, + And--a pass, now and then, to the circus. + + Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright + Of a lass with the freshness of clover + Who used me to clip from her tresses one night + A memorial lock for her lover. + That dear little lock is still glossy and brown, + But the lass is much older and fatter, + And the youth--he's an editor here in the town-- + I'm employed on the staff of the latter. + + I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night-- + The place is deserted and still-- + The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight + Through the trees on the brow of the hill. + Clouds hurry along in undignified haste + And the wind rushes by with a wail-- + Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste-- + How I'd like to shut down on his tail! + + +LATE NEWS + +[From _Scribner's Monthly_, December, 1876] + + In the sanctum I was sitting, + Engaged in thought befitting + A gentleman of letters--dunning letters, by the way-- + When a seedy sort of fellow, + Middle-aged and rather mellow, + Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?" + + Then I smiled on him serenely-- + On the stranger dressed so meanly-- + And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate; + And that the troops in Flanders, + Both privates and commanders, + Had been dealing very freely in profanity of late. + + Then the stranger, quite demurely, + Said, "That's interesting, surely; + Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear; + Though excuse me, sir, for stating + That the facts you've been narrating + Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!" + + + + +YOUNG E. ALLISON + + +Young Ewing Allison, one of the most versatile of the Kentucky writers +of the present school, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, December 23, +1853. He left school at an early age to become the "devil" in a +Henderson printing office. At seventeen years of age Mr. Allison was a +newspaper reporter. At different times he has been connected with _The +Journal_, of Evansville, Indiana; city and dramatic editor of _The +Courier-Journal_; editor of _The Louisville Commercial_; and from 1902 +to 1905 he was editor of _The Louisville Herald_. Mr. Allison founded +_The Insurance Field_ at Louisville, in 1887, and has since edited it. +He has thus been a newspaper man for more than forty years; and though +always very busy, he has found time to write fiction, verse, literary +criticism, history, and librettos. In prose fiction Mr. Allison is best +known by three stories: _The Passing of Major Kilgore_, which was +published as a novelette in _Lippincott's Magazine_ in 1888; _The +Longworth Mystery_ (_Century Magazine_, October, 1889); and _Insurance +at Piney Woods_ (Louisville, 1896). In half-whimsical literary criticism +he has published two small volumes which are known in many parts of the +world: _The Delicious Vice_ (Cleveland, 1907, first series; Cleveland, +1909, second series). These papers are "pipe dreams and adventures of an +habitual novel-reader among some great books and their people." Mr. +Allison's libretto, _The Ogallallas_, a romantic opera, was produced by +the Bostonians Opera Company in 1894; and his _Brother Francisco_, a +libretto of tragic opera, was presented at the Royal Opera House, +Berlin, by order of Emperor William II. The music to both of these +operas was composed by Mr. Henry Waller, Liszt's distinguished pupil. In +history Mr. Allison has written _The City of Louisville and a Glimpse of +Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1887); and _Fire Underwriting_ (Louisville, +1907). Of his lyrics, _The Derelict_, a completion of the four famous +lines in Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_, has been printed by +almost every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world, set +to music by Mr. Waller, and an illustrated _edition de luxe_ has +recently appeared. _The Derelict_ and _The Delicious Vice_ have firmly +fixed Mr. Allison's fame. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter + (Louisville, 1905); letter from Mr. Allison to the writer. + + +ON BOARD THE DERELICT + +A Reminiscence of _Treasure Island_ + +[From a leaflet edition] + + _Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_ + --[_Cap'n Billy Bones his song_] + + Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike, + The bos'n brained with a marlinspike, + And the Cookey's throat was marked belike + It had been gripped + By fingers ten; + And there they lay, + All good dead men, + Like break-o'-day in a boozin' ken-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of a whole ship's list-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Dead and bedamned, and the rest gone whist! + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + The skipper lay with his nob in gore + Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore, + And the scullion he was stabbed times four. + And there they lay + And the soggy skies + Dreened all day long + In up-staring eyes-- + At murk sunset and at foul sunrise-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Ten of the crew had the Murder mark-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + 'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead, + Or a yawing hole in a battered head-- + And the scuppers glut with a rotting red. + And there they lay-- + Aye, damn my eyes!-- + All lookouts clapped + On paradise, + All souls bound just the contra'wise-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + Fifteen men of 'em good and true-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Every man Jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold, + With a ton of plate in the middle hold, + And the cabins riot of loot untold. + And they lay there + That had took the plum + With sightless glare + And their lips struck dumb, + While we shared all by the rule of thumb-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + _More was seen through the sternlight screen-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Chartings undoubt where a woman had been-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + A flimsy shift on a bunker cot, + With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot, + And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot. + Or was she wench ... + Or some shuddering maid...? + That dared the knife + And that took the blade?... + By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_ + + Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + We wrapp'd 'em all in a mains'l tight, + With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight + And we heaved 'em over and out of sight-- + With a yo-heave-ho! + And a fare-you-well! + And a sullen plunge + In the sullen swell, + Ten-fathoms deep on the road to hell-- + Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! + + + + +HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT + + +Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert ("Dolly Higbee"), newspaper woman and +novelist, was born near Edina, Missouri, March 12, 1854. She was the +daughter of James Parker Higbee, a Kentuckian, and his second wife, +Martha Lane (Galleher) Higbee, a woman of Virginian parentage. Both of +Miss Higbee's parents died before she was fourteen years old, and she +came to Lexington, Kentucky, to live in the family of Dr. Samuel H. +Chew, who had married her half-sister. Dr. Chew's farm was situated +some seven miles from Lexington, and there Miss Higbee lived for ten +years. She was educated in Midway, Kentucky, and then taught for +several years. She detested teaching and, "in January, 1878, while it +was still quite dark, I stole down stairs with five dollars in my +pocket and such luggage as I could carry in a handbag, tiptoed into +the drizzle and 'lit out.'" The flip of a nickle determined that her +new home should be Louisville, and to that city she went. Miss Higbee +was the first woman in Kentucky, if not in the South, to adopt +journalism as a profession. The following fourteen years of her life +were spent in the daily grind of newspaperdom, she having held almost +every position on _The Courier-Journal_, save that of editor-in-chief. +In the four hottest weeks of the year, and in the brief intervals of +leisure she could snatch from her daily duties, Miss Higbee wrote her +now famous novel, _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890). After the +Lippincotts had refused this manuscript, _Belford's Monthly Magazine_ +accepted it by telegram, paying the author two hundred dollars for it, +and publishing it in the issue for November, 1889; and in the +following May the story appeared in book form. Colonel Henry Watterson +wrote a review of _In God's Country_ that was afterwards published as +an introduction for it, and this did much to bring the tale into wide +notice. Miss Higbee went to Chicago in 1893 to accept a position on +_The Tribune_. On April 4, 1894, she was married to Mr. William +Geppert of Atlanta, and the first five years of their married life +were spent at Atlanta. It was during this time that Mrs. Geppert's +best story was written, _Burton's Scoop_, one of the first American +stories written upon hypnotism and related phenomena. The opening +chapters of this appeared in the author's little literary magazine, +_The Autocrat_, which she conducted at Atlanta for about two years, +but it has never been published in book form. Two musical romances, +entitled _The Scherzo in B-Flat Minor_ (Atlanta, 1895), and _Un Ze +Studio_ (Atlanta, 1895), attracted considerable attention, and a third +was announced as _Side Lights_, but was never published. _In God's +Country_ was dramatized, with Miss Catherine Gray cast in the role of +_Lydia_, and opened at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, September +5, 1897, but the work of the playwright and actors was most +displeasing to the author. In 1900 Mr. Geppert became one of the +editors of the New York _Musical Courier_, and he and his wife have +since resided at Croton-on-the-Hudson. Mrs. Geppert has abandoned +literature, but _In God's Country_ has given her a permanent place +among the writers of Kentucky.[10] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter + (Louisville, 1905); _Lexington Leader_ (July 25, 1909). + + +THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL[11] + +[From _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890)] + +Her hair had come down and was tumbling about her neck; she whipped it +out and caught it back with a hairpin, took up the guitar, and +skirted the shadowy porch to the room over the kitchen. The window was +open and she could see Karl sitting in the middle of the room with his +head bowed upon his hands. She tapped lightly on the pane. He looked +up and saw her standing in the dim light with the guitar in her hand. + +"Karl," she said, "I want you to sing me that song before you go--the +one you sung me that day for your dinner." + +He came forward and took the instrument. He saw she had been crying, but +the experience of the summer had been so crushing, he was so subdued by +her past behavior, that he did not dream the tears were for him. + +"You are grieved for someding," he said, with touching sympathy. + +He opened the door and gave her a chair, and, sitting near her on the +sill of the window, began to sing the song with all the tenderness and +pathos his own yearning and bitter disappointment could put into it. It +brought back all the old tumult. She saw now, when it was too late, that +she had overestimated her strength. When he finished, she was sobbing; +and in an instant he was kneeling by her chair, raising to her a face +sad, searching, but shining with the tremulous glow of a hope just born. + +"You weep. Liebchen, is it for me?" + +She did not answer, but laid a hand gently on his head and looked at +him, with all the pent yearning of her full heart, all the agony of +that long, weary struggle, and all the pathos of defeat in her eyes. +It was no use. At that moment it seemed that there was nothing else in +the world but him. Everything else was remote, dim, and unreal. + +He clasped her with a fierce, exultant joy. + +"You love me in spite of dis?" he asked, looking down at his coarse +attire. "You love me in spite of dat I am your nigga?" + +"In spite of all," she faltered. + +It was out at last: the crest of victory sank in inglorious surrender. +Her humiliation was his triumph. + +He looked at her with a face radiant, shining with a beauty not of +earth. + +"Liebchen," he whispered, "it is divine." + +"You vill gome mit me to mein gountry?" he asked presently. + +She laid a finger on his lips. "Don't," she said; "I can't bear it." + +"I vill not be a vagabond in mein own gountry; we vill be very happy. +Gome mit me, Liebchen." + +He would not be a vagabond in his own country. The information that +would have been worth much to her once was worth nothing now. She +scarcely heard it. + +"I can't do that," she said. "You must go, and I must stay here and do +as I have promised; but I wanted to tell you that I know I have been +very cruel, and that I am very sorry. It was hard for me, too, and I +could not trust myself to be kind." + +It seemed but a moment she had been sitting there with his arms around +her and his head upon her breast, but the east was red and the sun was +almost up. Lydia rose wearily. The sense of defeat, that was more +fatiguing than the struggle, clung to her. "It's time you were gone," +she said. He took her hands in his and asked, with searching +earnestness, + +"If you love me, vy vill you not gome mit me?" + +"I can't," she answered, too tired for explanation. + +"Is it your fader?" he asked. + +She nodded, and said good-bye, looking up at him with a tender glow on +her face. The hair streaming about her shoulders had caught the flame +of sunrise like a torch. He stooped and touched it with his lips as +reverently as he would have kissed the garment of a saint. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] Mrs. Geppert died at Scarsborough-on-the-Hudson, New York, +February 23, 1913. Her remains were not brought to Kentucky for +interment. + +[11] Copyright, 1890, by the Belford Company. + + + + +HENRY C. WOOD + + +Henry Cleveland Wood, novelist and verse-maker, was born at +Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in January, 1855. His mother was a writer of +local reputation. In 1874 Mr. Wood's poems and stories began to appear +in English and American magazines; and he has continued his work for +them until this day. Seven of his novels have been serialized by the +following publications: _Pretty Jack and_ _Ugly Carl_ (_The +Courier-Journal_); _Impress of Seal and Clay_ (_New York Ledger_, in +collaboration with his uncle, Henry W. Cleveland, author of a +biography of Alexander H. Stephens); _The Kentucky Outlaw_, and _Love +that Endured_ (_New York Ledger_); _Faint Heart and Fair Lady_ (_The +Designer_); _The Night-Riders_ (_Taylor-Trotwood Magazine_); and _Weed +and War_ (_The Home and Farm_). Of these only one has been issued in +book form, _The Night Riders_ (Chicago, 1908). This was a tale of love +and adventure, depicting the protest against the toll-gate system in +Kentucky years ago, with a brief inclusion of the more recent tobacco +troubles. Mr. Wood's verse has been printed in _Harper's Weekly_, +_Cosmopolitan_, _Ainslee's Magazine_, _The Smart Set_, _The Youth's +Companion_, and other periodicals. Two of his librettos, _The Sultan's +Gift_ and _Amor_, have been set to music; and at least one of his +plays has been produced, entitled _The Pretty Shakeress_. Mr. Wood +conducts a little bookshop in his native town of Harrodsburg. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Illustrated Kentuckian_ (November, 1894). + + +THE WEAVER + +[From _The Quiver_ (London, England)] + + The sun climbed up the eastern hills, + And through the dewy land + Shot gleams that fell athwart the rills + That sang on every hand. + + Upon the wood and in the air + There hung a mystic spell, + And on the green sward, every where, + Soft shadows lightly fell. + + And in a cottage where the bloom + Of roses on the wall + Filled all the air, there was a loom + Well built of oak and tall. + + All through the fragrant summer day + A maiden, blithe and fair, + Sat at the loom and worked away, + And hummed a simple air;-- + + "Oh! idle not, ye leafy trees, + Weave nets of yellow sun, + And kiss me oft, O! balmy breeze, + My task is but begun." + + Still higher in the hazy sky + The sun climbed on and on, + And autumn winds came rushing by, + The summer's bloom was gone; + + Now sat a mother at the loom, + The shuttle flew along, + With whirr that filled the little room + Together with her song;-- + + "O! shuttle! faster, faster fly, + For know ye not the sun + Is climbing high across the sky, + And yet my work's not done?" + + The sun shot gleams of amber light + Along the barren ground, + And shadows of the coming night + Fell softly all around. + + And in the little cottage room + From early dawn till night, + A woman sat before the loom + With hair of snowy white. + + The hands were palsied now that threw + The shuttle to and fro, + While as the fabric longer grew + She sang both sweet and low;-- + + "Half hidden in the rosy west + I see the golden sun, + And I shall soon begin my rest, + My task is almost done!" + + * * * * * + + The spring again brought joy and bloom, + And kissed each vale and hill; + But in the little cottage room + The oaken beam was still. + + The swaying boughs with rays of gold + Wove nets of yellow sun, + And cast them where a headstone told-- + The weaver's task was done. + + + + +WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY + + +William Elsey Connelley, historian and antiquarian, was born near +Paintsville, Kentucky, March 15, 1855, the son of a soldier. At the +age of seventeen he became a teacher in his native county of Johnson; +and for the following ten years he continued in that work. John C. C. +Mayo, the mountain millionaire, was one of his pupils. In April, 1881, +Mr. Connelley went to Kansas; and two years later he was elected clerk +of Wyandotte county, of which Kansas City, Kansas, is the county-seat. +In 1888 he engaged in the lumber business in Missouri; and four years +thereafter he surrendered that business in order to devote himself to +his banking interests, which have hitherto required a considerable +portion of his time. In 1905 Mr. Connelley wrote the call for the +first meeting of the oil men of Kansas, which resulted in the +organization of an association that began a crusade upon the Standard +Oil Company, and which subsequently resulted in the dissolution of +that corporation by the Supreme Court of the United States. This is +set down here because Mr. Connelley is, perhaps, prouder of it than of +of any other thing he has done. He is well-known by students of +Western history, but, of course, his fame as a writer has not reached +the general reader. He is a member of many historical societies and +associations, including the American, Nebraska, Missouri, Ohio, and +Kansas, of which he was president in 1912. Mr. Connelley has made +extensive investigations into the language and history of several of +the Indian tribes of Kansas, his vocabulary of the Wyandot tongue +being the first one ever written. He has many original documents +pertaining to the history of eastern Kentucky; and the future +historian of that section of the state cannot proceed far without +consulting his collection. The novelist of the mountains, John Fox, +Jr., has sat at the feet of the historian and learned of his people. +Mr. Connelley lives at Topeka, Kansas. A complete list of his works +is: _The Provisional Government of Nebraska Territory_ (Topeka, 1899); +_James Henry Lane, the Grim Chieftain of Kansas_ (Topeka, 1899); +_Wyandot Folk-Lore_ (Topeka, 1899); _Kansas Territorial Governors_ +(Topeka, 1900); _John Brown--the Story of the Last of the Puritans_ +(Topeka, 1900); _The Life of John J. Ingalls_ (Kansas City, Missouri, +1903); _Fifty Years in Kansas_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Heckewelder +Narrative_ (Cleveland, Ohio, 1907), being the narrative of John G. E. +Heckewelder (1743-1823), concerning the mission of the United Brethren +among the Delaware and Mohegan Indians from 1740 to the close of +1808, and the finest book ever issued by a Western publisher, +originally selling for twenty dollars a copy, but now out of print and +very scarce; _Doniphan's Expedition_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Ingalls of +Kansas: a Character Study_ (Topeka, 1909); _Quantrill and the Border +Wars_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), one of his best books; and _Eastern +Kentucky Papers_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), "the founding of Harman's +Station, with an account of the Indian Captivity of Mrs. Jennie +Wiley." In 1911 Baker University conferred the honorary degree of A. +M. upon him. For the last three years Mr. Connelley has been preparing +a biography of Preston B. Plumb, United States Senator from Kansas for +a generation, which will be published in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from Mr. + Connelley to the writer. + + +KANSAS HISTORY + +[From _History as an Asset of the State_ (Topeka, Kansas, 1912)] + +Kansas history is like that of no other State. The difference is +fundamental--not a dissimilarity in historical annals. This fact has +been long recognized. A quarter of a century ago Ware wrote that-- + + Of all the States, but three will live in story: + Old Massachusetts with her Plymouth Rock, + And old Virginia with her noble stock, + And sunny Kansas with her woes and glory. + +The south line of Kansas is the modified line between free soil and +slave territory as those divisions existed down to the abolition of +slavery. For almost half a century it was the policy of the Government +to send here the remnants of the Indian tribes pushed west by our +occupation of their country. The purpose in this was to make the +Western prairies the Indian country of America and thus prevent its +settlement until the slave-power was ready to utilize it for its +peculiar institution. Many things occurred which had not been counted +on, and the country was forced open before the South was ready to +undertake its settlement. While the crisis was premature, the +slave-power entered upon the contest with confidence. It had never +lost a battle in its conflict with the free-soil portion of the Union, +and it expected to win in Kansas. The struggle was between the two +antagonistic predominant ideas developed in our westward expansion, +and ended in a war which involved the entire nation and threatened the +existence of the Union. Politically, Kansas was the rock about which +the troubled waters surged for ten years. The Republican party grew +largely out of the conditions and influence of Kansas. When +hostilities began the Kansans enlisted in the armies of the Union in +greater proportion to total population than did the people of any +other State. Here the war was extremely bitter, and in some instances +it became an effort for extermination. Kansas towns were sacked, and +non-combatants were ruthlessly butchered. The border embraced at that +time all the settled portion of the State, and it would be difficult +indeed to make the people of this day comprehend what occurred here. +Kansas was founded in and by a bloody struggle, which, within her +bounds, continued for ten years. No other State ever fought so well. +Kansas was for freedom. She won, and the glory of it is that the +victory gave liberty to America. That is why we maintain that Kansas +history stands alone in interest and importance in American annals. + +The history of a State is a faithful account of the events of its +formation and development. If the account is set out in sufficient +detail there will be preserved the fine delineations of the emotions +which moved the people. These emotions arise out of the experiences of +the people. And the pioneers fix the lines of their experiences. They +lay the pattern and mark out the way the State is to go, and this way +can never be altered, and can, moreover, be but slightly modified for +all time. These emotions produce ideals which become universal and the +common aim of the State, and they wield a wonderful influence on its +progress, growth, and achievement. A people devoid of ideals can +scarcely be found, but ideals differ just as the experiences which +produced the emotions from which they result differed. If there be no +particular principle to be striven for in the founding of a State, +then no ideals will appear, and such as exist among the people will be +found to have come over the lines from other and older States. Or, if +by chance any be developed they will be commonplace and ordinary, and +will leave the people in lethargy and purposeless so far as the +originality of the thought of the State is concerned. The ideals +developed by a fierce struggle for great principles are lofty, sublime +in their conception and intent. The higher the ideals, the greater the +progress; the more eminent the achievement, the more marked the +individuality, the stronger the characteristics of the people. + + + + +CHARLES T. DAZEY + + +Charles Turner Dazey, author of _In Old Kentucky_, was born at Lima, +Illinois, August 13, 1855, the son and grandson of Kentuckians. When a +lad the future dramatist was brought to Kentucky for a visit at the +home of his grandparents in Bourbon county, whom he was to visit again +before returning to Kentucky, in 1872, to enter the Agricultural and +Mechanical College of Kentucky University, where he studied for a +year. In the fall of 1873 young Dazey matriculated in the Arts College +of the University. Ill-health caused him to miss the following year, +but he returned in 1875 and remained a student in the University until +the summer of 1877. He was a member of the old Periclean Society, the +society of James Lane Allen and John Fox, Jr., while at the +University. When he left Lexington he lacked two years of graduation. +Mr. Dazey later went to Harvard University, where he was one of the +editors of the _Harvard Advocate_, and the poet of his class of 1881. +While a Senior at Cambridge he had begun dramatic composition, and +after leaving the University he became a full-fledged playwright. His +plays include: _An American King_; _That Girl from Texas_--first +called _A Little Maverick_--with Maggie Mitchell in the title-role; +_The War of Wealth_; _The Suburban_; _Home Folks_; _The Stranger_, in +which Wilton Lackaye played for two seasons; _The Old Flute-Player_; +and _Love Finds a Way_. In collaboration with Oscar Weil Mr. Dazey +wrote _In Mexico_, a comic opera, produced by The Bostonians; and with +George Broadhurst he wrote two plays: _An American Lord_, with William +H. Crane as the star; and _The Captain_, played by N. C. Goodwin. + +The play by Mr. Dazey in which we are especially interested here, is, +of course, _In Old Kentucky_, a drama in four acts, first written to +order for Katie Putnam, a soubrette star, who was very popular a +quarter of a century ago. She, however, did not consider the play +suited to her, and it was then offered to several managers without +success, until it was finally accepted by Jacob Litt. When first +produced by Mr. Litt at St. Paul on August 4, 1892, it had a most +distinguished cast: Julia Arthur, the beautiful, appeared as _Barbara +Holton_; Louis James as _Col. Doolittle_; Frank Losee as _Joe Lorey_; +and Marion Elmore made a most alluring _Madge Brierly_. This was only +a trial production, and the play went into the store-house for a year, +when, in August, 1893, it began its first annual tour at the Bijou +Theatre (now the Lyceum), at Pittsburgh. In that first regular company +Bettina Gerard played _Madge_; Burt Clark, _Col. Doolittle_; George +Deyo, _Joe Lorey_; William McVey, _Horace Holton_; Harrison J. Wolfe, +_Frank Layson_; Charles K. French, _Uncle Neb_; Edith Athelston, +_Barbara_; and Lottie Winnett was _Aunt Alathea_. Mr. Litt and his +associate, A. W. Dingwall, have always mounted _In Old Kentucky_ +handsomely, and this has been an important element in its great +success. For twenty years this drama of the bluegrass and the +mountains has held the boards, more than seven million people have +seen it, and even to-day it is being produced almost daily with no +signs of loss in popular interest. It is the only play Mr. Dazey has +written with a Kentucky background, and it would be "a hazard of new +fortunes" for him to attempt to do so; he could hardly improve upon +his masterpiece. In 1897 Mr. Litt had a small edition of _In Old +Kentucky_ privately printed from the prompt-books; and in 1910 Mr. +Dazey collaborated with Edward Marshall in a novelization of the play, +which was published as an attractive romance by the G. W. Dillingham +Company, of New York. With Mr. Marshall he also novelized _The Old +Flute-Player_ (New York, 1910). Mr. Dazey has recently dramatized +_Fran_, John Breckinridge Ellis's popular novel; and at the present +time he is engaged upon a new play, which he thinks, promises better +than anything he has so far written. Mr. Dazey was in Kentucky several +times between 1877 and 1898, the date of his most recent visit, at +which time he found John Fox, Jr., giving one of his inevitable +readings in Lexington, and James Lane Allen looking for the last time, +mayhap, upon the scenes of his books. He spent several weeks with +friends and relatives near Paris; and, like all good Kentuckians, he +"hopes to revisit the dear old state in the near future." Mr. Dazey +has an attractive home at Quincy, Illinois. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in the Theatre_, by John Porter (Boston, + 1912); letters from Mr. Dazey to the writer. + + +THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE[12] + +[From _In Old Kentucky_ (1897)] + +_Act III, Scene IV. The exterior of the race-track. Fence, tree, etc._ + + _Colonel._ (_Enter L._) I didn't go in. I kept my word, though it + nearly finished me. (_Shouts heard._) They're bringing out the + horses. (_Looks through knot-hole._) I can't see worth a cent. + It's not hole enough for me. To Hades with dignity! I'll inspect + that tree. (_Goes to tree; puts arm around it._) + +[_Enter_ Alathea, _R._] + + _Alathea._ (_Pauses, R. C._) Everyone's at the races. I'm + perfectly safe. There is that blessed knot-hole. (_Goes to hole; + looks through._) + + _Col._ (_Comes from behind tree; sees Alathea._) A woman, by all + that's wonderful--a woman at my knot-hole. (_Approaches._) Madam! + (_Lays hand on her shoulder._) + + _Alathea._ (_Indignantly._) Sir! (_Turns._) Col. Sundusky + Doolittle! + + _Col._ Miss Alathea Layson! (_Bus. bows._) + + _Alathea._ Colonel, what are you all doing here? + + _Col._ Madam, what are you all doing here? + + _Alathea._ Colonel, I couldn't wait to hear the result. + + _Col._ No more could I. + + _Alathea._ But I didn't enter the race-track. + + _Col._ I was equally firm. + + _Alathea._ Neb. told me of the knot-hole. + + _Col._ The rascal, he told me, too! + + _Alathea._ Colonel, we must forgive each other. If you really must + look, there is the knot-hole. + + _Col._ No, Miss Lethe, I resign the knot-hole to you. I shall + climb the tree. + + _Alathea._ (_As Colonel climbs tree._) Be careful, Colonel, don't + break your neck, but get where you can see. + + _Col._ (_Up tree._) Ah, what a gallant sight! There's Catalpa, + Evangeline--and there's Queen Bess! (_Shouts heard._) + + _Alathea._ What's that? (_To tree._) + + _Col._ A false start. They'll make it this time. (_Shouts heard._) + They're off--off! Oh, what a splendid start! + + _Alathea._ Who's ahead? Who's ahead? (_To tree._) + + _Col._ Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well back. + + _Alathea._ Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front? Oh, if I were + only on that mare. (_Back to fence._) + + _Col._ At the half, Evangeline takes the lead--Catalpa next--the + rest bunched. Oh, great heavens!--(_Lethe to tree._)--there's a + foul--a jam--and Queen Bess is left behind ten lengths! She hasn't + the ghost of a show! Look! (_Lethe back to tree._) She's at it + again. But she can't make it up. It's beyond anything mortal. And + yet she's gaining--gaining! + + _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Keep it up--keep it up! + + _Col._ At the three quarters; she's only five lengths behind the + leader, and gaining still! + + _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Oh, push!--push!--I can't stand it! I've got + to see! (_Climbs tree._) + + _Col._ Coming up, Miss Lethe! All right, don't break your neck, + but get where you can see. In the stretch. Her head's at Catalpa's + crupper--now her saddle-bow, but she can't gain another inch! But + look--look! she lifts her--and, Great Scott! she wins! + +(_As he speaks, flats forming fence are drawn. Horses dash past, Queen +Bess in the lead. Drop at back shows grand stand, with fence in front +of same. Spectators back of fence._ Neb. _and_ Frank. _Band playing +"Dixie."_ Holton _standing near, chagrined._ Col. _waves hat and_ +Alathea _handkerchief, in tree. Spectators shout._) + +(_For second curtain_, Madge _returns on Queen Bess_. Col. _and_ +Alathea _down from tree and passing near. Other horses enter as +curtain falls._) + +[_Curtain_] + +FOOTNOTE: + +[12] Copyright, 1897, by Jacob Litt. + + + + + +JOHN P. FRUIT + + +John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was born at +Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He was graduated from Bethel +College, Russellville, Kentucky, in 1878, after which he became a +teacher. For two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty +College, Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was professor of +English in his _alma mater_, Bethel College. In 1895 the University of +Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. degree; and three years later he was +elected to the chair of English in William Jewell College, Liberty, +Missouri, which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an +edition of Milton's _Lycidas_ (Boston, 1894), and this was followed by +his edition of Coleridge's _The Ancient Mariner_ (Boston, 1899). Both +of these little volumes have been used in many schools and colleges. +Dr. Fruit devoted many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and his +works, and his researches he brought together in _The Mind and Art of +Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899). This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost +place among the Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially +recognized by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, and it +has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the present time Dr. Fruit +is engaged in a comprehensive study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his +pamphlet, entitled _Hawthorne's Immitigable_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n. +d.), having attracted a deal of attention. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from + Prof. Fruit to the writer. + + +THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY[13] + +[From _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899)] + +Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme without +reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate some of +Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes singing "in +the cotton and the corn." So much sound makes us suspicious of the +sense, but a little closer ear appreciates delicate and telling +onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels join hands in sweetest +fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of harmony." + +As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been trifling +with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote _The Bells_. + +The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones of the +bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person to our +souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin humanizes the +sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, +never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, +almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its +appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of +chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential." + +Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he never +humanized the notes of a musical instrument.... + +He took the common bells,--the more praise for his artistic +judgment,--and rang them through all the diapason of human sentiment. + +If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression and +conception, in the previously considered poems, than really exists, +there can be no doubt on that point, even to the mind of the wayfaring +man, in reading _The Bells_. + +If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let the +variety of topic in _The Bells_ protest. + +Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest +verification in _The Bells_. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," led +him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly simple; that +"one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; nine-tenths, +however, appertain to the mathematics; and the whole is included +within the limits of the commonest common-sense." + +It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic +discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and nowhere +with more skill than in _The Bells_. It is the climax of his art on +its technical side. + +Read the poem and think back over the course of the development of +poet's art-instincts. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[13] Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company. + + + + +HARRISON ROBERTSON + + +Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a +well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January +16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which +he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker, +and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on _The +Courier-Journal_, being managing editor at the present time. He won +his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever +written, entitled _How the Derby Was Won_, which was originally +published in _Scribner's Magazine_ for August, 1889. Ten years later +his first long novel, _If I Were a Man_ (New York, 1899), "the story +of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by _Red Blood and +Blue_ (New York, 1900); _The Inlander_ (New York, 1901); _The +Opponents_ (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, _The Pink +Typhoon_ (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit. +In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very +cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has +ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and +the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a +charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson +changed literary steads, although his _How the Derby Was Won_ must not +be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the +daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another +poem or novel. More's the pity! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (April, 1900; April, 1901); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The Bookman_ (December, + 1910). + + +TWO TRIOLETS[14] + +[From _A Vers de Societe Anthology_, by Caroline Wells (New York, +1907)] + + I + + What He Said: + + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it? + And may it from its soft recess-- + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Be blown to you, a shy caress, + By this white down, whene'er you use it. + This kiss upon your fan I press-- + Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you _don't_ refuse it! + + II + + What She Thought: + + To kiss a fan! + What a poky poet! + The stupid man, + To kiss a fan, + When he knows that--he--can-- + Or ought to know it-- + To kiss a _fan_! + What a poky poet! + + +STORY OF THE GATE + +[From the same] + + Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, + Under the maple, it was hinged-- + The little wooden gate; + 'Twas there within the quiet gloam, + When I had strolled with Nelly home, + I used to pause and wait. + + Before I said to her good-night + Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite + Within the garden's pale; + And there, the gate between us two, + We'd linger as all lovers do, + And lean upon the rail. + + And face to face, eyes close to eyes, + Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise, + After a stealthy quest,-- + So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat, + That I'd grow drunken from the sweet + Tuebrose upon her breast. + + We'd talk--in fitful style, I ween-- + With many a meaning glance between + The tender words and low; + We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit, + Some idle gossip we'd repeat, + And then I'd move to go. + + "Good-night," I'd say; "good-night--good-by!" + "Good-night"--from her with half a sigh-- + "Good-night!" "_Good_-night!" And then-- + And then I do _not_ go, but stand, + Again lean on the railing, and-- + Begin it all again. + + Ah! that was many a day ago-- + That pleasant summer-time--although + The gate is standing yet; + A little cranky, it may be, + A little weather-worn--like me-- + Who never can forget + + The happy--"End?" My cynic friend, + Pray save your sneers--there was no "end." + Watch yonder chubby thing! + That is our youngest, hers and mine; + See how he climbs, his legs to twine + About the gate and swing. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[14] Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +INGRAM CROCKETT + + +Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed as one of the most +exquisite poets of Nature yet born in Kentucky, first saw the light at +Henderson, Kentucky, February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett, +was a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a member of +the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. Ingram Crockett was educated in +the schools of his native town, but he never went to college. For many +years past Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank, +Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not seared the spirit +of song within his soul. In 1888 he began his literary career by +editing, with the late Charles J. O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and +critic, _Ye Wassail Bowle_, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and +prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, entitled _The +Port of Pleasant Dreams_ (Henderson, 1892), was followed by a long poem, +_Rhoda, an Easter Idyl_. The first large collection of his lyrics was +_Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet +friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a true +interpreter of many-mooded Nature. _A Year Book of Kentucky Woods and +Fields_ (Buffalo, New York, 1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent +writing. A story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, _A +Brother of Christ_ (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's only novel, and +it was not overly successful. _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ +(Chicago, 1908), is his most recent volume of verse. "It contains poems +as big as the world," one enthusiastic critic exclaimed, but it has not +brought the author the larger recognition that he so richly deserves. +This work surely contains Mr. Crockett's best work so far. One does not +have to travel far in any direction in Kentucky in order to find many +persons declaring that Ingram Crockett is the finest poet living in the +state to-day. His latest book, _The Greeting and Goodbye of the Birds_ +(New York, 1912), is a small volume of prose-pastels, somewhat after the +manner of his _Year Book_. It again reveals the author's close +companionship with Nature, and his exquisite expression of what it all +means to him. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _The Courier-Journal_ (August 3, 1912). + + +AUDUBON[15] + +[From _Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898)] + + Not with clash of arms, + Not 'midst war's alarms, + Thy splendid work was done, + Thy great victory won. + + Unknown, thro' field and brake, + By calm or stormy lake, + Lured by swift passing wings-- + Songs that a new world sings-- + + Thou didst untiring go + Led by thine ardor's glow, + Cheered by thy kindling thought + Beauty thy hand had wrought. + + Leaving thy matchless page + Gift to a later age + That would revere thy name-- + Build for thee, surely fame. + + O, to have been with thee, + In that wild life and free, + While all the birds passed by + Under the new world sky! + + O, to have heard the song + Of that glad-hearted throng, + Ere yet the settlers came + Giving the woods to flame! + + O, to have with thee gone + Up the white steps of Dawn! + Or where the burning west + Crimsoned the wild drake's breast! + + Yet better than bays we bring + Are the woods whispering + When life and leaf are new + Under the tender blue! + + Master, awake! for May + Comes on her rainbowed way-- + Hear thou bird-song again + Sweeter than praise of men! + + +THE LONGING[16] + +[From _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1908)] + + I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by + With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why-- + I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring-- + _But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!_ + + I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar + Over and over again one day as the day before-- + And what does it all avail and the end of it--where? + _But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!_ + + Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast, + That e'en as we grasp it dulls--dust of the dust at last. + For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead? + _But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!_ + + Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon! + And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon? + And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place? + _But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!_ + + +DEAREST + +[From the same] + + Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree, + And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody-- + And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold, + And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold. + + Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon, + The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon-- + And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown + Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown. + + Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path, + Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath-- + The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way + With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May. + + Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train, + And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again-- + But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go, + And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[15] Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell. + +[16] Copyright, 1908, by the Author. + + + + +ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN + + +Mrs. Eliza Calvert Obenchain, ("Eliza Calvert Hall"), creator of _Aunt +Jane of Kentucky_, was born at Bowling Green, Kentucky, February 11, +1856; and she has lived in that little city all her life. Miss Calvert +was educated in the private schools of her town, and then spent a year +at "The Western," a woman's college near Cincinnati, Ohio. Her first +poems appeared in the old _Scribner's_, when John G. Holland was the +editor; and her first prose papers were published in _Kate Field's +Washington_. She was married to Professor William A. Obenchain, of +Ogden College, Bowling Green, on July 8, 1885, and four children have +been born to them. _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907), the +memories of an old lady done into short stories, opens with one of the +best tales ever written by an American woman, entitled _Sally Ann's +Experience_. This charming prose idyl first appeared in the +_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, for July, 1898, since which time it has been +cordially commended by former President Roosevelt, has been reprinted +in _Cosmopolitan_, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and many other +magazines, read by many public speakers, and finally issued as a +single book in an illustrated _edition de luxe_ (Boston, 1910). Many +of the other stories in _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ are very fine, but +_Sally Ann_ is far and away superior to any of them. Mrs. Obenchain's +_The Land of Long Ago_ (Boston, 1909), was another collection of Aunt +Jane stories. _To Love and to Cherish_ (Boston, 1911), is the author's +first and latest novel. Upon these four volumes Mrs. Obenchain's fame +rests secure, but _Sally Ann's Experience_ will be read and enjoyed +when her other books have been forgotten. She struck a universal truth +in this little tale, and the world will not willingly let it die. Her +most recent work is a _A Book of Hand-Woven Coverlets_ (Boston, +1912), a large and delightful volume on coverlet collecting and the +study of coverlet making. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (July, 1908); _The Bookman_ + (October, 1910). + + +"SWEET DAY OF REST"[17] + +[From _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907)] + +"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin' +Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a long time, and +the church'd been takin' things easy, and finally they got a new +preacher from down in Tennessee, and the first thing he did was to +draw lines around 'em close and tight about keepin' Sunday. Some o' +the members had been in the habit o' havin' their wood chopped on +Sunday. Well, as soon as the new preacher come, he said that Sunday +wood-choppin' had to cease amongst his church-members or he'd have 'em +up before the session. I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd have +his wood chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' wood +carried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long in the +cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty soon they +got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread 'way out into +the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan was one o' the +first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, he told +about the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to be forgiven for breakin' +the Sabbath day. + +"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone by +the town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on the Fourth +Commandment and all about that pore man that was stoned to death for +pickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. And Sam Amos, he says +after meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my opinion that that man was a +industrious, enterprisin' feller that was probably pickin' up +kindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, and,' says he, 'if they wanted +to stone anybody to death they better 'a' picked out some lazy, +triflin' feller that didn't have energy enough to work Sunday or any +other day.' Sam always would have his say, and nothin' pleased him +better'n to talk back to the preachers and git the better of 'em in a +argument. I ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the Mite +Society, and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrong +thing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intended +for anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for them to keep +the Sabbath day holy, but,' says she, 'the Lord don't rain down manna +in my yard. And,' says she, 'men can stop plowin' and plantin' on +Sunday, but they don't stop eatin', and as long as men have to eat on +Sunday, women'll have to work.' + +"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and these very +preachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath day holy, +they'll walk down out of their pulpits and set down at some woman's +table and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits and corn bread and five +or six kinds o' vegetables, and never think about the work it took to +git the dinner, to say nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after.' + +"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but Abram; I +reckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to own it, but"--here +her voice fell to a confessional key--"I never did like Sunday till I +begun to git old. And the way Sunday used to be kept, it looks to me +like anybody could 'a' been expected to like it but old folks and lazy +folks. You see, I never was one o' these folks that's born tired. I +loved to work. I never had need of any more rest than I got every +night when I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day's +work. I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishing' for rest, but, honey, +all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough to do it.' +And when a person looks at all the things there is to be done in this +world, they won't feel like restin' when they ain't tired. + +"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself Sunday +and every other day; and I ricollect I used to be right glad when any +o' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and send for me to help nurse +'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' necessity, and mercy, too. And +then, child, the Lord don't ever rest. The Bible says He rested on the +seventh day when He got through makin' the world, and I reckon that +was rest enough for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundays +jest the same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, and +the wind blows and He does it all." + + "'For still the Lord is Lord of might; + In deeds, in deeds He takes delight,'" + +I said. + +"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion in +restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight as +rest." + +Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun was +sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting and +twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from a +huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky for +a moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly resting +place. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and the +poorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour. + +Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days, +between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life, +his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth and +death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, what +glory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreams +and vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day be +more magnificent than life? + +As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded. +The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in the +shadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peace +which "passeth all understanding." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[17] Copyright, 1907, by Little, Brown and Company. + + + + +KATE SLAUGHTER McKINNEY + + +Mrs. Kate Slaughter McKinney ("Katydid"), poet and novelist, was born +at London, Kentucky, February 6, 1857. She was graduated from +Daughters', now Beaumont, College, Harrodsburg, Kentucky, when John +Augustus Williams was president. On May 7, 1878, Miss Slaughter was +married at Richmond, Kentucky, to James I. McKinney, now +superintendent of the Louisville and Nashville railroad. Mrs. +McKinney's best work is to be found in her first book of verse, +_Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, 1887). This slender volume was +extravagantly praised by the late Charles J. O'Malley, but it did +contain several lyrics of much merit, especially "The Little Face," a +lovely bit of verse surely. Mrs. McKinney's first novel, _The Silent +Witness_ (New York, 1907), was followed by _The Weed by the Wall_ +(Boston, 1911). Both of these works prove that the author's gift is of +the muses, and not of the gods of the "six best sellers." Neither of +her novels was overly successful, making one wish she had held fast to +her earlier love, verse-making. Besides these three volumes, Mrs. +McKinney has published a group of songs which have attracted +attention. She resides at Montgomery, Alabama. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A LITTLE FACE[18] + +[From _Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1887)] + + A little face to look at, + A little face to kiss; + Is there anything, I wonder, + That's half so sweet as this? + + A little cheek to dimple + When smiles begin to grow; + A little mouth betraying + Which way the kisses go. + + A slender little ringlet, + A rosy little ear; + A little chin to quiver + When falls the little tear. + + A little face to look at, + A little face to kiss; + Is there anything, I wonder, + That's half so sweet as this? + + A little hand so fragile + All through the night to hold; + Two little feet so tender + To tuck in from the cold. + + Two eyes to watch the sunbeam + That with the shadow plays-- + A darling little baby + To kiss and love always. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[18] Copyright, 1887, by the Author. + + + + +CHARLES J. O'MALLEY + + +Charles J. O'Malley, the George D. Prentice of modern Kentucky +literature, the praiser extraordinary and quite indiscriminately of +all things literary done by Kentucky hands, and withal a poet of +distinguished ability, was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, February +9, 1857. Through his father O'Malley was related to Father Abram J. +Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy; and his mother was of +Spanish descent. He was educated at Cecilian College, in Hardin +county, Kentucky, and at Spring Hill, a Jesuit institution near +Mobile, Alabama, from which he returned to Kentucky and made his home +for some years at Henderson. His contributions in prose and verse to +the newspapers of southwest Kentucky made him well-known in the State. +A series of prose papers included _Summer in Kentucky_, _By Marsh and +Pool_, and _The Poets and Poetry of Southwest Kentucky_, attracted +much favorable comment. His finest poem, _Enceladus_, appeared in _The +Century Magazine_ for February, 1892, and much of his subsequent work +was published in that periodical. In 1893 O'Malley removed to Mt. +Vernon, Indiana, to become editor of _The Advocate_, a Roman Catholic +periodical. His first and best known book, _The Building of the Moon +and Other Poems_ (Mt. Vernon, Indiana, 1894), brought together his +finest work in verse. From this time until his death he was an editor +of Roman Catholic publications and a contributor of poems to _The +Century_, _Cosmopolitan_, and other high-class magazines. For several +years O'Malley was editor of _The Midland Review_, of Louisville, and +this was the best periodical he ever edited. Many of the now +well-known writers of the South and West got their first things +printed in _The Review_. It did a real service for Kentucky authors +especially. During his later life O'Malley seemed to realize that he +had devoted far too much time in praising the literary labors of other +writers, and he turned most of his attention to creative work, which +was making him better known with the appearance of each new poem. +O'Malley may be ranked with John Boyle O'Reilly, the Boston editor and +poet, and he loses nothing by comparison with him. He was ever a Roman +Catholic poet, and his religion marred the beauty of much of his best +work. Besides _The Building of the Moon_, O'Malley published _The +Great White Shepherd of Christendom_ (Chicago, 1903), which was a +large life of Pope Leo XIII; and _Thistledrift_ (Chicago, 1909), a +little book of poems and prose pastels. For several years prior to his +passing, he planned a complete collection of his poems to be entitled +_Songs of Dawn_, but he did not live to finish this work. At the time +of his death, which occurred at Chicago, March 26, 1910, O'Malley was +editor of _The New World_, a Catholic weekly. Today he lies buried +near his Kentucky birthplace with no stone to mark the spot. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Century Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The New + World_ (Chicago, April 2, 1910). + + +ENCELADUS[19] + +[From _The Building of the Moon and Other Poems_ (Mount Vernon, +Indiana, 1894)] + + I shall arise; I am not weak; I feel + A strength within me worthy of the gods-- + A strength that will not pass in gray despair. + + Ten million years I have lain thus, supine, + Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks, + And the slow centuries have heard me groan + In passing, and not one has pitied me; + Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath + This mighty horror fixed upon my chest, + And have not eased me of a moment's pain. + + Oh, I will rise again--I will shake off + This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove! + Lo, prone in darkness I have gathered hope + From the great waters walking speaking by! + These unto me give mercy, thus forshown: + + "We are the servants of a mightier Lord + Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee. + We go forth at His bidding, laying bare + The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms + That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man, + And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon + The mighty base of unborn continents. + The old earth, when it hath fulfilled His will, + Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise + And fuller life, and like unto God, + Fills the new races struggling on the globe. + + "Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm, + And mighty order from the deep breaks up + In all her parts, and only Night remains + With all her starts that minister to God, + Who sits sublimely, shaping as He wills, + Creating always." These things do they speak. + "The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars, + Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk + To mournful cloisters of the under-world; + And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self + Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm." + + These things, and more, the waters say to me, + How this old earth shall change, and its life pass + And be renewed from fathomless within; + How other forms, and likelier to God, + Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud; + How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes, + In that far time, when He hath wrought His plan, + Shall the new globe inherit, and like us + Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of ours-- + Or of our dust again made animate. + + These things to me; yet still his curse remains, + His burden presses on me. God! thou God! + Who wast before the dawn, give ear to me! + Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust + This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me, + When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven, + And the earth crumbles, plunging to the void + With all its shrieking peoples!--Let it fall! + Let it be sown as ashes underneath + The base of all the continents to be + Forever, if so rent I shall be freed! + + Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope + On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings? + Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within + Through all its massive frame, and know His hand + Again doth labor shaping out His plan. + Oh, I shall have all patience, trust and calm, + Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring, + On their broad wings, release from this deep hell, + And that I shall have life yet upon earth, + Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath, + And meet the living races face to face. + + +NOON IN KENTUCKY + +[From the same] + + All day from the tulip-poplar boughs + The chewink's voice like a gold-bell rings, + The meadow-lark pipes to the drowsy cows, + And the oriole like a red rose swings, + And clings, and swings, + Shaking the noon from his burning wings. + + A flash of purple within the brake + The red-bud burns, where the spice-wood blows, + And the brook laughs low where the white dews shake, + Drinking the wild-haw's fragrant snows, + And flows, and goes + Under the feet of the wet, wood-rose. + + Odors of may-apples blossoming, + And violets stirring and blue-bells shaken-- + Shadows that start from the thrush's wing + And float on the pools, and swim and waken-- + Unslaken, untaken-- + Bronze wood-Naiads that wait forsaken. + + All day the lireodendron droops + Over the thickets her moons of gold; + All day the cumulous dogwood groups + Flake the mosses with star-snows cold, + While gold untold + The oriole pours from his song-thatched hold! + + Carol of love, all day in the thickets, + Redbird; warble, O thrush, of pain! + Pipe me of pity, O raincrow, hidden + Deep in the wood! and, lo! the refrain + Of pain, again + Shall out of the bosom of heaven bring rain! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[19] Copyright, 1894, by the Advocate Publishing Company. + + + + +LANGDON SMITH + + +Langdon ("Denver") Smith, maker of a very clever and learned poem, was +born in Kentucky, January 4, 1858. From 1864 to 1872 he attended the +public schools of Louisville. As a boy Smith served in the Comanche +and Apache Wars, and he was later a correspondent in the Sioux War. In +1894 Smith was married to Marie Antoinette Wright, whom he afterwards +memorialized in his famous poem, and who survived him but five weeks. +In the year following his marriage, he went to Cuba for _The New York +Herald_ to "cover" the conflict between Spain and Cuba; and three +years later he represented the New York _Journal_ during the +Spanish-American War. Smith was at the bombardment of Santiago and at +the battles of El Caney and San Juan. After the war he returned to New +York, in which city he died, April 8, 1908. He was the author of a +novel, called _On the Pan Handle_, and of many short stories, but his +poem, _Evolution_, made him famous. The first stanzas of this poem +were written in 1895; and four years later he wrote several more +stanzas. Then from time to time he added a line or more, until it was +completed. _Evolution_ first appeared in its entirety in the middle of +a page of want advertisements in the New York _Journal_. It attracted +immediate and wide notice, but copies of it were rather difficult to +obtain until it was reprinted in _The Scrap-Book_ for April, 1906, and +in _The Speaker_ for September, 1908. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909), is a + beautiful and fitting setting for this famous poem. In the + introduction to this edition Mr. Lewis Allen Browne brings + together the facts of Langdon Smith's life and work with many fine + words of criticism for the poem. In 1911 W. A. Wilde and Company, + the Boston publishers, issued an exquisite edition of _Evolution_. + Thus it will be seen that Smith and his masterpiece have received + proper recognition from the publishers and the public; the + judgment of posterity cannot be hurried; but that judgment can be + anticipated, at least in part. That it will be favorable, + characterizing _Evolution_ as one of the cleverest, smartest + things done by a nineteenth century American poet, the present + writer does not for a moment doubt. + + +EVOLUTION[20] + +[From _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909)] + + I + + When you were a tadpole and I was a fish, + In the Paleozoic time. + And side by side on the ebbing tide + We sprawled through the ooze and slime, + Or skittered with many a caudal flip + Through the depths of the Cambrian fen, + My heart was rife with the joy of life, + For I loved you even then. + + II + + Mindless we lived and mindless we loved, + And mindless at last we died; + And deep in a rift of the Caradoc drift + We slumbered side by side. + The world turned on in the lathe of time, + The hot lands heaved amain, + Till we caught our breath from the womb of death, + And crept into light again. + + III + + We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed, + And drab as a dead man's hand; + We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees, + Or trailed through the mud and sand, + Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet + Writing a language dumb, + With never a spark in the empty dark + To hint at a life to come. + + IV + + Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved, + And happy we died once more; + Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold + Of a Neocomian shore. + The eons came, and the eons fled, + And the sleep that wrapped us fast + Was riven away in a newer day, + And the night of death was past. + + V + + Then light and swift through the jungle trees + We swung in our airy flights, + Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms, + In the hush of the moonless nights. + And oh! what beautiful years were these, + When our hearts clung each to each; + When life was filled, and our senses thrilled + In the first faint dawn of speech. + + VI + + Thus life by life, and love by love, + We passed through the cycles strange, + And breath by breath, and death by death, + We followed the chain of change. + Till there came a time in the law of life + When over the nursing sod + The shadows broke, and the soul awoke + In a strange, dim dream of God. + + VII + + I was thewed like an Auroch bull, + And tusked like the great Cave Bear; + And you, my sweet, from head to feet, + Were gowned in your glorious hair. + Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave, + When the night fell o'er the plain, + And the moon hung red o'er the river bed. + We mumbled the bones of the slain. + + VIII + + I flaked a flint to a cutting edge, + And shaped it with brutish craft; + I broke a shank from the woodland dank, + And fitted it, head and haft. + Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn, + Where the Mammoth came to drink;-- + Through brawn and bone I drave the stone, + And slew him upon the brink. + + IX + + Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes, + Loud answered our kith and kin; + From west and east to the crimson feast + The clan came trooping in. + O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof, + We fought, and clawed and tore, + And cheek by jowl, with many a growl, + We talked the marvel o'er. + + X + + I carved that fight on a reindeer bone, + With rude and hairy hand, + I pictured his fall on the cavern wall + That men might understand. + For we lived by blood, and the right of might, + Ere human laws were drawn. + And the Age of Sin did not begin + Till our brutal tusks were gone. + + XI + + And that was a million years ago, + In a time that no man knows; + Yet here to-night in the mellow light, + We sit at Delmonico's; + Your eyes are as deep as the Devon springs, + Your hair is as dark as jet, + Your years are few, your life is new, + Your soul untried, and yet-- + + XII + + Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay, + And the scarp of the Purbeck flags, + We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones, + And deep in the Coraline crags; + Our love is old, our lives are old, + And death shall come amain; + Should it come to-day, what man may say + We shall not live again? + + XIII + + God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds + And furnished them wings to fly; + He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn, + And I know that it shall not die; + Though cities have sprung above the graves + Where the crook-boned men made war, + And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves, + Where the mummied mammoths are. + + XIV + + Then as we linger at luncheon here, + O'er many a dainty dish, + Let us drink anew to the time when you + Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[20] Copyright, 1909, by L. E. Bassett and Company. + + + + +WILL J. LAMPTON + + +William James Lampton ("Will J. Lampton"), founder of the "Yawp School +of Poetry," was born in Lawrence county, Ohio, May 27, 185-, within +sight of the Kentucky line. (Being a bachelor, like Henry Cleveland +Wood, he has hitherto declined to herald the exact date of his birth.) +His parents were Kentuckians and at the age of three years he was +brought to this State. His boyhood and youth was spent in the hills of +Kentucky. He was fitted at private schools in Ashland and Catletsburg, +Kentucky, for Ohio Wesleyan University, which he left for Marietta +College. In 1877 Mr. Lampton established the _Weekly Review_--spelled +either way!--at Ashland, Kentucky. Although he had had no prior +training in journalism, he wrote eleven columns for his first issue. +His was a Republican sheet, and the good Democrats of Boyd county saw +to it that it survived not longer than a year. From Ashland Mr. +Lampton went to Cincinnati and joined the staff of _The Times_. _The +Times_ was too rapid for him, however, and from Cincinnati he +journeyed to Steubenville, Ohio, to take a position on _The Herald_. +Mr. Lampton remained on that paper for three years, when he again came +to Kentucky to join the staff of the Louisville _Courier-Journal_. +Some time later his paper sent him to Cincinnati, which marked his +retirement from Kentucky journalism. It will thus be seen that he +"lapsed out of Kentucky for a time, and lapsed again at the close of +1882." Leaving Cincinnati he went to Washington and originated the now +well-known department of "Shooting Stars" for _The Evening Star_. For +some years past he has resided in New York, working as a "free-lance." +For a long time he contributed a poem almost every day to _The Sun_, +_The World_, or some other paper. In 1910 the governor of Kentucky +created the poet a real Kentucky colonel; and this momentous elevation +above earth's common mortals is heralded to-day upon his stationery. +Colonel Lampton, then, has published six books, the editions of three +of which are exhausted, and he is now happy to think that his works +are "rare, exceedingly scarce." The first of them, _Mrs. Brown's +Opinions_ (New York, 1886), was followed by his chief volume hitherto, +_Yawps and Other Things_ (Philadelphia, 1900). The "other things" were +poems, not yawps. Colonel Henry Watterson contributed a clever +introduction to the attractive volume; and another form of verse was +born and clothed. _The Confessions of a Husband_ (New York, 1903), was +a slight offset to Mary Adams's _The Confessions of a Wife_. Colonel +Lampton's other books are: _The Trolley Car and the Lady_ (Boston, +1908), being "a trolley trip from Manhattan to Maine;" _Jedge Waxem's +Pocket-Book of Politics_ (New York, 1908), which was "owned by Jedge +Wabash Q. Waxem, Member of Congress from Wayback," bound in the form +of an actual pocket-book; and his latest collection of cleverness, +_Tame Animals I Have Known_ (New York, 1912). The tall--and +bald!--Kentuckian lives at the French Y. M. C. A., New York, in order, +as he himself has said, "to give a Parisian tinge to his religion." +His "den" is a delight to Bohemians, a replica of many a country +newspaper office in Kentucky. He is one of the joys of life surely. +And though he has turned out almost as much as Miss Braddon, he can +recall but the four lines he wrote in 1900 upon Mr. James Lane Allen: + + "The Reign of Law"-- + Well, Allen, you're lucky; + It's the first time it ever + Rained law in Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (May, + 1902); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (November, 1907); _Lippincott's + Magazine_ (August, 1911). + + +THESE DAYS[21] + +[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (April, 1907)] + + Pray, + What is it to-day + That it should be worse than the early days? + Are the modern ways + Darker for all the light + That the years have shed? + Is the right + Dead-- + Under the wheels of progress + By the side of the road to success, + Bleeding and bruised and broken, + Left in forgetfulness? + Is truth + Stronger in youth + Than in age? Does it grow + Feeble with years, and move slow + On the path that leads + To the world's needs? + Does man reach up or down + To take the victor's crown + Of progress in science, art and commerce? + In all the works that plan + And purpose to accomplish + The betterment of man? + Does the soul narrow + With the broadening of thought? + Does the heart harden + By what the hand has wrought? + Who shall say + That decay + Marks the good of to-day? + Who dares to state + That God grows less as man grows great? + + +OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR[22] + +[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (September, 1908)] + + I builded a castle in the air, + A magical, beautiful pile, + As the wonderful temples of Karnak were, + By the thirsty shores of the Nile. + Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue, + Its walls were of burnished gold, + Which up from the caverns of ocean grew, + Where pearls lay asleep in the cold. + Its windows were gems with the glint and the gleam + Of the sun and the moon and the stars. + Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin's dream + Of the land of the deodars. + It stood as the work of a master, alone, + Whose marvelous genius had played + The music of heaven in mortar and stone + With the tools of his earthly trade. + I builded a castle in the air, + From its base to its turret crown; + I stretched forth my hand to touch it there + And the whole darn thing fell down. + + +CHAMPAGNE + +[From _The Bohemian_] + + Gee whiz, + Fizz, + You shine in our eyes + Like the stars in the skies; + You glint and gleam + Like a jeweled dream; + You sparkle and dance + Like the soul of France, + Your bubbles murmur + And your deeps are gold, + Warm is your spirit, + And your body, cold; + You dazzle the senses, + Dispelling the dark; + You are music and magic, + The song of the lark; + O'er all the ills of life victorious, + You touch the night and make it glorious. + But, say, + The next day? + Oh, go away! + Go away + And stay! + Gee whiz, + Fizz! ! ! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[21] Copyright, 1907, by the Pearson Publishing Company, New York. + +[22] Copyright, 1908, by the Pearson Publishing Co., New York. + + + + +MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO + + +Mrs. Mary Anderson de Navarro, the celebrated actress of the long ago, +and a writer of much ability, is a product of Kentucky, although she +happened to be born at Sacramento, California, July 28, 1859. When but +six months old she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and there her +girlhood days were spent. Miss Anderson was educated at the Ursuline +Convent and the Presentation Academy, two Roman Catholic institutions +of Louisville. At the age of seventeen years, or, on November 27, +1876, she made her _debut_ as _Juliet_ in "Romeo and Juliet," at +Macauley's Theatre, Louisville, and her "hit" was most decided, both +press and public agreeing that a brilliant career was before her. Miss +Anderson's superb figure, her glorious hair, her magnificent voice, +made her the great beauty she was, and thoroughly delightful. Leaving +Louisville for a tour of the principal cities of the country, she +finally arrived in New York, where she was seen in several +Shakespearian roles. Some time later she put on "Pygmalion and +Galatea," one of her greatest successes. In London Miss Anderson won +the hearts of the Britishers with "The Lady of Lyons," "Pygmalion and +Galatea," and other plays. Her second season on the stage saw a +gorgeous production of "Romeo and Juliet" in London, with the American +girl in her first role, _Juliet_. This "held the boards" for an +hundred nights. She returned to the United States, but she was soon +back in London, where "The Winter's Tale," her next play, ran for +nearly two hundred nights. Short engagements on the continent +followed, after which she came again to this country, and to her old +home, Louisville, which visit she has charmingly related in her +autobiography, _A Few Memories_ (London and New York, 1896), which +work Joseph Jefferson once declared would make permanent her stage +successes. From Louisville "Our Mary," as she was called by +Kentuckians, was seen in Cincinnati, from which city she went to +Washington, where she forever rang down the curtain upon her life as +an actress. That was in the spring of 1889, and in June of that year +she was married to Antonio F. de Navarro, since which event she has +resided in England. In recent years Mary Anderson, that was, has +visited in New York, but she has not journeyed out to Kentucky. In +1911 she collaborated in the dramatization of Robert Hichens's novel, +_The Garden of Allah_, and she was in New York for its _premier_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Few Memories_ is delightfully set down, and, + though the author made no especial claims as a writer, her book + will keep her fame green for many years; _McClure's Magazine_ + (July, 1908); _Harper's Weekly_ (January 9, 1909); _Century + Magazine_ (March, 1910). + + +LAZY LOUISVILLE[23] + +[From _A Few Memories_ (London, 1896)] + +After visiting many of the principal States, I was delighted to find +myself again in quaint, charming Louisville, Kentucky. Everything goes +along so quietly and lazily there that no one seems to change or grow +older. Having no rehearsals I used my first free time since I had left +the city soon after my _debut_ to see the places I liked best. Many of +my childhood's haunts were visited with our old nurse "Lou." At the +Ursuline Convent, with its high walls, where music had first cast a +veritable spell, and made a willing slave of me for life, most of the +nuns looked much the same, though I had not seen them in nineteen +years. The little window of the den where I had first resolved to go +upon the stage, was as bright and shining as ever; and I wondered, in +passing the old house, whether some other young and hopeful creature +were dreaming and toiling there as I had done so many years before. At +the Presentation Academy I found the latticed summer-house (where, as +a child, I had reacted for my companions every play seen at the +Saturday matinees, instead of eating my lunch) looking just as cool +and inviting as it did then. My little desk, the dunce-stool, +everything seemed to have a friendly greeting for me. Mother Eulalia +was still the Superioress, and in looking into her kind face and +finding so little change there, it seemed that the vortex I had lived +in since those early years was but a restless dream, and that I must +be a little child again under her gentle care. No one was changed but +myself. I seemed to have lived a hundred years since leaving the old +places and kindly faces, and to have suddenly come back again into +their midst (unlike Rip Van Winkle) to find them as I had left them. + +Many episodes, memorable to me, occurred in Louisville. Not the least +pleasant was Father Boucher's acknowledgment (after disapproving of my +profession for years) that my private life had not fallen under the +evils which, at the beginning, he feared to be inevitable from contact +with the theatre. Father Boucher was a dear old Frenchman, who had +known and instructed me in matters religious since my childhood. My +respect and affection for him had always been deep. When he condemned +my resolution to go upon the stage quite as bitterly as did my +venerated guardian, Pater Anton, my cup of unhappiness overflowed. All +my early successes were clouded by the alienation of such unique +friends. My satisfaction and delight may be imagined when, after years +of estrangement, Father Boucher met me with the same trust with which +he had honoured me as a child, and heartily gave me his blessing. + +It was also at Louisville that the highly complimentary "resolutions" +passed by the Senate of Kentucky, and unanimously adopted by that +body, were presented to me. They were the State's crowning expression +of goodwill to their grateful, though unworthy, country-woman. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[23] Copyright, 1896, by Osgood, McIlvaine and Company, London. + + + + +MARY R. S. ANDREWS + + +Mrs. Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews, short-story writer and novelist, +was born at Mobile, Alabama, in 1860, but she was brought to +Lexington, Kentucky, in September, 1861, when her father, Rev. Jacob +S. Shipman, an Episcopal clergyman, was chosen rector of Christ +Church. When six years old she was sent to Christ Church Seminary, the +church's school, conducted by Rev. Silas Totten and his daughters. One +of these daughters tells with a smile to-day that "May" Shipman's +first story, written at the age of seven, was upon her dog, "Shep." +When thirteen years of age she discovered that the older girls in the +school were studying French, when she was not, and she went to her +father with the request that she be permitted to join the class. But +the rector's question, "May, would you put in your furniture before +you built your walls?" sent her back to her Latin and mathematics +without further protest. She attended the school for eleven years, and +at it received her education, never having attended any other +institution. On November 26, 1877, when the future writer was +seventeen years of age, her father accepted the rectorship of Christ +Church, New York, and the family shortly afterwards removed to that +city. She has been in Kentucky but twice since: five years after her +departure, and about ten years ago. But that she has not forgotten her +Kentucky home is evinced in the signed copies of her books which have +found their way to the Blue Grass country and in her letters to +former friends. On the last day of December, 1884, Miss Shipman +married William Shankland Andrews, now associate justice of the +supreme court of New York. Mrs. Andrews spends her summers in the +Canadian woods, and the winters at her home in Syracuse, New York. Her +first novel, _Vive L'Empereur_ (New York, 1902), a story of the king +of Rome, was followed by _A Kidnapped Colony_ (New York, 1903), with +Bermuda as the background. _Bob and the Guides_ (New York, 1906), was +the experiences of a boy, "Bob," with the French guides of the +Canadian woods who pursue caribou. _A Good Samaritan_ (New York, +1906), has been called the best story ever printed in _McClure's +Magazine_, in which form it first appeared. _The Perfect Tribute_ (New +York, 1906), a quasi-true story of Lincoln and the lack of enthusiasm +with which the crowd received his Gettysburg speech, adorned with a +love episode at the end, is Mrs. Andrews's finest thing so far. This +little tale has made her famous, and stamped her as one of the best +American writers of the short-story. It was originally printed in +_Scribner's Magazine_ for July, 1906. Her other books are: _The +Militants_ (New York, 1907), a collection of stories, several of which +are set in Kentucky, and all of them inscribed to her father in +beautiful words; _The Better Treasure_ (Indianapolis, 1908), is a +charming Christmas story, with a moral attached; _The Enchanted Forest +and Other Stories_ (New York, 1909), a group of stories first told to +her son and afterwards set down for other people's sons; _The Lifted +Bandage_ (New York, 1910), a most unpleasant, disagreeable tale as may +well be imagined; _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911), a +yarn of Yale and her ways, one of the author's cleverest things; _The +Counsel Assigned_ (New York, 1912), another story of Lincoln, this +time as the young lawyer, is not greatly inferior to _The Perfect_ +_Tribute_. Mrs. Andrews's latest volume, _The Marshal_ (Indianapolis, +1912), is her first really long novel. It is a story of France, +somewhat in the manner of her first book _Vive L'Empereur_, but, of +course, much finer than that work of her 'prentice years. It has been +highly praised in some quarters, and rather severely criticized in +others. At any rate it has not displaced _The Perfect Tribute_ as her +masterpiece. That little story, with _A Good Samaritan_, _The Courage +of the Commonplace_, and _Crowned with Glory and Honor_, fairly +entitle Mrs. Andrews to the first and highest place among Kentucky +women writers of the short-story. She has attained a higher note in a +most difficult art than any other woman Kentucky has produced; and it +is only right and just that her proper position be allotted her in +order that she may occupy it; which she will do with a consensus of +opinion when her Kentucky life is more widely heralded. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _American Magazine_ (May, 1909); _Scribner's + Magazine_ (September, 1911; August, 1912). + + +THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT[24] + +[From _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911)] + +Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston "Tech." As his +class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father waiting for him. +He noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a +wonderful head--a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared +and cut down to the marrow of brains and force--a man to be seen in +any crowd. With that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the +spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him. The boy had +graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father's +eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing. + +"I didn't know you were coming, sir. That's mighty nice of you," he +said, as they walked down Boylston Street together, and his father +waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone. + +"I wouldn't have liked to miss it, Johnny," he said. "I don't remember +that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have +to-day." + +With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away, +looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere. +His father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he +said anything as intimate to any of his sons. They knew that the cold +manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected +to see the depths uncovered. But here he was, talking of what he felt, +of character, and honor, and effort. + +"I've appreciated what you have been doing," the even voice went on. +"I talk little about personal affairs. But I'm not uninterested; I +watch. I was anxious about you. You were a more uncertain quantity +than Ted and Harry. Your first three years at Yale were not +satisfactory. I was afraid you lacked manliness. Then came--a +disappointment. It was a blow to us--to family pride. I watched you +more closely, and I saw before that year ended that you were taking +your medicine rightly. I wanted to tell you of my contentment, but +being slow of speech, I--couldn't. So"--the iron face broke for a +second time into a whimsical grin--"so I offered you a motor. And you +wouldn't take it. I knew, though you didn't explain, that you feared +it would interfere with your studies. I was right?" Johnny nodded. +"Yes. And your last year at college was--was all I could wish. I see +now that you needed a blow in the face to wake you up--and you got it. +And you waked." The great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "I have +had"--he hesitated--"I have had always a feeling of responsibility to +your mother for you--more than for the others. You were so young when +she died that you seem more her child. I was afraid I had not treated +you right well--that it was my fault if you failed." The boy made a +gesture--he could not very well speak. His father went on: "So when +you refused the motor, when you went into engineers' camp that first +summer, instead of going abroad, I was pleased. Your course here has +been a satisfaction, without a drawback--keener, certainly, because I +am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, how well you were +doing, how much you were giving up to do it, how much power you were +gaining by that long sacrifice. I've respected you through these years +of commonplace, and I've known how much more courage it meant in a +pleasure-loving lad such as you than it would have meant in a serious +person such as I am--such as Ted and Harry are, to an extent, also." +The older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son such a +shining face as the boy had never seen. "That boyish failure isn't +wiped out, Johnny, for I shall remember it as the corner-stone of your +career, already built over with an honorable record. You've made good. +I congratulate and I honor you." + +The boy never knew how he got home. He knocked his shins badly on a +quite visible railing, and it was out of the question to say a single +word. But if he staggered, it was with an overload of happiness, and +if he was speechless and blind, the stricken faculties were paralyzed +with joy. His father walked beside him and they understood each other. +He reeled up the streets contented. + +That night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his father +turned and ordered fresh champagne opened. + +"We must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent of +the Oriel mine," he said. Johnny looked at him, surprised, and then at +the others, and the faces were bright with the same look of something +which they knew and he did not. + +"What's up?" asked Johnny. "Who's the superintendent of the Oriel +mine? Why do we drink to him? What are you all grinning about, +anyway?" The cork flew up to the ceiling, and the butler poured gold +bubbles into the glasses, all but his own. + +"Can't I drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked Johnny, and +moved his glass and glanced up at Mullins. But his father was beaming +at Mullins in a most unusual way, and Johnny got no wine. With that +Ted, the oldest brother, pushed back his chair and stood and lifted +his glass. + +"We'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to Johnny, "to the +gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent +of the Oriel mine, Mr. John Archer McLean," and they stood and drank +the toast. Johnny, more or less dizzy, more or less scarlet, crammed +his hands in his pockets and stared and turned redder, and brought out +interrogations in the nervous English which is acquired at our great +institutions of learning. + +"Gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. And "is this a merry jape?" +And "Why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow what's up your +sleeve?" While the family sipped champagne and regarded him. + +"Now, if I've squirmed for you enough, I wish you'd explain--father, +tell me!" the boy begged. + +And the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness, +interrupting freely. It seemed that the president of the big mine +needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and the latest ideas, +had written to the head of the Mining Department in the School of +Technology, to ask if he would give him the name of the ablest man in +the graduating class--a man to be relied on for character as much as +brains, he specified, for the rough army of miners needed a general at +their head almost more than a scientist. Was there such a combination +to be found, he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four, +such as would be graduating at the "Tech?" If possible, he wanted a +very young man--he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the athletic +tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the unmade reputation +which would look for its making to hard work in the mine. The letter +was produced and read to the shamefaced Johnny. "Gosh!" he remarked at +intervals, and remarked practically nothing else. There was no need. +They were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the boy +who had been a failure three years ago. + +On the urgent insistence of every one, he made a speech. He got to his +six-feet-two slowly, and his hand went into his trousers as usual. "Holy +mackerel," he began--"I don't call it decent to knock the wind out of a +man and then hold him up for remarks. They all said in college that I +talked the darnedest hash in the class, anyway. But you will have it, +will you? I haven't got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except +that I'll be blamed if I see how this is true. Of course I'm keen for +it--Keen! I should say I was! And what makes me keenest, I believe, is +that I know it's satisfactory to Henry McLean." He turned his bright +face to his father. "Any little plugging I've done seems like thirty +cents compared to that. You're all peaches to take such an interest, and +I thank you a lot. Me, the superintendent of the Oriel mine! Holy +mackerel!" gasped Johnny, and sat down. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[24] Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER + + +Mrs. Elvira (Sydnor) Miller Slaughter, the "Tatler" of _The Louisville +Times_ in the old days, and a verse-writer of considerable reputation, +was born at Wytheville, Virginia, October 12, 1860. When a child Miss +Miller was brought to Kentucky, as her mother had inherited money +which made necessary her removal to this State in order to obtain it. +She was educated at the Presentation Academy, in Louisville, by the +same nuns that had instructed Mary Anderson de Navarro, the famous +actress. She was subsequently gold medalist at a private finishing +school, but she still clings to the Catholicism instilled at the +Presentation Academy. Shortly after having left school Miss Miller +published her first and only book of poems, _Songs of the Heart_ +(Louisville, 1885), with a prologue by Douglass Sherley.[25] About +this time her parents lost their fortune, and she secured a position +on _The Louisville Times_, where she was trained by Mr. Robert W. +Brown, the present managing editor of that paper. After three years +of general reporting, Miss Miller became editor of "The Tatler +Column," and this she conducted for fourteen years with cleverness and +success, only resigning on the day of her marriage to Mr. W. H. +Slaughter, Jr. Her second book, _The Tiger's Daughter and Other +Stories_ (Louisville, 1889), is a group of fairy tales, several of +which are entertaining. _The Confessions of a Tatler_ (Louisville, +1905), is a booklet of the best things she did for her department on +_The Times_. She surely handled some men, women, books, and things in +this brochure in a manner that even he who runs may read +and--understand! From 1909 to 1912 she lived at Camp Dennison, near +Cincinnati, Ohio, but at the present time she is again at Louisville, +engaged in literary work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey + (Louisville, 1892); _Dear Old Kentucky_, by G. M. Spears + (Cincinnati, 1900). + + +THE SOUTH AND SONG + +[From _The Midland Review_ (Louisville, Kentucky)] + + I.--THE SOUTH + + Spirit, whose touch of fire + Wakens the sleeping lyre-- + Thou, who dost flood with music heaven's dominions, + Where hast thou taken flight-- + Thou comfort, thou delight? + In what blest regions furled thy gloomy pinions, + Since from the cold North voices call to me: + "Thou South, thou South! Song hath abandoned thee!" + + + II.--VOICES + + We cry out on the air: + Thy palace halls are bare, + Shorn of the glory of the dream-gods' faces: + Thy sweetest strain were sung + When thy proud heart was young; + Fame hath no crowns, nay, nor no vacant places-- + So, all in vain, thy poet-songs awaken: + Thou serenadest casements long forsaken. + + Thy rivers proudly flow, + As in the long ago. + Like kings who lead their rushing hosts to battle: + Thy sails make white the seas-- + They fly before the breeze, + As o'er the wide plains fly storm-drifted cattle: + Laughter and light make beautiful thy portals, + Spurned by the bright feet of the lost immortals. + + What gavest thou to him + Whose fame no years may dim, + Song's great archangel, glorious, yet despairing-- + Who, o'er earth's warring noises + Heard Heaven's and Hell's great voices-- + Who, from his shoulders the rude mantle tearing, + Wrapt the thin folds about his dying wife, + The angel and the May-time of his life? + + And what to him whose name + Is consecrate to Fame-- + Whose songs before the winds of war were driven-- + Who swept his lute to mourn + That banner soiled and torn, + For which a million valiant hearts had striven-- + Who set God's cross high o'er the battling horde, + And sheltered neath its arms the lyre and sword? + + What gav'st thou that true heart + That shrined its dreams apart, + From want and care and sorrow evermore-- + Him, who mid dews and damp, + Burned out life's feeble lamp, + Striving to keep the wolf from out his door, + And while the land was ringing with his praise, + Slumbered in Georgia, tired and full of days? + + And what to him whose lyre, + Prometheus-like, stole fire + From heaven; whom sea and air gave fancies tender-- + Whose song, winged like the lark, + Died out in death's great dark; + Whose soul, like some bright star, clothed on in splendor, + Went trembling down the viewless fields of air, + Wafted by music and the breath of prayer? + + What gav'st thou these? A crust: + A coffin for their dust: + Neglect, and idle praise and swift forgetting-- + Stones when they asked for bread: + Green bays when they were dead-- + Who sang of thee from dawn till life's sun-setting, + And whose tired eyes, thank God! could never see + Thy shallow tears, thy niggard charity. + + Yet fair as is a night, + O strong, O darkly bright! + Thou shinest ever radiant and tender, + Drawing all hearts to thee, + As from the vassal sea + The waves are lifted by the moon's white splendor: + So poet strains awake, and fancies gleam + Like winds and summer lightning through thy dream. + + +SUNDOWN LANE + +[From _The Louisville Times_] + + Through a little lane at sundown in the days that used to be, + When the summer-time and roses lit the land, + My sweetheart would come singing down that leafy way to me + With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand. + Oh, I threw my arms about her as we met beside the way, + And her darling, curly head lay on my breast, + While she told me that she loved me in her simple, girlish way, + And then kisses that she gave me told the rest; + For a kiss is all the language that you wish from your sweetheart, + When you meet her in the gloaming there, so lonely and apart, + And she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + + Through a little lane at sundown we went walking hand in hand, + 'Mid the summer-time and roses long ago, + And the path that we were treading seemed to lead to fairyland, + The place where happy lovers long to go; + Oh, we talked about our marriage in the quiet, evening hush, + And I bent to whisper love words in her ear, + And her dainty pink sunbonnet was no pinker than her blush + For she thought the birds and flowers all might hear; + Oh, that dainty pink sunbonnet, bright in memory still it glows, + It hid her smiles and blushes as the young leaves veil the rose, + When she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me, + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + + Through a little lane at sundown I go roaming all forlorn, + Though the summer-time once more smiles o'er the land, + And the roses seem to ask me where their sister rose has gone + With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand. + But false friends came between us and I found out to my cost, + When I learned too late her sweetness and her truth, + That the love we hold the dearest is the love that we have lost, + With the roses and the fairyland of youth. + Now the flowers all bend above her through the long, bright + summer day, + And my heart grows homesick for her as she dreams the hours away, + She who set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me + In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[25] (George) Douglass Sherley, born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 27, +1857; educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and University +of Virginia; joined staff of the old Louisville _Commercial_; made +lecture tour with James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet; now resides +near Lexington, Kentucky. Author of: _The Inner Sisterhood_ +(Louisville, 1884); _The Valley of Unrest_ (New York, 1884); _Love +Perpetuated_ (Louisville, 1884); _The Story of a Picture_ (Louisville, +1884). Mr. Sherley has done much occasional writing since his four +books were published, which has appeared in the form of calendars, +leaflets, and in newspapers. + + + + +JOSEPH S. COTTER + + +Joseph Seaman Cotter, Kentucky's only negro writer of real creative +ability, was born near Bardstown, Kentucky, February 2, 1861. From his +hard day-labor, he went to night school in Louisville, and he has +educated himself so successfully that he is at the present time +principal of the Tenth Ward colored school, Louisville. Cotter has +published three volumes of verse, the first of which was _Links of +Friendship_ (Louisville, 1898), a book of short lyrics. This was +followed by a four-act verse drama, entitled _Caleb, the Degenerate_ +(Louisville, 1903). His latest book of verse is _A White Song and a +Black One_ (Louisville, 1909). Cotter's response to Paul Lawrence +Dunbar's _After a Visit_ to Kentucky, was exceedingly well done, but +his _Negro Love Song_ is the cleverest thing he has written hitherto. +His work has been praised by Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, Madison +Cawein, Charles J. O'Malley, and other excellent judges of poetry. +Cotter is a great credit to his race, and he has won, by his quiet, +unassuming life and literary labors, the respect of many of +Louisville's most prominent citizens. One of his admirers has ranked +his work above Dunbar's, but this rating is much too high for any +thing he has done so far. In the last year or two he has turned his +attention to the short-story, and his first collection of them has +just appeared, entitled _Negro Tales_ (New York, 1912). + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (November 14, 1909); _Lore of the + Meadowland_, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky, 1911). + + +NEGRO LOVE SONG[26] + +[From _A White Song and a Black One_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1909)] + + I lobes your hands, gal; yes I do. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + I lobes your earnings thro' an' thro'. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + Now, heah de truf. I'se mos' nigh broke; + I wants ter take you fer my yoke; + So let's go wed ter-morro'. + + Now, don't look shy, an' don't say no. + (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.) + I hope you don't expects er sho' + When we two weds ter-morro'. + I needs er licends--you know I do-- + I'll borrow de price ob de same frum you, + An' den we weds ter-morro'. + + How pay you back? In de reg'ler way. + When you becomes my honey + You'll habe myself fer de princ'pal pay, + An' my faults fer de inter's' money. + Dat suits you well? Dis cash is right. + So we two weds ter-morro' night, + An' you wuks all de ter-morro's. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[26] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + + + + +ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD + + +Ethelbert Dudley Warfield, historical writer, was born at Lexington, +Kentucky, March 16, 1861, the brother of Dr. Benjamin Breckinridge +Warfield, the distinguished professor in Princeton Theological Seminary. +President Warfield was graduated from Princeton, continued his studies +at the University of Oxford, and was graduated in law from Columbia +University, in 1885. He practiced law at Lexington, Kentucky, for two +years, when he abandoned the profession for the presidency of Miami +University, Oxford, Ohio. In 1891 he left Miami for the presidency of +LaFayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, where he has remained ever +since. In 1899 Dr. Warfield was ordained to the Presbyterian ministry. +He teaches history at LaFayette. Besides several interesting pamphlets +upon historical subjects, Dr. Warfield has published three books, the +first of which was _The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798: an Historical +Study_ (New York, 1887), his most important work so far. _At the Evening +Hour_ (Philadelphia, 1898), is a little book of talks upon religious +subjects; and his most recent volume, _Joseph Cabell Breckinridge, +Junior_ (New York, 1898), is the pathetic tale of the years of an early +hero of the Spanish-American war, graphically related. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (August, 1901); _The + Independent_ (December 25, 1902); _The Independent_ (July 13, + 1905). + + +CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS + +[From _The Presbyterian and Reformed Review_ (April, 1892)] + +Columbus is one of the few men who have profoundly changed the course +of history. He occupies a unique and commanding position, seeming to +stand out of contemporary history, and to be a force separate and +apart. He is the gateway to the New World. His career made a new +civilization possible. His achievement conditions the expansion and +development of human liberty. His position is simple but certain. His +figure is as constant and as inexorable as the ice floes which girdle +and guard the pole are to us, or as the sea of darkness which he +spanned was to his predecessors. He inserted a known quantity into the +hitherto unsolvable problem of geography, and not only rendered it +solvable, but afforded a key to a vast number of problems dependent +upon it, problems not merely geographical, but economical, +sociological and governmental as well. + +Yet in all this there mingles an element of error. Great events do not +come unanticipated and unheralded. + + "Wass Gott thut, das ist wohl gethan," + +sang Luther, knowing well that God hath foreordained from the +foundation of the world whatsoever cometh to pass. "In the fullness of +time" God does all things in His benign philosophy. In the fullness of +time man was set in the midst of his creation; in the fullness of time +Christ came; in the fullness of time God opened the portals of the west. + +If the Welsh were driven on our shores under Madoc, if the Norsemen came +and sought to found here "Vinland, the good," they did not light upon +the fullness of time. God had no splendid purpose for the Welsh; the +Northland force was needed to make bold the hearts of England, France, +and Italy, to unify the world with fellow-service in the Orient, to +break the bonds of feudalism, and to wing the sandals of liberty. As +Isaac Newton sat watching the apple fall in his garden, he was but +resting from the labor of gathering into his mind the labors of men who +had in this or that anticipated his discovery of the law of gravitation. +In all scientific advance many gather facts. One comes at length and in +a far-reaching synthesis arranges the facts of many predecessors around +some central truth and rises to some great principle. So generalizations +follow generalizations, and the field of truth expands in ever-widening +circles from the central fact of God's establishment. Columbus is not +like Melchisedec. He had antecedents--antecedents many and obvious. The +highest tribute we can pay him is to say that he fixed upon one of the +world's great problems, studied it in all its relations, embraced clear +and definite views upon it, and staked his all upon the issue; and that +not in a spirit of mere adventure, but of dedication to a noble purpose. +He gave to a speculative question reality, and thereby gave a hemisphere +to Christendom. + +But like the girl who admitted the Gauls to the Capitol at Rome in +return for "what they wore on their left arms," Columbus was +overwhelmed by the reward which he demanded for his services. Without +natural ability to command, and without experience, he demanded and +obtained a fatal authority. + + + + +EVELYN S. BARNETT + + +Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, a novelist of strength and promise, was +born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1861, the daughter of Charles +Scott Snead. On June 8, 1886, Miss Snead became the wife of Mr. Ira +Sayre Barnett, a Louisville business man. Mrs. Barnett was literary +editor of _The Courier-Journal_ for seven years, and her Saturday page +upon "Books and Their Writers" was carefully edited. She did a real +service for Kentucky letters in that she never omitted comment and +criticism upon the latest books of our authors, with an occasional +word upon the writers of the long ago. She was succeeded by the +present editor, Miss Anna Blanche Magill. Mrs. Barnett's first story, +entitled _Mrs. Delire's Euchre Party and Other Tales_ (Franklin, Ohio, +1895), the "other tales" being three in number, was followed by +_Jerry's Reward_ (Boston, 1902). These novelettes made clear the path +for the author's big novel, _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909), now in its +second edition. This is a great mystery story, one reviewer ranking it +with the best detective tales of the present-day school. The American +trusts and the hearts of women furnish the setting for _The Dragnet_, +which is bigger in promise than in achievement, and which bespeaks +even greater merit for Mrs. Barnett's new novel, now in preparation. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentuckians in History and Literature_, by J. W. + Townsend (New York, 1907); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE WILL[27] + +[From _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909)] + +Soon after their return, the Alexanders were forced to move to town. +Charles needed the time he had to spend on the road going to and fro, +and he was unwilling to put unnecessary hours of work on Trezevant, +who not only bore his share during the day, but was sleeping with one +eye open in a dingy corner of the shops. As the Dinsmore was +expensive, they rented a modern flat, with tiny rooms, but plenty of +sunlight. Constance knew they could save here, especially as Diana +still wished to make her home with them. + +Finally, the last day at Hillside came. + +Charles drove Diana and Lawson to town, to get things ready there, +leaving Constance to see the last load off, and to make sure that +everything was in good shape for the Clarks, who intended to take +possession in the spring. Constance went into every room, list in +hand, checking the things the new owners had purchased. Then she tried +the window bolts, and snapped the key in the lock of the front door. +She blew the horn for the brougham. The coachman came up. In a +business-like, everyday manner, she ordered him to drive to town, and, +getting in, without one look from the window, she left Hillside. + +When she arrived at the new home, she was pleased to find that Diana +and Lawson had arranged the furniture in the small rooms, and had a +dainty little luncheon awaiting. As she was sitting down to enjoy it, +her first visitor rang the bell--Aunt Sarah, just returned from the +East and the latest fashions, looking younger than ever, and with a +torrent of society gossip that was almost Sanscrit to Constance, +occupied so long with the realities. + +"What was your idea, Constance, in coming to this tiny place?" she +asked, when she had given a full account of the delights of her +summer. + +Constance hesitated, but only for a moment. "Economy," she said, +boldly. + +Aunt Sarah looked anxious. "My dear child, has your husband been +preaching? Don't let him fool you; they all try it. It's a trick. +Every now and then they think it their duty to cry hard times, when it +is no such thing. You go to scrimping and saving, like an obedient +wife, and the first thing you know he buys an automobile or a yacht, +or wants you to give a ball." + +Constance smiled. "But this is real, Aunt Sarah. You know we are +fighting a big trust, and while, eventually, we expect to win, we have +to be content with little or no profits for a few years." + +"Trusts! Profits! What difference do they make as long as you have a +steady income of your own?" + +Constance was debating with herself whether she ought to speak plainly +and have it out with the Parker pride then and there, or wait until +she were not quite so tired and unstrung, when she was happily spared +a decision by her aunt's switching off to another track. + +"Talking of money reminds me that I heard a piece of news to-day," she +said, lowering her voice in deference to Diana's presence behind thin +walls. "I heard that Horace Vendire made a will shortly after his +engagement to ---- and has left her millions." + +"Oh, aunt! I wonder if it is true! How dreadful it would be!" + +Aunt Sarah put up her jeweled lorgnette. "Constance Parker, what on +earth is the matter with you to-day? You seem to be getting everything +distorted, looking at the world upside down. It's that country +business--" she continued emphatically; "the very moment you developed a +fondness for that sort of life, I knew you were bound to grow careless +and indifferent in thoughts, ways, and opinions. People who love the +country always seem to think they have to sneer at civilization." + +Constance was too tired to argue, and too disturbed over the last +piece of gossip to explain; so she said weakly that she supposed she +had changed, and let the rest of the visit pass in banalities. + +The next day a little lawyer sprang a sensation by notifying those +whom it concerned that he held the last Will and Testament of Horace +Vendire, duly signed, attested, and sealed in his presence, a month +before the disappearance. + +Charles came to tell the two women. + +"No, no!" cried Diana: "It's a mistake! He did not intend it to stand!" + +"You surmise the contents of the will?" + +"If it was made only a month before he disappeared. Had he lived, he +would have altered it. I begged him to. Must I go to the meeting of +the heirs?" + +"I think it is best. Cheer up; there are many things worse than money. +Constance and I will go with you. Mr. James is back, and has asked us." + +So Diana went, and she could not have looked more terrified had she +been listening to the last trump, instead of to the smooth voice of a +young lawyer reading the bequests of her dead lover. + +The will was dated, July 26th, 1900. By it, Horace Vendire's life +insurance was left to his brother James, an annuity of five thousand +dollars to his mother, and an income of only three thousand a year to +his fiancee, Diana Frewe, as long as she remained unmarried. It was +evident to Charles that Vendire did not wish to give her enough to +help her friends. The residue, and, eventually, the principal, were to +be used in building and endowing the Horace Vendire Public Library in +the city of New York. + +In a codicil, he directed that his stock in the American Blade and +Trigger Company should be sold, the directors of that company being +given the option of buying it at par before it was offered elsewhere. + +Mr. James Vendire was the first to congratulate Diana. + +"Oh, don't!" she cried, shrinking from his proffered hand. "I cannot +bear it. It is yours; you must take it." She grew almost incoherent. + +Constance petted and soothed. "Be still, dear. Remember you are weak +and unstrung. We will go home now, and see what can be done later." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[27] Copyright, 1909, by B. W. Huebsch and Company. + + + + +JOHN PATTERSON + + +John Patterson, "a Greek prophet not without honor in his own American +land," was born near Lexington, Kentucky, June 10, 1861. He was +graduated from Kentucky State University in 1882; and the following +year Harvard granted him the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He took his +Master's degree from Kentucky University in 1886. The late Professor +John Henry Neville, one of Kentucky's greatest classical scholars, +first taught John Patterson Greek; and to his old professor he is +indebted for much of his success as a teacher of Greek and a +translator and critic of its literature. Professor Patterson's first +school after leaving Harvard was a private one for boys near Midway, +Kentucky; and he was for several years principal of the high school at +Versailles, Kentucky. His first book, _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, +1893), is his only really creative work so far. It contains several +fine poems and was widely admired at the time of its appearance. In +1894 Professor Patterson was made instructor of Greek in the +Louisville High School, which position he held for seven years. His +first published translation was _The Medea of Euripides_ (Louisville, +1894), which he edited with an introduction and notes. This was +followed by _The Cyclops of Euripides_ (London, 1900), perhaps his +finest work hitherto. In 1901 Kentucky University conferred the +honorary degree of Master of Literature upon Professor Patterson; and +in the same year he helped to establish the Patterson-Davenport school +of Louisville. In 1907 he became professor of Greek in the University +of Louisville; and since September, 1908, he has been Dean of the +College of Arts and Sciences of the University with full executive +powers, practically president. His institution granted him the +honorary degree of LL. D. in 1909. Doctor Patterson's latest work is a +translation into English of _Bion's Lament for Adonis_ (Louisville, +1909). At the present time he is engaged upon a critical edition of +the Greek text of the _Lament_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909), v. + ix; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A CLUSTER OF GRAPES[28] + +[From. _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, 1893)] + + Misty-purple globes, + Beads which brown autumn strings + Upon her robes, + Like amethyst ear-rings + Behind a bridal veil + Your veils of bloom their gems reveal. + + Mellow, sunny-sweet, + Ye lure the banded bee + To juicier treat, + Aiding his tipsy spree + With more dulcet wine + Than clover white or wild woodbine. + + Dripping rosy dreams + To me of happy hall + Where laughter trims + The lamps till swallow-call; + Of flowery cup and throng + Of men made gods in wit and song. + + Holding purer days + Your luscious fruitfulness, + When prayer and praise + The bleeding ruby bless, + And memory sees the blood + Of Christ, the Savior, God and good. + + Monks of lazy hills, + Stilling the rich sunshine + Within your cells, + Teach me to have such wine + Within my breast as this, + Of faith, of song, of happiness. + + +CHORAL ODE (ERIPIDES' MEDEA, LINES 627-662.) + +[From the same] + + The loves in excess bring nor virtue nor fame, + But if Cypris gently should come, + No goddess of heaven so pleasing a dame: + Yet never, O mistress, in sure passion steeped, + Aim at me thy gold bow's barbed flame. + + May temperance watch o'er me, best gift of the gods, + May ne'er to wild wrangling and strifes + Dread Cypris impel me soul-pierced with strange lust; + But with favoring eye on the quarrelless couch + Spread she wisely the love-beds of wives! + + Oh fatherland! Oh native home! + Never city-less + May I tread the weary path of want + Ever pitiless + And full of doom; + But on that day to death, to death be slave! + Without a country's worse than in a grave. + + Mine eye hath seen, nor do I muse + On other's history. + Nor home nor friend bewails thy nameless pangs.-- + Perish dismally + The fiend who fails + To cherish friends, turning the guileless key + Of candor's gate! Such friend be far from me! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[28] Copyright, 1893, by Robert Clarke and Company. + + + + +WILLIAM E. BARTON + + +William Eleazar Barton, novelist and theologian, was born at Sublette, +Illinois, June 28, 1861. He reached Kentucky for the first time on +Christmas Day of 1880, and matriculated as a student in Berea College, +where he spent the remainder of the college year of 1880-1881, and four +additional years. During two summers and autumns he taught school in +Knox county, Kentucky, then without a railroad, taking long rides to +Cumberland Gap, Cumberland Falls and other places which have since +appeared in his stories. The two remaining vacations he spent in travel +through the mountains, journeying by Ohio river steamer along the +northern counties, and by horseback far into the Kentucky hills in +various directions. In 1885 Mr. Barton graduated from Berea with the B. +S. degree; and three years later the same institution granted him M. S., +and, in 1890, A. M. He was ordained to the Congregational ministry at +Berea, Kentucky, June 6, 1885, and he preached for two years in southern +Kentucky and in the adjacent hills of east Tennessee, living at Robbins, +Tennessee. Mr. Barton's first book was a Kentucky mountain sketch, +called _The Wind-Up of the Big Meetin' on No Bus'ness_ (1887), now out +of print. This was followed by _Life in the Hills of Kentucky_ (1889), +depicting actual conditions. He became pastor of a church at Wellington, +Ohio, in 1890, and his next two works were church histories. Berea +College conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity upon Mr. +Barton in 1895; and he has been a trustee of the college for the last +several years. He was pastor of a church in Boston for six years, but +since 1899, he has been in charge of the First Congregational Church of +Oak Park, Illinois. Dr. Barton's other books are: _A Hero in Homespun_ +(New York, 1897), a Kentucky story, the first of his books that was +widely read and reviewed; _Sim Galloway's_ _Daughter-in-Law_ (Boston, +1897), the Kentucky mountains again, which reappear in _The Truth About +the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897); _The Story of a Pumpkin Pie_ +(Boston, 1898); _The Psalms and Their Story_ (Boston, 1898); _Old +Plantation Hymns_ (1899); _When Boston Braved the King_ (Boston, 1899); +_The Improvement of Perfection_ (1900); _The Prairie Schooner_ (Boston, +1900); _Pine Knot_ (New York, 1900), his best known and, perhaps, his +finest tale of Kentucky; _Lieut. Wm. Barton_ (1900); _What Has Brought +Us Out of Egypt_ (1900); _Faith as Related to Health_ (1901); +_Consolation_ (1901); _I Go A-Fishing_ (New York, 1901); _The First +Church of Oak Park_ (1901); _The Continuous Creation_ (1902); _The Fine +Art of Forgetting_ (1902); _An Elementary Catechism_ (1902); _The Old +World in the New Century_ (1902); _The Gospel of the Autumn Leaf_ +(1903); _Jesus of Nazareth_ (1904); _Four Weeks of Family Worship_ +(1906); _The Sweetest Story Ever Told_ (1907); with Sydney Strong and +Theo. G. Soares, _His Last Week, His Life, His Friends, His Great +Apostle_ (1906-07); _The Week of Our Lord's Passion_ (1907); _The +Samaritan Pentateuch_ (1906); _The History and Religion of the +Samaritans_ (1906); _The Messianic Hope of the Samaritans_ (1907); _The +Life of Joseph E. Roy_ (1908); _Acorns From an Oak Park Pulpit_ (1910); +_Pocket Congregational Manual_ (1910); _Rules of Order for +Ecclesiastical Assemblies_ (1910); _Bible Classics_ (1911); and _Into +All the World_ (1911). Since 1900 Dr. Barton has been on the editorial +staff of _The Youth's Companion_. The _locale_ of his novels was down on +the Kentucky-Tennessee border, amid ignorance and poverty--a background +upon which no other writer has painted. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (November, 1900); _The Independent_ (July 7, 1910). + + +A WEARY WINTER[29] + +[From _The Truth About the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897)] + +The winter came and went, and the breach only widened with the +progress of the months. The men dropped all pretense of religious +observance. They grew more and more taciturn and sullen in their +homes. They cared less and less for the society of their neighbors, +and as they grew more miserable they grew more uncompromising. When +little Ike was sick and Jane going to the spring just before dinner +found a gourd of chicken broth, so fresh and hot that it had evidently +been left but a few minutes before, she knew how it had come there, +and hastened to the house with it. But Larkin saw the gourd and at a +glance understood it, and asked,-- + +"Whar'd ye git that ar gourd? Whose gourd is that?" and snatching it +from her, he took it to the door and flung it with all his might. +Little Ike cried, for the odor of the broth had already tempted his +fickle appetite, and Larkin bribed him to stop crying with promises of +candy and all other injurious sweetmeats known to children of the +Holler. But when the illness proved to be a sort of winter cholera +terminating in flux, he was glad to maintain official ignorance of a +bottle of blackberry cordial which also was left at the spring, and +which proved of material benefit in the slow convalescence of Ike. + +It was thought, at first, that Captain Jack Casey would be able to +effect a reconciliation between the men. He was respected in the +Holler, and was often useful in adjusting differences between +neighbors. He was a justice of the peace, for that matter, and had the +law behind him. But his military title and his reputation for fair +dealing gave him added authority. + +He was the friend of both men, and had known them both in the army. He +was Eph's brother-in-law, beside, and their wives' friendship, like +their own, dated from that prehistoric period, "before the war." + +But even Captain Jack failed to move either of the two enraged +neighbors. + +Brother Manus made several ineffectual attempts at a reconciliation, +but at last gave up all hope. + +"I'll pray fur 'em," he said, "but I cyant do no more." + +Great was his professed faith in prayer; it may be doubted whether +this admission did not indicate in his mind a desperate condition of +affairs. + +But there was one person who could never be brought to recognize the +breach between the families. Shoog made her frequent visits back and +forth unhindered. To be sure, Ephraim tried to prevent her. He scolded +her; he explained to her, and once he even whipped her. But while she +seemed to understand the words he spoke, and grieved sorely over her +punishments, she could not get through her mind the idea of an +estrangement, and at length they gave up trying to have her +understand. So, almost daily, when the weather permitted, Shoog +crossed the foot log, and wended her way across the bottoms to Uncle +Lark's. Larkin at first attempted to ignore her presence, but the +attempt failed, and she was soon as much in his arms and heart as she +had ever been; and many prayers and good wishes went with her back and +forth, as Jane and Martha saw her come and go, and often went a piece +with her, though true to their unspoken parole of honor to their +husbands, speaking no word to each other. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[29] Copyright, 1897, by the Author. + + + + +BENJ. H. RIDGELY + + +Benjamin Howard Ridgely, short-story writer, was born at Ridgely, +Maryland, July 13, 1861. In early childhood he was brought to Woodford +county, Kentucky, where he grew to manhood. He was educated in private +schools and at Henry Academy. He studied law but abandoned it for +journalism. Ridgely removed to Louisville in 1877 to accept a position +on _The Daily Commercial_, which later became _The Herald_. He went with +_The Courier-Journal_ and in a short time he was made city editor. +Ridgely left _The Courier-Journal_ to establish _The Sunday Truth_, of +which he was editor, with his friend, Mr. Young E. Allison, as +associate editor. President Cleveland, urged by Col. Henry Watterson and +other leading Democrats, appointed Ridgely consul to Geneva, +Switzerland, on June 20, 1892, which post he held for eight years. Being +able to speak French and Spanish fluently, he was well fitted for the +consular service. On May 8, 1900, President McKinley transferred Ridgely +to Malaga, Spain, where he remained for two years, when he was again +transferred, this time going to Nantes, France, where he also staid for +two years. President Roosevelt sent Ridgely to Barcelona, Spain, on +November 3, 1904, as consul-general. He resided at that delightful place +until March, 1908, when he was made consul-general to Mexico, with his +residence at Mexico City. Ridgely died very suddenly at Monterey, +Mexico, on October 9, 1908. His body was brought back to Kentucky and +interred in Cave Hill cemetery, Louisville; and there he sleeps to-day +with no stone to mark the spot. Ridgely's reports to the state +department are now recognized as papers of importance, but is upon his +short-stories and essays that he is entitled to a place in literature. +His stories of consular life, set amid the changing scenes of his +diplomatic career, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's +Magazine_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, _Scribner's_, _The Strand_, _The +Pall Mall Magazine_, and elsewhere. Writing a miniature autobiography in +1907 he set himself down as the author of a volume of short-stories, +which, he said, bore the imprint of The Century Company, New York, were +entitled _The Comedies of a Consulate_, and, strangest thing of all, +were published two years prior to the time he was writing, or, in 1905! +It is indeed too bad that his alleged publishers fail to remember having +issued his book, for one would be worth while. What a castle in Spain +for this spinner of consular yarns! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1908-1909); _The + Courier-Journal_ (Louisville, October 10, 1908). + + +A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT[30] + +[From _The Man the Consul Protected_ (_Century Magazine_, January, +1905)] + +Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield of Kentucky was an amiable and +kindly man of fifty, with the fluent speech and genial good breeding +of a typical Blue-grass gentleman. In appearance and dress he was +still an ante-bellum Kentuckian, with a weakness for high-heeled +boots, long frock-coats, and immaculate linen. When he said, "Yes, +sah," or "No, sah," it was like a breath right off the old plantation. +It should be added that he was a bachelor and a Mugwump. + +Being a Kentuckian, he was naturally a colonel; though, as a matter of +fact, it was due solely to the courtesy of the press and the amiable +custom of the proud old commonwealth that he possessed his military +title. Nor had the genial colonel been otherwise a brilliant success +in life. Indeed, I am pained to recite that he had achieved in his +varied professional career only a sort of panorama of failures. He had +failed at the bar, failed in journalism, failed as a real-estate +broker, and, having finally taken the last step, had failed as a +life-insurance agent. In this emergency his relatives and friends +hesitated as to whether they should run him for Congress or unload him +on the consular service. His younger brother, who was something of a +cynic, insisted that Gillespie was fitted by intelligence to be only a +family physician; but it was finally decided at a domestic council +that he would particularly ornament the consular service. In pursuance +of this happy conclusion, an organized onslaught was made upon the +White House. The President yielded, and one day the news came that +Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield had been appointed consul of +the United States to Esperanza. + +It is needless to suggest that Colonel Warfield took himself very +seriously in his new official capacity. It had not occurred to him, +however, that his consular mission was rather a commercial than a +patriotic one: he believed that he was going abroad to see that the +flag of his country was treated with respect, and to protect those of +his fellow-countrymen who in any emergency might have need of the +services of an astute and fearless diplomat. In fact, the feeling +that his chief official function was to be that of a sort of +diplomatic protecting angel took such possession of him that he +assumed a paternal attitude toward the whole country. Thus, bursting +with patriotism, he set sail one day from New York for Gibraltar, and +was careful during the voyage to let it be understood on shipboard +that if anybody needed protection he stood ready to run up the flag +and make the eagle scream violently. + +Esperanza lies just around the corner from Gibraltar, and nowhere along +all the Iberian littoral of the Mediterranean is the sky fairer or the +sun more genial. The fertile _vega_ stretches back to the foot-hills of +the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Across the blue-sea way lies Morocco. It +is a picturesque and beautiful spot, and if the consul be a dreamer, he +may find golden hours for reverie. But I fear that neither the poetry +nor the picturesqueness of the entourage appealed to Consul Warfield as +he reached Esperanza that blazing September morning. He was more +impressed with the shrill noises of the foul and shabby streets; with +the dust that was upon everything, giving even to the palm-trees in the +_parque_ a gray and dreary look; with the flies that seemed to be +hunting their prey in swarms like miniature vultures; with the +uncompromising mosquitos singing shrilly for blood, and the bold, busy +fleas that held no portion of his official person sacred. + +The colonel was a buoyant man, but his exuberant soul felt a certain +sinking that hot morning. It was a busy moment at Esperanza, and not +much attention was paid to the new consul at the crowded Fonda +Cervantes, whither, after a turbulent effort, he had persuaded his +_cochero_ to conduct him. He had been much disappointed that the +vice-consul was not on hand to receive him at the railway station. The +fact is, the consul had thought rather earnestly of a committee and a +brass band at the depot, and the complete lack of anything akin to a +reception had been something of a shock to his official and personal +vanity. However, he was not easily discouraged, and after having +convinced the proprietor of the fonda that he was the new American +consul, and therefore entitled to superior consideration, he set out +to find the consulate. + +He found it in a narrow little street that went twisting back from +the quay toward the great dingy cathedral, and certainly it was not +what his imagination had fondly pictured it. He had thought of a fine +old Moorish-castle sort of house, with a great carved door opening +into a spacious _patio_, splendid with Arabic columns, and in the +background a broad marble staircase leading up to the consulate. He +had expected to see the flag of his country flying in honor of his +arrival, and a uniformed soldier on duty at the entrance, ready to +present arms and stand at attention when the new consul appeared. + +As a matter of fact, there was a very narrow little door opening into +a very narrow little hallway that ran through the center of a very +narrow, squalid little house. Over the doorway was perched the +consular coat of arms. It was the poorest, dingiest, dustiest little +escutcheon that ever bore so pretentious a device. + +The dingy gilt letters were almost invisible, but the colonel managed +to make them out. He could also see that the figure in the center of +the shield was intended to represent a proud and haughty eagle-bird in +the act of screaming; but the poor old eagle had been so rained upon +and so shone upon, and the dust had gathered so heavily upon him, that +he looked like a mere low-spirited reminiscence of the famous +_Haliaetus leucocephalus_ which he was originally meant to represent. + +Colonel Warfield of Kentucky was not discouraged. Being, as I have +said, a buoyant man, he simply remarked to himself: "I'll have that +disreputable-looking fowl taken down and painted." Then he walked on +into the squalid little consulate. + +An old man with shifty little blue eyes; a thin, keen face; long, +straggling gray hair; and a long, thin tuft of gray beard, which +looked all the more straggling and wretched because of the absence of +an accompanying mustache, sat at a table reading a Spanish newspaper. +This was Mr. Richard Brown of Maine, "clerk and messenger" to the +United States consulate, who drew the allowance of four hundred +dollars a year, and was the recognized bulwark of official Americanism +at Esperanza. For forty years, during all the vicissitudes of war and +politics, Richard Brown had sat at his desk in the shabby little +consulate, watching the procession of American consuls come and go, +doing nearly all the clerical work of the office himself, and +contemplating with cynical delight the tortuous efforts of the +various untrained new officers to acquaint themselves with their +duties and the language of the post. + +In his affiliations he had become entirely Spanish, having acquired a +fluent knowledge of the language and a wide acquaintance with the +people and their ways. None the less, in his speech and appearance he +remained a typical down-east Yankee, and it is said at Esperanza that +his one conceit was to look like the popular caricature of Uncle Sam. +In this it is not to be denied that he succeeded. The "billy-goat" +beard; the lantern-jaw; the thin, long hair; the thin, long arms; and +the thin, long legs--these he had as if modeled from the caricature. +And the nasal twang and the down-east dialect--alas! it would have +filled the average melodramatic English novelist's devoted soul with +untold satisfaction and delight to hear Richard Brown say "Wal" and "I +gaiss," and otherwise mutilate the English language. + +To the Spaniards he was known as Don Ricardo. The small Anglo-American +colony at Esperanza referred to him as "old Dick Brown." He was a +cynical, crusty, sour old man, who had become a sort of consular +heirloom at Esperanza, and without whose knowledge and assistance no +new American consul could at the outset have performed the simplest +official duty. Knowing this, Richard Brown felt a very well-developed +sense of his own importance, and looked upon each of his newly arrived +superiors with ill-concealed contempt. + +There was also a vice-consul at Esperanza; but as he was a busy +merchant, who could find time to sign only such papers as old Brown +presented to him in the absence of the consul, he was seen little at +the consulate. He generally knew when a new consul was coming along or +an old consul going away, but in this instance Brown had failed to +advise him either of Major Ransom's departure or of Colonel Warfield's +arrival. Thus it happened that only the amiable Mr. Brown was on hand +when Colonel Warfield came perspiring upon the scene on the warm +morning in September of which we write. + +"Come in," he said sharply, as the consul hesitated upon the +threshold. "What's your business?" + +Colonel Warfield gave Mr. Brown a look that would have completely +withered an ordinary person, but which was entirely lost upon the old +man in question, and with magnificent dignity handed him the following +card: + + COLONEL G. WITHERSPOON WARFIELD, + Consul of the United States of America. + ESPERANZA. + +Mr. Richard Brown looked the card over carefully. + +"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a major; the +one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' but soldiers to +send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? Are you a real colonel or +jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a colonel on the governor's +staff? There's your office over there on the other side of the hall. +Kin you speak Spanish?" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[30] Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company. + + + + +ZOE A. NORRIS + + +Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born at +Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. Henry T. +Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky towns. She was +graduated from Daughters, now Beaumont, College, when she was +seventeen years of age, or in 1878; and two days later she married +Spencer W. Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, to +live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband and went to +New York to make a name for herself in literature. She began with a +Western story, _Georgiana's Mother_, which appeared in George W. +Cable's magazine, _The Symposium_. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris +went to England--"like an idiot," as she now puts it. In London she +"got swamped among the million thieving magazines, threw up the whole +job," and traveled for two years on the Continent, writing for +American periodicals. When she returned to New York she again wrote +for _McClure's_, _Cosmopolitan_, _The Smart Set_, _Everybody's_, and +several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's first novel, _The Quest of +Polly Locke_ (New York, 1902) was a story of the poor of Italy. It was +followed by her best known novel, _The Color of His Soul_ (New York, +1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, and suppressed +two weeks after its publication because of the earnest objections of a +young Socialist, who had permitted the author to make a type of him, +and, when the story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was +not sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, and +withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other publishers, and +she could not find any one to print her writings. A short time later +Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped dying as a charity patient in a New York +hospital. When she did recover she worked for two years on _The Sun_, +_The Post_, _The Press_, and several other newspapers in Manhattan. +_Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories_ (New York, 1905), which were +originally printed in _The Sun_, "describing scenes and incidents in a +Kentucky Colonel's life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by +Phil B. Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The stories have +enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to issue another set of them +shortly. Being badly treated by a well-known magazine, she became so +infuriated that she decided to establish--at the suggestion of Marion +Mills Miller--a magazine of her own. Thus _The East Side_, a little +thing not so large--speaking of its physical size--as Elbert Hubbard's +_The Philistine_, was born. That was early in 1909; and it has been +issued every other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not +original; her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The +four bound volumes of _The East Side_ lie before me now, and they are +almost bursting with love, sympathy, and understanding for the poor of +New York. She has been and is everything from printer's "devil" to +editor-in-chief, but she has made a success of the work. Her one +eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested all her +life. For the last seven years she has lived among them; and among +them she hopes to spend the remainder of her days. Her one best friend +has been William Oberhardt, the artist, who has illustrated _The East +Side_ from its inception until the present time. To celebrate the +little periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded--at the +suggestion of Will J. Lampton--The Ragged Edge Klub, which is composed +of her friends and subscribers, and which gave her an opportunity to +meet all of her "distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's +dinners delight the diners--and the newspapers! Mrs. Norris's latest +novel, _The Way of the Wind_ (New York, 1911), is a story of the +sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, and is generally regarded as her +finest work. So long as _Zoe's Magazine_--which is the sub-title of +_The East Side_--continues to come from the press, the pushcart +people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood +women, the homeless of New York's great East Side will have a voice in +the world worth having. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (September, 1909); + _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1910). + + +THE CABARET SINGER[31] + +[From _The East Side_ (September, 1912)] + +For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and violin, +held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret singer +stepped out upon the soft, red carpet. + +Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap with his +wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring glances at the +singer. + +She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her long, soft +glance, selecting her victim for the chorus. + +She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband, pressed her +rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to sing. + +The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in this +delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret singer, leaving +him, went from one to the other of the men, some bald, some young, +singing the chorus of "Daddy." + +The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed the +singer. + +"Shall we go home?" she asked presently. + +"Not yet!" he implored. + +"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying +for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home." + +The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw +herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began +to cry softly. + +The negress patted her white shoulder. + +"What's de mattah, honey," she purred. + +"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am +sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to +go home!" + + +IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS + +[From the same] + + I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life, + I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife, + I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain, + If I could go back and be little again, + I'd like it. + + I'm tired of the day that must end in the night, + I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light, + I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain, + If I could be rocked in a cradle again, + I'd like it. + + But tired or not, we must keep up the fight, + We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night, + Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain, + Be brave in the dark and endure the pain; + For we'll never, never be little again, + And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again, + Tho we'd most of us like it. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[31] Copyright, 1912, by the Author. + + + + +LUCY CLEAVER McELROY + + +Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very +characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on +Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W. +Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the +schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married +to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs. +McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to +become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a +success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to _The +Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and other +newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, _Answered_ +(Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics. +The first book she published that won a wide reading was _Juletty_ (New +York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners, +fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with +"whiskey-colored eyes," make the _motif_. _Juletty_ was followed by _The +Silent Pioneer_ (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent +pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out +of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy +died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she +called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (May, 1901); _Library of Southern + Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv). + + +OLD ALEC HAMILTON[32] + +[From _Juletty_ (New York, 1901)] + +"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a +curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts. + +"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle +at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the +brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a +dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect +it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and +snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion +they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of +some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of +college training and after association with negroes and illiterate +neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities, +and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my +grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had +expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm--three thousand +broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres +always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the +heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever +flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession +for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit +as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little +natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead +a few weeks and--well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of +conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was +not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was +midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes, +outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly: + +"'Who are you?' + +"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly. + +"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered. + +"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his +lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing +daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news: + +"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!' + +"'What yer want here?' + +"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered quiveringly. + +"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared. + +"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than ever +before or since, I turned and ran from him. + +"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong arms, his +tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops on my face, while +he mumbled through his sobs: + +"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? Eliza's +son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome than sunshine +after a storm. Never mind what grandfather says, little man; just +always remember he loves you like a son.' + +"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all at once +his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, he cried: 'Thar, +yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter carry yer eround like +er nigger? Use yer own legs and find yer grandmother.' + +"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I had seen his +heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a gentleman, do what +he might to hide it." + +The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my rambling, +reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my grandsire. + +"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried. + +"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren County came +out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, 'My God, man, don't +you wish ugliness was above par? You'd be er Croesus.'" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[32] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +MARY F. LEONARD + + +Miss Mary Finley Leonard, maker of many tales for girls, was born at +Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 11, 1862, but she was brought to +Louisville, Kentucky, when but a few months old. Louisville has been her +home ever since. Miss Leonard was educated in private schools, and at +once entered upon her literary labors. She has published ten books for +girls from fourteen to sixteen years of age, but several of them may be +read by "grown-ups." The style of all of them is delightfully simple and +direct. _The Story of the Big Front Door_ (New York, 1898), was her +first story, and this was followed by _Half a Dozen Thinking Caps_ (New +York, 1900); _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901); _The Spectacle +Man_ (Boston, 1901); _Mr. Pat's Little Girl_ (Boston, 1902); _How the +Two Ends Met_ (New York, 1903); _The Pleasant Street Partnership_ +(Boston, 1903); _It All Came True_ (New York, 1904); _On Hyacinth Hill_ +(Boston, 1904); and her most recent book, _Everyday Susan_ (New York, +1912). These books have brought joy and good cheer to girls in many +lands, and they have been read by many mothers and fathers with pleasure +and profit. Miss Leonard has made for herself a secure place in the +literature of Kentucky, a place that is peculiarly her own. She has a +novel of mature life in manuscript, which is said to be the finest thing +she has done so far, and which will be published in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (March, 1900); _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +GOODBY[33] + +[From _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901)] + +Trolley sat on the gate-post. If possible he was handsomer than ever, +for the frosty weather had made his coat thick and fluffy, besides +this he wore his new collar. His eyes were wide open to-day, and he +looked out on the world with a solemn questioning gaze. + +He had been decidedly upset in his mind that morning at finding an +open trunk in Caro's room, and clothes scattered about on chairs and +on the bed. Of course he did not know what this meant, but to the cat +mind anything unusual is objectionable, and it made him unhappy. +Finally he stretched himself in the tray, where Caro found him. + +"You darling pussie!" she cried, "Mamma do look at him. I believe he +wants to go home with us. I wish we could take him." + +But Mrs Holland said one little girl was all the traveling companion +she cared for. "It wouldn't do dear, he would be unhappy on the +train," she added. + +"I don't know what I should have done without him. He and my candle +were my greatest comforts--except grandpa," and Caro put her cheek +down on Trolley's soft fur. + +"What am I to do without my little candle?" her grandfather asked. + +"Why, you can have the cat," Caro answered merrily. + +No wonder Trolley's mind was disturbed that morning with such a coming +and going as went on,--people running in to say goodby, and Aunt +Charlotte thinking every few minutes of something new for the traveler's +lunch, tickling his nose with tantalizing odors of tongue and chicken. + +It was over at last, trunks and bags were sent off, Aunt Charlotte was +hugged and kissed and then Trolley had his turn, and the procession +moved, headed by the president. + +"Goodby Trolley; don't forget me!" Caro called, walking backwards and +waving her handkerchief. + +When they were out of sight Trolley went and sat on the gate-post and +thought about it. After a while he jumped down and trotted across the +campus with a businesslike air as if he had come to an important +decision. He took his way through the Barrows orchard to the Grayson +garden where there was now a well-trodden path through the snow. + +Miss Grayson and her brother were sitting in the library. They had +been talking about Caro when Walter glancing toward the window saw a +pair of golden eyes peering in at him. "There is Trolley," he said, +and called Thompson to let him in. + +Trolley entered as if he was sure of a welcome, and walking straight +to Miss Elizabeth, sprang into her lap; and from this on he became a +frequent visitor at the Graysons' dividing his time in fact about +evenly between his two homes. + +And thus an unfortunate quarrel which had disturbed the peaceful +atmosphere of Charmington and separated old friends, was forgotten, +and as the president often remarked, it was all owing to the candle +and the cat. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[33] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER + + +Joseph Alexander Altsheler, the most prolific historical novelist +Kentucky has produced, was born at Three Springs, Kentucky, April 29, +1862. He was educated at Liberty College, Glasgow, Kentucky, and at +Vanderbilt University. His father's death compelled him to leave +Vanderbilt without his degree, and he entered journalism at Louisville, +Kentucky. Mr. Altsheler was on the Louisville _Evening Post_ for a year, +when he went with _The Courier-Journal_, with which paper his remained +for seven years. During his years on _The Courier-Journal_ he filled +almost every position except editor-in-chief. He later went to New York, +and, since 1892, has been editor of the tri-weekly edition of _The +World_. Mr. Altsheler was married, in 1888, to Miss Sara Boles of +Glasgow, Kentucky, and they have an attractive home in New York. He +began his literary career with a pair of "shilling shockers," entitled +_The Rainbow of Gold_ (New York, 1895), and _The Hidden Mine_ (New York, +1896), neither of which did more than start him upon his real work. The +full list of his tales hitherto is: _The Sun of Saratoga_ (New York, +1897); _A Soldier of Manhattan_ (New York, 1897); _A Herald of the West_ +(New York, 1898); _The Last Rebel_ (Philadelphia, 1899); _In Circling +Camps_ (New York, 1900), a story of the Civil War and his best work so +far; _In Hostile Red_ (New York, 1900), the basis of which was first +published in _Lippincott's Magazine_ as "A Knight of Philadelphia;" _The +Wilderness Road_ (New York, 1901); _My Captive_ (New York, 1902); +_Guthrie of the Times_ (New York, 1904), a Kentucky newspaper story of +success, one of Mr. Altsheler's finest tales; _The Candidate_ (New York, +1905), a political romance. The year 1906 witnessed no book from the +author's hand, but in the following year he began the publication of a +series of books for boys, as well as several other novels. His six +stories for young readers are: _The Young Trailers_ (New York, 1907); +_The Forest Runners_ (New York, 1908); _The Free Rangers_ (New York, +1909); _The Riflemen of the Ohio_ (New York, 1910); _The Scouts of the +Valley_ (New York, 1911); and _The Border Watch_ (New York, 1912). "All +the six volumes deal with the fortunes and adventures of two boys, Henry +Ware and Paul Cotter, and their friends, Shif'less Sol Hyde, Silent Tom +Ross and Long Jim Hart, in the early days of Kentucky." Mr. Altsheler's +latest historical novels are: _The Recovery_ (New York, 1908); _The Last +of the Chiefs_ (New York, 1909); _The Horsemen of the Plains_ (New York, +1910); and _The Quest of the Four_ (New York, 1911). He is at the +present time engaged upon a trilogy dealing with the Texan struggle for +independence against Mexico, the first of which has recently appeared, +_The Texan Star_ (New York, 1912). This tale, with the other two that +are to be issued in 1913, to be entitled, _The Texan Scouts_, and _The +Texan Triumph_, are written chiefly for the young. He will also publish +in 1913 a story to be called _Apache Gold_. "Joseph A. Altsheler has +made a fictional tour of American history," one of his keenest critics +has well said; and his work has been linked with James Fenimore Cooper's +by no less a judge of literary productions than the late Richard Henry +Stoddard. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Independent_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_ + (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (February, 1903). + + +THE CALL OF THE DRUM[34] + +[From _In Circling Camps_ (New York, 1900)] + +Then I listened to the call of the drum. + +Fort Sumter was fired upon, and the first cannon shot there set this +war drum to beating in every village; it was never silent; its steady +roll day after day was calling men up to the cannon mouth; it was +persistent, unsatisfied, always crying for more. + +Its beat was heard throughout a vast area, over regions whose people +knew of each other as part of the same nation but had never met, calling +above this line to the North, calling below it to the South, summoning +up the legions for a struggle in which old jealousies and old quarrels, +breeding since the birth of the Union, were to be settled. + +The drum beat its martial note in the great cities of the Atlantic, +calling the men away from the forges and the shops and the +wharves--clerks, moulders, longshoremen, the same call for all; it +passed on, and its steady beat resounded among the hills and mountains +of the North, calling to the long-limbed farmer boys to drop the +plough and take up the rifle, sending them on to join the moulders, +and clerks, and longshoremen, and putting upon all one stamp, the +stamp of the soldier, food for the cannon--and this food supply was to +be the largest of its time, though few yet dreamed it. + +The roll of the drum went on, through the fields, along the rivers, +by the shores of the Great Lakes, out upon the plains, where the +American yet fought with the Indian for a foothold, and into the +interminable forests whose shades hid the pioneers; over levels and +acres and curves of thousands of miles, calling up the deep-chested +Western farmers, men of iron muscles and no pleasures, to whom +unbroken hardship was the natural course of life, and sending them to +join their Eastern brethren at the cannon mouth. + +It was an insistent drum, beating through all the day and night, over +the mountains, through the sunless woods and on the burnt prairies, +never resting, never weary. The opportunity was the greatest of the +time, and the drum did not neglect a moment; it was without +conscience, and had no use for mercy, calling, always calling. + +Another drum and yet the same was beating in the South, and those who +came at its call differed in little from the others who were marching +to the Northern beat, only the clerks and the mill hands were much +fewer; the same long-limbed and deep-chested race, spare alike of +figure and speech, brown-faced men from the shores of the Gulf, men of +South Carolina in whom the original drop of French blood still +tinctured the whole; brethren of theirs from Louisiana, gigantic +Tennesseans, half-wild horsemen from the Texas plains--all burning +with enthusiasm for a cause that they believed to be right. + +This merciless drum rolling out its ironical chuckle noted that these +Northern and Southern countrymen gathering to their standards were alike +in their lack of pleasure; they were a serious race; life had always +been a hard problem for them, a fight, in fact, and this fight into +which they were going was merely another kind of battle, with some +advantages of novelty and change and comradeship that made it +attractive, especially to the younger, the boys. They had been hewers of +wood and drawers of water in every sense of the word, though for +themselves; generations of them had fought Indians, some suffering +torture and death; they had endured bitter cold and burning heat, eaten +at scanty tables, and lived far-away and lonely lives in the wilderness. +They were a rough and hard-handed race, taught to work and not to be +afraid, knowing no masters, accustomed to no splendours either in +themselves or others, holding themselves as good as anybody and thinking +it, according to Nature; their faults those of newness and never of +decay. These were the men who had grown up apart from the Old World, and +all its traditions, far even from the influence which the Atlantic +seaboard felt through constant communication. This life of eternal +combat in one form or another left no opportunity for softness; the +dances, the sports, and all the gaieties which even the lowest in Europe +had were unknown to them, and they invented none to take their place. + +They knew the full freedom of speech; what they wished to say they +said, and they said it when and where they pleased. But on the whole +they were taciturn, especially in the hour of trouble; then they made +no complaints, suffering in silence. They imbibed the stoicism of the +Indians from whom they won the land, and they learned to endure much +and long before they cried out. This left one characteristic patent +and decisive, and that characteristic was strength. These men had +passed through a school of hardship, one of many grades; it had +roughened them, but it gave them bodies of iron and an unconquerable +spirit for the struggle they were about to begin. + +Another characteristic of those who came at the call of the drum was +unselfishness. They were willing to do much and ask little for it. +They were poor bargain-drivers when selling their own flesh and bones, +and their answer to the call was spontaneous and without price. + +They came in thousands, and scores of thousands. The long roll +rumbling from the sea to the Rocky Mountains and beyond cleared +everything; the doubts and the doubters were gone; no more committees; +an end to compromises! The sword must decide, and the two halves of +the nation, which yet did not understand their own strength, swung +forward to meet the issue, glad that it was obvious at last. + +There came an exultant note into the call of the drum, as if it +rejoiced at the prospects of a contest that took so wide a sweep. Here +was long and happy work for it to do; it could call to many battles, +and its note as it passed from village to village was resounding and +defiant; it was cheerful too, and had in it a trick; it told the +long-legged boys who came out of the woods of victories and glory, of +an end for a while to the toil which never before had been broken, of +new lands and of cities; all making a great holiday with the final +finish of excitement and reasonable risk. It was no wonder that the +drum called so effectively when it mingled such enticements with the +demands of patriotism. Most of those who heard were no strangers to +danger, and those who did not know it themselves were familiar with it +in the traditions of their fathers and forefathers; every inch of the +land which now swept back from the sea three thousand miles had been +won at the cost of suffering and death, with two weapons, the rifle +and the axe, and they were not going to shun the present trial, which +was merely one in a long series. + +The drum was calling to men who understood its note; the nation had +been founded as a peaceful republic, but it had gone already through +the ordeal of many wars, and behind it stretched five generations of +colonial life, an unbroken chain of combats. They had fought +everybody; they had measured the valour of the Englishman, the +Frenchman, the Spaniard, the Hessian, the Mexican, and the red man. +Much gunpowder had been burned within the borders of the Union, and +also its people had burned much beyond them. Those who followed the +call of the drum were flocking to no new trade. By a country with the +shadow of a standing army very many battles had been fought. + +They came too, without regard to blood or origin; the Anglo-Saxon +predominated; he gave his characteristics to North and South alike, +all spoke his tongue, but every race in Europe had descendants there, +and many of them--English, Irish, Scotch, French, German, Spanish, and +so on through the list--their blood fused and intermingled, until no +one could tell how much he had of this and how much of that. + +The untiring drumbeat was heard through all the winter and summer, and +the response still rolled up from vast areas; it was to be no common +struggle--great armies were to be formed where no armies at all +existed before, and the preparations on a fitting scale went on. The +forces of the North and South gathered along a two-thousand-mile line, +and those trying to look far ahead saw the nature of the struggle. + +The preliminary battles and skirmishes began, and then the two +gathered themselves for their mightiest efforts. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[34] Copyright, 1900, by D. Appleton and Company. + + + + +OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD + + +Oscar Wilder Underwood, orator and magazine writer, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, May 6, 1862. He is the grandson of Joseph Rogers +Underwood, a celebrated Kentucky statesman of the old _regime_. Mr. +Underwood was prepared for the University of Virginia at the Rugby +School of Louisville. In 1884 he was admitted to the bar and entered +upon the practice of his profession at Birmingham, Alabama, his +present home. He was prominent in Alabama politics prior to his +election to the lower house of Congress, in 1895, as the +representative of the Ninth Alabama district; and he has been +regularly returned to that body ever since. Mr. Underwood is chairman +of the committee on ways and means of the Sixty-second Congress, as +well as majority leader of the House. In the Democratic pre-convention +presidential campaign of 1912, the South almost unanimously endorsed +Mr. Underwood for the nomination. Led by Alabama he was hailed in many +quarters as the first really constructive statesman the South has sent +to Congress in more than twenty years; further, his friends said, he +has devoted his life to the study of the tariff and is now the +foremost exponent of the subject living; his tariff policy is simply +this: stop protecting the profits of the manufacturers; and that +Underwood is Democracy's best asset. Earlier in the year, Mr. +Underwood had been attacked by William J. Bryan, and his retorts in +the House were so severe and unanswerable, he being the only man up to +that time able to cope with the Colonel, that, of course, he had that +distinguished gentleman's influence against him at the Baltimore +convention. Nevertheless, every roll-call found him in third place, +just behind Champ Clark, who was also born in Kentucky, and Woodrow +Wilson, governor of New Jersey. He was running so strong as the +convention neared its close, that at least one Kentucky editor came +home and wrote a long editorial calling upon the Kentucky delegation +to change its vote from Clark to Underwood; but on the following day +the governor of New Jersey was nominated. A few of Mr. Underwood's +contributions to periodicals may be pointed out: two articles in _The +Forum_ on "The Negro Problem in the South;" "The Corrupting Power of +Public Patronage;" "What About the Tariff?" (_The World To-day_, +January, 1912); "The Right and Wrong of the Tariff Question" (_The +Independent_, February 1, 1912); and "High Tariff and American Trade +Abroad" (_The Century_, May, 1912). By friend and foe alike Mr. +Underwood is admitted to be the greatest living student of the tariff; +and his speeches in Congress and out of it on this subject have given +him a national reputation. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The World's Work_ (March, 1912); _Harper's Weekly_ + (June 1, 1912); _North American Review_ (June, 1912). + + +THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS + +[Delivered before the Southern Society of New York City (December 16, +1911)] + +The kaleidoscope of political issues must and will continually change +with the changing conditions of our Republic but there is one question +that was with us in the beginning and will be in the end, and that is +the most effective, efficient and fairest way of equalizing the +burdens of taxation that are levied by the National Government. Of all +the great powers that were yielded to the Federal Government by the +States when they adopted the Constitution of our country, the one +indispensable to the administration of public affairs is the right to +levy and collect taxes. Without the exercise of that power we could +not maintain an army and navy; we could not establish the courts of +the land; the government would fail to perform its function if the +power to tax were taken away from it. The power to tax carries with it +the power to destroy, and it is, therefore, a most dangerous +governmental power as well as a most necessary one. + +There is a very clear and marked distinction between the position of +the two great political parties of America as to how power to tax +should be exercised in the levying of revenue at the custom houses. + +The Republican party has maintained the doctrine that taxes should not +only be levied for the purpose of revenue, but also for the purpose of +protecting the home manufacturer from foreign competition. Of +necessity protection from competition carries with it a guarantee of +profits. In the last Republican platform this position of the party +was distinctly recognized when they declared that they were not only +in favor of the protection of the difference in cost at home and +abroad but also a reasonable profit to American industries. + +The Democratic party favors the policy of raising its taxes at the +custom house by a tariff that is levied for revenue only, which clearly +excludes the idea of protecting the manufacturer's profits. In my +opinion, the dividing line between the positions of the two great +parties on this question is very clear and easily ascertained in theory. +Where the tariff rates balance the difference in cost at home and +abroad, including an allowance for the difference in freight rates, the +tariff must be competitive, and from that point downward to the lowest +tariff that can be levied it will continue to be competitive to a +greater or less extent. Where competition is not interfered with by +levying the tax above the highest competitive point, the profits of the +manufacturer are not protected. On the other hand, when the duties +levied at the custom house equalizes the difference in cost at home and +abroad and in addition thereto they are high enough to allow the +American manufacturer to make a profit before his competitor can enter +the field, we have invaded the domain of the protection of profits. Some +men assert that the protection of reasonable profits to the home +manufacturer should be commended instead of being condemned, but in my +judgment, the protection of any profit must of necessity have a tendency +to destroy competition and create monopoly, whether the profit protected +is reasonable or unreasonable. + +You should bear in mind that to establish a business in a foreign +country requires a vast outlay both in time and capital. Should the +foreigner manufacturer attempt to establish himself in this country he +must advertise his goods, establish selling agencies and points of +distribution before he can successfully conduct his business. After he +has done so, if the home producer is protected by a law that not only +equals the difference in cost at home and abroad, but also protects a +reasonable or unreasonable profit, it is only necessary for him to +drop his prices slightly below the point that the law has fixed to +protect his profits and his competitor must retire from the country or +become a bankrupt, because he would then have to sell his goods at a +loss and not a profit, if he continued to compete. The foreign +competitor having retired, the home producer could raise his prices to +any level that home competition would allow him and it is not probable +that the foreigner who had already been driven out of the country +would again return, no matter how inviting the field, as long as the +law remained on the Statute Books that would enable his competitor to +again put him out of business. + +Thirty or forty years ago, when we had numbers of small manufacturers, +when there was honest competition without an attempt being made to +restrict trade and the home market was more than able to consume the +production of our mills and factories, the danger and the injury to the +consumer of the country was not so great or apparent as it is to-day, +when the control of many great industries has been concentrated in the +hands of a few men or a few corporations, because domestic competition +was prohibited. When we cease to have competition at home and the law +prohibits competition from abroad by protecting profits, there is no +relief for the consumer except to cry out for government regulation. To +my mind, there is no more reason or justice in the government attempting +to protect the profits of the manufacturers and producers of this +country than here would be to protect the profits of the merchant or the +lawyer, the banker or the farmer, or the wages of the laboring man. In +almost every line of industry in the United States we have as great +natural resources to develop as that of any country in the world. It is +admitted by all that our machinery and methods of doing business are in +advance of the other nations. By reason of the efficient use of American +machinery by American labor, in most of the manufactures of this +country, the labor cost per unit of production is no greater here than +abroad. It is admitted, of course, that the actual wage of the American +laborer is in excess of European countries, but as to most articles we +manufacture the labor cost in this country is not more than double the +labor cost abroad. When we consider that the average _ad valorem_ rate +of duty levied at the custom house on manufactures of cotton goods is +53% of the value of the article imported and the total labor cost of the +production of cotton goods in this country is only 21% of the factory +value of the product, that the difference in labor cost at home and +abroad is only about as one is to two, and that ten or eleven per cent +of the value of the product levied at the custom house would equal the +difference in the labor wage, it is apparent that our present tariff +laws exceed the point where they equalize the difference in cost at home +and abroad, and we realize how far they have entered into the domain of +protecting profits for the home manufacturer. This is not only true of +the manufacture of cotton goods, but of almost every schedule in the +tariff bill. To protect profits of necessity means to protect +inefficiency. It does not stimulate industry because a manufacturer +standing behind a tariff wall that is protecting his profits is not +driven to develop his business along the lines of greatest efficiency +and greatest economy. This is clearly illustrated in a comparison of the +wool and the iron and steel industries. Wool has had a specific duty +that when worked out to an _ad valorem_ basis amounts to a tax of about +90% of the average value of all woolen goods imported into the United +States, and the duties imposed have remained practically unchanged for +forty years. During that time the wool industry has made comparatively +little progress in cheapening the cost of its product and improving its +business methods. On the other hand, in the iron and steel industry the +tariff rate has been cut every time a tariff bill has been written. +Forty years ago the tax on steel rails amounted to $17.50 a ton, to-day +it amounts to $3.92. Forty years ago the tax on pig iron was $13.60 a +ton, to-day it is $2.50. The same is true of most of the other articles +in the iron and steel schedule, and yet the iron and steel industry has +not languished; it has not been destroyed and it has not gone to the +wall. It is the most compact, virile, fighting force of all the +industries of America to-day. It has long ago expanded its productive +capacity beyond the power of the American people to consume its output +and is to-day facing out towards the markets of the world, battling for +a part of the trade of foreign lands, where it must meet free +competition, or, as is often the case, pay adverse tariff rates to enter +the industrial fields of its competitor. + +Which course is the wiser for our government to take? The one that +demands the protection of profits the continued policy of hot-house +growth for our industries? The stagnation of development that follows +where competition ceases, or, on the other hand, the gradual and +insistent reduction of our tariff laws to a basis where the American +manufacturer must meet honest competition, where he must develop his +business along the best and most economic lines, where when he fights +at home to control his market he is forging the way in the economic +development of his business to extend his trade in the markets of the +world. In my judgment, the future growth of our great industries lies +beyond the seas. A just equalization of the burdens of taxation and +honest competition, in my judgment, are economic truths; they are not +permitted to-day by the laws of our country; we must face toward them, +and not away from them. + +What I have said does not mean that I am in favor of going to free +trade conditions or of being so radical in our legislation as to +injure legitimate business, but I do mean that the period of exclusion +has passed and the era of honest competition is here. + +Let us approach the solution of the problem involved with the +determination to do what is right, what is safe, and what is reasonable. + + + + +ELIZABETH ROBINS + + +Mrs. Elizabeth Robins Parkes, the well-known novelist of the +psychological school, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, August 6, +1862. She was taken from Louisville as a young child by her parents +for the reason that her father had built a house on Staten Island, +where she lived until her eleventh year, when she went to her +grandmother's at Zanesville, Ohio, to attend Putnam Female Seminary, +an institution of some renown, where her aunts on both sides of the +house had received their training. _Mrs. Gano_, the one fine character +of Miss Robins's first successful novel, _The Open Question_, is none +other than her own grandmother, Jane Hussey Robins, to whom she +dedicated the story; and the house in which she lived is faithfully +described in that story. In 1874, when she was twelve years of age, +Miss Robins made her first visit to Kentucky since having left the +State some years before; and she has been back many times since, her +latest visit being made in 1912. Her mother and many of her kinsfolk +are buried in Cave Hill cemetery; and her brother, uncle, and other +relatives, including Charles Neville Buck, the young Kentucky +novelist, reside at Louisville. She is, therefore, a Kentuckian to the +core. On January 12, 1885, she was married to George Richmond Parkes, +of Boston, who died some years ago. While passing through London, in +1889, Mrs. Parkes decided it was the most pleasing city she had seen, +and she established herself there. She now maintains Backset Town +Farm, Henfield, Sussex; and a winter home at Chinsegut, Florida. Mrs. +Parkes won her first fame as an actress, appearing in several of +Ibsen's plays, and attracting wide attention for her work in _The +Master Builder_, especially. While on the stage she began to write +under the pen-name of "C. E. Raimond," so as not to confuse the public +mind with her work as an actress; and this name served her well until +_The Open Question_ appeared, at which time it became generally +understood that the actress and author were one and the same person. +She soon after began to write under her maiden name of Elizabeth +Robins--and thus confounded herself with the wife of Joseph Pennell, +the celebrated American etcher. With her long line of novels Miss +Robins takes her place as one of the foremost writers Kentucky has +produced. A full list of them is: _George Mandeville's Husband_ (New +York, 1894); _The New Moon_ (New York, 1895); _Below the Salt_ +(London, 1896), a collection of short-stories, containing, among +others, _The Fatal Gift of Beauty_, which was the title of the +American edition (Chicago, 1896); _The Open Question_ (New York, +1898). Miss Robins was friendly with Whistler, the great artist, and +he designed the covers for _Below the Salt_ and _The Open Question_, a +morbid but powerful novel. She has been especially fortunate in +seizing upon a subject of vital, timely importance against which to +build her books; and that is one of the real reasons for her success. +What the public wants is what she wants to give them. When gold was +discovered in the Klondike, and all the world was making a mad rush +for those fields, Miss Robins wrote _The Magnetic North_ (New York, +1904). That fascinating story was followed by _A Dark Lantern_ (New +York, 1905), "a story with a prologue;" _The Convert_ (New York, +1907), a novel based upon the suffragette movement in London, with +which the author has been identified for seven years, and for which +she has written more, perhaps, than any one else; _Under the Southern +Cross_ (New York, 1907); _Woman's Secret_ (London, 1907); _Votes for +Women: A Play in Three Acts_ (London, n. d. [1908]), a dramatization +of _The Convert_, produced by Granville Barker at the Court Theatre, +London, with great success. The title of this play, if not the +contents, has gone into the remotest corners of the world as the +accepted slogan of the suffragette cause. _Come and Find Me!_ (New +York, 1908), another story of the Alaska country, originally +serialized in _The Century Magazine_; _The Mills of the Gods_ (New +York, 1908); _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909); _Under His Roof_ +(London, n. d. [1910]), yet another short-story of the suffragette +struggle in London, printed in an exceedingly slender pamphlet; and +_Why?_ (London, 1912), a brochure of questions and answers concerning +her darling suffragettes. Upon these books Elizabeth Robins has taken +a high place in contemporary letters. Her very latest story is _My +Little Sister_, based upon a background of the white slave traffic in +London, the shortened version of which appeared in _McClure's +Magazine_ for December, 1912, concluded in the issue for January, +1913, after which it will be published in book form in America under +the original title; but the English edition will bear this legend, +"Where Are You Going To?" When the first part of this strong story was +printed in _McClure's_ it attracted immediate and very wide attention, +and again illustrated the ancient fact concerning the author's novels: +her ability to make use of one of the big questions of the day as a +scene for her story. Another book on woman's fight for the ballot, to +be entitled _Way Stations_ may be published in March, 1913. Miss +Robins is the ablest woman novelist Kentucky has produced; but her +short-stories are not comparable to Mrs. Andrew's. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1904); _The Bookman_ (November, + 1907); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1910); _Harper's Magazine_ + (August, 1911). + + +A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT[35] + +[From _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909)] + +Mrs. Roscoe invoked the right manager. _The Man at the Wheel_ was not +only accepted, it was announced for early production. Special scenery +was being painted. The rehearsals were speedily in full swing. The play +had been slightly altered in council--one scene had been rewritten. + +Generously, Keith made his acknowledgements. "I should not have gone +at it again, but for you," he told Mrs. Roscoe. "It had got stale--I +hated it, till that day I read it to you." + +She smiled. "Nobody needs an audience so much as a dramatist. I was +audience." + +"You brought the fresh eye, you saw how the _scene a faire_ could be +made more poignant. Do you know," he said in that way he was getting +into, re-envisaging with this companion some old outlook, "I sometimes +feel the only difference between the poor thing and the good thing is +that in one, the hand fell away too soon, and in the other it was able +to give the screw just one more turn. You practically helped me to +give the final turn that screwed the thing into shape." + +She shook her head, and then he told her that after a dozen rebuffs he +had made up his mind to abandon the play that very day he and the +Professor had talked of cinque cento ivories. + +It was not unnatural that the scant cordiality of Mrs. Mathew, +whenever Keith encountered that lady at her sister's house, was +insufficient to make him fail in what he acknowledged to Fanshawe as a +sort of duty. This was: keeping Mrs. Roscoe fully informed of all the +various stages in the contract-negotiation, the cast decisions, and +the checkered fortunes of rehearsal. + +It is only fair to Mrs. Mathew to admit that she had one reason more +cogent even than she quite realized for objecting to the new addition +to a circle that had, as Genie complained, grown very circumscribed +during the days of mourning. + +If keeping Mrs. Roscoe _au courant_ with the fortunes of the play had +appeared to Keith in the light of an obligation imposed by common +gratitude, Mrs. Mathew conceived it as no less her duty not to allow +dislike of the new friend's presence to interfere with the sisterly +relation--a relation which on the older woman's part had always had in +it a touch of the maternal. If that young man was "getting himself +accepted upon an intimate footing"--all the more important that +Isabella's elder sister should be there at least as much as usual, if +only to prevent the curious from "talking." + +In pursuance to this conception of her duty, one evening during the +later rehearsals, Mrs. Mathew stood just inside the door of the cloak +room that opened out of the famous gray and white marble entrance hall +of the Roscoe house. Engaged in the homely occupation of depositing +her "artics" in a corner where they would not be mixed up with other +people's, Mrs. Mathew was arrested by a slight noise. Upon putting out +her head she descried Miss Genie creeping down the stairs with a +highly conspiratorial air. The girl, betraying every evidence of +suppressed excitement, came to a halt before the closed doors of the +drawing-room. The sound of Keith's voice reading aloud came softened +through the heavy panels, and seemed to reassure the eavesdropper. She +ran on noiseless feet to the low seat, where a man's hat showed black +against the soft tone of the marble. She lifted the hat and appeared +to be fumbling with the coat that was lying underneath. + +Suddenly the flash of a small square envelope on its way to the +recesses of the visitor's overcoat! + +"What are you doing?" demanded Aunt Josephine, coming down the hall. + +"Oh! How you startled me! I'm not doing anything in particular--just +waiting about till that blessed reading's over." She left the letter +concealed in the folds of the coat, and for an instant she held the +hat in front of her perturbed face: "Don't men's things have a nice +Russia-leathery smell?" she remarked airily. + +"Genie Roscoe, what pranks are you playing?" As Mrs. Mathew took hold +of the coat, the girl's self-possession failed her a little. She clung +to the garment, sending anxious glances toward the door, whispering +her nervous remonstrances and begging Aunt Josephine not to talk so +loud. "You'll interrupt them." + +"What is going on?" demanded Aunt Josephine, relaxing her hold on the +coat. + +"He's reading." + +"Your poor mother!" + +"Oh, she likes it." + +"Humph! And that young man--does he never get tired of his own works?" + +"It isn't _his_ works that he's reading. It's other people's--to make +him forget the way they murder the play at rehearsal. It's French +things they read, usually." Genie hurried on with a nervous attempt to +be diverting. "There's a new poet, did you know? I like the new ones +best, don't you? What I can't stand is when they are so ancient, that +they're like that decayed old Ronsard--" + +The form Mrs. Mathew's literary criticism took was a violent shake of +the visitor's coat. Out of the folds dropped a note. It was addressed +in Genie's hand to Mr. Chester Keith. + +"What foolishness is this--" + +"Don't tell mother," prayed the girl, trying in vain to recover the +envelope. + +Mrs. Mathew's face grew graver as she took in the girl's feverish +anxiety. + +"Dear Aunt Josephine!" Genie slipped her hand coaxingly through the +arm of the forbidding-looking lady. "I know you wouldn't be so unkind. +For all mother seems so gentle and you sometimes look so severe, +you're ten times as forgiving, really, as mother is. You're more +broadminded," said the unblushing flatterer. + +"Oh, really"--Mrs. Mathew smiled a little grimly--but she had ere now +proved herself as accessible to coaxing as the cast-iron seeming +people often are. They betray, on occasion, a touching gratitude at +not being taken at their own grim word. + +"Why should I hesitate to tell what you don't hesitate to do?" + +But Genie's arm was round her. "Oh, _you_ know why. Mother has such +extravagantly high ideas about what people ought to do." + +In the other hand Mrs. Mathew still held the note, out of the girl's +reach. "You make a practice of this?" + +"No, no. It's the first time, and I'll never do it again, if you'll +promise not to tell on me." + +Mrs. Mathew hesitated. + +"Dearest auntie, _be nice_! If you tell," the girl protested, "I'll have +no character to keep up and I'll write him real--well, real letters." + +"What do you mean? Isn't this a real letter?" + +"No. It doesn't say half. It's _nothing_ to what I could--" + +"Very well, if it's nothing--" Mrs. Mathew tore open the note. + +Before she could so much as unfold it, Genie had plucked it out of her +hand and fled upstairs. + +Half way to the top she leaned over the bannisters. "If you tell I'll +remember it all my life. If you don't I'll love you for ever and ever." + +"You're a very silly child. And I'm not at all sure I won't speak to +your mother." + +"But I am!" the coppery head was hung ingratiatingly over the hand rail. + +Aunt Josephine was already thinking of matters more important than a +school girl's foolishness. "How long has that man been here?" + +"Oh, hours and hours!" said Genie, accepting the diversion with due +gratitude. "He stays longer and longer." + +"Humph! that's what I think!" Aunt Josephine stalked into the +drawing-room. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[35] Copyright, 1909, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE + + +Miss Ellen Churchill Semple, Kentucky's distinguished +anthropo-geographer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 1863. Vassar +College conferred the degree of Bachelor of Arts upon her in 1882, and +the Master of Arts in 1891. She then studied for two years at the +University of Leipzig. Miss Semple has devoted herself to the new +science of anthropo-geography, which is the study of the influence of +geographic conditions upon the development of mankind. Since 1897 she +has contributed articles upon her subject to the New York _Journal of +Geography_, the London _Geographical Journal_, and to other scientific +publications. Miss Semple's first book, entitled _American History and +Its Geographic Conditions_ (Boston, 1903), proclaimed her as the +foremost student of the new science in the United States. A special +edition of this work was published for the Indiana State Teachers' +Association, which is said to be the largest reading circle in the +world. In 1901 Miss Semple prepared an interesting study of _The +Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains_, which was issued in 1910 as a +bulletin of the American Geographical Society. Miss Semple's latest +work is an enormous volume, entitled _Influences of Geographic +Environment on the Basis of Ratzel's System of Anthropo-Geography_ +(New York, 1911). This required seven long years of untiring research +to prepare, and with its publication she came into her own position, +which is quite unique in the whole range of American literature. +Although scientific to the last degree, her writings have the real +literary flavor, which is seldom found in such work. Miss Semple +lectured at Oxford University in 1912, and in the late autumn of that +year she discussed Japan, in which country she had experienced much of +value and interest, before the Royal British Geographical Society in +London, and later before the Royal Scottish Geographical Society in +Edinburgh. Between various lectures in Scotland and England she +continued her researches in the London libraries, returning to the +United States as the year closed. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (December 31, 1903); _Political Science + Quarterly_ (September, 1904). + + +MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE[36] + +[From _Influences of Geographic Environment_ (New York, 1911)] + +Man is a product of the earth's surface. This means not merely that he +is a child of the earth, dust of her dust; but that the earth has +mothered him, fed him, set him tasks, directed his thoughts, +confronted him with difficulties that have strengthened his body and +sharpened his wits, given him his problems of navigation or +irrigation, and at the same time whispered hints for their solution. +She has entered into his bone and tissue, into his mind and soul. On +the mountains she has given him leg muscles of iron to climb the +slope; along the coast she has left these weak and flabby, but given +him instead vigorous development of chest and arm to handle his paddle +or oar. In the river valley she attaches him to the fertile soil, +circumscribes his ideas and ambitions by a dull round of calm, +exacting duties, narrows his outlook to the cramped horizon of his +farm. Up on the windswept plateaus, in the boundless stretch of the +grasslands and the waterless tracts of the desert, where he roams with +his flocks from pasture to pasture and oasis to oasis, where life +knows much hardship but escapes the grind of drudgery, where the +watching of grazing herds gives him leisure for contemplation, and the +wide-ranging life a big horizon, his ideas take on a certain gigantic +simplicity; religion becomes monotheism, God becomes one, unrivalled +like the sand of the desert, and the grass of the steppe, stretching +on and on without break or change. Chewing over and over the cud of +his simple belief as the one food of his unfed mind, his faith becomes +fanaticism; his big spacial ideas, born of that ceaseless regular +wandering, outgrow the land that bred them and bear their legitimate +fruit in wide imperial conquests. + +Man can no more be scientifically studied apart from the ground which +he tills, or the lands over which he travels, or the seas over which +he trades, than polar bear or desert cactus can be understood apart +from its habitat. Man's relation to his environment are infinitely +more numerous and complex than those of the most highly organized +plant or animal. So complex are they that they constitute a legitimate +and necessary object of special study. The investigation which they +receive in anthropology, ethnology, sociology and history is piecemeal +and partial, limited as to the race, cultural development, epoch, +country or variety of geographic conditions taken into account. Hence +all these sciences, together with history so far as history undertakes +to explain the causes of events, fail to reach a satisfactory solution +of their problems, largely because the geographic factor which enters +into them all has not been thoroughly analyzed. Man has been so noisy +about the way he has "conquered Nature," and Nature has been so silent +in her persistent influence over man, that the geographic factor in +the equation of human development has been overlooked. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[36] Copyright, 1911, by Henry Holt and Company. + + + + +MRS. ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON + + +Mrs. Annie Fellows Johnston, creator of the famous "Little Colonel +Series," was born at Evansville, Indiana, May 15, 1863, the daughter +of a clergyman. Miss Fellows was educated in the public schools of +Evansville, and then spent the year of 1881-1882 at the State +University of Iowa. She was married at Evansville, in 1888, to William +L. Johnston, who died four years later, leaving her a son and +daughter. Mrs. Johnston's first arrival in Kentucky as a resident +(though not as a visitor), was in 1898, and then she stayed only three +years. Her son's quest of health led her first to Walton, New York, +then to Arizona, where they spent a winter on the desert in sight of +Camelback mountain, which suggested the legend of _In the Desert of +Waiting_. From Arizona they went to California and then, in 1903, +decided to try the climate of Texas, up in the hill country, north of +San Antonio. Mrs. Johnston called her home "Penacres," and she lived +there until her son's death in the fall of 1910. She and her daughter +returned to Pewee Valley, Kentucky, in April, 1911, and purchased "The +Beeches," the old home of Mrs. Henry W. Lawton, the widow of the +famous American general. The house is situated in a six acre grove of +magnificent beech-trees, and is a place often mentioned in "The Little +Colonel" stories. Mrs. Johnston's books are: _Big Brother_ (Boston, +1893); _The Little Colonel_ (Boston, 1895); _Joel: A Boy of Galilee_ +(Boston, 1895; Italian translation, 1900); _In League with Israel_ +(Cincinnati, 1896), the second and last of Mrs. Johnston's books that +was not issued by L. C. Page and Company, Boston; _Ole Mammy's +Torment_ (1897); _Songs Ysame_ (1897), a book of poems, written with +her sister, Mrs. Albion Fellows Bacon, the social reformer of +Evansville, Indiana; _The Gate of the Giant Scissors_ (1898); _Two +Little Knights of Kentucky_ (1899), written in Kentucky; _The Little +Colonel's House Party_ (1900); _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (1901); +_The Little Colonel's Hero_ (1902); _Cicely_ (1902); _Asa Holmes, or +At the Crossroads_ (1902); _Flip's Islands of Providence_ (1903); _The +Little Colonel at Boarding-School_ (1903), the children's "Order of +Hildegarde" was founded on the story of _The Three Weavers_ in this +volume; _The Little Colonel in Arizona_ (1904); _The Quilt that Jack +Built_ (1904); _The Colonel's Christmas Vacation_ (1905); _In the +Desert of Waiting_ (1905; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1906); _The +Three Weavers_ (1905), a special edition of this famous story; +_Mildred's Inheritance_ (1906); _The Little Colonel, Maid of Honor_ +(1906); _The Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding_ (1907); _Mary Ware_ +(1908); _The Legend of the Bleeding Heart_ (1908); _Keeping Tryst_ +(1908); _The Rescue of the Princess Winsome_ (1908); _The Jester's +Sword_ (1909; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1910); _The Little +Colonel's Good Times Book_ (1909); _Mary Ware in Texas_ (1910); and +_Travellers Five_ (1911), a collection of short-stories for grown +people, previously published in magazines, with a foreword by Bliss +Carman. The little Kentucky girl--called the "Little Colonel" because +of her resemblance to a Southern gentleman of the old school--has had +Mrs. Johnston's attention for seventeen years, and she has recently +announced that she is at work upon the twelfth and final volume of the +"Little Colonel Series," as she feels that work for grown-ups is more +worth her while. This last story of the series was published in the +fall of 1912, entitled _Mary Ware's Promised Land_; and needless to +say her "promised land" is Kentucky. There are "Little Colonel Clubs" +all over the world, as Mrs. Johnston has learned from thousands of +letters from children, and when she rings down the curtain upon her +heroine many girls and boys in this and other countries will be sad. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (April, 1901); _The Century_ + (September, 1903). + + +THE MAGIC KETTLE[37] + +[From _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (Boston, 1901)] + +Once upon a time, so the story goes (you may read it yourself in the +dear old tales of Hans Christian Andersen), there was a prince who +disguised himself as a swineherd. It was to gain admittance to a +beautiful princess that he thus came in disguise to her father's +palace, and to attract her attention he made a magic caldron, hung +around with strings of silver bells. Whenever the water in the caldron +boiled and bubbled, the bells rang a little tune to remind her of him. + + "Oh, thou dear Augustine, + All is lost and gone," + +they sang. Such was the power of the magic kettle, that when the water +bubbled hard enough to set the bells a-tinkling, any one holding his +hand in the steam could smell what was cooking in every kitchen in the +kingdom. + +It has been many a year since the swineherd's kettle was set a-boiling +and its string of bells a-jingling to satisfy the curiosity of a +princess, but a time has come for it to be used again. Not that +anybody nowadays cares to know what his neighbor is going to have for +dinner, but all the little princes and princesses in the kingdom want +to know what happened next. + +"What happened after the Little Colonel's house party?" they demand, +and they send letters to the Valley by the score, asking "Did Betty +go blind?" "Did the two little Knights of Kentucky ever meet Joyce +again or find the Gate of the Giant Scissors?" "Did the Little Colonel +ever have any more good times at Locust, or did Eugenia ever forget +that she too had started out to build a Road of the Loving Heart?" + +It would be impossible to answer all these questions through the +post-office, so that is why the magic kettle has been dragged from its +hiding-place after all these years, and set a-boiling once more. +Gather in a ring around it, all you who want to know, and pass your +curious fingers through its wreaths of rising steam. Now you shall see +the Little Colonel and her guests of the house party in turn, and the +bells shall ring for each a different song. + +But before they begin, for the sake of some who may happen to be in +your midst for the first time, and do not know what it is all about, +let the kettle give them a glimpse into the past, that they may be +able to understand all that is about to be shown to you. Those who +already know the story need not put their fingers into the steam, +until the bells have rung this explanation in parenthesis. + +(In Lloydsboro Valley stands an old Southern mansion, known as "Locust." +The place is named for a long avenue of giant locust-trees stretching a +quarter of a mile from house to entrance gate in a great arch of green. +Here for years an old Confederate colonel lived all alone save for the +negro servants. His only child, Elizabeth, had married a Northern man +against his wishes, and gone away. From that day he would not allow her +name to be spoken in his presence. But she came back to the Valley when +her little daughter Lloyd was five years old. People began calling the +child the Little Colonel because she seemed to have inherited so many of +her grandfather's lordly ways as well as a goodly share of his high +temper. The military title seemed to suit her better than her own name +for in her fearless baby fashion she won her way into the old man's +heart and he made a complete surrender. + +Afterward when she and her mother and "Papa Jack" went to live with +him at Locust, one of her favorite games was playing soldier. The old +man never tired of watching her march through the wide halls with his +spurs strapped to her tiny slipper heels, and her dark eyes flashing +out fearlessly from under the little Napoleon cap she wore. + +She was eleven when she gave her house party. One of the guests was +Joyce Ware, whom some of you have met, perhaps, in "The Gate of the +Giant Scissors," a bright thirteen-year-old girl from the West. +Eugenia Forbes was another. She was a distant cousin of Lloyd's, who +had no home-life like other girls. Her winters were spent in a +fashionable New York boarding-school, and her summers at the +Waldorf-Astoria, except the few weeks when her busy father could find +time to take her to some seaside resort. + +The third guest, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, or Betty, as every one lovingly +called her, was Mrs. Sherman's little god-daughter. She was an orphan, +boarding on a backwoods farm on Green River. She had never been on the +cars until Lloyd's invitation found its way to the Cuckoo's Nest. Only +these three came to stay in the house, but Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre +(the two little Knights of Kentucky) were there nearly every day. So was +Rob Moore, one of the Little Colonel's summer neighbors. + +The four Bobs were four little foxterrier puppies named for Rob, who +had given one to each of the girls. They were so much alike they could +only be distinguished by the colour of the ribbons tied around their +necks. Tarbaby was the Little Colonel's pony, and Lad the one that +Betty rode during her visit. + +After six weeks of picnics and parties, and all sorts of surprises and +good times, the house party came to a close with a grand feast of +lanterns. Joyce regretfully went home to the little brown house in +Plainsville, Kansas, taking her Bob with her. Eugenia and her father +went to New York, but not until they had promised to come back for +Betty in the fall, and take her abroad with them. It was on account of +something that had happened at the house party, but which is too long +a tale to repeat here. + +Betty stayed on at Locust until the end of the summer in the House +Beautiful, as she called her god-mother's home, and here on the long +vine-covered porch, with its stately white pillars, you shall see them +first through the steam of the magic caldron). + +Listen! Now the kettle boils and the bells begin the story! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[37] Copyright, 1901, by L. C. Page and Company. + + + + +EVA A. MADDEN + + +Miss Eva Anne Madden, author of a group of popular stories for children, +was born near Bedford, Kentucky, October 26, 1863, the elder sister of +Mrs. George Madden Martin, creator of _Emmy Lou_. Miss Madden was +educated in the public schools of Louisville, Kentucky, after which she +took a normal course. At the mature age of fourteen she was writing for +_The Courier-Journal_; two years later she was doing book reviews for +_The Evening Post_; and when eighteen years of age she became a teacher +in the public schools. Miss Madden taught for more than ten years, or +until 1892, when she went to New York and engaged in newspaper work. Her +first book, _Stephen, or the Little Crusaders_ (New York, 1901), was +published only a few months before she sailed for Europe, where she has +resided for the last eleven years. Miss Madden's _The I Can School_ (New +York, 1902), was followed by her other books, _The Little Queen_ +(Boston, 1903); _The Soldiers of the Duke_ (Boston, 1904); and her most +recent story, _Two Royal Foes_ (New York, 1907). Miss Madden has been +the Italian representative of a London firm since 1907; and since 1908 +she has been the correspondent of the Paris edition of the _New York +Herald_ for the city in which she lives, Florence, Italy. She had a very +good short-story in _The Century_ for February, 1911, entitled _The +Interrupted Pen_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL."[38] + +[From _The I Can School_ (New York, 1902)] + +"Good-bye, Miss Ellison," she said, putting up her little mouth to be +kissed. "I'm sorry that it's the end of the 'I Can School.'" + +Then Miss Ellison was all smiles. + +"You sweet little thing," she said, which was exactly what she had +done ten months before. + +How long ago that seemed to Virginia. How stupid she had been about +learning to spell that easy "cat." + +Now she could read a whole page about a black cat which got into the +nest of a white hen, and she could add numbers, and "write vertical." +She had painted in a book, and modeled a lovely half-apple, made real +by a stem and the seeds of a russet she had had for lunch one day. She +knew the name of all the birds about Fairview, and she could tell +about the wild flowers. + +Altogether she felt very learned and scornful of a certain small +person who had thought Kentucky the name of a little girl, and who had +known nothing of George Washington, and who had called C-A-T +kitten-puss. + +Virginia's mamma was very proud of all her little girl knew. She did +not wait for Virginia to get her work from the janitor. She took it +all carefully home to show her husband. + +"Papa," said Virginia, the moment Mr. Barton entered the house that +evening, "it's vacation!" + +"Vacation!" said her father. "My! my! I remember that there was a +time, Miss Barton, when I loved it better than school; do you?" + +Virginia hesitated. + +"Ten months," she said at last, "is a lot of school. Lucretia and +Catherine seem just as tired, papa. Their lessons don't interest them +now that it's so hot. I love the 'I Can School,' papa; but it's nice +to stay at home and play 'Lady come to see.'" + +This was a very long speech for Virginia, the longest that she ever +had made. + +Her papa laughed. + +"Miss Barton," he said, "profound student that you are, I see that in +some things you are not altogether different from your parent. But let +me remind you, Miss Barton, when you feel at times a little tired of +vacation, that the 'I Can' will begin again on the tenth of +September." + +"And Miss Ellison will be so glad to see me!" said Virginia +confidently. + +Her papa laughed. + +"As for that, Miss Barton--" + +"Now don't, Edward," interrupted his wife. "I am sure, Virginia, that +Miss Ellison will be glad to see you in the fall. If I were you I +would write her a little letter in the vacation. I have her address." + +"And I'll tell Billy and Carter and Harry and all the children, and +we'll all write so that she won't forget us. And she'll answer them, +mamma, won't she?" + +"I think she will," answered her mother. "It will be very nice for you +to write to her." + +But her husband said in a low voice, "Poor Miss Ellison." + +"Good Miss Ellison, papa," said Virginia. "She's nice and I love her." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[38] Copyright, 1902, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + +JOHN FOX, Jr. + + +John Fox, Junior, Kentucky's master maker of mountain myths, was born +at Stony Point, near Paris, Kentucky, December 16, 1863, the son of a +schoolmaster. He was christened "John William Fox, Junior," but he +early discarded his middle name. By his father he was largely fitted +for Kentucky, now Transylvania, University, which institution he +entered at the age of fifteen, spending the two years of 1878-1880 +there, when he left and went to Harvard. Mr. Fox was graduated from +Harvard in 1883, the youngest man in his class. Though he had written +nothing during his collegiate career, upon quitting Cambridge he +joined the staff of the New York _Sun_ and later entered Columbia Law +School. He soon abandoned law and went with the _New York Times_, +where he remained several months, when illness--blind and blessed +goddess in disguise!--compelled him to go south in search of health. +At length he found himself high up in the Cumberland Mountains, +associated with his father and brother in a mining venture. He also +taught school for a time, but the mountaineers of Kentucky were upon +him, and he began to weave romances about them. Mr. Fox's first story, +_A Mountain Europa_ (New York, 1894), originally appeared in two parts +in _The Century Magazine_ for September and October, 1892. It was +dedicated to James Lane Allen, whom its author had to thank for +encouragement when he stood most in need of it. _On Hell-fer-Sartain +Creek_, which followed fast upon the heels of his first book, made Mr. +Fox famous in a fortnight. Written in a day and a half, _Harper's +Weekly_ paid him the munificent sum of six dollars for it, and printed +it back with the advertisements in the issue for November 24, 1894. +The ending was transposed just a bit and a word or two discarded for +apter words before it was published in book form; and these revisions +were very fine, greatly improving the tale. In its most recent dress +it counts less than five small pages; and it may be read in as many +minutes. The mountain dialect prevails throughout. It "admits an epic +breadth," the biggest thing Mr. Fox has done hitherto, and now +generally regarded as a very great short-story. + +_A Cumberland Vendetta and Other Stories_ (New York, 1895), contained, +besides the title-story, first published in _The Century_, a +reprinting of _A Mountain Europa_--which made the third time it had +been printed in three years--_The Last Stetson_, and _On +Hell-fer-Sartain Creek_. This volume was followed by Mr. Fox's finest +work, entitled _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_ (New York, 1897). +Of the ten stories in this little volume but four of them are in +correct English, the others, the best ones, being in dialect. The last +and longest story, _A Purple Rhododendron_, originally appeared in +_The Southern Magazine_, a now defunct periodical of Louisville, +Kentucky. _The Kentuckians_ (New York, 1897), was published a short +time after _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_. This novelette +pitted a man of the Blue Grass against a man of the Kentucky hills, +and the struggle was not overly severe; the reading world did little +more than remark its appearance and its passing. + +When the Spanish-American war was declared Mr. Fox went to Cuba as a +Rough Rider, but left that organization to act as correspondent for +_Harper's Weekly_. He witnessed the fiercest fighting from the firing +lines, and his own experiences were largely written into his first +long novel, entitled _Crittenden_ (New York, 1900). This tale of love +with war entwined was well told; and its concluding clause: "God was +good that Christmas!" has become one of his most famous expressions. +After the war Mr. Fox returned to the South. _Bluegrass and +Rhododendron_ (New York, 1901), was a series of descriptive essays +upon life in the Kentucky mountains, in which Mr. Fox did for the +hillsmen what Mr. Allen had done for the customs and traditions of his +own section of the state in _The Bluegrass Region of Kentucky_. It +also embodied his own personal experiences as a member of the police +guard in Kentucky and Virginia. The word "rhododendron" is Mr. Fox's +shibboleth, and he seemingly never tires of writing it. + +_The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come_ (New York, 1903), is his best long +novel so far. The boy, Chad, is, perhaps, his one character-contribution +to American fiction; and the boy's dog, "Jack," stands second to the +little hero in the hearts of the thousands who read the book. The +opening chapters are especially fine. The love story of _The Little +Shepherd_ is most attractive; and the Civil War is presented in a manner +not wholly laborious. After _Hell-fer-Sartain_ this novel is far and +away the best thing Mr. Fox has done. + +_Christmas Eve on Lonesome and Other Stories_ (New York, 1904), +contained the title-story and five others, including _The Last +Stetson_, which had appeared many years before in _Harper's Weekly_, +and later in _A Cumberland Vendetta_. Mr. Fox attempted to reach the +theatre of the Russian-Japanese War, as a correspondent for +_Scribner's Magazine_, but he was not allowed to join the ever +advancing armies. His experiences may be read in _Following the +Sun-Flag_ (New York, 1905), with its tell-tale sub-title: "a vain +pursuit through Manchuria." His next work was a novelette, _A Knight +of the Cumberland_ (New York, 1906), first published as a serial in +_Scribner's Magazine_. It was well done and rather interesting. + +Mr. Fox spent the greater part of the year of 1907 in work upon _The +Trail of the Lonesome Pine_ (New York, 1908), a story that must be +placed beside _The Little Shepherd_ when any classification of the +author's work is made. The heroine, June, is none other than Chad in +feminine garb. The book contains some of the most excellent writing +Mr. Fox has done, the descriptions being especially fine. It was +dramatized by Eugene Walter and successfully produced. A few months +after the publication of _The Trail_, the author married Fritzi +Scheff, the operatic star, to whom he had inscribed his story. They +have a home at Big Stone Gap, in the Virginia mountains. + +In April, 1912, Mr. Fox's most recent novel, _The Heart of the Hills_, +began as a serial in _Scribner's_, to be concluded in the issue for +March, 1913. It is red with recent happenings in Kentucky, happenings +which are, at the present time, too hackneyed to be of very great +interest to the people of that state.[39] It must be remembered always +that Mr. Fox is a story-teller pure and simple, and that he seemingly +makes little effort to arrive at the stage of perfection in the mere +matter of writing that characterizes the work of a group of his +contemporaries. That he is a wonderful maker of short-stories in the +mountain dialect is certain; but that he is a great novelist is yet to +be established. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature Magazine_ (New York, September, + 1903); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous + Books_, by E. F. Harkins, (Boston, 1903, Second Series); _Library + of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. iv). + + +THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON[40] + +[From _Collier's Weekly_ (December 11, 1909)] + +The sun of Christmas poured golden blessings on the head of the valley +first; it shot winged shafts of yellow light through the great Gap and +into the month of Pigeon; it darted awakening arrows into the coves +and hollows on the Head of Pigeon, between Brushy Ridge and Black +Mountain; and one searching ray flashed through the open door of the +little log schoolhouse at the forks of Pigeon and played like a smile +over the waiting cedar that stood within--alone. + +Down at the mines below, the young doctor had not waited the coming of +that sun. He had sprung from his bed at dawn, had built his own fire, +had dressed hurriedly, and gone hurriedly on his rounds, leaving a +pill here, a powder there, and a word of good cheer everywhere. That +was his Christmas tree, the cedar in the little schoolhouse--his and +_hers_. And _she_ was coming up from the Gap that day to dress that +tree and spread the joy of Christmas among mountain folks, to whom the +joy of Christmas was quite unknown. + +An hour later the passing mail-carrier, from over Black Mountain, +stopped with switch uplifted at his office door. + +"Them fellers over the Ridge air comin' over to shoot up yo' Christmas +tree," he drawled. + +The switch fell and he was gone. The young doctor dropped by his +fire--stunned; for just that thing had happened ten years before to the +only Christmas tree that had ever been heard of in those hills except +his own. From that very schoolhouse some vandals from the Crab Orchard +and from over Black Mountain had driven the Pigeon Creek people after a +short fight, and while the surprised men, frightened women and children, +and the terrified teacher scurried to safety behind rocks and trees, had +shot the tree to pieces. That was ten years before, but even now, though +there were some old men and a few old women who knew the Bible from end +to end, many grown people and nearly all of the children had never heard +of the Book, or of Christ, or knew that there was a day known as +Christmas Day. That such things were so had hurt the doctor to the +heart, and that was why, as Christmas drew near, he had gone through the +out-of-the-way hollows at the Head of Pigeon, and got the names and ages +of all the mountain children; why for a few days before Christmas there +had been such a dressing of dolls in the sweetheart's house down in the +Gap as there had not been since she herself was a little girl; and why +now the cedar tree stood in the little log schoolhouse at the forks of +Pigeon. Moreover, there was as yet enmity between the mountaineers of +Pigeon and the mountaineers over the Ridge and Black Mountain, who were +jealous and scornful of any signs of the foreign influence but recently +come into the hills. The meeting-house, courthouse, and the schoolhouse +were yet favorite places for fights among the mountaineers. There was +yet no reverence at all for Christmas, and the same vandals might yet +regard a Christmas tree as an imported frivolity to be sternly rebuked. +The news was not only not incredible, it probably was true; and with +this conclusion some very unpleasant lines came into the young doctor's +kindly face and he sprang from his horse. + +Two hours later he had a burly mountaineer with a Winchester posted on +the road leading to the Crab Orchard, another on the mountainside +overlooking the little valley, several more similarly armed below, +while he and two friends, with revolvers, buckled on, waited for the +coming party, with their horses hitched in front of his office door. +This Christmas tree was to be. + +It was almost noon when the doctor heard gay voices and happy +laughter high on the ridge, and he soon saw a big spring wagon drawn +by a pair of powerful bays--Major, the colored coachman, on the seat, +the radiant faces of the Christmas-giving party behind him, and a big +English setter playing in the snow alongside. + +Up Pigeon then the wagon went with the doctor and his three friends on +horseback beside it, past the long batteries of coke-ovens with +grinning darkies, coke-pullers, and loaders idling about them, up the +rough road through lanes of snow-covered rhododendrons winding among +tall oaks, chestnuts, and hemlocks, and through circles and arrows of +gold with which the sun splashed the white earth--every cabin that +they passed tenantless, for the inmates had gone ahead long ago--and +on to the little schoolhouse that sat on a tiny plateau in a small +clearing, with snow-tufted bushes of laurel on every side and snowy +mountains rising on either hand. + +The door was wide open and smoke was curling from the chimney. A few +horses and mules were hitched to the bushes near by. Men, boys, and +dogs were gathered around a big fire in front of the building; and in +a minute women, children, and more dogs poured out of the schoolhouse +to watch the coming cavalcade. + +Since sunrise the motley group had been waiting there: the women +thinly clad in dresses of worsted or dark calico, and a shawl or short +jacket or man's coat, with a sunbonnet or "fascinator" on their heads, +and men's shoes on their feet--the older ones stooped and thin, the +younger ones carrying babies, and all with weather-beaten faces and +bare hands; the men and boys without overcoats, their coarse shirts +unbuttoned, their necks and upper chests bared to the biting cold, +their hands thrust in their pockets as they stood about the fire, and +below their short coat sleeves their wrists showing chapped and red; +while to the little boys and girls had fallen only such odds and ends +of clothing as the older ones could spare. Quickly the doctor got his +party indoors and to work on the Christmas tree. Not one did he tell +of the impending danger, and the Colt's .45 bulging under this man's +shoulder or on that man's hip, and the Winchester in the hollow of an +arm here and there were sights too common in these hills to arouse +suspicion in anybody's mind. The cedar tree, shorn of its branches at +the base and banked with mosses, towered to the angle of the roof. +There were no desks in the room except the one table used by the +teacher. Long, crude wooden benches with low backs faced the tree, +with an aisle leading from the door between them. Lap-robes were hung +over the windows, and soon a gorgeous figure of Santa Claus was +smiling down from the very tiptop of the tree. Ropes of gold and +silver tinsel were swiftly draped around and up and down; enmeshed in +these were little red Santas, gaily colored paper horns, filled with +candy, colored balls, white and yellow birds, little colored candles +with holders to match, and other glittering things; while over the +whole tree a glistening powder was sprinkled like a mist of shining +snow. Many presents were tied to the tree, and under it were the rest +of the labeled ones in a big pile. In a semicircle about the base sat +the dolls in pink, yellow, and blue, and looking down the aisle to the +door. Packages of candy in colored Japanese napkins and tied with a +narrow red ribbon were in another pile, with a pyramid of oranges at +its foot. And yet there was still another pile for unexpected +children, that the heart of none should be sore. Then the candles were +lighted and the door flung open to the eager waiting crowd outside. In +a moment every seat was silently filled by the women and children, and +the men, stolid but expectant, lined the wall. The like of that tree +no soul of them had ever seen before. Only a few of the older ones had +ever seen a Christmas tree of any kind and they but once; and they had +lost that in a free-for-all fight. And yet only the eyes of them +showed surprise or pleasure. There was no word--no smile, only +unwavering eyes mesmerically fixed on the wonderful tree. + +The young doctor rose, and only the sweetheart saw that he was nervous, +restless, and pale. As best he could he told them what Christmas was and +what it meant to the world; and he had scarcely finished when a hand +beckoned to him from the door. Leaving one of his friends to distribute +the presents, he went outside to discover that one vandal had come on +ahead, drunk and boisterous. Promptly the doctor tied him to a tree, +shouldered a Winchester, and himself took up a lonely vigil on the +mountainside. Within, Christmas went on. When a name was called a child +came forward silently, usually shoved to the front by some relative, +took what was handed to it, and, dumb with delight, but too shy even to +murmur a word of thanks, silently returned to its seat with the presents +hugged to its breast--presents that were simple, but not to those +mountain mites; colored pictures and illustrated books they were, red +plush albums, simple games, fascinators and mittens for the girls; +pocket-knives, balls, firecrackers, and horns, mittens, caps, and +mufflers for the boys; a doll dressed in everything a doll should wear +for each little girl, no one of whom had ever seen a doll before, except +what was home-made from an old dress or apron tied in several knots to +make the head and body. Twice only was the silence broken. One boy quite +forgot himself when given a pocket-knife. He looked at it suspiciously +and incredulously, turned it over in his hand, opened it and felt the +edge of the blade, and, panting with excitement, cried: "Hit's a shore +'nough knife!" + +And again when, to make sure that nobody had been left out, though all +the presents were gone, the master of ceremonies asked if there was any +other little boy or girl who had received nothing, there arose a bent, +toothless old woman in a calico dress and baggy black coat, her gray +hair straggling from under her black sunbonnet, and her hands gnarled +and knotted from work and rheumatism. Simply as a child, she spoke: + +"I hain't got nothin'." + +Gravely the giver of the gifts asked her to come forward, and, +nonplussed, searched the tree for the most glittering thing he could +find. Then all the women pressed forward and then the men, until all +the ornaments were gone, even the half-burned candles with their +colored holders, which the men took eagerly and fastened in their +coats, clasping the holders to their lapels or fastening the bent wire +in their button-holes, and pieces of tinsel rope, which they threw +over their shoulders--so that the tree stood at last just as it was +when brought from the wild woods outside. + +Straightway then the young doctor hurried the departure of the +merry-makers from the Gap. Already the horses stood hitched, and, +while the laprobes were being carried out, a mountaineer, who had +brought along a sack of apples, lined up the men and boys, and at a +given word started running down the road, pouring out the apples as he +ran, while the men and boys scrambled for them, rolling and tussling +in the snow. As the party moved away, the mountaineers waved their +hands and shouted good-by to the doctor, too shy still to pay much +heed to the other "furriners" in the wagon. The doctor looked back +once with a grateful sigh of relief but no one in the wagon knew that +there had been any danger that day. How great the danger had been not +even the doctor knew then. For the coming vandals had got as far as +the top of the Dividing Ridge, had there quarreled and fought among +themselves, so that, as the party drove away, one invader was at that +minute cursing his captors, who were setting him free, and high upon +the ridge another lay dead in the snow. + +In time there was a wedding at the Gap, and long afterward the doctor, +riding by the little schoolhouse, stopped at the door, and from his +horse shoved it open. The Christmas tree stood just as he had left it +on Christmas Day, only, like the evergreens on the wall and over the +windows, it, too, was brown, withered and dry. Gently he closed the +door and rode on. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[39] When Mr. Fox followed the trail of the Goebel tragedy he was +poaching upon the especial preserves of Miss Eleanor Talbot Kinkead, +whose romance of the "autocrat," _The Courage of Blackburn Blair_ (New +York, 1907), was widely read and reviewed. Miss Kinkead was born in +Kentucky, and, besides the story mentioned above, is the author of +_'Gainst Wind and Tide_ (Chicago, 1892); _Young Greer of Kentucky_ +(Chicago, 1895); _Florida Alexander_ (Chicago, 1898); and _The +Invisible Bond_ (New York, 1906). + +[40] Copyright, 1909, by P. F. Collier and Son. + + + + +FANNIE C. MACAULAY + + +Mrs. Fannie Caldwell Macaulay ("Frances Little"), "the lady of the +Decoration," was born at Shelbyville; Kentucky, November 22, 1863, the +daughter of a jurist. She was educated at Science Hill Academy, +Shelbyville, a noted school for girls. Miss Caldwell was married to +James Macaulay of Liverpool, England, but her marriage proved unhappy. +From 1899 to 1902 Mrs. Macaulay was a kindergarten teacher in +Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1902 to 1907 she was engaged as +supervisor of kindergarten work at Hiroshima, Japan. From Japan she +wrote letters home which were so charming and clever that her niece, +Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, the Louisville novelist, insisted that she make +them into a book. The result was _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York, +1906), for more than a year the most popular book in America. This +little epistolary tale of heroic struggle for one's work and one's love, +was read in all parts of the English-speaking world. It set the +high-water mark, probably, for even the "six best sellers." Mrs. +Macaulay's second book, _Little Sister Snow_ (New York, 1909), was the +tender love story of a young American and a Japanese girl. The lad +sailed away to his American sweetheart, leaving "Little Sister Snow" +blowing him kisses from her native shore. Mrs. Macaulay's latest story, +_The Lady and Sada San_ (New York, 1912), was published in London under +the title of _The Lady Married_, which was clearer, as it is the sequel +to _The Lady of the Decoration_. The Lady's husband, Jack, sails away to +China in pursuit of his scientific duties, leaving her lonely in +Kentucky. She decides to make another journey to Japan; and on the way +over she falls in with a charming young American-Japanese girl, Sada +San, whom she subsequently saves from a most cruel fate. She then finds +her husband, ill and exhausted with his long trip, and returns with him +to Kentucky. The descriptions of the countries through which she passes +are very fine: the best writing the author has shown hitherto. The +little volume was reported as the best selling book in America at +Christmas time of 1912. Mrs. Macaulay has spent much of her life during +the last several years in Japan, but her home is at Louisville. She is a +prominent club woman, and a charming lecturer upon the beauties of +Nippon. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (June, 1906); _Who's Who in America_ + (1912-1913). + + +APPROACHING JAPAN[41] + +[From _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York, 1906)] + + Still on Board. August 18th. + + DEAR MATE: + +I am writing this in my berth with the curtains drawn. No I am not a +bit sea-sick, just popular. One of the old ladies is teaching me to +knit, the short-haired missionary reads aloud to me, the girl from +South Dakota keeps my feet covered up, and Dear Pa and Little Germany +assist me to eat. + +The captain has had a big bathing tank rigged up for the ladies, and I +take a cold plunge every morning. It makes me think of our old days at +the cottage up at the Cape. Didn't we have a royal time that summer +and weren't we young and foolish? It was the last good time I had for +many a long day--but there, none of that! + +Last night I had an adventure, at least it was next door to one. I was +sitting up on deck when Dear Pa came by and asked me to walk with him. +After several rounds we sat down on the pilot house steps. The moon +was as big as a wagon wheel and the whole sea flooded with silver, +while the flying fishes played hide and seek in the shadows. I forgot +all about Dear Pa and was doing a lot of thinking on my own account +when he leaned over and said: + +"I hope you don't mind talking to me. I am very, very lonely." Now I +thought I recognized a grave symptom, and when he began to tell me +about his dear departed, I knew it was time to be going. + +"You have passed through it," he said. "You can sympathize." + +I crossed my fingers in the dark. "We are both seeking a life work in +a foreign field--" he began again, but just here the purser passed. He +almost stumbled over us in the dark and when he saw me and my elderly +friend, he actually smiled! + +Don't you dare tell Jack about this, I should never hear the last of it. + +Can you realize that I am three whole weeks from home! I do, every +second of it. Sometimes when I stop to think what I am doing my heart +almost bursts! But then I am so used to the heartache that I might be +lonesome without it; who knows? + +If I can only do what is expected of me, if I can only pick up the +pieces of this smashed-up life of mine and patch them into a decent +whole that you will not be ashamed of, then I will be content. + +The first foreign word I have learned is "Alohaoe," I think it means +"my dearest love to you." Anyhow I send it laden with the tenderest +meaning. God bless and keep you all, and bring me back to you a wiser +and a gladder woman. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[41] Copyright, 1906, by the Century Company. + + + + +JAMES D. BRUNER + + +James Dowden Bruner, editor of many masterpieces of French literature, +as well as an original critic of that literature, was born near +Leitchfield, Kentucky, May 19, 1864. He was graduated from Franklin +College, Franklin, Indiana, in 1888, and then taught French and German +at Franklin for two years. Professor Bruner studied a year in Paris +and Florence and, on his return to this country, in 1893, he was +elected professor of Romance languages in the University of Illinois. +Johns Hopkins University conferred the degree of Ph. D. upon him, in +1894, his dissertation being _The Phonology of the Pistojese Dialect_ +(Baltimore, 1894, a brochure). From 1895 to 1899 Dr. Bruner was +professor of Romance languages and literatures in the University of +Chicago; from 1901 to 1909 he held a similar chair in the University +of North Carolina; and since 1909 he has been president of Chowan +College, Murfreesboro, North Carolina. Dr. Bruner has edited, with +introductions and critical notes, _Les Adventures du Dernier +Abencerage_, par Chateaubriand (New York, 1903); _Le Roman d'un Jeune +Homme Pauvre_, par Octave Feuillet (Boston, 1904); _Hernani_, par +Victor Hugo (New York, 1906); and _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New +York, 1908), his finest critical edition of any French classic +hitherto. His _Studies in Victor Hugo's Dramatic Characters_ (Boston, +1908), announced the advent of a new critic of the great Frenchman's +plays. It is an excellent piece of work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA[42] + +[From _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New York, 1908)] + +Corneille in the _Cid_ founded the French classical drama. Before the +appearance of this masterpiece, a transition drama containing +characteristics of the tragi-comedy as well as of the regular +classical tragedy, of which Corneille's next three plays, _Horace_, +_Cinna_, and _Polyeucte_, were to be perfect examples, the +tragi-comedy prevailed in France. This tragi-comedy, or irregular +drama, was a Renaissance product, having a history and characteristics +of its own, being largely influenced by the tragedies of Seneca. Its +most important characteristics are non-historic subjects, serious or +tragic plots, the mixture of comic and tragic elements or tones, the +high rank of the leading characters, the _style noble_, looseness of +structure, the disregard of the minor or Italian unities of time and +place, the classical form of verse and number of acts, romanesque +elements, and a happy ending. + +The most striking characteristic of the French classical drama of the +seventeenth century, as of the modern short story, is that of +compression. This statement is true both as to its form and its +content. The accidental accessories of splendid decorations, +magnificent costumes, subsidiary plots, and secondary characters that +might detract from the main situation or obscure the general +impression, are, as far as possible, sacrificed to the essential or +necessary interests of dramatic art. Improbable and irrational +elements are reduced to a minimum. Digressions, episodes, long +soliloquies, oratorical tirades, minute descriptions of external +nature, and complicated machinery that would encumber the plot or +destroy proportion, are largely eliminated. The classical dramatist is +too sensitive to the beautiful, the sublime, the essential, and the +universal to admit into his conception of fine art either moral and +physical deformity or the accidental and particular aspects of life. +Classical tragedy is furthermore narrow in its choice of subject and +form, in its number and range of characters, in its representation of +material and physical action on the stage, and in its number of +events, incidents, and actions. Its subjects and materials are taken +almost wholly from ancient classical and Hebrew sources. Mediaeval, +national, and modern foreign raw material, whether life, history, +legend, or literature, is seldom utilized. Its manners and ideas are +those of the court and the _salons_, and its religion is pagan. Its +language is general, cold, regular, and conventional, and its +versification is confined to rimed Alexandrine couplets, with the +immovable caesura and little _enjambement_. + +The Frenchman's love of proportion, symmetry, restraint, and logical +order led him to the cult of form. In striving after perfection of form, +he naturally adopted compression as the best method of expressing this +innate artistic reserve. This compactness and concentration of form, +this compressed brevity, which the Frenchman inherited from the Latins, +is well illustrated by the following lines from Wordsworth: + + To see a world in a grain of sand, + And a heaven in a wild flower; + Hold infinity in the palm of hand, + And eternity in an hour. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[42] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + + + + +MADISON CAWEIN + + +Madison Cawein, whom English critics name the greatest living American +poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865. He was +christened "Madison Julius Cawein," but he had not gotten far in the +literary lane before his middle name was dropped, though the "J." may be +found upon the title-pages of his earlier books. After some preparatory +work he entered the Louisville Male High School, in 1881, at the age of +sixteen years. At high school Madison Cawein began to write rhymes which +he read to the students and teachers upon stated occasions, and he was +hailed by them as a true maker of song. He was graduated in 1886 in a +class of thirteen members. Being poor in purse, Mr. Cawein accepted a +position in a Louisville business house, and he is one of the few +American poets who wrote in the midst of such commercialism. His was the +singing heart, not to be crushed by conditions or environment of any +kind. The year after his graduation he collected the best of his school +verse and published them as his first book, _Blooms of the Berry_ +(Louisville, 1887). In some way William Dean Howells and Thomas Bailey +Aldrich saw this volume, praised it, and fixed the future poet in his +right path. _The Triumph of Music_ (Louisville, 1888), sounded after +_The Blooms of the Berry_, and since that time hardly a year has passed +without the poet putting forth a slender volume. The next few years saw +the publication of his _Accolon of Gaul_ (Louisville, 1889); _Lyrics and +Idyls_ (Louisville, 1890); _Days and Dreams_ (New York, 1891); _Moods +and Memories_ (New York, 1892); _Red Leaves and Roses_ (New York, 1893); +_Poems of Nature and Love_ (New York, 1893); _Intimations of the +Beautiful_ (New York, 1894), one of his longest poems; _The White Snake_ +(Louisville, 1895), metrical translations from the German poets; +_Undertones_ (Boston, 1896), which contained some of the finest lyrics +he has done so far; _The Garden of Dreams_ (Louisville, 1896); _Shapes +and Shadows_ (New York, 1898); _Idyllic Monologues_ (Louisville, 1898); +_Myth and Romance_ (New York, 1899); _One Day and Another_ (Boston, +1901), a lyrical eclogue; _Weeds by the Wall_ (Louisville, 1901); _A +Voice on the Wind_ (Louisville, 1902). A glance at these titles, +following fast upon each other, convinces the reader that Mr. Cawein was +writing and publishing far too much, that he was not sufficiently +critical of his work. Edmund Gosse, the famous English critic, has +always been one of Mr. Cawein's most ardent admirers, and, in 1903, he +selected the best of his poems, wrote a delightful introduction for +them, and they were published in London under the title of _Kentucky +Poems_. This volume brought the poet many new friends, as it assembled +the best of his work from volumes long out of print and rather difficult +to procure. _The Vale of Tempe_ (New York, 1905), contained the best of +Mr. Cawein's work written since the publication of _Weeds by the Wall_ +in 1901. _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906), a collection +of poems and prose-pastels, was especially notable for the fact that it +contained the first and only short-story the poet has written, entitled +"Woman or--What?" + +_The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, five volumes), +charmingly illustrated by Mr. Eric Pape, the Boston artist, with Mr. +Gosse's introduction, brought together all of Mr. Cawein's work that +he cared to rescue from many widely scattered volumes. He made many +revisions in the poems, some of which (in the judgment of the writer) +tend to mar their original beauty. But it is a work of which any poet +may be proud; and it is not surpassed in quality or quantity by any +living American. + +Mr. Cawein's _Ode in Commemoration of the Founding of the +Massachusetts Bay Colony_ (Louisville, 1908), which he read at +Gloucester in August, 1907, was rather lengthy, but it contained many +strong and fine lines; and a group of New England sonnets, some of the +best he has done, appeared at the end of the ode. His _New Poems_ +(London, 1909), was followed by _The Giant and the Star_ (Boston, +1909), a small collection of children's verse, dedicated to his little +son, who furnished their inspiration. _Let Us Do the Best that We Can_ +(Chicago, 1909), was a beautiful brochure; and _The Shadow Garden and +Other Plays_ (New York, 1910), was four chamber-dramas which have been +highly praised, and which contain some of the most delicate work the +poet has done. _So Many Ways_ (Chicago, 1911), was another +pamphlet-poem; and it was followed by _Poems_ (New York, 1911), +selected from the whole range of his work by himself, with a foreword +by William Dean Howells. Mr. Cawein's latest volume is entitled _The +Poet, the Fool and the Faeries_ (Boston, 1912). It brings together his +work of the last two or three years, both in the field of the lyric +and of the drama. And from the mechanical aspect it is his most +beautiful book. The poet will publish two books through a Cincinnati +firm in 1913, to be entitled _The Republic--a Little Book of Homespun +Verse_, and _Minions of the Moon_. + +In March, 1912, literary Louisville celebrated the twenty-fifth +anniversary of the publication of _Blooms of the Berry_, and the +forty-seventh birthday of its author, Madison Cawein, the city's most +distinguished man of letters. This was the first public recognition Mr. +Cawein has received in the land of his birth, though it is now proposed +to place a bust of him in the public library of Louisville. He is better +known in New York or London than he is in Kentucky, but it will not be +long before the people of his own land realize that they have been +entertaining a world-poet, possibly, unawares. He is so far removed from +any Kentucky poet of the present school that to mention him in the same +breath with any of them is to make one's self absurd. Looking backward +to the beginnings of our literature and coming carefully down the slope +to this time, but two poets rise out of the mist of yesterday to greet +Cawein and challenge him for the laureateship of Kentucky makers of +song: Theodore O'Hara with his immortal elegy, and Daniel Henry Holmes +with his sheaf of tender lyrics. These three are the nearest approach to +the ineffable poets--who left the earth with the passing of +Tennyson--yet nurtured upon Kentucky soil. + +Mr. Cawein is, of course, a poet of Nature, a landscape poet in +particular who paints every color on the palette into his work. Had he +been an artist he would have exhausted all colors conceived thus far +by man, and would fain have originated new ones. There are literally +hundreds of his poems in which every line is as surely a stroke as if +done with the brush of a painter. Color, color, is his +shibboleth-scheme, and he who would woo Nature in her richest robes +may read Cawein and be content. + +Amazing as it may seem Mr. Cawein has thirty-four volumes to his +credit--almost one for every year of his life. This statement stamps +him as one of the most prolific poets of modern times, if not, indeed, +of all time. And that it is not all quantity, may be seen in the +recent declaration of _The Poetry Review_ of London: "He appears quite +the biggest figure among American poets; his _return to nature_ has no +tinge of affectation; it is genuine to the smallest detail. If he +suffers from fatigue, it is in him, at least, not through that +desperate satiety of town life which with so many recent poets has +ended in impressionism and death." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poets of the Younger Generation_, by William Archer + (London, 1901); _The Younger American Poets_, by Jessie B. + Rittenhouse (Boston, 1904); _History of American_ _Literature_, + by R. P. Halleck (New York, 1911); _The Poetry Review_ (London, + October, 1912). + + +CONCLUSION[43] + +[From _Undertones_ (Boston, 1896)] + + The songs Love sang to us are dead: + Yet shall he sing to us again, + When the dull days are wrapped in lead, + And the red woodland drips with rain. + + The lily of our love is gone, + That touched our spring with golden scent; + Now in the garden low upon + The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent. + + Our rose of dreams is passed away, + That lit our summer with sweet fire; + The storm beats bare each thorny spray, + And its dead leaves are trod in mire. + + The songs Love sang to us are dead; + Yet shall he sing to us again, + When the dull days are wrapped in lead, + And the red woodland drips with rain. + + The marigold of memory + Shall fill our autumn then with glow; + Haply its bitterness will be + Sweeter than love of long ago. + + The cypress of forgetfulness + Shall haunt our winter with its hue; + The apathy to us not less + Dear than the dreams our summer knew. + + +INDIAN SUMMER[44] + +[From _Kentucky Poems_ (London, 1903)] + + The dawn is warp of fever, + The eve is woof of fire; + And the month is a singing weaver + Weaving a red desire. + + With stars Dawn dices with Even + For the rosy gold they heap + On the blue of the day's deep heaven, + On the black of the night's far deep. + + It's--'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'-- + The season's a prince who burns + With the teasing lusts that harry + His heart for a wench who spurns. + + It's--'Crown us a beaker with sherry, + To drink to the doxy's heels; + A tankard of wine o' the berry, + To lips like a cloven peel's. + + ''S death! if a king be saddened, + Right so let a fool laugh lies: + But wine! when a king is gladdened, + And a woman's waist and her eyes.' + + He hath shattered the loom of the weaver, + And left but a leaf that flits, + He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever + Of mist and of frost is its. + + He hath tippled the buxom beauty, + And gotten her hug and her kiss-- + The wide world's royal booty + To pile at her feet for this. + + + +HOME[45] + +[From _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906)] + + A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees. + A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red. + Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines + Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape. + Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows, + Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud; + Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough, + Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time. + Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees, + The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads, + Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells, + Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep. + Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods. + A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn + Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms. + And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk, + And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom, + A woman with a wild-rose in her hair. + + +LOVE AND A DAY[46] + +[From _The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)] + + I + + In girandoles and gladioles + The day had kindled flame; + And Heaven a door of gold and pearl + Unclosed, whence Morning,--like a girl, + A red rose twisted in a curl,-- + Down sapphire stairways came. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All on a summer's morning?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + If she be milking, follow, O! + And in the clover hollow, O! + While through the dew the bells clang clear, + Just whisper it into her ear, + All on a summer's morning." + + II + + Of honey and heat and weed and wheat + The day had made perfume; + And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, + Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed-- + A sunflower withering at her waist-- + Within a crystal room. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All in the summer nooning?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + If she be 'mid the rakers, O! + Among the harvest acres, O! + While every breeze brings scents of hay, + Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,' + All in the summer nooning." + + III + + With song and sigh and cricket cry + The day had mingled rest; + And Heaven a casement opened wide + Of opal, whence, like some young bride, + The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed, + A moonflower on her breast. + + Said I to Love: "What must I do? + What shall I do? what can I do?" + Said I to Love: "What must I do, + All in the summer gloaming?" + + Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." + Said Love to me: "Go woo. + Go meet her at the trysting, O! + And 'spite of her resisting, O! + Beneath the stars and afterglow, + Just clasp her close and kiss her--so, + All in the summer gloaming." + + +IN A SHADOW GARDEN[47] + +[From _The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays_ (New York, 1910)] + + Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks. + The place is most propitious and the time.-- + See how they trip it!--There one rides a snail. + And here another teases at a bee.-- + In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.-- + Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon, + 'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.-- + We never knew, or cared, once.--Would we had!-- + Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy, + That comes with beautiful belief in everything + That makes for childhood, had then touched us young + And kept us young forever; young in heart-- + The only youth man has. But man believes + In only what he contacts; what he sees; + Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch + And vision are his all. The loveliness, + That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts, + Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams + And counts for nothing that he reckons real; + But is, in fact, less insubstantial than + The world he builds of matter-of-fact and stone. + That great inhuman world of evidence, + Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old + With what it christens wisdom.--Did it know, + The wise are only they who keep their minds + As little children's, innocent of doubt, + Believing all things beautiful are true. + + +UNREQUITED[48] + +[From _Poems_ (New York, 1911)] + + Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: + One hand among the deep curls of her brow, + I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: + She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. + + So have I seen a clear October pool, + Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere + Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, + Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. + + Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; + Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer. + Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat + Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair! + + So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head + Sung to and sung to by a longing bird; + And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, + No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. + + +A TWILIGHT MOTH + +[From the same] + + Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state + Of gold and purple in the marbled west, + Thou comest forth like some embodied trait, + Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed; + Or of a rose the visible wish; that, white, + Goes softly messengering through the night, + Whom each expectant flower makes its guest. + + All day the primroses have thought of thee, + Their golden heads close-harmed from the heat; + All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly + Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet, + Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;-- + Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last, + Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. + + Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's + Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks + The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays + Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links + In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith, + O bearer of their order's shibboleth, + Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. + + What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear + That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,-- + A syllabled silence that no man may hear,-- + As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? + What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, + Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, + Some specter of some perished flower of phlox? + + O voyager of that universe which lies + Between the four walls of this garden fair,-- + Whose constellations are the fireflies + That wheel their instant courses everywhere,-- + Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees + Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades, + Thou steerest like some faery ship of air. + + Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer, + Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest + Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her + His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.-- + Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, + That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! + And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[43] Copyright, 1896, by Copeland and Day. + +[44] Copyright, 1903, by the Author. + +[45] Copyright, 1906, by the Author. + +[46] Copyright, 1907, by the Author. + +[47] Copyright, 1910, by the Author. + +[48] Copyright, 1911, by the Macmillan Company. + + + + +GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN + + +Mrs. George Madden Martin, the mother of _Emmy Lou_, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. She is the sister of Miss Eve Anne +Madden, who has also written several delightful books for children. +She was educated in the public schools of Louisville, but on account +of ill-health her training was concluded at home. In 1892 Miss Madden +was married to Mr. Attwood R. Martin, and they have made their home at +Anchorage, Kentucky, some miles from Louisville, ever since. Mrs. +Martin's first book was _The Angel of the Tenement_ (New York, 1897), +now out of print, which she seemingly regards with so little favor +that it is seldom found in the list of her works. _Emmy Lou--Her Book +and Heart_ (New York, 1902), made her famous throughout the +English-reading world. It ran serially in _McClure's Magazine_ during +1900. It is a masterpiece and, though she has published several +stories since, this remains as her best book hitherto. Little "Emmy +Lou" gets into the reader's heart in the most wonderful way, and, once +there, she will not be displaced. She is the most charming child in +Kentucky literature, a genuine creation. Mrs. Martin's short novel, +_The House of Fulfillment_ (New York, 1904) won her praise from people +who could not care for her child, though the heroine was none other +than "Emmy Lou" in long skirts. This was followed by _Abbie Ann_ (New +York, 1907); _Letitia: Nursery Corps, U. S. A._ (New York, 1907), was +a very winsome little girl, who causes the men of the army many +trials and vexations at various military posts where her parents +happened to be stationed. _Emmy Lou_ and _Letitia_, as has been +pointed out by one of Mrs. Martin's keenest critics, regard childhood +through the eyes of age and are best appreciated, perhaps, by adults; +while _Abbie Ann_ sees childhood through a child's eyes, and is +certainly more appreciated by children than by grown-ups. Two of Mrs. +Martin's most recent stories, _When Adam Dolve and Eve Span_, appeared +in _The American Magazine_ for October, 1911; and _The Blue +Handkerchief_, in _The Century_ for December, 1911. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (February, 1903); _The Outlook_ + (October 1, 1904); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1904). + + +EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE[49] + +[From _Emmy Lou--Her Book and Heart_ (New York, 1902)] + +About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it was +February, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth. +At recess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The +echoes reached Emmy Lou. + +The Valentines must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing. +And to get no valentine was a dreadful thing--dreadful thing. And even +the timidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats. + +Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was +she to survive the contumely and shame? + +You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on your +valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was to +prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These things +reached Emmy Lou. + +Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so +grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine. + + +And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on the +Fourteenth day of February. The drug-store window was full of +valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to see +them. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten a +valentine. And she would have to say, No. + +She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she +went to her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her +wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through +the crack of the door from Miss Clara's dressing-room. + +Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay something +square and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, all +over flowers and scrolls. + +Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink. + +She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it. + +Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened. +Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, for +since you must not--she would never show her valentine--never. + +The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and +Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being +able to say it. + +Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but +no one else might see it. + +It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading +on it. She studied surreptitiously. The reading was made up of +letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She +knew some of the letters. She would ask someone the letters she did +not know by pointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was +learning. It was the first time since she came to school. + +But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying +the valentine again. + +Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia +was busy. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou. + +Aunt Cordelia listened. + +"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?" + +"Be," said Aunt Cordelia. + +If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were +strange. + +Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith. + +After dinner she approached Aunt Katie. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?" + +"My," said Aunt Katie. + +The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to +copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom +was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the +other boy was gone. + +"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the +slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her. + +Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little +girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou. + +Now she was alone, so she stopped. + +"Get any valentines?" + +"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's +friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it." + +"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been +reading the long verses inside to me." + +"Can you show them--valentines?" asked Emmy Lou. + +"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl. + +The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and +the aunties, sitting around, reading. + +"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou. + +They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it +came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to +come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been +forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing +because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled. + +But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee. +In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's +forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands. + +"I can read it," said Emmy Lou. + +They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked +over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder. + +"B," said Emmy Lou, "e--Be." + +The aunties nodded. + +"M," said Emmy Lou, "y--my." + +Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, +e--Valentine. Be my Valentine." + +"There!" said Aunt Cordelia. + +"Well!" said Aunt Katie. + +"At last!" said Aunt Louise. + +"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[49] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + + + + +MARY ADDAMS BAYNE + + +Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, Kentucky, +in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, she made her home with her +brother, Mr. William Addams of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an +aspirant for the gubernatorial chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was +married to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad, +Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story writer for some +years before she became a novelist. Her first book, _Crestlands_ +(Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial story of the famous Cane Ridge +meeting-house, near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or +Reformed church. _Crestlands_ is important as history and +entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by _Blue Grass and +Wattle_ (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of which is more +illuminating, "The Man from Australia." This novel relates the +religious life of a young Australian, educated in Kentucky, and his +many fightings within and without form an interesting story. From the +literary standpoint _Blue Grass and Wattle_ is an advance over +_Crestlands_, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in Mrs. +Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall of 1912 Mrs. Bayne +purchased the old Burnett place at Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she +has converted into the most charming home of that town. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; _The Christian + Standard_ (December, 1907). + + +THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER[50] + +[From _Crestlands_ (Cincinnati, 1907)] + +The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze, +pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing +minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its +summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a +fallen log a red-bird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the +lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home; +but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when +mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of +squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild +turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush. +At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but +scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again. +For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a +startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the +depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from +their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the +squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of +the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, undisturbed, +went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm +of his song to fear any intruder. + +The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed +by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing. +He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy +complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay +across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags. +He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun +of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the +period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was +short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim +of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray +traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a +waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same +color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black +cloth band with silver buckles. + +He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged +into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched, +quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much +a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the +trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an +open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging +sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro +doffed his cap and bowed humbly. + +"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke +off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped +off somewhars." + +"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is +to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region." + +"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin' +whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by +de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to +Marstah Gilcrest's, suh." + +"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers' +house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest." + +"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse +Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah +same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest +bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah +he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick." + +The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile. + +"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward +with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid all de shettahs +barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods +all roun' it--dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you +comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore +white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a +orchid. Den you's dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble +rumpus, but you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and +some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter +Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e +bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way." + +With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer. +Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another +half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than +any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[50] Copyright, 1907, by the Standard Publishing Company. + + + + +ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ + + +Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of _Pa Gladden_, was born at +Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols +Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was +graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter +she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the +breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff +of the _Cincinnati Tribune_, which she left after two years for the +Springfield, Ohio, _Republic-Times_, with which she was connected for +a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz, +a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a +position on _The Courier-Journal_. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor +of _The Courier-Journal_, and this position she held until her death. +Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester +Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's +literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the +ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was +a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after +a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and +iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on +her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the +street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!" +Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known +character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by _The Century +Magazine_ in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being +brought together in a charming book, entitled _Pa Gladden--The Story +of a Common Man_ (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden" +is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind, +and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of +goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great +amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is +the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said +throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death +occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook," +September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her +book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked. +_The Ancient Landmark_ (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a +vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn +out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer +of real achievement and greater promise. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 5, 1903); _Who's Who in + America_ (1903-1905). + + +PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN[52] + +[From _Pa Gladden_ (New York, 1903)] + +In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the +barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had +sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness +to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times +unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and +again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she +turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that, +setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards +and prayed fervently: + +"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when +redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye +sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal +'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy +love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let +Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life." + +When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep +meaning. + +"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your +goodness. I am not"--her voice rose to a shriek--"I am not wicked. You +can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be +here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell +me your name, sir." + +"Pa Gladden." + +"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?" + +"No"--with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the +folks." + +"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up." + +"Prubable." + +"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side, +like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She +ended with a sob. + +"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make +it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart." + +"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry, +Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If +you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet." + +He sat by her for a few moments longer. + +"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said +cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll +soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye +down. Doc Briskett knows his business." + +She held out her hand to him. + +"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in +the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps." + +Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's +cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate. + +"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the +barn road. Yer patient air out thar." + +"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me +'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!" + +Pa climbed in beside him. + +"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his +story for the doctor's amazed ears. + +"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an +illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have +any disease traveling." + +A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it +and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look +over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the +shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born. +Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago: + + Carol, carol, Christians, + Carol joyfully, + Carol for the coming + Of Christ's nativity! + +Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost +tumbled down the ladder: + +"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is +at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here; +bring some woman, for the love of God!" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[51] Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic +Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be +gathered from the files of _The Courier-Journal_. Mr. Aroni's fame has +lingered in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never +published a book or wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial +writer on _The North American_, Philadelphia. + +[52] Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company. + + + + +REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH + + +Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy that has come +down to posterity with a deal of the perfume of permanency, was born +at Louisville, Kentucky, February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter +of Reuben Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of New York +State, the feminine form of whose name she bore. Her father was the +well-known novelist, Mansfield Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her +mother and sister were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a +glance that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately. +She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, but her one-act +comediette, entitled _Where was Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies_ (New +York, 1888), written before she was of age, made her widely known. +This little comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce. +Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in 1896, being poet of +the class, and one of the editors of _The Vassarian_. She then taught +in a woman's college for a time, when the war with Spain was declared +and she determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss +Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. The last months +of her life were spent at the detention hospital, Montauk, New York, +where she rendered noble service in her country's cause. She was +stricken with fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken +to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried with military +honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics should be republished. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New + York, 1889, v. vi); _A Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F. + Adams (Boston, 1905). + + +THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES + +[From _Where was Elsie?_ (New York, 1888)] + +Act I, Scene IV. _Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper._ + +_Elsie._ Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern? + +_Jack._ Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take +you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince--[_Stops_]. + +_Elsie._ Prince! what Prince? + +_Jack._ Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the +King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to +dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due +reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey +her commands. [_Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door._] +Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [_Exit._] + +_Elsie._ That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [_Looks at +flask in her hand._] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so +fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I +did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever. +I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have +a long train. [_Struts up and down, but stops suddenly._] Well, I don't +care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [_Looking about her._] I +don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [_Catches sight of something +shining on the wall._] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be +fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going +to see what it is. [_Stops._] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask! +[_Brightening up._] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take +the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is +over there. I wonder what will happen. [_Drinks._] + +Curtain. + + + + +CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT + + +Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867, +the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden, +the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's +biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr. +Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss +Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future +novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the +two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public +school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent +two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the +Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to +resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville +where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid +Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and +removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently +went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott +joined the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_, and acted as +representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to +South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the +interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to +his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby +county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news +reporter for _The Tribune_, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr. +Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite +cruiser _Nictheroy_. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby +county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he +married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper +correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly +afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at +Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago _Record_. When the +now defunct Louisville _Dispatch_ was established, Mr. Marriott became +telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898. +Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the _Dispatch_, he +regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several +times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in +1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott +has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the +United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to +surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr. +Marriott's first book, _Uncle Sam's Business_ (New York, 1908), was an +excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans." +It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the +Sargasso Sea, _The Isle of Dead Ships_ (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene +of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the +world. _How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City_ (New +York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book, +fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader. +Mr. Marriott's second novel, _Out of Russia_ (Philadelphia, 1911), a +story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than _The Isle of +Dead Ships_. From June to October, 1912, his _Sally Castleton, +Southerner_, a Civil War story, ran in _Everybody's Magazine_, and it +will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of +a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian, +who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr. +Marriott has done--one of the best of the recent war novels. In the +past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some +fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is +certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky +stories, one for _Gunter's Magazine_, the other for _The Pocket +Magazine_ (which periodical was swallowed up by _Leslie's Weekly_); +and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls +_One Night in Kentucky_, and which will appear in _The Red Book +Magazine_ sometime in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; _Who's Who + in America_, (1912-1913). + + +THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY[53] + +[From _Sally Castleton, Southerner_ (_Everybody's Magazine_, June, +1912)] + +With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the +door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror, +must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to +the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her. + +Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one +addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps +holding his horse's bridle--a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking, +with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a +boy--not an enemy. + +"Well, sir?" she faltered. + +The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood +swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General +Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience, +but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will +be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen, +who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the +valley with field-glasses. + +Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at +General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I +have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should." + +The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh, +that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking +out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only +wants a place to rest for a few hours." + +"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there +were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well +to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle +Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer +supper to him and his staff?" + +Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear; +now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow +less. + +The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table, +with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general." +He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps. + +Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp +on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!" +she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they +are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to +meet her guests. + +On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty +cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a +few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with +mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed, +and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other +strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles +in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the +sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny +hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the +flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires, +and his hammer clanked noisily. + +The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of +hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no +little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and +the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted. + +It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the +Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with +unconscious interest. + +The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General +Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten +convention. "General Haverhill--Miss--?" He paused interrogatively. + +The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said. + +"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose +Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?" + +"Yes, general. Will you come in?" + +The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper, +general," he said. + +The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar +of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his +smile was pleasant. "You are--loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The +question seemed unnecessary. + +"Yes--to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily. + +"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy +brows. "And this is--" he turned toward the younger girl. + +"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton." + +"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal--to Virginia, +Miss Eugenia?" he said. + +Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched +'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause, +she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small +foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!" + +The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration. +"Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling. + +Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked +after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its +chairs and lounge--the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately +lain--and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor +her sister could help glancing at that stove. + +It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please +sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see +about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie +following rather sullenly. + +In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted +her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion +that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he +search--and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded, +suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very +long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would +they consider him a spy and--and---- + +A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside +her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted. + +"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect? +Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!" + +Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You +didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too +friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious." + +"But--but--he'll starve!" + +"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,' +that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get +supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them +occupied--when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!" + +'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed. +"Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip +starving right under their noses." + +The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are +worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for +him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that +ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a +good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got +to feed the brutes, let's do it." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[53] Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company. + + + + +ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE + + +Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at +Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls' +High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor +of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in +studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States +Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a +resident ever since. Her first book, _Antinous_ (Philadelphia, 1891), a +blank verse tragedy, was followed by _College Girls_ (New York, 1895), +an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss +Goodloe's first novel, _Calvert of Strathore_ (New York, 1903), was +set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. _At the Foot of the +Rockies_ (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's +best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest, +one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The +author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the +Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the +romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for +the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other +writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel, +_The Star-Gazers_ (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late +president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together +with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of +narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no +way does this work rank with _At the Foot of the Rockies_. The +short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field +she should go far. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the + _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. v); + _Scribner's Magazine_ (January, April, 1910; July, 1911). + + +A COUNTESS OF THE WEST[54] + +[From _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905)] + +She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a +wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and +irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with +brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry +her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that. +The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded +garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew +from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring. +With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held +it out to him. + +"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to +some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll +enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!" + +As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly +saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following +the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand +gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and +following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age. +The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his +complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was +most immaculately got up in riding things. + +"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper +incredulously to himself. + +The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of +the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The +Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son. + +"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too +fit, you know." + +"Thanks, father--yes, I know it. When did you get here?" + +"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train." + +"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?" + +"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't seen you for a +long while. May--may I--the Earl of Rigby, Miss Ogden." + +The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again--it had fallen out when he +had shaken his son's hand--and stared at the young woman before him. + +"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. "I--I had +always understood that this country was an Eveless paradise. I'm glad +to see I'm mistaken." + +Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably. Not one of +the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed necessarily +attendant on an introduction to a noble earl now disturbed her +composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite compliment left her perfectly +cool. He simply seemed to her an extremely handsome man, a good deal +cleverer and stronger-looking than his son. + +"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss Ogden," said +Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in Port Highwood and +she'll help St. John show you the country, my lord." + +"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing the white, +even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she turned to the Earl +of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you the country--specially as +Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in two or three days." + +"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction. + +"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable Arthur. + +"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two weeks, I suppose." + +"Yes--father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood House. I fancy +he'll wish he were back in England!" + +"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl. + +A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes. + +"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the two weeks, +and at the end of the time I am sure you could not decide which to +call the prettiest," she asserted. + +"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to try." + +"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. "And now, as +you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I think I won't go on into +Highwood. Your lordship's things will be sent over early in the +morning. His lordship was so anxious to see you, St. John, that we +couldn't even persuade him to mess with us to-night," he remarked, +jocularly, to the Honorable Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I +think. Good-bye!" He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse +set off at an easy canter for the fort. + +A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, which Miss +Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, and riding on +slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur and his father. The earl gazed +admiringly at her slim back. + +"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits her horse +perfectly." + +"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively. + +"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, warmly. He +spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The Honorable Arthur +rather sulkily closed up on the left. + +"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go on the +round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised to show me the +country. I am most deeply interested in our Canadian possessions, you +know," said the earl. + +She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray eyes +which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp. + +"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored while Mr. +St. John is away," she said, sweetly. + +It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks and four +days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the Morgan round-up, +twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a telegram for St. John. The +Honorable Arthur was so dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the +half-breed had difficulty in picking him out from the rest of the +dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt round-up crew. + +The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable +fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand like a withered +leaf on a windshaken bough. + +"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. Most +important. + + RIGBY." + + +His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and tanned +skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly a joyous thought +came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, and wants me to go back with +him," he told himself over and over. He thrust his few things into the +one portmanteau he had brought with him and made such good time going +the twenty-five miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down +the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in. + +The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule rail of the +observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially grasped his +son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was struck afresh by the good looks +and youthfulness of his aristocratic father. + +"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and I'm glad +you got here in time. What? No, you won't need your portmanteau. The +truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, "the Countess of Rigby--she +was Miss Lily Ogden until last night, my deah boy--and I are on our +way to England, and we couldn't leave the country without seeing you +again. Won't you step into the coach and speak to her?" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[54] Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +GEORGE LEE BURTON + + +George Lee Burton, magazinest, was born at Danville, Kentucky, April +17, 1868. He was fitted at the Louisville Rugby School for the +University of Virginia, from which he was graduated, after which he +returned to Louisville, and studied law in the University of +Louisville. Upon his graduation from that institution he was admitted +to the bar, and he has since practiced his profession at Louisville +with success. Mr. Burton began to write some years ago, contributing +short-stories and sketches to the eastern periodicals. _The Century_ +published his clever story, _As Seen By His Bride_; and _Ainslee's +Magazine_ printed his _The Training of the Groom_, _The Deferred +Proposal_, _Cupid's Impromptu_, and several other stories. His work +for _The Saturday Evening Post_, however, has been his most noteworthy +performance. For that great weekly he has written: _Getting a Start at +Sixty_ (published anonymously); _The Making of a Small Capitalist_, _A +Fresh Grip_, _A Rebuilt Life_, and _Tackling Matrimony_, the last of +which titles appeared in two parts in _The Post_ for November 23 and +November 30, 1912, was exceedingly well done. He has recently +re-written _Tackling Matrimony_, greatly developing the story-part, +and more than doubling its length, for the Harper's, who will issue it +in book form early in the spring of 1913. Mr. Burton is a bachelor who +has won wide reputation as a writer upon various phases of matrimonial +mixups. He also has a certain sympathy with those who waste their +youth in riotous living, but who win their true positions in the world +after all seems lost. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Burton to the Author; _Outing_ + (May, 1900). + + +AFTER PRISON--HOME[55] + +[From _A Rebuilt Life_ (_Saturday Evening Post_, March 23, 1912)] + +"Well, sir, when I got out I was shipped back to my own town, or +rather the town from which I had been sent up. I was born five hundred +miles from there; but my people had died when I was young and I had +drifted in there when I was only sixteen years old--I guess that makes +it my town after all. Now, at thirty-five I was back there from the +pen and I stayed there. + +"Maybe that was a mistake. I guess it was harder for me; but I had that +much fight left in me. I wanted to show people that there was still some +man in me, even if I had spent ten years in the pen that I deserved to +spend there. Besides, I wouldn't like to start off fresh in a new place +and build up a little, and just as I got to going have somebody from my +home town come along and tell everybody that respected me that I was a +murderer and an ex-convict and a lowdown sort of nobody. + +"I believe after all I'd rather start in as I did, back where they +thought that about me to begin with, and build up fresh from that. I +wanted to live down the killing and those ten years--and I believe +I've sorter done it. It may sound foolish, but--though I don't excuse +all that, remember--I have got to sorter respect myself again, and I +tell you it feels good! + +"They didn't have prison reform in that state then, with an employment +officer and a job all ready to help a poor devil start out again when +he got back to freedom. They gave me a suit of clothes and five +dollars and shipped me back to the town I came from, then turned me +loose as an ex-convict to hump for myself like the other "exes," +branded by those years of living in there. + +"It certainly seemed strange to see the place again. There had been +many changes in those years. I put up at one of these +twenty-five-cents-a-night men's hotels, and took fifteen-cent +meals--skipping one every day to make my five dollars last longer; and +I commenced looking for a job. + +"There didn't seem any need of more help anywhere. I tried many of my +old acquaintances to see if I could get a place--I did not seem to +have any friends left! I found ten years in the pen seemed to wipe out +the claim of being even an acquaintance with most of them. They all +looked at me curiously, as if I was a different brand of man--a +cannibal, or Eskimo, or something. + +"I'd rather they wouldn't have showed so plain they thought me +dangerous or worse; yet I'd have swallowed that if they had only given +me work. They didn't though; some of them weren't as cold with me as +others, but none of them had anything for me. + +"Of course I tackled all sorts of strangers, too, for work; but +usually they didn't have any--and when they had they wanted +references. I couldn't blame them; I guess I had a sort of pasty face +and hangdog look. + +"They had such a habit of asking: 'Where did you work last?' + +"'I've been away a long time--have not worked here for several years,' +I would say. + +"'Where did you work while you were away?' came next. + +"'I worked at broom-making part of the time,' I got to answering. + +"Then, like as not, the boss would look at me suspiciously and say: +'No, I don't believe I need you just now; if I do I will let you know. +Where do you live?" + +"When I gave the number of the bum lodging house he would look as if +that settled it; he had known all along I wasn't any good. And I felt +so shamed and low down all the time I looked like he was right. + +"Five dollars don't last very long, even with two meals a day. I got +work one day on a wrecker's force, tearing down an old building; but +the foreman drove his men hard and I wasn't used to real work anyway. +I couldn't stand up to it, and--I'm ashamed to tell it even now--I +fainted about four o'clock that afternoon. + +"Another day I got a place with the gang working repairs on the +street-railroad tracks; but the man in charge said I was too slow and +not strong enough--had better get some different kind of work. As if I +hadn't tried everything I could! He didn't pay me for a full day +either--said I wasn't worth it; and the worst was that I knew he was +right. I was about at the end of my rope when my money gave out, and I +was looking so weak and shamefaced that I didn't stand any sort of a +chance. I got to feeling desperate. + +"I remember that about this time I went in to answer an ad--'Man +wanted as porter in well-established wholesale drug house.' The head +of the place was a mild-mannered old man, who sat in the back office, +but who always looked over the new men before they were employed. He +began as usual: + +"'Where did you work last?' + +"'With the street-railroad gang,' I answered. + +"'U-um! How long?' + +"'One day,' I told him. + +"'Ah!' he said, as if he had discovered something--'and before that?' + +"'With a house-wrecking gang on Flint Street.' + +"'Yes--how long there?' + +"'Part of a day,' I said. 'I couldn't stand up to the work.' + +"I thought he looked a little sympathetic then, but was not sure until +he sniffed and asked the next question in a hard, thin voice: + +"'And where before that?' + +"I hesitated a moment; he looked at me more closely and said in that +same tone: + +"'Where?' + +"I had been looked at and questioned so much that way and had got so +raw about it that now I almost shouted: 'In the penitentiary!' + +"'Why, bless my soul!' the mild little man gasped. 'No, I don't need +you. Good day! Good day!' + +"He looked so shocked and I felt so desperate that I could not help +adding, while I looked at him hard: + +"'I was put in for manslaughter too--voluntary manslaughter!' + +"There wasn't any clerk in the room at the time. + +"Oh, oh, indeed!' he gulped out, rising and backing away, big-eyed and +trembly. He almost got to the back window before I turned and left. + +"Maybe I didn't feel bitter and like 'what's the use--what's the use +of anything!' I don't know what would have happened--I guess I'd have +starved to death or worse--if it hadn't been for the hoboes' +hotel--Welcome Hall--'Headquarters for the Unemployed,' as it's +advertised. + +"You don't know about the place? Well, sir, it's a dandy!--at least, +that's the way I think about it--and a good many others do too. The +worst of the hoboes won't go there if they can help it--they'd rather +bum a dime and get a bed for the night in one of those ten-cent places. + +"This Welcome Hall is a sort of industrial kindling-splitting joint. +You blow in there and saw and split kindling for a bed and meals--you +give them six hours' work. + +"You see, in that way you can live off six hours' work a day and have +some time left to look for a job. It's a good thing, and it's been a +moneymaker too; it's the only charity I know of that's not a charity +but a moneymaking concern. Of course people had to give it a place and +start it; but it more than pays expenses, and at the same time helps +to build up a man instead of making him a pauper or a deadbeat bum. + +"I certainly was glad to find some place where I could at least earn +my lodging and meals. I rested up some there and was glad I could just +stay somewhere. Though I looked about for work a little, nearly every +day, I lived along there for three weeks on my six hours a day of +work--still out of a job. At last I guess my fighting blood got up +again, I determined I would get a job of some kind, even if it was +cleaning vaults. I decided no honest work was beneath me when it all +seemed so far above me as to be out of reach. + +"'If I keep my eyes open and am not too choosy I must find something +to do,' I said to myself, and set out to look for it in earnest. It +was Saturday morning, I remember, for I thought of the next day being +Sunday, when I could not even hunt for work. I had walked a good way +and asked for work at a lot of places without getting anything to do, +when I saw an old negro man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk and +washing off the front steps of a plain two-story house with a bucket +of water and a cloth. + +"'I may not be much account but I sure can do that,' I thought, and +asked him how much he got for it. + +"'For dese here, boss, I gits ten cents; but when I wuks all de way +roun' to de back do' I gits some dinner th'owed in,' he said with a +grin. + +"That wasn't so bad; and 'boss'!--how good that sounded! I went on +down the street feeling almost like a man again and not a down-and-out +ex-convict. + +"About a square away I began to ask at every house if they didn't want +the leaves swept off and the front steps washed. Maybe I looked too +much like a tramp or too much above one with that 'boss' still ringing +in my ears--the first time I had been spoken to that way for more than +ten years! Anyway I got turned down at first. + +"At the tenth place, however, a two-story-and-attic red brick, they +gave me a job. The woman asked me in a sharp voice, as if she were +defending herself from being overcharged: + +"'How much?' + +"'Ten cents,' I answered, as meekly as I could. + +"She seemed to think that was reasonable; and after waiting a minute, as +if she wanted the work done and couldn't find any excuse for not letting +me do it, she handed me a bucket and mop and broom and set me at it. + +"I finished the job in about an hour; and I tell you I enjoyed that +work! Beneath me? Why, it couldn't get beneath me--I was that low down +in mind and living and even hope. I was just about all in, you +understand; and I wasn't a plumb out-and-out fool. + +"I have got that dime yet; see here," he said, holding out a brightly +polished dime surrounded by a narrow gold band, which he wore as a charm +on his watch-chain; "whenever I begin to feel ashamed of my work I look +at that and get thankful, and remember how proud and happy I felt when +that sharp-looking woman handed it to me. I had done a little extra work +in cleaning up the yard, and she said as she gave it to me: + +"'That looks a whole lot better! You certainly earned that dime.' + +"I wouldn't have spent that money if I had had to go without food for +two days! It seemed to put springs in my feet and I went down the +street hustling for another job of the same kind. I found it before +dinner; it was another ten cent job with twenty cents' worth of work; +but I sure was glad to get it. + +"I felt that, so long as Welcome Hall was making money, I was earning +my way by those six hours of work a day, and I stayed on there for +some time longer." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[55] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +JAMES TANDY ELLIS + + +James Tandy Ellis, "Shawn's" father, was born at Ghent, Kentucky, June +9, 1868. He spent his boyhood days in one of the most romantically +beautiful sections of Kentucky, on the Ohio river between Cincinnati and +Louisville. He was educated at Ghent College and the State College of +Kentucky at Lexington. Mr. Ellis has always been a great lover of Nature +and his leisure-hours are usually spent with dog and gun or in angling. +He engaged in newspaper work in Louisville and his character sketches +soon made him well-known throughout the State. His first book, _Poems by +Ellis_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1898), contained some very clever verse. +_Sprigs o' Mint_ (New York, 1906), was an attractive little volume of +pastels in prose and verse. Mr. Ellis next issued three pamphlets: +_Peebles_ (Carrollton, Kentucky, 1908); _Awhile in the Mountains_ +(Lexington, Kentucky, 1909); and _Kentucky Stories_ (Lexington, 1909). +His latest book, entitled _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911), is a +novelette of river life in northern Kentucky, and the simple, direct +manner of the little tale was found "refreshing" by the "jaded" +reviewers. Colonel Ellis is now assistant Adjutant-General of Kentucky, +and he resides at Frankfort, the capitol of the Commonwealth. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Ellis to the Author; _Lexington + Leader_ (December 24, 1911). + + +YOUTHFUL LOVERS[56] + +[From _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911)] + +The winter had passed away. Shawn had been working hard in school, and +under the encouragement of Mrs. Alden, was making fair progress, but +Sunday afternoons found him in his rowboat, wandering about the stream +and generally pulling his boat out on the beach at Old Meadows, for +Lallite was there to greet him, and already they had told each other +of their love. What a dream of happiness, to wander together along the +pebbled beach, or through the upland woods, tell each other the little +incidents of their daily life, and to pledge eternal fidelity. Oh, +dearest days, when the rose of love first blooms in youthful hearts, +when lips breathe the tenderest promises, fraught with such transports +of delight; when each lingering word grows sweeter under the spell of +love-lit eyes. Oh, blissful elysium of love's young dream! + +They stood together in the deepening twilight, when the sun's last +bars of gold were reflected in the stream. + +"Oh, Shawn, it was a glad day when you first came with Doctor Hissong +to hunt." + +"Yes," said Shawn, as he took her hand, "and it was a hunt where I +came upon unexpected game, but how could you ever feel any love for a +poor river-rat?" + +"I don't know," said Lallite, "but maybe, it is that kind that some +girls want to fall in love with, especially if they have beautiful +teeth, and black eyes and hair, and can be unselfish enough to kill a +bag of game for two old men, and let them think they did the shooting." + +"Lally, when they have love plays on the show-boats, they have all +sorts of quarrels and they lie and cuss and tear up things generally." + +"Well, Shawn, there's all sorts of love, I suppose, but mine is not +the show-boat kind." + +"Thank the Lord," said Shawn. + +He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of cotton, was +the pearl given to him by Burney. + +"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way of jewelry, +and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it for my sake?" + +"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing girl. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[56] Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company. + + + + +GEORGE HORACE LORIMER + + +George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. George C. Lorimer +(1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist clergyman and author, who held +pastorates at Harrodsburg (where he married a wife), Paducah, and +Louisville, but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple, +Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at Yale. Since Saint +Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer has been editor-in-chief of _The +Saturday Evening Post_. He resides with his family at Wyncote, +Pennsylvania, but he may be more often found near the top of the +magnificent new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in +Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is known for his popular +_Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902), which +was one of the "six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually +translated into Japanese. Its sequel, _Old Gorgon Graham_ (New York, +1904), was more letters from the same to the same. The original of +_Old Gorgon Graham_ was none other than Philip Danforth Armour, the +Chicago packer, under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both +of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is doubtful if many +women cared for either of them. _The False Gods_ (New York, 1906), is +a newspaper story in which "the false gods" are the faithless _flares_ +which lead a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything +turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's latest story, _Jack +Spurlock--Prodigal_ (New York, 1908), an adventurous young fellow who +is expelled from Harvard, defies his father, and finds himself in the +maw of a cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny--for the +reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the _Poor Richard_ +brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in the habit of "serving +up" weekly for the readers of _The Post_. That he is certainly an +editor of very great ability, and that he has exerted wide influence +in his field, no one will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper +call him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly the +highest salaried one in this country to-day. _The Post_, which was +nothing before he assumed control of it, is one of the foremost +weeklies in the English-reading world at the present time; and its +success is due to the longheadedness and hard common sense of its +editor, George Horace Lorimer. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1903); _The Bookman_ (October, + November, 1904); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have + Written Famous Books_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1903, Second + Series). + + +HIS SON'S SWEETHEART[57] + +[From _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902)] + + NEW YORK, November 4, 189-. + +_Dear Pierrepont_: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are your intentions +there? She knows a heap more about you than she ought to know if they're +not serious, and I know a heap less about her than I ought to know if +they are. Hadn't got out of sight of land before we'd become acquainted +somehow, and she's been treating me like a father clear across the +Atlantic. She's a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a +mighty sensible girl--in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like +to see you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it. + +Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy a whole +lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you have the right +sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And while I don't go much +on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with fifty a week as a starter, +is just about right, if the girl is just about right. If she isn't, it +doesn't make any special difference how you start out, you're going to +end up all wrong. + +Money ought never to be _the_ consideration in marriage, but it ought +always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think +enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think +altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at +home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his +wife on his lap. + +There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A +good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and +that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest. +I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but +they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might +add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives' +expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our +business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes +a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife. + +An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real +estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any +particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of +these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few +feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their +daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a +proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to +solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got +something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without +any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to +crack and tumble about their ears. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company. + + + + +SISTER IMELDA + + +Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson, +Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native +of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went +to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of +Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was +Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the +Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years, +entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the +next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman +Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now +connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts. +Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent +critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her +pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first +published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the +late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a +woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life +has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters + from Sister Imelda to the Author. + + +A JUNE IDYL[58] + +[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)] + + Every glade sings now of summer-- + Songs as sweet as violets' breath; + And the glad, warm heart of nature + Thrills and gently answereth. + + Answers through the lily-lyrics + And the rosebud's joyous song, + Faintly o'er the valley stealing, + As the June days speed along. + + And we, pausing, fondly listen + To their tuneful minstrelsy, + Floating far beyond the wildwood + To the ever restless sea. + + Till the echoes, softly, lowly, + Trembling on the twilight air-- + Tells us that each rose and lily + Bows its scented head in prayer. + + + +HEART MEMORIES + +[From the same] + + In fancy's golden barque at eventide + My spirit floateth to the Far Away, + And dreamland faces come as fades the day. + They lean upon my heart. We gently glide + Adown the magic shores of long ago, + While memories, like silver lily bells, + Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells + And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low. + + When eventide has slowly winged its flight, + And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light, + Ah, then there swiftly come again to me, + Like echoes of some song-bird melody, + Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height, + Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee. + + +A NUN'S PRAYER + +[From the same] + + When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells, + And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea, + I wander silently o'er the scented lea + By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells, + And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells + Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee, + Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny + Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells + For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace + Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest. + Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease, + Until Death's angel makes the melody + That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee, + Then only will it know eternal rest. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author. + + + + +HARRISON CONRARD + + +Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21, +1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892 +until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when +he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff, +his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book +of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now +out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse, +called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics +of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far +published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my +bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will +be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume +of his verse is to be issued shortly. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_ + (Boston, Fall Issue, 1907). + + +IN OLD TUCSON[59] + +[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)] + + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + What cared I how the days ran on? + A brown hand trailing the viol-strings, + Hair as black as the raven's wing, + Lips that laughed and a voice that clung + To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue + Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime + Till all life shone, in that golden clime, + With the tender glow of the morning-time. + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + How swift the merry days ran on! + + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + How soon the parting day came on! + But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams, + And the low adobe a palace seems, + Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings + To the notes that throb from her viol-strings. + Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand! + And a soul that glows like the desert sand-- + The golden fruit of a golden land! + In old Tucson, in old Tucson, + The long, lone days, O Time, speed on! + + +A KENTUCKY SUNRISE + +[From the same] + + Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet + Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray + Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat; + Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay: + And the red Sun brings forth the Day. + + +A KENTUCKY SUNSET + +[From the same] + + The great Sun dies in the west; gold + And scarlet fill the skies; the white + Daisies nod in repose; the fold + Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight: + The long shadows come, and then--Night. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger. + + + + +ALICE HEGAN RICE + + +Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at +Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton +College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale +Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of +several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable +attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice +Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New +York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its +admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any +rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the +"six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh +edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most +exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not +greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials +and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey +Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the +one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville, +Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The +'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very +slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little +Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related +the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York, +1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky +journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty, +Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp, +his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs. +Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912), +was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and +high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion +made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder, +that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both +good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one +will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat +Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of +course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more +than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many +people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_ + (May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904). + + +THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES[61] + +[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)] + +Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All +the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his +heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had +been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His +town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face! + +With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling +Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his +latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room. + +The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white, +spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness. + +"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety. + +From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, +peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that +was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!" + +At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with +shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with +papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of +charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had +incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of +paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him +from Coreyville. + +As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon +something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the +light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the +girl's clear, round hand: + + Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the + asylum. + +Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly; +"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down +on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be +afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for +me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into +the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, +calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking +skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current. + +Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for +the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat +had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the +town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little +woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying +her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show +her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found +unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the +doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable. + +"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not +to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack +coming on, and wanted to be taken care of." + +He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one +who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of +insanity. + +"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. +Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that +won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all +winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a +number of cities on the geographical atlas." + +"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never +be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should +never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we +understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly." + +"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked +Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow +up in any way?" + +The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. + +"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent +institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your +family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her +stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will +be." + +Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his +hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off +for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat +anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain. +Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the +one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a +future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged +self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, +at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of +Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; +of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running +accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of +the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a +moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium. + +After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief +across his brow. + +"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath +of a man who has been under water. + +In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined. + +As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a +moment dizzily against the wall. + +"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the +doctor, who had noted his exhaustion. + +Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old +professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he +said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; +and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody +knows, a complete teetotaler." + +At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a +slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned +fiercely upon the attendant. + +"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?" + +"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman, +reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants +it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her. +She has been crying about it ever since she came." + +In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy +darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on +the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down? +Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you." + +She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion +of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet +with her tears. + +As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into +her little bedroom. + +"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her +hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice, +hot supper all waiting for us." + +But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth +into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and +looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!" +But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born +under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was a-tremble with +eagerness to go home to see them. + +An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited +for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A +curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had +gone the rounds. + +Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in +front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering. +Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about +her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his. + +"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown +up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?" + +Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, with all the +gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up +at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You +see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then +finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I +wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day. +You and me will just have to take care of each other." + +She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was +ready for her with a smile. + +"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[60] _Mr. Opp_ was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor, +and presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly +sent to the store-house. _Mrs. Wiggs_ was put into play-form by Mrs. +Anne (Laziere) Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the +title-role. Mrs. Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at +Vassar; married Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at +Louisville until June, 1905, since which time she has spent a year in +Cambridge, Mass., and a year abroad; now residing in New York City. +She has written two original plays: _A Man's Woman_, in four acts; and +_A Lucky Star_, the fount of inspiration being a novel by C. N. and A. +M. Williamson, entitled _The Motor Chaperon_, which was produced by +Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller part, at the +Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. W. +Mason's story, _Miranda of the Balcony_ (London, 1899), which was +produced in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only +successful woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real +pity that none of her plays have been published. _Mrs. Wiggs_ has held +the "boards" for eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever. + +[61] Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company. + + + + +RICHARD H. WILSON + + +Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist and educator, was +born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 6, 1870. He received the degrees +of B. A. and M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns +Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe studying at +universities in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and he married a +Frenchwoman. He has been a great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen +languages fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of Romantic +languages at the University of Virginia. All the appointments of his +home are in the French style, and French is the language of the family. +Professor Wilson is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the +land and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia what +Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His first book, _The +Preposition A_, is now out of print. His novel, _Mazel_ (New York, +1902), takes rather the form of a satire upon life at the University of +Virginia. Professor Wilson's next story, _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, +1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life at Cadiz, +Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued under his pen-name of +"Richard Fisguill"--"Fisguill" being bastard French for "Wilson." +Professor Wilson contributes much to the magazines. Four of his +short-stories were printed in _Harper's Weekly_ between April and +October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the order of their +appearance: _Orphanage_, _The Nymph_, _Seven Slumbers_, and _The +Princess of Is_. Another story, _The Waitress at the Phoenix_, was +published in _Collier's_ for September 7, 1912. A collection of his +short-stories may be issued in 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +SUSAN--THE VENUS OF CADIZ[62] + +[From _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905)] + +Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his address. +He had written four letters in twelve years. + +"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain Malepeste. "His +letter was addressed to me, and he knows I always count in francs." + +"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. "He +began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' and I don't believe +Colonel Norris would think in francs when he had me in mind." + +"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't you think +it would be more natural for him to count and think in dollars--a +million dollars?" + +"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you are wrong. +The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations are doubtless with +English houses. And in my opinion he means pounds, English money--a +million pounds sterling." + +"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed Gertrude. + +"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig. + +"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste. + +"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that is what the +Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. Norris is a man of +remarkable business instincts. He is as cool and collected on the floor +of a stock exchange as he was on the field of battle. Then he had every +incentive to make a fortune. And he has made one, take my word for it." + +"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will all go to +Paris, and buy a hotel on the Champs-Elysees!" + +"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. "Your modern +Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live in." + +Captain Malepeste retorted: + +"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more than one +'Dutchman,' and live in Germany--God forbid!" + +Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music Room that +they might settle with swords the question of the respective merits of +Germany and France. Gertrude followed in the capacity of second and +surgeon to both men. Susan and Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine +had retired to her bedroom. + +"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin, +affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to do--give a +ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?" + +"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere to study +art," replied Susan. + +The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled. + +Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had crossed +the threshold of womanhood. + +"Study art ... be an artist, when a girl is as pretty as you are, and +heiress to five million dollars!" cried Doctor Alvin, laying aside the +mask he had worn so long. + +It was Susan's turn to be astonished. She looked at her guardian +fixedly, expressing pain in her look. + +At length, in a low voice, she said: + +"I do not see why." + +"Susan!" began Doctor Alvin. + +Then he hesitated, as if in doubt as to whether he should continue. + +"I do not see why," repeated Susan, in the same low voice. + +Doctor Alvin passed his hand over his forehead. He resumed: + +"Susan, your father is coming back shortly. My guardianship is ended. +Your father made me swear on Julia's coffin, that I would discourage +in you all thoughts of marriage until he returned. He was afraid you +might follow in Julia's footsteps. I was to represent sentiment as +sentimentality, substitute art for love, and prevent your fancy +crystallizing into some man-inspired desire. I have kept my promise. +Your father will find you fancy-free, will he not?" + +"Yes." + +"But, Susan--" and Doctor Alvin's voice again expressed excitement. +"But--" + +Doctor Alvin's voice trembled so that he was obliged to start over +again: + +"Susan, you do not know what you are. You--you--are a beautiful woman. +You are more beautiful than Julia was at the height of her beauty. You +are more beautiful than your mother was--" + +Doctor Alvin's voice echoed mournfully as if he were calling upon the +dead. + +"Susan, you have only to look upon men to conquer them. You can +achieve with a gesture what artists accomplish with a masterpiece. +What can artists do, other than quicken the pulse of sluggard +humanity? But, Susan--God guide your power--you will make blood boil, +heads reel, hearts throb until they burst, if so you will it. +Art--artists! There is no need of you studying art. Artists will study +you. Have you never looked at yourself in the glass, child? Have you +never, when--when--You have studied art with Malepeste, and you know +what lines are. Have you never thought of studying your own lines? +None of the great statues or paintings, of which Malepeste has the +photographs, is so harmoniously perfect as you. Art!--You are the +genius of art. I have influenced you into taking up various lines of +work, that I might keep you from the pitfalls of love, until the +proper time. But, now, my guardianship is ended. I have played a part. +I must lay aside my mask. Susan, I have been deceiving you. Love is by +all odds the greatest thing in the world. You must love. And you must +let some one love you--some one of the many who will be ready to lay +down their lives for you--" + +FOOTNOTES: + +[62] Copyright, 1905, by Henry Holt and Company. + + + + +LUCY FURMAN + + +Miss Lucy Furman, short-story writer, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, +in 1870, the daughter of a physician. Her parents died when she was +quite young, and she was brought up by her aunt. Miss Furman attended +public and private schools at Henderson, and at the age of sixteen +years, graduated from Sayre Institute at Lexington, Kentucky. The +three years following her graduation were spent at Henderson and at +Shreveport, Louisiana, the home of her grandparents, in both of which +places she was a social leader. At the age of nineteen, it became +necessary for her to make her own way in the world, and for about four +years she was court stenographer at Evansville, Indiana. Miss Furman's +earliest literary work was done at Evansville. The first stories she +ever wrote were accepted by _The Century Magazine_ when she was but +twenty-three years of age. These were some of the _Stories of a +Sanctified Town_ (New York, 1896), one of the most charming books yet +written by a Kentucky woman. At the age of twenty-five, when her +prospects were exceedingly bright, Miss Furman's health failed +entirely, and during the next ten years she was an invalid, seeking +health in Florida, southern Texas, on the Jersey coast, and elsewhere, +but without much success, and being always too feeble to do any +writing. In 1907 she went up into the mountains of her native State to +become a teacher in the W. C. T. U. Settlement School at Hindman, +Knott county, Kentucky. She did very little at first, but gradually +her strength came back, and for the last two years she has been +writing stories and sketches of the Kentucky mountains for _The +Century Magazine_. In 1911 _The Century_ published a series of stories +under the title of _Mothering on Perilous_, which will be brought out +in book form. In 1912 Miss Furman had several stories in the same +magazine, one of the best of which was _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_. +Her lack of physical strength has compelled her to work very slowly, +and it is only by living out-of-doors at least half the time that she +can live at all. "I have charge of the gardening and outdoor work at +the Settlement School," Miss Furman wrote recently, "but the happiest +part of my life is my residence at the small boys' cottage, about +which I have told in the 'Perilous' stories, and in which I find +endless pleasure and entertainment. Here I hope to spend the +remainder of my days." Very pathetic, reader, and very heroic! + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Miss Furman to the Author; _The Century + Magazine_ (July, August, November, December, 1912). + + +A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE[63] + +[From _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_ (_The Century Magazine_, March, +1912)] + +Beneath the musket, on the "fire-board," lay a spindle-shaped, wooden +object, black with age. "A dulcimer," Aunt Polly Ann explained. "My +man made it, too, always-ago. Dulcimers used to be all the music there +was in this country, but banjos is coming in now." + +Miss Loring knew that the dulcimer was an ancient musical instrument +very popular in England three centuries ago. She gazed upon the +interesting survival with reverence, and expressed a wish to hear it +played. + +"Beldory she'll pick and sing for you gladly when she gets the dishes +done," promised Aunt Polly Ann. "Picking and singing is her strong +p'ints, and she knows any amount of song-ballads." + +At last Beldora came out on the porch and seated herself on a low +stool near the loom. Laying the dulcimer across her knees, she began +striking the strings with two quills, using both shapely hands. The +music was weird, but attractive; the tune she played, minor, +long-drawn, and haunting. Miss Loring received the second shock of the +day when she caught the opening words of the song: + + All in the merry month of May, + When the green buds they were swelling, + Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, + For the love of Barbary Allen. + +Often had she read and heard of the old English ballad "Barbara +Allen"; never had she thought to encounter it in the flesh. As she +listened to the old song, long since forgotten by the rest of the +world, but here a warm household possession; as she gazed at Beldora, +so young, so fair against the background of ancient loom and gray log +wall, she felt as one may to whom the curtain of the past is for an +instant lifted, and a vision of dead-and-gone generations vouchsafed. + + * * * * * + +Beldora went off to fetch the nag, and Aunt Polly Ann accompanied the +guest to the horse-block, laying an anxious hand on her arm. + +"You heared the song-ballad Beldory sung to you. She knows dozens, but +that's always her first pick. It's her favor_rite_, and why? Because +it's similar to her own manoeuvers. Light and cruel and leading poor +boys on to destruction is her joy and pastime, same as Barbary's. Did +you mind her eyes when she sung them words about + + As she were walking through the streets, + She heard them death-bells knelling, + And every stroke it seemed to say, + "Hard-hearted Barbary Allen!" + +like it was something to take pride in, instead of sorrow for? Yes, +woman, them words, 'Hard-hearted Barbary Allen,' is her living +description, and will be to the end of time." + +Ten days later the shocking news reached the school that Robert and +Adriance Towles had fought on the summit of Devon Mountain for Beldora +Wyant's sake, and Robert had fallen dead, with five bullets in him, +Adriance being wounded, though not fatally. It was said that Beldora, +pressed to choose between the two, had told them she would marry the +best man; that thereupon, with their bosom friends, they had ridden to +the top of Devon, measured off paces, and fired. Adriance had fled, but +word came the next day that, weak from loss of blood, he had been +captured and was on the way to jail in the county-seat near the school. + +In the weeks until court sat and the trial came off there was much +excitement. Sympathy for Adriance and blame for Beldora were +everywhere felt. Most of the county and all of the school-women +attended the trial, and interest was divided between the haggard, +harassed young face of Adriance and the calm, opulent loveliness of +Beldora. When she took the stand, people scarcely breathed. Yes, she +had told the Towles boys she would marry the best man of them. She had +had to tell them something,--they were pestering her to death,--and +the law didn't allow her to marry both. She had had no notion they +would be such fools as to try to kill each other. Miss Loring and the +other women watched anxiously for some sign of pity or remorse in her, +but there was not so much as a quiver of the lips or a tremor in her +voice. As she sat there in the lone splendor of her beauty, somewhat +scornfully enjoying the gaze of every eye in the court-room, one +phrase of her "favor_rite_" song rang ceaselessly through Miss +Loring's head--"Hard-hearted Barbary Allen." Her lack of feeling +intensified the sympathy for Adriance, and, to everybody's joy, the +light verdict of only one year in the penitentiary was brought in. + +Half an hour later, Aunt Polly Ann, tragic in face and air, and with +Beldora on the nag behind her, drew rein before the settlement school. + +"Women," she said with sad solemnity on entering, "for four year' you +have been bidding Beldory come and set down and partake of your feast +of learning and knowledge; for four year' she has spurned your invite. +At last she is minded to come. Here she is. Take her, and see what you +can accomplish on her. My raising of her has requited me naught but +tenfold tribulation. In vain have I watched and warned and denounced +and prophesied; her inordinate light-mindedness and perfidity has now +brung one pore boy to a' ontimely grave and another to Frankfort. Take +her, women, and see if you can learn her some little demeanor and +civility. Keep her under your beneficent and God-fearing roof, and +direct her mind off of her outward and on to her inward disabilities! +Women, I now wash my hands." + +Receiving Beldora into the school was felt to be a somewhat hazardous +undertaking, but affection and sympathy for Aunt Polly Ann moved the +heads to do it. To the general surprise, Beldora settled down very +adaptably to the new life, being capable enough about the industries, +and passably so about books. But it was in music that she excelled. +Miss Loring gave her piano lessons, and rarely had teacher a more +gifted pupil. + +Needless to say, when Beldora picked the dulcimer and sang +song-ballads at the Friday night parties, all the children and +grown-ups sat entranced. For three or four weeks, on these occasions, +she had the grace to choose other ballads than "Barbara Allen"; but +one night in early November, after singing "Turkish Lady" and "The +Brown Girl," she suddenly struck into the haunting melody and tragic +words of "Barbara Allen." A thrill and a shock went through all her +hearers. Miss Loring saw Howard Cleves start forward in his chair with +a look of horror, almost repulsion, on his fine, intelligent face. + +Howard was the most remarkable boy in the school. Five years before, +when not quite fifteen, he had walked over, barefoot, from his home on +Millstone, forty miles distant, and presented himself to "the women" +with this plea: "I hear you women run a school where boys and girls +can work their way through. I am the workingest boy on Millstone, and +have hoed corn, cleared new-ground, and snaked logs since I turned my +fifth year. I have heard tell, over yander on Millstone, that there is +a sizable world outside these mountains, full of strange, foreign folk +and wonderly things. I crave to know about it. I can't set in darkness +any longer. My hunger for learning ha'nts me day and night, and burns +me like a fever. I'll pine to death if I don't get it. Women, give me +a chance. Hunt up the hardest job on your place, and watch me toss it +off." + +They gave him the chance; and never had they done anything that more +richly rewarded them. Not only were his powers of work prodigious, but +his eager, brilliant mind opened amazingly day by day, progressing by +leaps and bounds. The women set their chief hopes upon Howard, +believing that in him they would give a great man to the nation. +Promise of a scholarship in the law school of a well-known university +had already been obtained for him, and in one more year, such was his +astonishing progress, he would be able to enter it, if all went well. +Miss Loring had observed that, in common with every other boy, big or +little, in the school, Howard had been at first much taken with +Beldora's looks, and it was with relief that she beheld his expression +of repulsion at Beldora's complacent singing of "Barbara Allen." + +The first real warning came at the Thanksgiving party. During a game +of forfeits, Beldora was ordered to "claim the one you like the best." +Miss Loring saw her first approach Howard with a dazzling and tender +look in her splendid eyes, and even put out a hand to him; then +suddenly, with a wicked little smile, she turned and gave both hands +to Spalding Drake, a young man from the village. A deep flush sprang +to Howard's face, his jaws clenched, his eyes blazed tigerishly. It +might have been only chagrin at the public slight; still, it made Miss +Loring anxious enough to have a long talk with Beldora next day and +explain to her the hopes and plans for Howard's future and the tragedy +and cruelty of interfering with them in any way. + +One morning, three days before Christmas, Beldora's bed had not been +slept in at all, and under the front door was a note in Howard's +handwriting, as follows: + +DEAR FRIENDS: + +Beldora told me last week she aimed to marry Spalding Drake Christmas. +Though he is a nice boy and I like him, I knew, if she did, I would +kill him on the spot. Rather than do this, it is better for me to +marry her myself beforehand. I have hired a nag, and we will ride to +Tazewell by moonlight for a license and preacher. + +I know a man is a fool that throws away his future for a woman, that +Beldora is not worth it, and that I am doing what I will never cease +to regret. It is like death to me to know I will never accomplish the +things you set before me, and be the man you wanted me to be. I wish I +had never laid eyes on Beldora. I have agonized and battled and tried +to give her up; but she is too strong for me. I can fight no longer +with fate. It would be better if women like Beldora never was created. +She has cost the life of one boy, the liberty of another, and now my +future. But it had to be. + + Respectfully yours, + + HOWARD. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[63] Copyright, 1912, by the Century Company. + + + + +BERT FINCK + + +Edward Bertrand Finck ("Bert Finck"), prose pastelist and closet +dramatist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 16, 1870, the son +of a German father and American mother. His parents were fond of +traveling and much of his earlier life was spent in various parts of +this country and abroad. He was educated in the private schools of his +native city, finishing his academic training at Professor M. B. +Allmond's institution. Mr. Finck began to write at an early age, and +he has published four books: _Pebbles_ (Louisville, 1898), a little +volume of epigrams; _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900), being reveries and +essays in miniature; _Plays_ (Louisville, 1902), a group of +allegorical dramas; and _Musings and Pastels_ (Louisville, 1905). All +of these small books are composed of poetic and philosophical prose, +many passages possessing great truth and beauty. In 1906 Mr. Finck was +admitted to the bar of Louisville, and he has since practiced there +with success. He seemingly took Blackstonian leave of letters some +years ago, but the gossips of literary Louisville have been telling, +of late, of a new book of prose pastels that he has recently finished +and will bring out in the late autumn of 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Mr. Finck's letters to the Author; _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +BEHIND THE SCENES[64] + +[From _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900)] + +Could we but lift the countenance which pleases or repels, what seems +so sweet might thrust away, and what is repugnant charm or win our +sympathy and aid. Is not indifference often a net to catch or to +conceal? Modesty, diplomatic egotism? Wit, brilliant misery? +Contentment, wallowing despair? Langor, shrewd energy? Frivolity, woe +burlesquely masked by unselfishness or pride? Is not philosophy, at +times, resignation in delirium? The enthusiastic are ridiculed as +being self-conceited; the patient condemned for having no heart. We +stigmatize them as idle whose natures are toiling the noblest toil of +all, for not rarely do thought-gods drift through a spell of idleness; +a butterfly-fancy may breed a spirit that turns the way of an age's +career; there are sleeps that are awakenings; awakenings, sleeps; none +so worthless as many who are busy all the time. Smiles are sometimes +selfish triumphs; peace, the swine-heart's well-filled trough. Cheeks +rich with the fire of fever are envied as glow of health; steps, eager +to escape from a spectre, we laudingly call enthusiasm in work; and +the brain's desperate efforts to stifle bitter thoughts sharpen +tongues that fascinate with their brilliant gayety--the world dances +to the music of its sighs. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[64] Copyright, 1900, by the Author. + + + + +OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN + + +Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born at +Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She attended the +public schools, in which her parents were teachers, until she was ten +years of age, when they left Kentucky and established a school at +Donophan, Missouri. Three years later she was ready for college, but her +mother's health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark Mountains, +near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another school was conducted, this +time with the daughter as her father's assistant. For the following five +years she taught the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and +during these years she herself was always hoping and planning for a +college education, which hopes and plans seemed to crumble beneath her +feet when her mother died, in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with +her invalid father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and finally +obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to the University of +Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution she was graduated two years +later. Miss Tilford then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but +the climate so affected her health that she was forced to resign and +repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly afterwards took a +course in a business college and, for a brief period, held a position in +a bank. Teaching again called her and for two years she taught in the +schools of San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in English +and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and a +year later she turned again to teaching, holding a position in Acadia +Seminary, Wolfville, Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in +reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also worked as a +stenographer. Several of her articles were accepted by the magazines +about this time, which decided her to settle upon literature as her life +work. She worked too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way, +and she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in order to regain +her strength. Miss Tilford was married, in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan, +of Darlington, South Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at +Radcliffe. Not long after she went to New York, and there resumed her +literary labors with a high and serious purpose. Mrs. Dargan's first +volume of dramas, _Semiramis and Other Plays_, was published by +Brentano's in 1904, and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides +the title-play, _Semiramis_, founded on the life of the famous Persian +queen, this book contained _Carlotta_, a drama of Mexico in the days of +Maximilian, and _The Poet_, which is Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized. +Mrs. Dargan's second volume of plays bore the attractive title of _Lords +and Lovers and Other Dramas_ (New York, 1906), the second edition of +which appeared in 1908. This also contains three plays, the second +being _The Shepherd_, with the setting in Russia, and the third, _The +Siege_, a Sicilian play, the scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three +hundred and fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's _Lords and +Lovers_, set against an English background, is generally regarded as the +best work she has done hitherto. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised +this play highly, placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine +Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's foremost poetic +dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished may be considered +but an earnest of what she will ultimately produce. Her beautiful +masque, _The Woods of Ida_, appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for +August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest English work in +that branch of the drama. She has had lyrics in _Scribner's_, +_McClure's_, _The Century_, and _The Atlantic Monthly_, her most recent +poem, "In the Blue Ridge," having appeared in _Scribner's_ for May, +1911. Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three years she +has traveled abroad, spending much time in England, the background of +her greatest work. Her third and latest volume contains three dramas, +entitled _The Mortal Gods and Other Plays_ (New York, 1912). This was +awaited with impatience by her admirers on both sides of the Atlantic +and read with delight by them. + +"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it may seem premature +to pronounce a critical judgment on her work," wrote Dr. George A. +Wauchope, professor of English in the University of South Carolina, in +claiming her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued, +"that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this country, and +is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with all but the greatest in +English literature. One is equally impressed by the creative +inspiration and the mastery of technique displayed by the author. Each +of her plays reveals a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought +and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, also, with which +her plays are interspersed, yield a rich and haunting melody that is +redolent of the charming Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are +audacious in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling of +the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in the splendor +of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent of reflection, and, above +all, in their spiritual uplift and noble emotion, these dramas give +evidence of a remarkably gifted playwright who not only possesses a +deep feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has command +of all the varied resources of dramatic expression." + +It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of an author, +would it not? + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The University of Virginia Magazine_ (January, + 1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's + _The Poet_; _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. + iii); _The Writers of South Carolina_, by G. A. Wauchope + (Columbia, S. C., 1910). + + +NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS[65] + +[From _Lords and Lovers_ (New York, 1906)] + +Act IV, Scene I. _Henry, with lute, singing._ + + Ope, throw ope thy bower door, + And come thou forth, my sweet! + 'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er, + And mating hearts should meet. + The stars have fled and left their grace + In every blossom's lifted face, + And gentle shadows fleck the light + With tender memories of the night. + Sweet, there's a door to every shrine; + Wilt thou, as morning, open thine? + Hark! now the lark has met the clouds, + And rains his sheer melodious flood; + The green earth casts her mystic shrouds + To meet the flaming god! + Alas, for me there is no dawn + If Glaia come not with the sun. + +[_Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches._] + + _Gla._ 'Tis you! + + _Hen._ [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland, + Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned. + + _Gla._ How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false? + Nay, I'm too glad thou'rt come to question so. + 'Tis easy to forgive the treachery + That opes our gates to angels. + + _Hen._ O, I'm loved? + + _Gla._ Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you, + And I rose early, for I love to say + Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan + And loath to go away, as though they know + The fickle world is thinking of the sun + And all their gentle service of the night + Is quite forgot. + + _Hen._ And what didst think of me? + + _Gla._ That you could come and see this beauteous wood, + Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace, + You'd be content to live awhile with me, + Leave war's red step to follow living May + Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood + To each decaying root; and rest by springs + Where waters run to sounds less rude than song, + And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies. + + _Hen._ The only springs I seek are in your eyes + That nourish all the desert of myself. + Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews, + And start fair summer in this waste of me! + + _Gla._ Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love? + + _Hen._ See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose? + What do I know of it but that 'tis fair? + And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews + And goes to some sweet country of the sky, + So cloud-like dost thou move before my love, + From beauty coming that I may not see, + To beauty going that I can but dream. + O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand, + This miracle of warm, unmelting snow, + This lily bit of thee that in my clasp + Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote-- + Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows + And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown! + Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare + The darkest shadow of defeat that broods + O'er sceptres and unfriended kings. + + _Gla._ Why talk + Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry, + For if you love me you will stay with me. + + _Hen._ Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top + Review the sunny graces of the world, + Plucking the smilingest to dearer love, + Until the heart becomes the root and spring + Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet + As these bright children of the wedded sun + And dewy earth! + + _Gla._ I knew you'd stay, my brother! + You'll live with me! + + _Hen._ But there's a world not this, + O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch, + Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood, + Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop + That rims the forehead of a king,--a world + Where trampling armies and sedition's march + Cut off the flowers of descanting love + Ere they may sing their perfect word to man, + And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies, + Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths-- + + _Gla._ O, do not tell me, do not think of it! + + _Hen._ I must. There is my world, and there my life + Must grow to gracious end, if so it can. + If thou wouldst come, my living periapt, + With virtue's gentle legend overwrit, + I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek, + Pure lily cloister of a praying rose, + E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear + Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia? + + _Gla._ Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me. + Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah, + The whispering winds do never counsel false, + And senatorial trees droop not their state + To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be + Your minister, the seasons your envoys + And high ambassadors, bearing from His court + The mortal olive of immortal love. + + _Hen._ To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia, + To bind me here; and if you love me true, + You will not ask me where I go or stay, + But that your feet may stay or go with mine. + Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips + That all their life have ripened for this kiss. + [_Kisses her_] + O ruby purities! I would not give + Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran + Stored with the honey of a thousand suns + Through the slow measure of as many years! + + _Gla._ Do brothers talk like that? + + _Hen._ I think not, sweet + + _Gla._ But you will be my brother? + + _Hen._ We shall see. + + _Gla._ And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear + All that you love in me is born of these + Wild innocences that I live among, + And far from here, all such sweet value lost, + I'll be as others are in your mad world, + Or wither mortally, even as the sprig + A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough. + Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be + Dear playmates ever, never growing old,-- + Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace + Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us + To come at will. + + _Hen._ No, Glaia. Even now + I must be gone. I came for this----to say + I'd come again, and bid you watch for me. + A tear? O, love! One moment, then away! + + [_Exeunt. Curtain_] + +FOOTNOTE: + +[65] Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +HARRY L. MARRINER + + +Harry Lee Marriner, newspaper poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, +March 24, 1871, the son of a schoolman. He was educated by his father +and in the public schools of his native city. He engaged in a dozen +different businesses before he suddenly discovered that he could +write, which discovery caused him to accept a position on the now +defunct _Chicago Dispatch_, from which he went to _The Evening Post_, +of Louisville, remaining with that paper for several years. In 1902 +Mr. Marriner went to Texas and became assistant city editor of the +_Dallas News_; and he has since filled practically all the editorial +positions, being at the present time Sunday editor of both the _Dallas +News_ and the _Galveston News_, which are under the same management. +In 1907 Mr. Marriner originated a feature consisting of a daily human +interest poem, printed on the front page of his two papers. For some +time he concealed his identity under the title of "The News Staff +Poet," but in 1909 he discarded his cloak and came out into the +sunlight of reality in order that his hundreds of admirers throughout +the Southwest might be content. Mr. Marriner's "poetry" is rather +homely verse based upon the everyday things and thoughts and +experiences of everyday people. This verse has had a wonderful vogue +in Texas and Oklahoma, and the surrounding States. Dealing with dogs +and "kids," with sore toes and sentiment, with joys and griefs, dolls +and ball gowns, country stores and city life, street cars and prairie +schooners, mint-fringed creeks and bucking bronchos, it is a medley of +everything human. The cream of his verse has been brought together in +three charming little books: _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, +1909); _Joyous Days_ (Dallas, 1910); and _Mirthful Knights in Modern +Days_ (Dallas, 1911). Mr. Marriner has written the lyrics for two +musical comedies; and he has had short-stories in the periodicals. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriner to the Author; _The Dallas + News_ (December 2, 1911). + + +WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR[66] + +[From _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, 1909)] + + How doth the mind of man go back to when he was a boy; + When feet were full of tan and dust, and life was full of joy; + But many a man looks back in fear, for in a time-worn chair, + He sees himself draped in a sheet, while Mother cuts his hair. + + The scissors drag, and sniffles rise when ears lop in the way, + And on the porch rain locks of hair like tufts of prairie hay, + 'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely hid, + Looks on himself and views with pain the job that Mother did. + + The mule may shed in summertime the felt that Nature grew, + The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, too; + But neither bears that patchwork look, that war map of despair, + That zigzags on the small boy's head when Mother cuts his hair. + + + +SIR GUMSHOO[67] + +[From _Mirthful Knights in Modern Days_ (Dallas, 1911)] + + Sir Gumshoo, known as Wot d'Ell, a noble Knight from Spain, + Was one who was so strong a Pro he'd water on the brain. + He would not drink a dram at all, or even sniff at it, + And just the sight of lager beer would throw him in a fit. + + It chanced one day Sir Gumshoo rode upon a noble quest-- + His lady had acquired a cold that settled on her chest, + And to the rural districts he repaired, for it was plain + He must secure some goosegrease that she might get well again. + + He found a rude, bucolic rube who had goosegrease to sell; + Sir Gumshoo bought about a quart, and all was going well + When he who rendered geese to grease made him a stealthy sign + And led him to a bottle filled with elderberry wine. + + The Knight declined; he was a Pro, which fact he did explain; + The farmer, sore disgusted, took his goosegrease back again, + Whereat the Knight in anguish sore gave up himself for lost + And took a fierce and fiery drink with all his fingers crossed. + + That night he rode as rides a pig upon a circus steed; + He clutched his charger 'round the neck, for he was stewed indeed, + And, bowing to his lady fair, as bows the wind-tossed pine, + He handed her part of a quart of elderberry wine. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[66] Copyright, 1909, by the Author. + +[67] Copyright, 1911, by the Author. + + + + +LUCIEN V. RULE + + +Lucien V. Rule, poet, was born at Goshen, Kentucky, August 29, 1871. +He spent one year at State College, Lexington, when he went to Centre +College, Danville, from which he was graduated in 1893. Mr. Rule +studied for the ministry, but he later engaged in newspaper work, in +which he spent six or seven years. During the last few years he has +devoted his time to writing and speaking upon social and religious +subjects. His first book of poems, entitled _The Shrine of Love and +Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1898), is his best known work. He is also the +author of a small pamphlet of social and political satires, entitled +_When John Bull Comes A-Courtin'_ (Louisville, 1903). This contains +the title-poem, the sub-title of which reads: "Sundry Meditations on +the Rumored Matrimonial Alliance between J. Bull, Bart., and his +cousin, Lady Columbia;" and several shorter poems. Those inscribed to +Tolstoi, Whittier, and Walt Whitman are very strong. Mr. Rule's latest +book is _The House of Love_ (Indianapolis, 1910). In 1913 he will +probably publish a group of poetic dramas-in-cameo for young people, +and a brief collection of biographical studies. Mr. Rule resides at +his birthplace, Goshen, Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Southern Writers_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1905); + letters from Mr. Rule to the Author. + + +WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU?[68] + +[From _When John Bull Comes A Courtin'_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1903)] + + What right hast thou to more than thou dost need + While others perish for the want of bread? + What right hast thou upon a palace bed + To idly slumber while the homeless plead; + A vicious and voluptuous life to lead, + While millions struggle on in rags and shame? + What right hast thou thus vilely to inflame + Thy fellow men with hate, O fiend of greed? + What right hast thou to take the hallowed name + Of God upon thy lips, or Christ's, who came + To save the race from sorrows thou dost cause? + Not always helpless 'neath thy cruel paws, + O Beast of Capital, shall Labor lie; + Thy doom this day is thundered from the sky! + + +THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD + +[From the same] + + Arise, my soul, put off thy dark despair; + Say not the age of chivalry is gone; + For lo, the east is kindling with its dawn, + And bugle echoes bid thee wake to wear + Majestic moral armour, and to bear + A worthy part in truth's eternal fray. + Say not the muse inspires no more to-day, + Nor that fame's flowers no longer flourish fair. + Live thou sublimely and then speak thy heart, + If thou wouldst build an altar unto art. + Stand with the struggling and the stars above + Will shower celestial thoughts to thrill thy pen. + Put self away and walk alone with Love, + And thou shalt be the marvel of all men! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[68] Copyright, 1903, by the Author. + + + + +EVA WILDER BRODHEAD + + +Mrs. Eva Wilder (McGlasson) Brodhead, novelist and short-story writer, +was born at Covington, Kentucky, in 187-. Her parents were not of +Southern origin, her father having been born in Nova Scotia, and her +mother at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She was educated in New York City +and in her native town of Covington. She began to write when but +eighteen years of age, and a short time thereafter her first novel +appeared, _Diana's Livery_ (New York, 1891). This was set against a +background most alluring: the Shaker settlement at Pleasant Hill, +Kentucky, into which a young man of the world enters and falls in love +with a pretty Shakeress. Her second story, _An Earthly Paragon_ (New +York, 1892), which was written in three weeks, ran through _Harper's +Weekly_ before being published in book form. It was a romance of the +Kentucky mountains, laid around Chamouni, the novelist's name for +Yosemite, Kentucky. It was followed by a novelette of love set amidst +the salt-sea atmosphere of an eastern watering place, _Ministers of +Grace_ (New York, 1894). Hildreth, the scene of this little story, is +anywhere along the Jersey coast from Atlantic City to Long Branch. +_Ministers of Grace_ also appeared serially in _Harper's Weekly_, and +when it was issued in book form Col. Henry Watterson called the +attention of Richard Mansfield to it as a proper vehicle for him, and +the actor promptly secured the dramatic rights, hoping to present it +upon the stage; but his untimely death prevented the dramatization of +the tale under highly favorable auspices. It was the last to be +published under the name of Eva Wilder McGlasson, as this writer was +first known to the public, for on December 5, 1894, she was married in +New York to Mr. Henry C. Brodhead, a civil and mining engineer of +Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Brodhead's next novelette, _One of +the Visconti_ (New York, 1896), the background of which was Naples, +the hero being a young Kentuckian and the heroine of the old and +famous Visconti family, was issued by the Scribner's in their +well-known Ivory Series of short-stories. Her last Kentucky novel, +_Bound in Shallows_ (New York, 1896), originally appeared in _Harper's +Bazar_. That severe arbiter of literary destinies, _The Nation_, said +of this book: "No such work as this has been done by any American +woman since Constance Fenimore Woolson died." It was founded on +material gathered at Burnside, Kentucky, where Mrs. Brodhead spent two +summers. Her most recent work, _A Prairie Infanta_ (Philadelphia, +1904), is a Colorado juvenile, first published in _The Youth's +Companion_. Aside from her books, Mrs. Brodhead won a wide reputation +as a short-story writer and maker of dialect verse. More than fifty of +her stories have been printed in the publications of the house of +Harper, the publishers of four of her books; in _The Century_, +_Scribner's_, and other leading periodicals. Many of her admirers hold +that the short-story is her especial forte. Five of them may be +mentioned as especially well done: _Fan's Mammy_, _A Child of the +Covenant_, _The Monument to Corder_, _The Eternal Feminine_, and _Fair +Ines_. She has written much dialect verse which appeared in the Harper +periodicals, _The Century_, _Judge_, _Puck_, and other magazines. +Neither her short-stories nor her verse has been collected and issued +in book form. Since her marriage Mrs. Brodhead has traveled in Europe +a great deal, and in many parts of the United States, traveled until +she sometimes wonders whether her home is in Denver or New York, and, +although she is in the metropolis more than she is in the Colorado +capital, her legal residence is Denver, some distance from the mining +town of Brodhead, named in honor of her husband's geological +discoveries and interests. In 1906 she was stricken with a very +severe illness, followed by her physician's absolute mandate of no +literary work until her health should be reestablished, which has been +accomplished but recently. She has published but a single story since +her sickness, _Two Points of Honor_, which appeared in _Harper's +Weekly_ for July 4, 1908. At the present time Mrs. Brodhead is quite +well enough to resume work; and the next few years should witness her +fulfilling the earnest of her earlier novels and stories, firmly +fixing her fame as one of the foremost women writers of prose fiction +yet born on Kentucky soil. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (September 3, 1892); _The + Book-buyer_ (September, 1896). + + +THE RIVALS[69] + +[From _Ministers of Grace_ (New York, 1894)] + +As the days merged towards the end of August, Hildreth was packed to +the very gates. The wiry yellow grasses along the neat walks were +trampled into powder. The very sands, for all the effacing fingers of +the tides, seemed never free of footprints, and by day and night the +ocean promenade, the interior of the town, lake-sides, hotels, and the +surf itself, were a press of holiday folk. + +In these times Mr. Ruley seldom went forth in his rolling-chair, +except early of a morning, when the beach was yet way-free, and the +sands unfrequented save for a few barelegged men, who, with long +wooden rakes, cleaned up the sea-verge for the day. + +Sometimes Wade pushed the chair. But since the night when he gave +Elizabeth the honeysuckles he had in some measure avoided the old +preacher's small circle. There had been, on that occasion, a newness +of impulse in his spirit which made him feel the advisability of +keeping himself out of harm's way, however sweet that way might seem. +Graham was the favored suitor. He, Wade, having no chance for the +rose, could at least withhold his flesh from the thorn. + +"So," said Gracie Gayle, "you're out of the running?" + +"Ruled off," smiled Wade. + +"Don't you make any mistakes," wisely admonished Miss Gayle. "I've +seen her look at him, and I've seen her look at _you_." + +"This is most surprising," indicated Wade, with a feigned accent. "You +will pardon me, Gracie, if I scarcely credit your statement." + +"Be sarcastic if you want to," said Gracie. "If you knew anything at +all, you'd know that straws show which way the wind blows. When a +woman regards a man with a kind of flat, frank sincerity, it's because +her heart's altogether out of his reach. When she looks _around_ him +rather than _at_ him, it's because----" Gracie lifted her shoulders +suggestively. + +"Grace," breathed Wade, gravely, "I am hurt to the quick to see you +developing the germs of what painfully resembles thought. For Heaven's +and your sex's sake, pause while there is yet time! Women who form the +pernicious habit of thinking lose in time the magic key which unlocks +the hearts of men." + +Grace sniffed. + +"Men's hearts are never locked," she said, sagaciously. "The heavier +the padlock the smoother the hinges." She shook her crisp curls as she +tripped away with her airy, mincing, soubrette tread. + +Notwithstanding the inconsequent nature of this talk, it set Wade to +thinking. Perhaps he had carried his principle of self-effacement too +far. At all events, when he next saw Miss Ruley, he went up to her and +stopped for a moment's conversation. + +It chanced to be on the sands. Elizabeth was sitting by herself under +the arch of a lace-hung sunshade, which cast shaking little shadows on +her face, sprigging it with such delicate darkness as lurk in the +misty milk of moss-agate. + +"You are going in, then?" she asked, smiling up rather uncertainly, +and noticing his flannel attire. "Mr. Graham is already very far out. +That is he, I think, taking that big breaker. What a stroke!" + +Wade, focussing an indulgent eye, saw a figure away beyond the other +bathers, rising to the lift of a great billow. The man swam with a +splendid motion. Whether he dived, or floated, or circled his arms in +that whirling stroke of his, he seemed in subtle sympathy with the sea, +possessed of a kinship with it, and in an element altogether his own. + +Wade expressed an appropriate sentiment of admiration. + +Just then Gracie Gayle came gambolling along, a childish shape, +kirtled to the knee in bright blue, and turbaned in vivid scarlet. +Among the loose-waisted figures on the sands she was like a +humming-bird scintillating in a staid gathering of barnyard fowls. +Bailey was with her, having returned after a fortnight's absence. + +The two paused beside Elizabeth, and Wade went on, confused by the +singular way in which that small fair face, shadow-streaked and +faintly smiling, lingered in his vision. He was still perplexed with a +half-pleasant, half-pained consciousness of it as he plunged into the +pushing surf and felt a dizzy world of water heave round him. The +surge was strong to-day, and the splashing and screaming of the shore +bathers sent him farther and still farther out. Gradually their cries +lessened in his ear, and there was with him presently only the hollow +thud of the waves and the rushing hiss of the crestling foam. + +Once, as he rose to a sea-lift, it seemed to him that he heard a sound +that was not the boom of the breakers nor the song of the slipping +froth. It came again, whatever it was, and as he gave ear he took in a +human intonation, sharp and agonized. It was a cry for help. + +Wade shook the brine from his hair, freeing his gaze for an outlook. In +the glassy mound of water to his right a face, lean and white with +alarm, gleamed and faded. That the sinking man was Graham came instantly +to Wade's mind--Graham, a victim to some one of the mischances which the +sea reserves for those who adventure too confidently with her. + +Wade struck out instantly for the spot where Graham's appalled +features had briefly glimpsed. Shoreward he could note an increasing +agitation among the multitudes. Evidently the people had noticed the +peril of the remote swimmer whose exploits had so lately won admiring +comment. The beachguard no doubt was buckling to his belt the +life-rope coiled always on the sands for such emergencies. Cries of +men and women rang stifled over the water--exclamations of fear and +advice and excitement, mingled in a long continuous wail. + +Graham's head rose in sight, a mere speck upon the dense green of the +bulging water. Wade, fetching nearer in wide strokes, suddenly felt +himself twisted violently out of his course, and whirled round in a +futile effort with some mysterious current. He was almost near enough +to lay hold of Graham when this new sensation explained lucidly the +cause of Graham's danger. They were both in the claws of an undertow, +which, as Wade realized its touch, appeared as if wrenching him +straight out to the purring distance of the farther sea. + +Even in the first consternation of this discovery he felt himself +thrust hard against a leaden body, and in the same instant Graham's +hands snatched at him in a desperate reach for life. + +"For God's sake don't hold me like this!" Wade expostulated. "Let go. +Trust me to do what I can. You're strangling me, man!" + +But Graham was past sanity. He only clutched with the more frenzy at +the thing which seemed to keep him from the ravenous mouth of the +snarling waters. + +Wade, in a kind of composed despair, sent a look towards the beach. +They were putting out a boat, a tiny sheel which frisked in the surf, +and seemed motionless in the double action of the waves. Men laid hard +at the oars. The little craft took the first big wave as a horse takes +a hurdle. It dropped from the glassy height, and Wade saw it sink into +a breach of the sea. Then flashing with crystal, it bore up again and +outward. + +The figures running and gesticulating on the beach had a marvellous +distinctness to Wade's submerging eyes. He noticed the blue sky, +flawed with scratches of white, the zigzag roof-lines of the great +town, the twisting flags and meshes of the dark wire. Everything +oppressed him with a sort of deadly clearness, as if a metal stamp +should press in melting wax. + +He was momently sinking, drawn ever outward by the undercurrent, and +downward by the weighty burden throttling him in its senseless grasp. +He looked once more through a blinding veil of foam, and saw the boat +dipping far to the left. A phantasm of life flickered before him. +Unsuspected trivialities shook out of their cells, and amazed him with +the pygmy thrift of memory. Then came a sense of confusion, as if the +spiritual and corporal lost each its boundary and ranged wild, and +Wade felt the sea in his eyes, stroking them down as gently as ever +any watcher by the dying. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[69] Copyright, 1894, by Harper and Brothers. + + + + +CORDIA GREER PETRIE + + +Mrs. Cordia Greer Petrie, a talented writer of very great promise and +of decided performance, was born near Merry Oaks, Kentucky, February +12, 1872. When she was a child her parents removed to Louisville, +Kentucky, and in the public schools of that city she was educated, +after which she spent a half-year at old Eminence College, Eminence, +Kentucky. In July, 1894, Miss Greer was married to Dr. Hazel G. +Petrie, of Fairview, Kentucky, who, for the past ten years, has been +mine physician in various sections of eastern Kentucky. At the present +time he is serving six mines and making his home at Chenoa, near +Pineville, Kentucky. In her writings Mrs. Petrie has created a +character of great originality in Angeline Keaton, an unlettered +inhabitant of a remote Kentucky hamlet. "Of the original Angeline," +Mrs. Petrie once wrote, "I know but little. She and her shiftless, +'no-erkount' husband, Lum, together with her son, Jeems Henry, lived +in Barren county, not far from Glasgow. Angeline supported the family +by working on the 'sheers,' 'diggin one half the taters fur tother +half!' She was very anxious for her boy to 'git an edjycation' and no +sooner would he get comfortably settled in a 'cheer' until she would +exclaim, 'Jeems Henry! Git up offen them britches, you lazy whelp! Git +yer book and be gittin some larnin in your head!' Without a word Jim +Henry would climb up the log wall and from under the rafters abstract +his blue back speller." Characterization is Mrs. Petrie's chief +strength; and she is a positive refutation of the masculine dictum +that women lack humor. With her friend, Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, the +short-story writer, she collaborated on an Angeline sketch, entitled +"When the Bees Got Busy," which was published in the _Overland +Monthly_ for August, 1904; and the prize story reprinted at the end of +this note is the only other Angeline story that has been published so +far. She has won several prizes with other stories, but a group of the +Angeline sketches are in manuscript, and they will shortly appear in +book form. _Angeline Keaton_, "with her gaunt angular form clad in its +scant calico gown," is sure to "score" when she makes her bow between +the covers of a book. She is every bit as cleverly conceived as _Mrs. +Wiggs_, _Susan Clegg_, or any of the other quaint women who have +recently won the applause of the American public. + +BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mrs. Petrie to the Author; Miss Leigh +Gordon Giltner's study in _The Southern Home Journal_ (Louisville). + + +ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR + +[From _The Evening Post_ (Louisville, Kentucky)] + +She sat upon the edge of the veranda, fanning herself with her "split" +sunbonnet, a tall, angular woman, whose faded calico gown "lost +connection" at the waist line. Her spring being dry, she came to our +well for water. Discovering that Angeline Keaton was a "character," I +invariably inveigled her to rest awhile on our cool piazza before +retracing her steps up the steep, rocky hillside to her cabin home. + +"I missed you yesterday," I said as a starter. + +"Yes'm," she answered in a voice harsh and strident, yet touched with +a peculiar sibilant quality characteristic of the Kentucky +backwoodsman, "and thar wuz others that missed me, too!" + +Settling herself comfortably, she produced from some hidden source a +box of snuff and plied her brush vigorously. + +"We-all have got inter a wrangle over at Zion erbout the church +music," she began. "I and Lum, my old man, has been the leaders ever +since we moved here from Lick-skillet. We wuz alluz on hand--Lum with +his tunin' fork and me with my strong serpraner. When it come to +linin' off a song, Lum wuz pintedly hard to beat. Why, folks come from +fur and near to hear us, and them city folks, at Mis' Bowles' last +summer, 'lowed thar warn't nothing in New York that could tech us. One +of 'em offered us a dollar to sing inter a phonygraf reckerd, but we +wuz afeerd to put our lives in jopperdy by dabblin' in 'lectricerty. +But even celebrerty has its drawbacks, and a 'profit is not without +honor in his own country,' as the saying is. A passel of 'em got +jellus, a church meeting was called, unbeknownst to us, and ermong 'em +they agreed to make a change in the music at old Zion. That +peaked-faced Betty Button wuz at the bottom of it. Ever since she tuk +that normal course at Bowling Green she's been endeverin' to push +herself inter promernence here at Bear Waller. Fust she got up a class +in delsarty, but even Bear Waller warn't dull ernough to take to that +foolishness! Then she canvassed the county with a cuttin' system and a +book called 'Law at a Glance.' Now she's teaching vokle culshure. She +orter know singers, like poits, is born, not made! Jest wantin' to +sing won't do it. It takes power. It's give up mine's the powerfullest +voice in all Bear Waller. I kin bring old Brindle in when she's +grazing in the woods, back o' Judge Bowles' medder, and I simply step +out on the portico and call Lum to dinner when he's swoppin' yarns +down to the store quarter o' mile away. Fur that matter, though, a +deef and dum man could fetch Lum to _vittles_. + +"Do you know Bear Waller owes its muserkil educashun to me? Mine wuz +the fust accordyon brought to the place, and I wuz allus ready to play +fur my nabers. I didn't hafter be _begged_. I orgernized the Zobo +band, I lent 'em my ballads, but whar's my thanks? At the battin' of +an eye they're ready to drop me for that quavery-voiced Button gal and +them notes o' hern that's no more'n that many peryids and commers. + +"When the committee waited on me and Lum we jest flew mad and 'lowed +we'd quit. Maybe we wuz hasty, but it serves 'em right. Besides, these +Bear Wallerites ain't compertent to appreshiate a voice like mine, +nohow. I decided I'd take my letter to Glasgow and jine that brag +choir of their'n. It did me good to think how it 'ud spite some folks +to see me leadin' the singin' at the county seat! + +"Lum wuz dead set ergin it, but armin' myself with the rollin' pin and +a skillet o' bilin grease, I finally pervailed on him to give in. Lum +is of a yieldin' dispersishun if a body goes at 'im right. + +"Jim Henry, that's my boy, an' I tuk a early start. We had tied up the +colt in the cow shed and I wuz congratulatin' myself on bein' shet of +the pesky critter when I heerd him nicker. Lookin' back, I saw him +comin' in a gallerp, his head turned to one side, while he fairly +obscured the landscape with great clouds o' pike dust! + +"We wuz crossin' the railroad when old Julie heered that nicker, an' +right thar she balked. Neither gentle persuasion from the peach tree +switch which I helt in my hand, nor well-aimed kicks of Jim Henry's +boots in her flanks could budge her till that colt come up pantin' +beside her. We jest did clear the track when the accomerdashun whizzed +by. Well, sir, when old Julie spied them kyars she began buck-jumpin' +in a manner that would'er struck terror to a less experienced +hosswoman. Jim Henry, who wuz gazin' at the train with childlike +pleasure, wuz tuk wholly by suprise, and before he knowed what wuz up +he wuz precippytated inter the branches o' a red-haw tree. He crawled +out, a wreck, his face and hands scratched and bleedin' and his +britches hangin' in shreds, and them his Sundays, too! I managed to +pin 'em tergether with beauty pins, and cautionin' him not to turn his +back to the ordiance, we finally resumed our journey. That colt alluz +tries hisself, and jest as we reached the square, in Glasgow, his +appertite began clammerin', and Julie refused to go till the pesky +critter's wants wuz appeased. Them Glasgowites is dear lovers of good +hoss flesh, and quite a crowd gethered to discuss the good pints of +the old mare and that mule colt. + +"Some boys mistook Jim Henry for somebody they knowed and hollered, +'Say, Reube!' 'Hey, Reube!' at him. Jim Henry wuz fur explainin' to +'em their mistake, till one of 'em began to sing, 'When Reuben comes +to town, he's shore to be done brown!' 'Jim Henry,' says I, sternly, +'you're no child o' mine ef you take _that_! Now, if you don't get +down and thrash him I'm agoin' to set you afire when I get you home.' + +"Jim Henry needed no second biddin'. He wuz off that nag in a jiffy, +and the way he did wallerp that boy wuz a cawshun! He sellerbrated his +victry by givin' the Bear Waller war-whoop. Then crawlin' up behind +me, he said he wuz _now_ ready fur meetin'. That boy's a born fiter. +He gets it honest, for me and Lum are both experts, but then practice +makes perfect, as the sayin' is. + +"Our arrival created considerable stir in meetin'. Why is it that when a +distinguished person enters a church it allus perduces a flutter? Owin' +to the rent in Jim Henry's britches, I shoved him inter the back seat. +Cautionin' him not to let me ketch him throwin' paper wads, I swept +merjestercally up the ile and tuk a seat by the orgin. A flood of +approvin' glances fastened themselves on my jet bonnet and fur-lined +dolman. I wuz sorry I didn't know the fust song. It must have been a new +one to that choir. Thar wuz four of 'em and each one wuz singin' it to a +different tune, and they jest couldn't keep tergether! The coarse-voiced +gal to my rear lagged dretfully. When the tall blonde, who wuz the only +one of 'em that knowed the tune, when she'd sing, + + "'Wake the song!' + +that gal who lagged would echo, + + "'Wake the song!' + +in a voice as coarse as Lum's. She 'peared to depend on the tall gal +for the words, for when the tall 'un would sing, + + "'Song of Ju-ber-lee,' + +the gal that lagged, and the two gents, would repeat, 'Of Ju-ber-lee.' + +"I passed her my book, thinkin' the words wuz tore out o' hern, but, +la! she jest glared at me, and she and them gents, if anything, +bellered louder'n ever. I looked at the preacher, expecting to see him +covered with shygrin, but, la! he wuz takin' it perfectly cam, with +his eyes walled up at the ceilin' and his hands folded acrost his +stummick like he might be havin' troubles of his own. + +"I kept hopin' that tryo would either ketch up with the leader or jest +have the curridge to quit. Goodness knows, I done what I could fur +'em, by beatin' time with my turkey wing. + +"Somebody must have give 'em a tip, for the next song which the +preacher give out as 'a solo,' that tryo jest pintedly giv it up and +set thar is silent as clambs. The tall gal riz and commenced singin' +and that tryo never pertended to help her out! My heart ached in +symperthy fur her as she stood thar alone, singin' away with her voice +quaverin', and not a human bein' in that house jined in, not even the +_preacher_! But she had _grit_, and kept right on! Most people +would'er giv right up. She's a middlin' good singer, but is dretfully +handercapt by that laggin' tryo and a passel o' church members that +air too triflin' to sing in meetin'. The song wuz a new 'un to me, but +havin' a nacheral year for music, I soon ketched the tune and jined in +on the last verse with a vim. Of course I could only hummit, not +knowin' the words, but I come down on it good and strong and showed +them folks that Angeline Keaton ain't one to shirk a duty, if they +wuz. After the sermon the preacher giv out 'Thar Is a Fountain Filled +with Blood.' Here wuz my chanct to show 'em what the brag-voice of +Bear Waller wuz like! + +"With my voice risin' and falling and dwellin' with extry force on the +fust syllerbles of foun-tin and sin-ners, in long, drawn-out meeter, I +fairly lost myself in the grand old melerdy. I wuz soarin' inter the +third verse when I discovered I wuz the only one in the house that +knowed it! The rest of 'em wuz singin' it to a friverlous tune like +them Mose Beasley plays on his fiddle! What wuz more, they wuz +titterin' like I wuz in errer! The very idy! That wuz too much fur me, +and beckernin' Jim Henry to foller, I marched outer meetin'! + +"We found the old mare had slipped the bridle and gone home, so thar +wuz nothin' left fur us to do but foot it. The last thing I heered as +we struck the Bear Waller pike and set out fur home wuz that +coarse-voiced gal, still lagging behind, as she sang, + + "'The Blood of the Lamb!'" + + + + +MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS + + +Miss Maria Thompson Daviess, author of _The Melting of Molly_, was born +at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in October, 1872, the descendant of the famous +Joseph Hamilton Daviess, the granddaughter of the historian of +Harrodsburg, whose full name she bears, and the niece of Mrs. H. D. +Pittman and Miss Annie Thompson Daviess, the Kentucky novelists. Miss +Daviess was graduated from Science Hill Academy, Shelbyville, Kentucky, +in 1891, after which she studied English for a year at Wellesley +College. She then went to Paris to study art at Julien's, and several of +her pictures have been hung in the Salon. As a miniature painter she +excelled. At the conclusion of her art course, Miss Daviess returned to +America, making her home at Nashville, Tennessee, where she resides at +the present time. She taught at Belmont College, Nashville, for a year +or more, and set up as a painter of miniatures for a public that +demanded values in their portraits that she could not see fit to grant, +so she finally decided to write. Miss Daviess's first book, and the one +that she is still best known by, was _Miss Selina Lue and the Soap-Box +Babies_ (Indianapolis, 1909). Miss Lue, spinster, tucks babies into a +row of soap-boxes, maintaining sort of a free day-nursery, and the +reader has much delicious humor from her duties. _Miss Selina Lue_ was +followed by _The Road to Providence_ (Indianapolis, 1910), dominated by +the character of Mother Mayberry, guide, philosopher, and friend to a +Tennessee town; _Rose of Old Harpeth_ (Indianapolis, 1911), was a love +story "as ingenuous and sweet as a boy's first kiss under a ruffled +sunbonnet." Selina Lue and Mother Mayberry were both past their bloom; +Rose possessed the power and glory of youth. _The Treasure Babies_ +(Indianapolis, 1911), was a delightful children's story, which has been +dramatized and produced, but Miss Daviess's most charming novel, _The +Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912), was "the saucy success of the +season," for eight months the best selling book in America. Molly must +melt from the plumpest of widows to the slenderest of maidens in just +three months because the sweetheart of her girlhood days, now a +distinguished diplomat, homeward bound, demands a glimpse of her in the +same blue muslin dress which she wore at their parting years ago. The +melting process, with the O. Henry twist at the end, is the author's +business to narrate, and she does it in the most fetching manner. The +little novel is "gay, irresistible, all sweetness and spice and +everything nice." Miss Daviess's latest story, _Sue Jane_ (New York, +1912), has for its heroine a little country girl who comes to Woodlawn +Seminary (which is none other than the author's _alma mater_, Science +Hill), is at first laughed at and later loved by the girls of that +school. She is as quaint and charming a child as one may hope to meet in +the field of juvenile fiction. _The Elected Mother_ (Indianapolis, +1912), the best of the three short-stories tucked in the back of the +Popular edition of _Miss Selina Lue_ (New York, 1911), was a rather +unique argument for woman's equal rights. It proves that motherhood and +mayoralties may go hand and hand--in at least one modern instance. +_Harpeth Roses_ (Indianapolis, 1912), were wise saws culled from the +pages of her first four books, made into an attractive little volume. +Just as the year of 1912 came to a close Miss Daviess's publishers +announced that her new novel, _Andrew the Glad_, a love story, would +appear in January, 1913. _Phyllis_, another juvenile, will also be +issued in 1913, but will first be serialized in _The Visitor_, a +children's weekly, of Nashville. That Miss Daviess has been an +indefatigable worker may be gathered at a glance. She has the "best +seller touch," which is the most gratifying thing a living writer may +possess. The present public demands that its reading shall be as light +as a cream puff and sparking as a brook, and, in order to qualify for +_The Bookman's_ monthly handicap, a writer must possess those two +requisites: deftness of touch and brightness. These Miss Daviess has. +And so, when the summer-days are over-long and the winter's day is dull, +Maria Thompson Daviess and her brood of books will be found certain +dispellers of earthly woes and bringers of good cheer. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (December, 1909); _The Bookman_ (July, + 1912). + + +MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES[70] + +[From _The Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912)] + +Why don't people realize that a seventeen-year-old girl's heart is a +sensitive wind-flower that may be shattered by a breath? Mine +shattered when Alfred went away to find something he could do to make +a living, and Aunt Adeline gave the hard green stem to Mr. Carter when +she married me to him. Poor Mr. Carter! + +No, I wasn't twenty, and this town was full of women who were aunts +and cousins and law-kin to me, and nobody did anything for me. They +all said with a sigh of relief, "It will be such a nice safe thing for +you, Molly." And they really didn't mean anything by tying up a gay, +dancing, frolicking, prancing colt of a girl with a terribly ponderous +bridle. But God didn't want to see me always trotting along slow and +tired and not caring what happened to me, even pounds and pounds of +plumpness, so he found use for Mr. Carter in some other place but this +world, and I feel that He is going to see me through whatever happens. +If some of the women in my missionary society knew how friendly I feel +with God, they would put me out for contempt of court. + +No, the town didn't mean anything by chastening my spirit with Mr. +Carter, and they didn't consider him in the matter at all, poor man. +Of that I feel sure. Hillsboro is like that. It settled itself here in +a Tennessee valley a few hundreds of years ago and has been hatching +and clucking over its own small affairs ever since. All the houses set +back from the street with their wings spread out over their gardens, +and mothers here go on hovering even to the third and fourth +generation. Lots of times young, long-legged, frying-size boys +scramble out of the nests and go off to college and decide to grow up +where their crow will be heard by the world. Alfred was one of them. + +And, too, occasionally some man comes along from the big world and +marries a plump little broiler and takes her away with him, but mostly +they stay and go to hovering life on a corner of the family estate. +That's what I did. + +I was a poor, little, lost chick with frivolous tendencies and they all +clucked me over into this empty Carter nest which they considered +well-feathered for me. It gave them all a sensation when they found out +from the will just how well it was feathered. And it gave me one, too. +All that money would make me nervous if Mr. Carter hadn't made Doctor +John its guardian, though I sometimes feel that the responsibility of me +makes him treat me as if he were my step-grandfather-in-law. But all in +all, though stiff in its knees with aristocracy, Hillsboro is lovely +and loving; and couldn't inquisitiveness be called just real affection +with a kind of squint in its eye? + +And there I sat on my front steps, being embraced in a perfume of +everybody's lilacs and peachblow and sweet syringa and affectionate +interest and moonlight, with a letter in my hand from the man whose +two photographs and many letters I had kept locked up in the garret +for years. Is it any wonder I tingled when he told me that he had +never come back because he couldn't have me and that now the minute he +landed in America he was going to lay his heart at my feet? I added +his honors to his prostrate heart myself and my own beat at the +prospect. All the eight years faded away and I was again back in the +old garden down at Aunt Adeline's cottage saying good-by, folded up in +his arms. That's the way my memory put the scene to me, but the word +"folded" made me remember that blue muslin dress again. I had promised +to keep it and wear it for him when he came back--and I couldn't +forget that the blue belt was just twenty-three inches and mine +is--no, I _won't_ write it. I had got that dress out of the old trunk +not ten minutes after I had read the letter and measured it. + +No, nobody would blame me for running right across the garden to +Doctor John with such a real trouble as that! All of a sudden I hugged +the letter and the little book up close to my breast and laughed until +the tears ran down my cheeks. + +Then before I went into the house I assembled my garden and had family +prayers with my flowers. I do that because they are all the family I've +got, and God knows that all His budding things need encouragement, +whether it is a widow or a snowball-bush. He'll give it to us! + +And I'm praying again as I sit here and watch for the doctor's light +to go out. I hate to go to sleep and leave it burning, for he sits up +so late and he is so gaunt and thin and tired-looking most time. +That's what the last prayer is about, almost always,--sleep for him +and no night call! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[70] Copyright, 1912, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. + + + + +CALE YOUNG RICE + + +Cale Young Rice, poet and dramatist, was born at Dixon, Kentucky, +December 7, 1872. He graduated from Cumberland University, in +Tennessee, and then went to Harvard University, where he received his +Bachelor of Arts degree in 1895, and his Master's degree in the +following year. In 1902 Mr. Rice was married to Miss Alice Caldwell +Hegan, whose _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ had been published the +year before. Mr. Rice has been busy for years as a lyric poet and +maker of plays for the study, though several of them, indeed, have +received stage presentation. His several books of shorter poems are: +_From Dusk to Dusk_ (Nashville, Tennessee, 1898); _With Omar_ +(Lebanon, Tennessee, 1900), privately printed in an edition of forty +copies; _Song Surf_ (Boston, 1901), in which _With Omar_ was +reprinted; _Nirvana Days_ (New York, 1908); _Many Gods_ (New York, +1910); and his latest book of lyrics, _Far Quests_ (New York, 1912). +Mr. Rice's plays have been published as follows: _Charles di Tocca_ +(New York, 1903); _David_ (New York, 1904); _Plays and Lyrics_ (London +and New York, 1906), a large octavo containing _David_, _Yolanda of +Cyprus_, a poetic drama, and all of his best work; _A Night in +Avignon_ (New York, 1907), a little one-act play based upon the loves +of Petrarch and Laura, which was "put upon the boards" in Chicago with +Donald Robertson in the leading _role_. It was part one of a dramatic +trilogy of the Italian Renaissance. Next came a reprinting in an +individual volume of his _Yolanda of Cyprus_ (New York, 1908); and +_The Immortal Lure_ (New York, 1911), four plays, the first of which, +_Giorgione_, is part two of the trilogy of one-act plays of which _A +Night in Avignon_ was the first part. The trilogy will be closed with +another one-act drama, _Porzia_, which is now announced for +publication in January, 1913. Mr. Rice has been characterized by the +_New York Times_ as a "doubtful poet," but that paper's recent and +uncalled for attack upon Madison Cawein, together with many other +seemingly absurd positions, makes one wonder if it is not a "doubtful +judge." After all is said, it must be admitted that Mr. Rice has done +a small group of rather pleasing lyrics, and that his plays, perhaps +impossible as safe vehicles for an actor with a reputation to sustain, +are not as turgid as _The Times_ often is, and not as superlatively +poor as some critics have held. Of course, Mr. Rice is not a great +dramatist, nor a great poet, yet the body of his work is considerable, +and our literature could ill afford to be rid of it. The Rices have an +attractive home in St. James Court, Louisville, Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1904); _The Atlantic + Monthly_ (September, 1904); _The Bookman_ (December, 1911); + _Lippincott's Magazine_ (January, 1912). + + +PETRARCA AND SANCIA[71] + +[From _A Night in Avignon_ (New York, 1907)] + + _Petrarca._ While we are in the world the world's in us. + The Holy Church I own-- + Confess her Heaven's queen; + But we are flesh and all things that are fair + God made us to enjoy-- + Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but sorrow. + You though would ban earth's beauty, + Even the torch of Glory + That kindled Italy once and led great Greece-- + The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all + The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born! + I love them! they are divine! + And so to-night--I-- + (_Voices._) + They! it is Lello! Lello! Lello! Sancia!-- + + +(_Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; then +Sancia singing:_) + + To the maids of Saint Remy + All the gallants go for pleasure; + To the maids of Saint Remy-- + Tripping to love's measure! + To the dames of Avignon + All the masters go for wiving; + To the dames of Avignon-- + That shall be their shriving! + +(_He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then Lello cries:_) + + _Lello._ Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in? + What! are you a sonnet-monger? + + _Petrarca._ Ai, ai, aih! + (_Motions_ Gherhardo--_who goes_.) + + _Lello._ Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in! + (_Rattles it._) + + _Petrarca._ No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill! + Look for it and ascend! + (Orso _enters_.) + Stay, here is Orso! + +(_The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet them. In a +moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter--_Lello_ between +them--singing_:) + + Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline! + Ehyo! ninni! onni! onz! + I went fishing on All Saints' Day + And--caught but human bones! + + I went fishing on All Saints' Day, + The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black! + I went fishing on All Saints' Day-- + But my love called me back! + + She called me back and she kissed my lips-- + Oh, my lips! Oh! onni onz! + "Better take love than--bones! bones! + (Sancia _kisses_ Petrarca.) + Better take love than bones." + +(_They scatter with glee and_ Petrarca _seizes_ Sancia _to him_.) + + _Petrarca._ Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends! + Warm love is better, better! + And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand! + And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips! + + _Sancia._ (_interposing_). Or--less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca! + You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night. + + _Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair! + + _Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine, + To pledge him in! + + _Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er! + (_They go to the table._) + And see, they are wreathed of April, + With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined. + We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals! + + _Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show + Out of your sallow books? + + _Petrarca._ Those books were writ + With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon + Papyri of the stars! + + _Sancia._ And--long ago? + Ha! long ago? + + _Petrarca._ Returnless centuries! + + _Sancia._ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past, + Loves mummies and their dust-- + And he will mould! + Who loves the future loves what may not be, + And feeds on fear. + Only one flower has Time--its name is Now! + Come, pluck it! pluck it! + + _Lello._ Brava, maid! the Now! + + _Sancia._ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it! + + _Petrarca._ By my soul, I will: + (_Seizes her again._) + It grows upon these lips--and if to-night + They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would. + (_She breaks from him._) + + _Flippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine! + + _Sancia._ O ever-thirsty + And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out! + (_She lifts a brimming cup._) + We'll drink to Messer Petrarca-- + Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude. + May he long revel in the courts of Venus! + + _All (drinking)._ Aih, long! + + _Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them! + + _Flippa._ I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath. + + _Sancia._ And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa! + Messer Petrarca, should not be made + High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil, + Whose breath of life is oaths?... + But, swear it!--by the Saints! + Who were great sinners all! + And by the bones of every monk or nun + Who ever darkened the world! + + _Lello._ Or ever shall! + (_A pause._) + + _Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing + Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia, + Like nightingales in the wood! + + _Sancia._ Pah! Messer Poet-- + Such words as those you vent without an end-- + To the Lady Laura! + + _Petrarca._ Stop! + (_Grows pale._) + Not _her_ name--here! + (_All have sat down; he rises._) + + _Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might + Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after? + (_To the rest--rising._) + Shall we depart, that he may still indite them? + "To Laura--On the Vanity of Passion?" + "To Laura--Unrelenting?" + "To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?" + (_Laughs._) + "To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?" + (Orso _enters_.) + Shall we depart? + +FOOTNOTE: + +[71] Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips and Company. + + + + +ROBERT M. McELROY + + +Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent histories of +Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, December 28, 1872. He took +the three degrees conferred by Princeton University; and since 1901 he +has been assistant professor of American history in that institution. +For the _Metropolitan Magazine_ of New York Dr. McElroy wrote an +excellent _History of the Mexican War_, but this work has not yet +appeared in book form. His _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New +York, 1909), gave him an honorable place among the younger generation +of American historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky +literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy labored for many +years, no sacrifice was too great for him to make, no journey too long +for him to undertake, provided a better perspective were to be +obtained at the end of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel +Reuben T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and sitting +at his feet drinking from the well of Western history which the +Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was what so sadly mars his +work: he does in the discussion of several great questions, hardly +more than serve as amanuensis for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel +John Mason Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted +_carte-blanche_, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set aside. +Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon the Spanish Conspiracy, +and writes a single line concerning Thomas Marshall Green's great +work! He brings his narrative down to the commencement of the Civil +War, which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation +in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His work is most +scholarly, the latest historical procedure is sustained throughout, +and the pity is that he so slavishly followed one or two authorities, +though both of them were wholly excellent and profound, to the +exclusion of all others. Originality of opinion is what the work +lacks, a lack which it might have easily possessed with the author's +undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary Louisville. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Dr. McElroy to the Author; _Who's Who + in America_ (1912-1913). + + +GEORGE ROGERS CLARK[72] + +[From _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New York, 1909)] + +It was at this critical moment that George Rogers Clark, the future +conqueror of the Northwest territory, took up his permanent abode +among the Kentucky pioneers. Clark had visited Kentucky, on a brief +tour of inspection, during the previous autumn (Sept., 1775), and had +been placed in command of the irregular militia of the settlements. He +had returned to Virginia, filled with the importance of establishing +in Kentucky an extensive system of public defence, and with the firm +conviction that the claims of Henderson & Company ought to be +disallowed by Virginia. His return to Kentucky, in 1776, marks the +beginning of the end of the Transylvania Company. In spite of his +youth (he was only twenty-four) he was far the most dangerous opponent +that Henderson & Company had in the province. A military leader by +nature, he had served in Lord Dunmore's war with such conspicuous +success that he had been offered a commission in the British Army. +This honor he had declined, preferring to remain free to serve his +country in the event of a revolt from British tyranny. + +Shortly after his arrival, Clark proposed that, in order to bring +about a more certain connection with Virginia, and the more definitely +to repudiate the authority of the Transylvania Company, a regular +representative assembly should be held at Harrodsburg. His own views +he expressed freely in advancing his suggestion. Agents, he said, +should be appointed to urge once more the right of the region to be +taken under the protection of Virginia, and, if this request should +again be unheeded, we should "employ the lands of the country as a +fund to obtain settlers, and establish an independent state." + +The proposed assembly convened at Harrodsburg on the 6th of June. +Clark was not present when the session began, and when he arrived, he +found that the pressing question of the day had already been acted +upon, and that he himself, with Gabriel John Jones, had been elected a +delegate to represent the settlements in the Virginia Assembly. Clark +knew that such an election would not entitle them to seats, but he +agreed to visit Williamsburg, and present the cause of his fellow +pioneers. Provided with a formal memorial to the Virginia Assembly, he +started, with Jones, for Virginia and, after a very painful journey, +upon which, Clark declared, I suffered "more torment than I ever +experienced before or since," they reached the neighborhood of +Charlottesville, only to learn that the Assembly had adjourned. Jones +set off for a visit to the settlements on the Holston; but Clark, +intent upon his mission, pushed on to Hanover County, where he secured +an interview with Patrick Henry, then Governor of Virginia. + +After listening to Clark's report of the troubles of the frontier +colony, and doubtless enjoying his denunciation of the Transylvania +Company, Governor Henry introduced him to the executive Council of the +State, and he at once requested from them five hundred pounds of +powder for frontier defence. He had determined to accomplish the +object of his mission in any manner possible, and he knew that if he +could induce the authorities of Virginia to provide for the defence of +the frontier settlements, the announcement of her property rights in +them would certainly follow, to the destruction of the plans of +Henderson and his colleagues. + +The Council, however, doubtless also foreseeing these consequences, +declared that its powers could not be so construed as to give it +authority to grant such a request. But Clark was insistent, and urged +his case so effectively that, after considerable discussion, the +Council announced that, as the call appeared urgent, they would assume +the responsibility of lending five hundred pounds of powder to Clark, +making him personally responsible for its value, in case their +assumption of authority should not be upheld by the Burgesses. They +then presented him with an order to the keeper of the public magazine, +calling for the powder desired. + +This was exactly what Clark did not want, as the loan of five hundred +pounds of powder to George Rogers Clark, could in no sense be +interpreted as an assumption by Virginia, of the responsibility of +defending the western frontier, and his next act was most +characteristic of the man. He returned the order with a curt note, +declaring his intention of repairing at once to Kentucky, and exerting +the resources of that country to the formation of an independent +State, for, he frankly declared, "a country which is not worth +defending is not worth claiming." + +This threat proved instantly successful. The Council recalled Clark to +their presence and, on August 23, 1776, delivered him another order +calling for five hundred pounds of gunpowder, which was to be conveyed +to Pittsburg by Virginia officials, there "to be safely kept and +delivered to George Rogers Clark or his order, for the use of the said +inhabitants of Kentucky." + +With this concession Clark was completely satisfied, for he felt that by +it Virginia was admitting her obligation to defend the pioneers of the +West, and that an open declaration of sovereign rights over the +territory must soon follow. He accordingly wrote to his friends in +Kentucky, requesting them to receive the powder at Pittsburg, and convey +it to the Kentucky stations, while he himself awaited the opening of the +autumn session of the Virginia Assembly, where he hoped to procure a +more explicit verdict against the claims of Henderson's Company. + +At the time appointed for the meeting, Clark, accompanied by his +colleague, Gabriel John Jones, proceeded to Williamsburg and presented +his petition to the Assembly, where again his remarkable personality +secured a victory. In spite of the vigorous exertions of Henderson and +Campbell in behalf of the Transylvania Company, the Virginia Assembly +(December 7, 1776) passed an act dividing the vast, ill-defined +region, hitherto known as Fincastle County, into three sections, to be +known as Kentucky County, Washington County, and Montgomery County, +Virginia. The County of Kentucky, comprising almost the same territory +as is contained in the present State of Kentucky, was thus recognized +as a political unit of the Virginia Commonwealth, and as such was +entitled to representation. + +This statute decided the fate of the Transylvania Company, as there +could not be two Sovereign Proprietors of the soil of Kentucky County. +And so passed, a victim to its own lust of gain, the last attempt to +establish a proprietary government upon the free soil of the United +States; and George Rogers Clark, as founder of Kentucky's first +political organization, became the political father of the Commonwealth, +even as Daniel Boone had been the father of her colonization. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[72] Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER + + +Edwin Davies Schoonmaker, poet, was born at Scranton, Pennsylvania, +February 1, 1873. He removed from Ohio to Kentucky in 1886, and he +lived at Lexington almost continuously until 1904. Mr. Schoonmaker was +educated at old Kentucky (Transylvania) University; and in 1904 he +married a Kentucky woman, who has published a play and a novel. For +the last several years he and his wife have lived at Bearsville, New +York, high up in the Catskills. Mr. Schoonmaker's first book was a +verse play, entitled _The Saxons--a Drama of Christianity in the +North_ (Chicago, 1905). This was based upon the attempt on the part of +Rome to force the religion of Christ upon the pagans in the forests of +the North, and it was a very strong piece of work. His second work, +another verse drama, will appear in 1913, entitled _The Americans_. +It will be published by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, for whom Mr. +Schoonmaker is planning two other plays. Mr. Schoonmaker has had short +lyrics in many of the leading magazines. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Arena_ (May, 1906); _Hampton's Magazine_ (June, + 1910); _The Forum_ (August, 1912). + + +THE PHILANTHROPIST[73] + +[From _The American Magazine_ (October, 1912)] + + I neither praise nor blame thee, aged Scot, + In whose wide lap the shifting times have poured + The heavy burden of that golden hoard + That shines far off and shall not be forgot. + + I only see thee carving far and wide + Thy name on many marbles through the land, + Or flashing splendid from the jeweler's hand + Where medaled heroes show thy face with pride. + + Croesus had not such royal halls as thou, + Nor Timon half as many friends as crowd + Thy porches when thy largesses are loud, + Learning and Peace are stars upon thy brow. + + And still thy roaring mills their tribute bring + As unto Caesar, and thy charities + Have borne thy swelling fame beyond the seas, + Where thou in many realms art all but king. + + Yet when night lays her silence on thine ears + And thou art at thy window all alone, + Pondering thy place, dost thou not hear the groans + Of them that bear thy burdens through the years? + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[73] Copyright, 1912, by the Phillips Publishing Company. + + + + +CREDO HARRIS + + +Credo Harris, novelist, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, January 8, +1874. He was educated in the schools of Louisville and finished at +college in the East. He settled in New York as a newspaper man and the +following ten years of his life were given to that work. In 1908 Mr. +Harris abandoned daily journalism in order to devote himself to +fiction. Only a few of his short-stories had gotten into the magazines +when his first book, entitled _Toby, a Novel of Kentucky_ (Boston, +1912), appeared. In spite of the fact that the author's literary +models were, perhaps, too manifest, _Toby_ was well liked by many +readers. Mr. Harris's second story, _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New +York, 1912), was cordially received by those very critics who assailed +his first volume with vehemence. It is both a book of travels and a +romance, the recital being in the form of love letters to his +sweetheart, Polly, and also descriptive of the country from +Baden-Baden to Rome seen from the tonneau of a big touring-car. Mr. +Harris has a new story well under way, which will probably appear in +1913. He resides at Glenview, Kentucky, with his father, but his work +on _The Louisville Herald_ takes him into town almost every day. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Harris to the Author; _The + Courier-Journal_ (November 30, 1912). + + +BOLOGNA[74] + +[From _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New York, 1912)] + +Bologna! Home of the sausage! Does not your mouth water at just the +thought of it! I can see your pretty nose turn up in a curve that +simply screams "Disgusting"--but you have never been quite fair to +this relic of menageries. + +To-day at luncheon our waiter first pranced up with a dish I did not +recognize. It has long been a rule of mine--especially in Italy--that +when I do not recognize a dish I wave it by. But rules are sent +broadcast before the Bolognese spirit of patriotism. Would I be +permitted to refuse this dish? No. He poked it still nearer and gave +me a polite look. "No," I said, "not any." He poked it still nearer +and his look became troubled. "No," I said again. This time his look +was indignant as he exclaimed: "But, signor, it is _mortadella_!" +Indeed, we found his persistence quite justifiable. + +I could be satisfied to linger here. It is a pleasant mixture of +cosmopolitan and mediaeval, blending a touch of geniality which adds +much to its charm. The people are happier, perhaps it would be best to +say more smiling, in Bologna than farther north. If one can be +reconciled to the incongruity of living in a hotel that was a +fifteenth century palace overlooking the solemn tombs of jurists, and +then stepping to the corner for a twentieth century electric car, he +can steel himself to put up with many other temperamental +contradictions to be found in this capital of the Emilia. + +But because of its cosmopolitanism I shall tell you little. In big +places like this there is so much to see, so much to digest, so much +to read out of guide books, that--what's the use? My letters are +permitted, you have threatened, only so long as I tell an occasional +thing which may serve you and the Dowager when you come through next +year by motor, and while I do not believe you quite mean this, or +would throw it down if you saw me heading toward the tender realms of +nothingness, your wish shall, nevertheless, constitute my aim. Should +I digress, it will be because my love for you is stronger than +myself--an assertion of doubtful value at the present time. + +So if you want to know Bologna, read your guide books. Here, you shall +have only the more untrodden paths, which, if you follow as I have +done, you may be fortunate. For you must know that all I have seen has +been discovered by your eyes alone. Many a day has passed since you +brought and taught me the things truly beautiful in this world. Great +sculptures, rich paintings, magnificent architecture, are in the well +worn paths of every one's progress which those who pass cannot help +seeing, but a changing leaf, the sweep of a bird, a child's laugh at +the roadside, ah, those are the bounties your hands have poured into +my lap! Thousands pass along this way, piled high with perishable +treasures, and never dream that they are trampling a masterpiece with +every crunch of their bourgeoise boots. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[74] Copyright, 1912, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES + + +Mrs. Hallie Erminie Rives-Wheeler, maker of mysteries, was born near +Hopkinsville, Kentucky, May 2, 1874, the daughter of Colonel Stephen +T. Rives. She is a cousin of Princess Troubetzkey, the celebrated +Virginia novelist. Miss Rives, to give her her old name, was educated +in Kentucky schools, after which she went to New York with her mother. +In 1896 Miss Rives's mother died and she and her father moved to +Amherst county, Virginia, which is her present American home. Her +literary labors fall naturally into two periods: the first, which +included five "red-hot" books, as follows: _The Singing Wire and Other +Stories_ (Clarksville, Tennessee, 1892), the "other stories" being +four in number and nameless here; _A Fool in Spots_ (St. Louis, 1894); +_Smoking Flax_ (New York, 1897); _As the Hart Panteth_ (New York, +1898); and _A Furnace of Earth_ (New York, 1900). Miss Rives's second +period of work began with _Hearts Courageous_ (Indianapolis, 1902), a +romance of Revolutionary Virginia, and continues to the present time. +This was followed by _The Castaway_ (Indianapolis, 1904), based upon +the career of Lord Byron; and the great poems of the Englishman are +made to swell the length of the story. In _Tales from Dickens_ +(Indianapolis, 1905), Miss Rives did for the novelist what Lamb did +for Shakespeare--made him readable for children. _Satan Sanderson_ +(Indianapolis, 1907), a wild and thrilling tale of today, one of the +"six best sellers" for many months, was followed by what is, perhaps, +her best book, a story set in Japan, entitled _The Kingdom of Slender +Swords_ (Indianapolis, 1910). Her latest novel is _The Valiants of +Virginia_ (Indianapolis, 1912), the action of which begins in New +York, but is transferred to Virginia. Miss Rives was married in Tokyo, +Japan, December 29, 1906, to Mr. Post Wheeler, writer and diplomat, +now connected with the American embassy at Rome. While none of her +novels is set against Kentucky backgrounds, several of her short +stories published in the magazines are Kentucky to the core. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The American Review of Reviews_ (October, 1902); + _The Nation_ (August 11, 1904). + + +THE BISHOP SPEAKS[75] + +[From _Satan Sanderson_ (Indianapolis, 1907)] + +Inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting Harry Sanderson. He +had officiated at his ordination and liked him. His eyes took in the +simple order of the room, lingering with a light tinge of disapproval +upon the violin case in the corner, and with a deeper shade of question +upon the jewel on the other's finger--a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting +curiously twisted of the two initial letters of his name. + +There came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early prodigalities +and wildness which he had heard. For the lawyer who had listened to +Harry Sanderson's recital on the night of the making of the will had +not considered it a professional disclosure. He had thought it a "good +story," and had told it at his club, whence it had percolated at +leisure through the heavier strata of town-talk. The tale, however, +had seemed rather to increase than to discourage popular interest in +Harry Sanderson. The bishop knew that those whose approval had been +withheld were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could not +have denied that he possessed desirable qualities--a manner by turns +sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, and the +unteachable tone of blood--and had infused new life into a generally +sleepy parish. He had dismissed the whisper with a smile, but oddly +enough it recurred to him now at sight of the ruby ring. + +"I looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "I've just +come from David Stires--he has a letter from Van Lennap, the great +eye-surgeon of Vienna. He disagrees with the rest of them--thinks +Jessica's case may not be hopeless." + +The cloud that Hugh's call had left on Harry's countenance lifted. + +"Thank God!" he said. "Will she go to him?" + +The bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed to hold +more than a conventional relief. + +"He is to be in America next month. He will come here to examine, and +perhaps to operate. An exceptional girl," went on the bishop, "with a +remarkable talent! The angel in the chapel porch, I suppose you know, +is her modelling, though that isn't just masculine enough in feature +to suit me. The Scriptures are silent on the subject of woman-angels +in Heaven; though, mind you, I don't say they're not common on earth!" + +The bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram. + +"Poor child!" he continued more soberly. "It will be a terrible thing +for her if this last hope fails her, too! Especially now, when she and +Hugh are to make a match of it." + +Harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen it suddenly +startled. "To make a match of it!" To hide the flush he felt staining +his cheek, Harry bent to close the safe. A something that had darkled in +some obscure depth of his being, whose existence he had not guessed, was +throbbing now to a painful resentment. Jessica to marry Hugh! + +"A handsome fellow--Hugh!" said the bishop. "He seems to have returned +with a new heart--a brand plucked from the burning. You had the same +_alma mater_, I think you told me. Your influence has done the boy +good, Sanderson!" He laid his hand kindly on the other's shoulder. +"The fact that you were in college together makes him look up to +you--as the whole parish does," he added. + +Harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. But through the +turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating: + +"No, they don't call me 'Satan' now!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[75] Copyright, 1907, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company. + + + + +EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY + + +Edwin Carlile Litsey, author of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_, was +born at Beechland, Kentucky, June 3, 1874. He was educated in public +and private schools, but he did not go to college. At the age of +seventeen years Mr. Litsey entered the banking business, and he is now +connected with the Marion National Bank, of his present home, Lebanon, +Kentucky. His first novel, _The Princess of Gramfalon_ (Cincinnati, +1898), was a daring piece of imagination, creating impossible lands +and peoples, and it has been forgotten by author and public alike. Mr. +Litsey's strongest and best work so far is a beautiful tale of Nature, +entitled _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ (New York, 1902). This +novelette made the author many friends, as it is a charming story. In +1904 he won first prize in _The Black Cat_ story-contest, over ten +thousand competitors, with _In the Court of God_. His stories of wild +animals in their haunts were brought together in _The Race of the +Swift_ (Boston, 1905). This contains some of his best work, the first +story being especially fine and strong. Mr. Litsey's latest novel, +_The Man from Jericho_ (New York, 1911), was not up to the standard +set in his earlier works, and in no sense is it a noteworthy +production. It shows a decided falling off, and it brought +disappointment to many admirers of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ and +_The Race of the Swift_. In 1912 Mr. Litsey contributed several +short-stories to _The Cavalier_, and next year he will issue another +novel, to be entitled _A Maid of the Kentucky Hills_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (July, 1902); _Munsey's Magazine_ + (April, 1903). + + +THE RACE OF THE SWIFT[76] + +[From _The Race of the Swift_ (Boston, 1905)] + +The next morning, near midday, her merciless offsprings teased and +worried her so that the she-fox crept forth in spite of the warning of +the day before, and set her sharp muzzle towards the crest of the +range, with the intention of invading territory which hitherto her +feet had never pressed. There were wild turkeys back in the hills, and +wary and suspicious as she knew them to be, they were no match for her +wily woodcraft. But scarcely had her noiseless feet gone over the top +of the knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind her caused her to +jump and turn quickly. They were there--her enemies--and their noses +were smelling out her trail, for as yet they had not seen her. Even as +she leaped for the nearest cover like a yellow flash, her first +thought was of the little ones biding at home. She must lead her foes +away from that cleft in the rocks where her love-children lay awaiting +her return. And though her life should be given up, yet would she die +alone, and far away, before she would sacrifice her young. + +It was a hard and stubborn race which she ran for the next six hours. +At times her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to burst from the strain +she thrust upon it. At times fleet feet were pattering almost at her +heels, and pitiless jaws were held wide to grasp her; then again only +the echo of the stubborn cry of her pursuers reached her. She had +doubled time and again. Once a brief respite was granted her when she +dashed up a slanting tree-trunk which, in falling, had lodged in the +branches of another tree. Eight tawny forms dashed hotly, furiously +by, then she descended and took the back track. Only for a moment, +however, were the cunning dogs deceived. They discovered the artifice +almost as soon as it was perpetrated, and came harking back themselves +with redoubled zeal. So the long hours of the afternoon wore away. Not +a moment that was free from effort; not an instant that death did not +hover over the mother fox, awaiting the least misstep to descend. Back +and forth, around and across, and still the subtlety of the fox eluded +the haste and fury of the hounds. All were tired to the point of +exhaustion, but none would give up. The sun went down; tremulous +shadows, like curtains hung, were draped among the trees. The timid +stars came out again and the halfed moon arose, a little larger than +the night before. And still, with inveterate hate on the one side, and +the undying strength of despair on the other, the grim chase swept +through the night. At last the blood-rimmed eyes of the reeling quarry +saw familiar landmarks. Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had +come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps the love within her heart +had guided her back. She found her strength quickly failing, and with +a realization of this her scheming brain awoke as from a trance, and +drove her to deeper guile. Two rods away was the creek. To it she +staggered, splashed through the low water for a dozen yards, and hid +herself beneath the gnarled roots of a tree from the base of which the +stream had eaten away the soil. She listened intensely. She heard the +pack lose the scent, search half-heartedly for a few minutes, for +they, too, were weary to dropping, then withdraw one at a time, +beaten. But for half an hour the brave animal lay against the tree +roots, waiting and resting. Then she came out cautiously, looked +around her, and with difficulty gained the mouth of her den. Casting +one keen glance over her shoulder through the checkered spaces of the +forest, she glided softly within, and lying down, curled her tired +body protectingly around her sleeping little ones. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[76] Copyright, 1905, by Little, Brown and Company. + + + + +MILTON BRONNER + + +Milton Bronner, literary critic and journalist, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, November 10, 1874. He was graduated from the +University of Virginia, in 1895, when he returned to his home to join +the staff of the old _Louisville Commercial_. In 1900 Mr. Bronner +removed to Covington, Kentucky, to become city editor of _The Kentucky +Post_, of which paper he is now editor-in-chief. Mr. Bronner's first +book, called _Letters from the Raven_ (New York, 1907), was a work +about Lafcadio Hearn with many of Hearn's hitherto unpublished +letters. His second and most important volume so far, _Maurice +Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910), is the first adequate discussion of the +novels and poems of the celebrated English author. His method was to +treat the works in the order of their publication, together with a +brief word upon Mr. Hewlett's life. His little book must have pleased +the novelist as much as it did the public. Mr. Bronner seems to have a +_flair_ for new writers who later "arrive." Thus years ago _Poet-Lore_ +published his paper on William Ernest Henley, before Henley's fame was +so firmly established. Some years later _The Independent_ had his +essay on Francis Thompson, whom all the world now declares to have +been a great and true poet. Still later _The Forum_ printed his +criticism of John Davidson, in which high estimates were set upon the +unfortunate fellow's works; and _The Bookman_ has printed a series of +his critical appreciations of such men as John Masefield, Ezra Pound, +Wilbur Underwood, W. H. Davies, W. W. Gibson, and Lionel Johnson, +which introduced these now celebrated poets to the American public. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Forum_ (September, 1910); _The Bookman_ + (August; November, 1911); _The Bookman_ (April; October, 1912). + + +MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN[77] + +[From _Maurice Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910)] + +Mr. Hewlett is mainly interested in his women. They are the pivots +about whom his comedies and tragedies move. And his treatment of them +differs from all the great contemporary novelists. Kipling gives +snapshot photographs of women. He shows them in certain brief moments +of their existence, in vivid blacks and whites, caught on the instant +whether the subjects were laughing or crying. Stevenson's few women +are presented in silhouette. Barrie and Hardy give etchings in which +line by line and with the most painstaking art, the features are +drawn. But Meredith and Mr. Hewlett give paintings in which brush +stroke after brush stroke has been used. The reader beholds the +finished work, true not only in features, but in colouring. + + * * * * * + +Now Mr. Hewlett is purely medieval. The Hewlett woman is forever the +plaything of love. She is always in the attitude of the pursuing who +is pursued. She is forever the subject of passion, holy or unholy. Men +will fight for her, plunge kingdoms and cities in war or ruin for her, +die for her. Sometimes, as in "The Stooping Lady," she is the willing +object of this love and stoops to enjoy its divine benison; sometimes +she flees from it when it displays a satyr face as in "The Duchess of +Nona;" sometimes she is caught up in its tragic coil as in "The +Queen's Quair," and destroyed by it. Hewlett's women, like Hardy's, +are stray angels, but like Meredith's they are creatures of the chase. +And, note the difference from Meredith!--this, according to the gospel +of Mr. Hewlett, is as it should be. + +Since it is woman's proper fate to be loved, it would seem to be +impossible for Mr. Hewlett to write a story in which there is not some +romantic love interest. And in each case there is a stoop on the part +of one. The stoop may be happy or the reverse, but it is there. He +recurs to the idea again and again, but each time with a difference +that prevents monotony. + +In the main, Mr. Hewlett's women are good women. They are loyal and +loving, ready alike to take beatings or kisses. There is no ice in +their bosoms which must needs be thawed. Nor are Mr. Hewlett's women +"kind" after the manner of the Stendhal characters. They are not women +who make themselves common. For the most part, they are Rosalinds and +Perditas of an humbler sort, with the beauty of those immortal girls, +but without their supreme wit and high spirits. They are girls who are +stricken down with love's dart and who make no effort to remove the +dear missiles. They are true dwellers in romance-land, beautiful +creatures who give themselves to their chosen lords without thought of +sin or of the future. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[77] Copyright, 1910, by L. E. Bassett. + + + + +A. ST. CLAIR MACKENZIE + + +Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, author of _The Evolution of Literature_, +was born at Inverness, Scotland, February 17, 1875. "Blue as a molten +sapphire gleams the Moray Firth below Culloden Moor, under whose +purple heather sleep some of the warrior ancestors of Alastair St. +Clair Mackenzie, near which he was born." The University of Glasgow +conferred the degree of Master of Arts upon him in 1892. He then did +graduate work in English at the University of Edinburgh for a year, +after which he studied for some months under Sir Richard C. Jebb of +the University of Cambridge, and Edward Caird of Oxford University. +Mackenzie met S. R. Crockett, Henry Drummond, William Black, Alfred +Tennyson, and many other distinguished men of letters, before he came +to America. After a brief residence in Philadelphia he came to the +State University of Kentucky, at Lexington, in September, 1899, as +head of the department of English, and under his supervision the +curriculum has been extended from three courses to thirty. Among +Kentucky educators he has been the pioneer in introducing Journalism, +Comparative Philology, and Comparative Literature. In 1911 he +received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Kentucky Wesleyan +College, the only degree of the kind ever conferred by that +institution. In 1912 Dr. Mackenzie was Ropes Foundation lecturer at +the University of Cincinnati. He is now dean of the Graduate School of +the University of Kentucky. Besides contributing many articles to +periodicals, Dr. Mackenzie wrote, in 1904, the first history of +Lexington Masonic Lodge, No. 1, the earliest in the West; and, in +1907, the article on Hew Ainslie, the Scottish-Kentucky poet, +published in the _Library of Southern Literature_, and pronounced by +many competent critics to be the finest essay in that great +collection. His _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911), the +English edition of which was issued by John Murray, London, deals with +the origins of literature, as its title indicates, and it has placed +Dr. Mackenzie at the head of Southern students of this subject. Into +this work went the researches and deliberate judgments of a lifetime; +and that a scholar should produce such a work in the West or South, +without a great library near at hand, is in itself remarkable. Dr. +Mackenzie has done what will probably come to be regarded as the most +scholarly production of a Kentucky hand, although the work is more +suggestive than it is conclusive. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. + xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +A KELTIC TALE[78] + +[From _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911)] + +Here is an old Keltic tale of farewell. It was a night of mist, a low +moon brooding over the braes, the heathery braes. The man sat by the +seashore, as he sang quaint ballads of a land across the water, where +men never see death. There was none to reveal the secrets of the +glens, nor could any one tell him what the eagle cried to the stag at +the corrie, while the burn wimpled on with its song of sobbing. He sat +and listened, but he was knowing naught of sadness. To his ears came +only the accents of the fairies of joy, and they called him to seek +the fountain where song had its birth. Away from the sea he climbed +till its voice came faint, faint across the bracken. At last, full +weary, he slept. The night passed, and a leveret stood up, gazing upon +his face without fear. A deer came to the stream, beheld the sleeping +figure, and fled not. A grey linnet perched upon the pale hand lying +across the bosom; it looked the sun in the face, and sang, but the man +did not awake. Again the shadows melted into the night of stars, and +the hills said to one another, "He has found Death and Life. For we +know, and God knows, all his dreams. He has found the secret of the +sea, the message of all the streams, and the fountain-head of song." + +In quest of literary strivings and achievements, lowly as well as +exalted, we have journeyed through all the principal lands of the globe. +The forests of Africa have shaded us from the scorching sun, and the +tang of the salt sea has smitten us off Cape Horn. Visions of scenes +familiar have mingled with sights and sounds of cities that flourished +forty centuries ago. Wherever we have gone, we have noticed that +vitality is the quality which gives permanent value to all true art. +Popular opinion, blind perhaps to the qualities of art as art, caring +nothing about the more elusive charms of verse and prose, is quick to +detect the presence or absence of a vital relationship between +literature and humanity. Literary art voices life and gives life. The +higher the art the more effectively does it fill the onlooker with a +sense of life, personal and racial, dignified, wholesome, inexhaustible. +Apparently it is the ideal within the real that becomes ever more +manifest in the course of the evolution of literature. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[78] Copyright, 1911, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company. + + + + + +LAURA SPENCER PORTOR + + +Miss Laura Spencer Portor, poet and short-story writer, was born at +Covington, Kentucky, in 1875. She lived at Covington until ten years +old, when she was taken to Paris, France, where she attended private +schools for two years. She returned to Kentucky, and attended school +at Cincinnati, but she afterwards entered the old Norwood Institute, +Washington. Her education being finished, Miss Portor again made her +home at Covington, where she resided until a few years ago, when she +went to New York, her home at the present time. She has worked in many +literary fields. Children's work; essays; short-stories; feature and +editorial work of all kinds; and verse for children and "grown-ups." +Miss Portor is now children's editor of _The Woman's Home Companion_. +She has been so very busy with her magazine work that she has found +time to publish but one book, _Theodora_ (Boston, 1907), a little tale +for children, done in collaboration with Miss Katharine Pyle, sister +of the famous American artist, the late Howard Pyle, and herself an +artist and author of ability and reputation. The next few years will +certainly see several of Miss Portor's manuscripts published in book +form. Among her magazine stories and verse that have attracted +attention may be mentioned her purely Kentucky tales, such as "A +Gentleman of the Blue Grass," published in _The Ladies' Home Journal_; +"The Judge," which appeared in _The Woman's Home Companion_; "Sally," +a Southern story, printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_; and "My French +School Days," an essay, also printed in _The Atlantic_, are thought to +be the best things in prose Miss Portor has written so far. Her poems, +"The Little Christ" (_Atlantic Monthly_), and "But One Leads South" +(_McClure's Magazine_), are her most characteristic work in verse. She +has written much for children in both prose and poetry. Miss Portor +is one of Kentucky's proudest hopes in fiction or verse, and the books +that are to be published from her pen will bring together her work in +a manner that will be highly pleasing to her admirers. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (August, 1900); _St. Nicholas + Magazine_ (October, 1912). + + +THE LITTLE CHRIST[79] + +[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1905] + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Why weepest thou? + + _Hush! for I see a crown of thorns, + A bleeding brow._ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Why dost thou sigh? + + _Hush! for the shadow of the years + Stoopeth more nigh!_ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + Oh, smile on me. + The birds sing blithe, the birds sing gay, + The leaf laughs on the tree. + + _Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore + That tree whereon they grow, + I see it hewn, and bound, to bear + The weight of human woe!_ + + Mother, I am thy little Son-- + The Night comes on apace-- + When all God's waiting stars shall smile + On me in thy embrace. + + _Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night! + Oh, could'st thou slip away + Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,-- + And get to God by Day!_ + + +BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH[80] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_, December, 1909] + + So many countries of the earth, + So many lands of such great worth; + So stately, tall, and fair they shine,-- + So royal, all,--but one is mine. + + So many paths that come and go, + Busy and freighted, to and fro; + So many that I never see + That still bring gifts and friends to me; + So many paths that go and come, + But one leads South,--and that leads home. + + Oh, I would rather see the face + Of that dear land a little space + Than have earth's richest, fairest things + My own, or touch the hands of kings.-- + I'm homesick for it! When at night + The silent road runs still and white,-- + Runs onward, southward, still and fair, + And I know well it's going there, + And I know well at last 'twill come + To that old candle-lighted home,-- + Though all the candles of heaven are lit, + I'm homesick for the sight of it! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[79] Copyright, 1905, by Houghton, Mifflin Company. + +[80] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + + + + +LEIGH GORDON GILTNER + + +Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, poet and short-story writer, was born at +Eminence, Kentucky, in 1875. She is the daughter of the Rev. W. S. +Giltner, who was for many years president of Eminence College, from +which the future writer was graduated. She later pursued a course in +English at the University of Chicago, and studied Shakespeare and +dramatic art with Hart Conway of the Chicago School of Acting. Miss +Giltner's book of lyrics, _The Path of Dreams_ (Chicago, 1900), brought +her many kind words from the reviewers. This little book contained some +very excellent verse, but, shortly after its appearance, the author +abandoned poesy for the short-story. Her stories and sketches have +appeared in the _New England Magazine_, _The Century_, _Munsey's +Overland Monthly_, _The Reader_, _The Era_, and several other +periodicals. Within the last year or so she has had quite a number of +short-stories in _Young's Magazine_ "of breezy stories." At the present +time Miss Giltner has a Kentucky novel and a comedy in preparation, both +of which should appear shortly. She is one of the most beautiful of +Kentucky's writers: her frontispiece portrait in _The Path of Dreams_ is +said to have disarmed many carping critics who untied the little volume +with malice aforethought. But back of her personal loveliness, is a mind +of much power, cleverness, and originality. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (September 6, 1900); _Munsey's + Magazine_ (October, 1902); _The Overland_ (October, 1910). + + +THE JESTING GODS[81] + +[From _Munsey's Magazine_ (July, 1904)]. + +From the first it had been, in the nature of things, perfectly patent +to every member of the party gathered at Grantleigh for the shooting +that Tompkins' bride cared not a whit for Tompkins--which, if one +happened to know the man, was scarcely a matter for surprise. + +Tompkins, though a good fellow on the whole, was an unmitigated idiot. +Not a mere insignificant unit in the world's noble army of fools, but +a fool so conspicuous and of so infinite a variety as to be at all +times the cynosure of the general gaze. + +When a man is a fool and knows it, his folly not infrequently attains +the measure of wisdom. Let him but conceal his motley beneath a cloak +of weighty silence and he will presently acquire a reputation for +solid intelligence and a wise conservatism. But Tompkins was not one +of these. He joyously jangled his bells and flourished his bauble, +wholly unaware the while of the spectacle he was making of himself. If +he could have been persuaded to take on a neutral tint and keep +himself well in the background, inanity might, in time, have assumed +the dignity of intellectuality: but he lacked the sense of proportion, +of values. He was always in the foreground and always a more or less +inharmonious element in the _ensemble_. + +Tompkins had published an impossible volume of prose, followed by a +yet more impossible volume of verse: his crudely impressionistic +essays at art made the judicious grieve: he dabbled in music and posed +as a lyric tenor, though he had neither voice nor ear. A temperament +essentially histrionic kept him constantly in the centre of the stage. +With no remote realization of his limitations, he aspired to play +leads and heavies, when Fate had inexorably cast him for a line of low +comedy. He contrived to make divers and sundry kinds and degrees of an +idiot of himself on all possible occasions--and even when there was no +possible occasion therefor. He had a faculty for doing the wrong thing +which amounted to inspiration. + +We had been wont to speculate at the Club as to whether Tompkins would +ever find a woman the measure of whose folly should so far exceed his +own as to impel her to marry him. We wondered much when we heard that +he had at last achieved this feat. We wondered more when we saw the +woman who had made it a possibility. + +"_Titania_ and _Bottom_, by Jove!" whispered Ronalds to me as Tompkins +followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening of their arrival +at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked everywhere on account of his +relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) My fancy, which I had allowed to +play freely about the lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his +marriage, had wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had +accepted him as a _dernier resort_ and a simpering school girl too young +to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride--and gasped. + +She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so compelling, +as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It quite took away +one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping at her, but she bore +the ordeal with all grace and calm, though she was the daughter of a +struggling curate in some obscure locality remote from social +advantages. She was of a singularly striking type: the beauty of her +face was almost tragic in its intensity: the ghost of some immemorial +sorrow seemed to lurk in the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too +sombre expression was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare +smile, she was positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to +"promulgate rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial +indifference to feminine charm should endorse me.) + + * * * * * + +As the days passed--we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight--I found +myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some inaccuracy in +her interpretation of her _role_. But I watched in vain. There was +always a perfect appreciation of the requirements of the situation, +always the perfection of taste in its treatment. Evidently she had +thrown herself into the part and was playing it--would play it, +perhaps, to the end--with artistic _abandon_, tempered by a fine +discretion and discrimination. If her yoke galled, this proud woman +made no sign. But even the subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment, +and it was in such a moment that I chanced to see her the night before +the last of our stay. + +The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the moors and were +on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. Tompkins had gone up +stairs just ahead of me (his apartments were next mine) and had +carelessly left a door opening on the corridor slightly ajar. In +passing I unconsciously glanced that way and my eyes fell full upon +the mirrored face of Elinor Tompkins as her husband crossed toward +where she sat at her dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed +her countenance held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an +unbelievable complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and +self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash it came +and went. The next instant she had forced herself to smile and was +lifting her face for her husband's caress, while Tompkins, physically +and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined his lips to hers. I +caught my breath sharply. A choking sensation in my throat paid +tribute to her art. Not even Duse was more a mistress of emotional +control, expression, and repression. But this was something more than +the perfection of acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance +long drawn out--a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's +mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering. + +That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for the day, +and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to open his budget. +He had had the satisfaction of surprising us with the rumored +engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the scapegrace son of an +impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately at a scandal in high +official life: and had made his climax with the announcement of the +sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton and the consequent succession of +Delmar to his title and estates--when I glanced, by purest chance, at +Mrs. Tompkins. (I had fallen into a way of looking at her often--she +was certainly an interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the +lips. Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant she +had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered her wonted +perfect poise and calm. + +That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the subject. +Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps at the moment. +In his unconscious egotism he never spared her: there was seldom a +moment when she might drop her smiling mask: the essence of his +personality pervaded her whole atmosphere. + +"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying, +"and--_apropos_ of Delmar's succession to the title--he mentioned that +there had been a serious affair of the heart between him and our +fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. It seems one of +Ilverton's innumerable country places was near the village where the +Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl there last Autumn. The affair +soon assumed serious proportions: Ilverton heard of the engagement: +cut up an awful shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him +off to India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her +compliments to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have +given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused his son +and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should occasion +arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a bit, chuckled +mightily over the message and vowed that had it only been one of his +younger sons, she should have had him, by Jupiter!... But things +weren't easy for the girl at home. She had an invalid mother, a +nervous, nagging creature, who dinned it into her ears that she'd lost +the chance of a lifetime: that she was standing in the light of three +marriageable younger sisters: that with her limited social advantages +few matrimonial opportunities might be expected to come her way--and +more to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic." + +"Why not have tried the stage--with her voice and presence any manager +would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested. + +"She considered it, they say, but her reverend father turned a fit at +the bare suggestion. At this juncture, Tompkins presented himself as a +suitor: it was duly pointed out to Miss Barton by her loving parents +that he was rather an eligible _parti_: rich, not bad looking, and a +nephew of Wrexford's, and that she would better take the goods the +gods provided, which, in sheer desperation, she ultimately did. You +can see she loathes him, but she's evidently made up her mind to be +decent to him--and by Jove, she doesn't do it by halves! She's got +sand, all right, and I honor her for the way she makes the best of a +bad bargain--though it's not a pleasant thing to see." + +"It's a beastly pity!" broke in Ronalds warmly. "It makes me ill to see +her wasting herself and her subtleties on a dolt like Algy. What a +splendid pair she and Del would have made, and what a shame his Lordship +didn't obligingly die a few months sooner--since it had to be!" + +At this precise moment I caught sight of Tompkins standing just +without the parted portierres. How long he had been there I could not +guess, but doubtless quite long enough. He looked like a man who had +had a facer and was a bit dazed in consequence. I think I gasped, for +on the instant he looked my way with a glance that held an appeal, +which I must somehow have answered. In an instant he was gone and the +other men, all unaware of his proximity, pursued their theme. + +I did not see Tompkins at our hurried buffet breakfast next morning, and +I began to hope he would not go out with the guns that day, thus sparing +me the awkward necessity of meeting him again. But he presently appeared +on the terrace in his shooting togs, and I knew I was in for it. His +manner, however, which was entirely as usual, reassured me. Either he +had heard less than I had feared or the callousness of stupidity +protected him. He chatted with his wonted gayety with the men: he made +the ladies at hand to see us off a labored compliment or two, and met my +eye without consciousness or embarassment. I wondered if it were +stolidity or stoicism? All day he was in the best of spirits: he was +positively hilarious when we gathered at the gamekeeper's cottage for +luncheon--and I decided upon the former with a sense of relief, for the +thing had somehow got on my nerves. + +But later, as we returned to the field, he so palpably waited for me +to come up with him (we always put Tompkins in the van for safety's +sake--he did such fearful and wonderful things with his gun) that I +was forced to join him. After a moment he said, with an effort: + +"Sibley, I want to ask, as a very great personal favor, that you will +never, under any circumstances, mention to anyone--to _any one_," he +repeated, with a curious effect of earnestness, "about--last night." + +I hastened to give him my assurance. It was the least I could do. + +"Thank you," he said simply. "I felt I might depend upon you." Then, +because we were men--and Englishmen--we spoke of other things. + +Late that afternoon, as we bent our steps homeward, Tompkins and I +found ourselves again together. We had somehow strayed from the rest, +and under the guidance of a keeper, striding ahead, laden with +trappings of the hunt, were making our way toward Grantleigh. +Tompkins' manner was entirely simple and unconstrained. A respect I +had not previously accorded him was growing upon me. We were both dead +tired, and when we spoke at all it was of the day's sport. + +As we neared the Manor, the keeper, far in the lead, vaulted lightly +over a stile in a hedgerow. I followed less lightly (my enemies aver +that I am growing stout) with Tompkins in the rear.... Suddenly a shot, +abnormally loud and harsh in the twilight hush, rang out at my back. +Blind and deaf--fatally blind and deaf as I had been--I realized its +import on the instant. Even before I turned I knew what I should see. + +Tompkins was lying in a huddled heap at the foot of the stile, and as +I bent over him I saw that it was a matter of moments. He had bungled +things all his life, poor fellow, but he had not bungled this. + +"An accident, Sibley," he gasped, as I knelt beside him. "I +was--always--awkward--with a gun, you know. _An accident_--you'll +remember, old man? Elinor must not--" + +Speech failed him for an instant. An awful agony was upon him, but no +moan escaped his lips. His life had been a farce, a failure, but if he +had not known how to live, assuredly he knew how to die.... The +shadows were closing round him. He put out a groping hand for mine. + +"I think I'm--going, Sibley," he whispered. "Tell Elinor--" And with +her name upon his lips, he went out into the dark. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[81] Copyright, 1904, by the Frank A. Munsey Company. + + + + + +MARGARET S. ANDERSON + + +Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated in the public schools, +with a short special course at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss +Anderson has been literary editor of _The Evening Post_, of +Louisville, having a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in +the Saturday edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" for +_McClure's Magazine_; and since quitting _McClure's_, she has been a +public lecturer upon literature and art in New York, Philadelphia, +Pittsburg, Memphis, and Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems +have appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, +but the greater number of them have been published in _The American +Magazine_. She has also contributed considerable verse to the minor +magazines. The next year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought +together in a charming volume, entitled _The Flame in the Wind_, which +form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky woman of the present time +has done better work in verse than has she. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (August, 1902); _The Century_ + (September, 1904). + + +THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK[82] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1909)] + + Lord of all strength--behold, I am but frail! + Lord of all harvest--few the grapes and pale + Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord, + Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword, + Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die, + Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry: + Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one + Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun; + Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed + Let me lift up my sapling like a blade; + Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine! + Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine! + + +NOT THIS WORLD[83] + +[From _McClure's Magazine_ (November, 1909)] + + Shall I not give this world my heart, and well, + If for naught else, for many a miracle + Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?-- + _Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go + When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow + Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Shall I not give this world my heart, who find + Within this world the glories of the mind-- + That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?-- + _Nay, by the little footways it hath trod, + And smiles to see, when thou art under sod, + And by its very gaze across the abyss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold + One figure here above myself, my gold, + My life and hope, my joy and my intent?-- + _Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent, + That fragile garment that shall soon be rent, + By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain? + Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain, + And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot? + _Thou child and thankless! On this little spot_ + _Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not; + Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss, + Not this world, oh, not this!_ + + +WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM)[84] + +[From _The Atlantic Monthly_ (August, 1910)] + + So sharp the sword, so airy the defense! + As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense; + So fine and strange--so subtly-poised, too-- + The egoist that looks forever through! + + That winged spirit--air and grace and fire-- + A-flutter at the frame, is your desire; + Nay, it is you--who never knew the net, + Exquisite, vain--whom we shall not forget! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[82] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + +[83] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company. + +[84] Copyright, 1910, by the Atlantic Monthly Company. + + + + +ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH + + +Mrs. Abby Meguire Roach, "the very cleverest of the Louisville school +of women novelists," was born at Philadelphia in 1876. She was +educated in the schools of her native city, finishing her training +with a year at Wellesley College. In 1899 she was married to Mr. Neill +Roach, of Louisville, Kentucky, and that city has been her home since. +Mrs. Roach wrote many stories of married life for the New York +magazines, which were afterwards collected and published as _Some +Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906). These have been singled out by +the reviewers as "charming" and "most beautiful"; and her work has +been compared to Miss May Sinclair's, the famous English novelist. One +of Mrs. Roach's most recent stories was published in _The Century +Magazine_ for July, 1907, entitled "Manifest Destiny," but this has +not been followed by any others in the last year or so. +"Unremembering June," one of the best of the tales in _Some Successful +Marriages_, relates the love of Molly-Moll for her invalid husband, +after whose death she falls in love with Reno, the father of Lola, +"who had been his salvage from the wreck of his marriage." + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (May, 1907); _Library of + Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. xv), contains Miss Marilla + Waite Freeman's excellent study of Mrs. Roach. + + +UNREMEMBERING JUNE[85] + +[From _Some Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906)] + +"And you will let me have word of you? Surely? And give me a chance to +be of use? Won't you?" he persisted, taking leave. She swept his face +swiftly with a glance of inquiry, intelligence. "Won't you?" + +"O-h--perhaps," with just the faintest puckering of the mouth. + +But spring passed without word from her, until there were times when +Reno's impatience seethed like a colony of bees at hiving-time. + +At last he wrote. + +With unpardonable deliberation a brief answer came: Molly's son was a +couple months old, but not yet finished enough to be much to look at. + +He wrote again: Lola was pale from the city, and bored with herself +and her maid; a farm with other children on it sounded like fairyland +to her. Could some arrangement be made...? + +Lola had been there a month before he had any word but her own +hard-written and naturally not very voluminous love-letters, letters in +which the homesickness was an ever fainter and fainter echo of the first +wild cry, and in which the references to "Dandie" made it plain that she +had adopted the other children's auntie into a peculiar relationship +with herself. At last a postscript from Mrs. Loring herself: + +"Wouldn't you like to come to see her? It's worth a longer trip." + +"Of course I would. You're uncommon slow asking me. What kind of +father, and man, do you think me?" + +Molly was standing with the baby in her arms, chewing its chub of +fist. In the warm wind soft wisps of blown brown hair curled all +around forehead and neck. Her flesh was firm, transparent, aglow; her +skin as clear, satiny, pink as the baby's. And what generous, sweet +plumpness! She was at perhaps the most beautiful time of a woman's +life--in the glamour of first young motherhood, with the beauty of +perfect health and uncoarsened maturity. + +And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was no more +suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter in full +June--rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering June," the present +and future tenses of the year's declension. + +As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look devoured +her. + +Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed his to +the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile in front of +her. One particular occupant of one particular pair of overalls spied +him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, rosy. "Why, who is +this? Whose little girl--or boy--are you?" + +Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped flower. + +"Whose little girl _are_ you?" coached a rich voice with an +undercurrent of laughter. + +Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that elemental +nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small voice. At sight of +the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of many significances. And +with a flood of recollected loyalty, "_Papa's!_" gasped the child, and +smothered him with remorse. + +"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all at once?" + +("Well! I like that!") + +"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?" + +"I think you can." + +("Oh, you do?") + +"No?" His grip on her wrist hurt, and forced her to look up. ("Is it +only a mother you want for Lola--and yourself?"); and, looking, she +was satisfied; and, looking, she flushed slowly from head to foot, +answering him. + +"The most loyal, affectionate woman in the world!" he added, after a +little. + +"Oh, never mind the fairy tales!" she scoffed, pleased, waiting. + +He spoke none of the time-honored commonplaces that belittle or +dignify or mask the real individual feeling under the stereotype of +what it is assumed love ought to be. He could foresee her amusement. +Besides, it would have been about as appropriate as trying to capture +a bird with a smile. + +"But I would never marry any woman that I wasn't sure would be kind to +Lola and fond of her." + +"Oh, Lola!" Her whole look was soft and sweet. "I am fond of her now." +Then a mischievous laugh bubbled in her throat. "And could be of you, +too, if you insist." Even with the laugh her eyes were deeper than +words, grave and tender. + +"As to that, also, Molly-Moll, what you will be to me I am quite +satisfied, quite." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[85] Copyright, 1906, by Harper and Brothers. + + + + +IRVIN S. COBB + + +Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb, humorist and short-story writer, was born at +Paducah, Kentucky, June 23, 1876. He was educated in public and +private schools, but the newspaper field loomed large before him, and +at the age of nineteen he became editor of the Paducah _Daily News_. +For three years he conducted the "Sour Mash" column in the Louisville +_Evening Post_, when he returned to Paducah to become managing editor +of the _News-Democrat_, which position he held from 1901 to 1904. Late +in the year of 1904 Mr. Cobb went to New York, and for a year he was +editor of the humorous section and special writer for _The Evening +Sun_. In 1905 he became staff humorist for _The World_, and for the +following six years he remained with that paper. Mr. Cobb has written +several plays, none of which have been published in book form, but +they have been produced upon the stage. They include: _The +Campaigner_, _Funabashi_, _Mr. Busybody_, _The Gallery God_, _The +Yeggman_, and _Daffy-Down-Dilly_. He has written many humorous +stories, among which may be mentioned: _New York Through Funny +Glasses_, _The Hotel Clerk_, _Live Talks with Dead Ones_, _Making +Peace at Portsmouth_, _The Gotham Geography_, and _The Diary of Noah_. + +Then, one day, the daily grind racked his nerves, he rebelled and +bethought himself of the good old days in Kentucky years agone. Ah, what +a fine chapter was added to the history of our native letters when Cobb +looked backward! Now, when he was but twenty-four years of age, he had +written a story, a horror tale of Reelfoot Lake, which he named +"Fishhead" and immediately forgot, but which he had brought on East with +him. On this he made some minor revisions and started it on its round of +the magazine editors. But Cobb didn't wait for the fate of "Fishhead"; +and it's a good thing that he didn't! He wrote what he now regards as +his first fiction story, The Escape of Mr. Trimm; and _The Saturday +Evening Post_ accepted it so quickly, printing it in the issue for +November 27, 1909, that Cobb gleefully cashed the cheque and sent them +another shortly thereafter. The editor of _The Post_, George Horace +Lorimer, whom many competent judges considered the greatest editor in +the United States, realized that a new literary planet had swam into his +ken; and in 1911 he asked Cobb to become a staff contributor, which the +Kentuckian was delighted to do. All of his stories have appeared in that +publication, all save _Fishhead_, which Mr. Lorimer regarded as a bit +too strong medicine for his subscribers. Mr. Cobb's next big story in +_The Post_ was one that he has come to regard as the best thing he has +done hitherto, "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," which appeared in the +issue for January 21, 1911. This was a real horror tale, a "thriller," +making one couple the name of Cobb with Poe, a comparison which has +gathered strength with the passing of the months. For _The Post_ Mr. +Cobb created Judge Priest, a character that has made him famous. He did +a group of tales about and around this leading citizen of a certain +Southern town--which town was none other than his own Paducah; and which +character was none other than old Judge Bishop, whom many Kentuckians +recall with pleasure. Cobb is a great realist and he has never had any +patience with the romanticists. He painted the old town and the old +judge and the judge's friends and enemies--if he had any--just as he +remembered them. The best of these yarns, perhaps, was "Words and +Music," printed in the issue for October 28, 1911; and when they were +collected the other day and published under the title of _Back Home_ +(New York, 1912), that story, in which the old judge "rambles," was the +first of the ten tales the book contained. Some reviewers of this work +have rather loosely characterized it as a novel, and in a certain big +sense it is; but the sub-title is a better description: "the narrative +of Judge Priest and his people." The book is really a series of +pictures; and what Francis H. Underwood did so well in his Kentucky +novel, _Lord of Himself_, and what William C. Watts did much better in +his _Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement_, Irvin S. Cobb has done in a +manner superior to either of them in his _Back Home_. Judge Priest is a +worthy and welcome addition to the gallery of American heroes of prose +fiction, hung next to Bret Harte's highest heroes. Cohan and Harris have +acquired the dramatic rights of his book, and it is to be made into +play-form by Bayard Veiller, author of _Within the Law_, the great +"hit" of the 1912 New York season, in collaboration with the Kentuckian, +who once wrote of his original plays, which have already been listed: +"One was accidentally destroyed, one was lost, and one was loaned out +and never returned." Let us hope that none of these things may overtake +the present work; and that, when Thomas Wise struts across the boards in +the autumn of 1913 as Judge Priest he may receive a bigger "hand" than +he ever drew in _The Gentleman from Mississippi_. + +Besides these tales of Judge Priest, Cobb wrote several detached +short-stories, and many humorous articles for _The Post_ during 1912. +The best of this humor appeared simultaneously with _Back Home_, in a +delightful little book, called _Cobb's Anatomy_ (New York, 1912). This +contained four essays on the following subjects: "Tummies," perhaps +the funniest thing he has done so far; "Teeth;" "Hair;" "Hands and +Feet." The only adverse criticism to make of the work was its length: +it was too short. Its sequel will appear in 1913 under the title of +_Cobb's Bill of Fare_, containing four humorous skits. Aside from his +Judge Priest yarns, which began in _The Post_ in the autumn of 1911 +and ran throughout the year of 1912, and his humorous papers which +also appeared from time to time, Cobb wrote the greatest short-story +ever written by a Kentuckian (save that first book of stories by James +Lane Allen), entitled "The Belled Buzzard" (_The Post_, September 28, +1912). This, with "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," and "Fishhead," +which is to be published in _The Cavalier_ for January 11, 1913, after +having been rejected by almost every reputable magazine in America, +form a trio of horror tales of such power as to compel comparison with +the best work of Edgar Poe, with the "shade" going to the Kentuckian +in many minds. All three of them, together with "The Escape of Mr. +Trimm"; "The Exit of Anse Dugmore," a Kentucky mountain yarn; and +four unpublished stories, called "Another of Those Cub Reporter +Stories"; "Smoke of Battle"; "To the Editor of the Sun;" and "Guilty +as Charged," will appear in book form in the autumn of 1913, entitled +_The Escape of Mr. Trimm_. + +In summing up Cobb's work for the New York _Sun_, Robert H. Davis, +editor of the Munsey magazines, wrote: "Gelett Burgess, in a lecture +at Columbia College, said that Cobb was one of the ten great American +humorists. Cobb ought to demand a recount. There are not ten humorists +in the world, although Cobb is one of them.... Thus in Irvin Cobb we +find Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and Edgar Allan Poe at their best.... If +he uses his pen for an Alpine stock, the Matterhorn is his." And +George Horace Lorimer holds that Cobb is "the biggest writing-man ever +born in Kentucky; and he's going to get better all the time." This is +certainly high praise, but that it voices the opinions of many people +is beyond all question. "The great 'find' of 1912" may be the +trade-mark of his future. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (April, 1911); _Hampton's + Magazine_ (October, 1911); _The American Magazine_ (November, + 1912); _Who's Cobb and Why_, by R. H. Davis (New York, 1912, a + brochure). + + +THE BELLED BUZZARD[86] + +[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, September 28, 1912)] + +There was a swamp known as Little Niggerwool, to distinguish it from +Big Niggerwool, which lay nearer the river. It was traversable only by +those who knew it well--an oblong stretch of yellow mud and yellower +water, measuring, maybe four miles its longest way and two miles +roughly at its widest; and it was full of cypress and stunted swamp +oak, with edgings of cane-break and rank weeds; and in one place, +where a ridge crossed it from side to side, it was snaggled like an +old jaw with dead tree-trunks, rising close-ranked and thick as teeth. +It was untenanted of living things--except, down below, there were +snakes and mosquitoes, and a few wading and swimming fowl; and up +above, those big woodpeckers that the country people called +logcocks--larger than pigeons, with flaming crests and spiky +tails--swooping in their long, loping flight from snag to snag, always +just out of gunshot of the chance invader, and uttering a strident cry +which matched those surroundings so fitly that it might well have been +the voice of the swamp itself. + +On one side Little Niggerwool drained its saffron waters off into a +sluggish creek, where summer ducks bred, and on the other it ended +abruptly at a natural bank of high ground, along which the county +turnpike ran. The swamp came right up to the road, and thrust its +fringe of reedy, weedy undergrowth forward as though in challenge to +the good farm lands that were spread beyond the barrier. At the time I +am speaking of it was midsummer, and from these canes and weeds and +waterplants there came a smell so rank as almost to be overpowering. +They grew thick as a curtain, making a blank green wall taller than a +man's head. + +Along the dusty stretch of road fronting the swamp nothing living had +stirred for half an hour or more. And so at length the weedstems +rustled and parted, and out from among them a man came forth silently +and cautiously. He was an old man--an old man who had once been fat, +but with age had grown lean again, so that now his skin was by odds +too large for him. It lay on the back of his neck in folds. Under the +chin he was pouched like a pelican and about the jowls was wattled +like a turkey-gobbler. + +He came out upon the road slowly and stopped there, switching his legs +absently with the stalk of a horseweed. He was in his shirtsleeves--a +respectable, snuffy old figure; evidently a man deliberate in words +and thoughts and actions. There was something about him suggestive of +an old staid sheep that had been engaged in a clandestine transaction +and was afraid of being found out. + +He had made amply sure no one was in sight before he came out of the +swamp, but now, to be doubly certain, he watched the empty road--first +up, then down--for a long half minute, and fetched a sighing breath of +satisfaction. His eyes fell upon his feet and, taken with an idea, he +stepped back to the edge of the road and with a wisp of crabgrass +wiped his shoes clean of the swamp mud, which was of a different color +and texture from the soil of the upland. All his life Squire H. B. +Gathers had been a careful, canny man, and he had need to be doubly +careful on this summer morning. Having disposed of the mud on his +feet, he settled his white straw hat down firmly upon his head, and, +crossing the road, he climbed a stake-and-rider fence laboriously and +went plodding sedately across a weedfield and up a slight slope toward +his house, half a mile away, upon the crest of the little hill. + +He felt perfectly natural--not like a man who had just taken a +fellowman's life--but natural and safe, and well satisfied with +himself and his morning's work. And he was safe--that was the main +thing--absolutely safe. Without hitch or hindrance he had done the +thing for which he had been planning and waiting and longing all these +months. There had been no slip or mischance; the whole thing had +worked out as plainly and simply as two and two make four. No living +creature except himself knew of the meeting in the early morning at +the head of Little Niggerwool, exactly where the squire had figured +they should meet; none knew of the device by which the other man had +been lured deeper and deeper in the swamp to the exact spot where the +gun was hidden. No one had seen the two of them enter the swamp; no +one had seen the squire emerge, three hours later, alone. The gun, +having served its purpose, was hidden again, in a place no mortal eye +would ever discover. Face downward, with a hole between his +shoulderblades, the dead man was lying where he might lie undiscovered +for months or for years, or forever. His pedler's pack was buried in +the mud so deep that not even the probing crawfishes could find it. He +would never be missed probably. There was but the slightest likelihood +that inquiry would ever be made for him--let alone a search. He was a +stranger and a foreigner, the dead man was, whose comings and goings +made no great stir in the neighborhood, and whose failure to come +again would be taken as a matter of course--just one of those +shiftless, wandering dagoes, here to-day and gone to-morrow. That was +one of the best things about it--these dagoes never had any people in +this country to worry about them or look for them when they +disappeared. And so it was all over and done with, and nobody the +wiser. The squire clapped his hands together briskly with the air of a +man dismissing a subject from his mind for good, and mended his gait. + +He felt no stabbings of conscience. On the contrary, a glow of +gratification filled him. His house was saved from scandal; his present +wife would philander no more--before his very eyes--with these young +dagoes, who came from nobody knew where, with packs on their backs and +persuasive, wheedling tongues in their heads. At this thought the squire +raised his head and considered his homestead. It looked pretty good to +him--the small white cottage among the honey locusts, with beehives and +flowerbeds about it; the tidy whitewashed fence; the sound outbuildings +at the back, and the well-tilled acres roundabout. + +At the fence he halted and turned about, carelessly and casually, and +looked back along the way he had come. Everything was as it should +be--the weedfield steaming in the heat; the empty road stretching +along the crooked ridge like a long gray snake sunning itself; and +beyond it, massing up, the dark, cloaking stretch of swamp. Everything +was all right, but----. The squire's eyes, in their loose sacs of +skin, narrowed and squinted. Out of the blue arch away over yonder a +small black dot had resolved itself and was swinging to and fro, like +a mote. A buzzard--hey? Well, there were always buzzards about on a +clear day like this. Buzzards were nothing to worry about--almost any +time you could see one buzzard, or a dozen buzzards if you were a mind +to look for them. + +But this particular buzzard now--wasn't he making for Little +Niggerwool? The squire did not like the idea of that. He had not +thought of the buzzards until this minute. Sometimes when cattle +strayed the owners had been known to follow the buzzards, knowing +mighty well that if the buzzards led the way to where the stray was, +the stray would be past the small salvage of hide and hoofs--but the +owner's doubts would be set at rest for good and all. + +There was a grain of disquiet in this. The squire shook his head to +drive the thought away--yet it persisted, coming back like a midge +dancing before his face. Once at home, however, Squire Gathers +deported himself in a perfectly normal manner. With the satisfied +proprietorial eye of an elderly husband who has no rivals, he +considered his young wife, busied about her household duties. He sat +in an easy-chair upon his front gallery and read his yesterday's +Courier-Journal which the rural carrier had brought him; but he kept +stepping out into the yard to peer up into the sky and all about him. +To the second Mrs. Gathers he explained that he was looking for +weather signs. A day as hot and still as this one was a regular +weather-breeder; there ought to be rain before night. + +"Maybe so," she said; "but looking's not going to bring rain." + +Nevertheless the squire continued to look. There was really nothing to +worry about; still at midday he did not eat much dinner, and before +his wife was half through with hers he was back on the gallery. His +paper was cast aside and he was watching. The original buzzard--or, +anyhow, he judged it was the first one he had seen--was swinging back +and forth in great pendulum swings, but closer down toward the +swamp--closer and closer--until it looked from that distance as though +the buzzard flew almost at the level of the tallest snags there. And +on beyond this first buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards. +Were there four of them? No; there were five--five in all. + +Such is the way of the buzzard--that shifting black question-mark +which punctuates a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or a sheep or a +horse lies down to die. At once, coming seemingly out of nowhere, +appears a black spot, up five hundred feet or a thousand in the air. +In broad loops and swirls this dot swings round and round and round, +coming a little closer to earth at every turn and always with one +particular spot upon the earth for the axis of its wheel. Out of space +also other moving spots emerge and grow larger as they tack and jibe +and drop nearer, coming in their leisurely buzzard way to the feast. +There is no haste--the feast will wait. If it is a dumb creature that +has fallen stricken the grim coursers will sooner or later be +assembled about it and alongside it, scrouging ever closer and closer +to the dying thing, with awkward outthrustings of their naked necks +and great dust-raising flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; lifting their +feathered shanks high and stiffly like old crippled grave-diggers in +overalls too tight--but silent and patient all, offering no attack +until the last tremor runs through the stiffening carcass and the eyes +glaze over. To humans the buzzard pays a deeper meed of respect--he +hangs aloft longer; but in the end he comes. No scavenger shark, no +carrion crab, has chambered more grisly secrets in his digestive +processes than this big charnel bird. Such is the way of the buzzard. + + * * * * * + +The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing that had not happened in +years. He stayed on the front gallery and kept count. Those moving +distant black specks typified uneasiness for the squire--not fear +exactly, or panic or anything akin to it, but a nibbling, nagging kind +of uneasiness. Time and again he said to himself that he would not +think about them any more; but he did--unceasingly. + +By supper-time there were seven of them. + + * * * * * + +He slept light and slept badly. It was not the thought of that dead +man lying yonder in Little Niggerwool that made him toss and fume +while his wife snored gently alongside him. It was something else +altogether. Finally his stirrings roused her and she asked drowsily +what ailed him. Was he sick? Or bothered about anything? + +Irritated, he answered her snappishly. Certainly nothing was bothering +him, he told her. It was a hot-enough night--wasn't it? And when a man +got a little along in life he was apt to be a light sleeper--wasn't +that so? Well, then? She turned upon her side and slept again with her +light, purring snore. The squire lay awake, thinking hard and waiting +for day to come. + +At the first faint pink-and-gray glow he was up and out upon the +gallery. He cut a comic figure standing there, in his shirt in the +half light, with the dewlap at his throat dangling grotesquely in the +neck-opening of the unbuttoned garment, and his bare bowed legs +showing, splotched and varicose. He kept his eyes fixed on the skyline +below, to the south. Buzzards are early risers too. Presently, as the +heavens shimmered with the miracle of sunrise, he could make them +out--six or seven, or maybe eight. + +An hour after breakfast the squire was on his way down through the +weed field to the country road. He went half eagerly, half +unwillingly. He wanted to make sure about those buzzards. It might be +that they were aiming for the old pasture at the head of the swamp. +There were sheep grazing there--and it might be that a sheep had died. +Buzzards were notoriously fond of sheep, when dead. Or, if they were +pointed for the swamp he must satisfy himself exactly what part of the +swamp it was. He was at the stake-and-rider fence when a mare came +jogging down the road, drawing a rig with a man in it. At sight of the +squire in the field the man pulled up. + +"Hi, squire!" he began. "Goin' somewheres?" + +"No; jest knockin' about," the squire said--"jest sorter lookin' the +place over." + +"Hot agin--ain't it?" said the other. + +The squire allowed that it was, for a fact, mighty hot. Commonplaces of +gossip followed this--county politics, and a neighbor's wife sick of +breakbone fever down the road a piece. The subject of crops succeeded +inevitably. The squire spoke of the need of rain. Instantly he regretted +it, for the other man, who was by way of being a weather wiseacre, +cocked his head aloft to study the sky for any signs of clouds. + +"Wonder whut all them buzzards are doin' yonder, squire," he said, +pointing upward with his whipstock. + +"Whut buzzards--where?" asked the squire with an elaborate note of +carelessness in his voice. + +"Right yonder, over Little Niggerwool--see 'em there?" + +"Oh, yes," the squire made answer. "Now I see 'em. They ain't doin' +nothin, I reckin--jest flyin' round same as they always do in clear +weather." + +"Must be somethin' dead over there!" speculated the man in the buggy. + +"A hawg probably," said the squire promptly--almost too promptly. +"There's likely to be hawgs usin' in Niggerwool. Bristow, over the +other side from here--he's got a big drove of hawgs." + +"Well, mebbe so," said the man; "but hawgs is a heap more apt to be +feedin' on high ground, seems like to me. Well, I'll be gittin' along +towards town. G'day, squire." And he slapped the lines down on the +mare's flank and jogged off through the dust. + +He could not have suspected anything--that man couldn't. As the squire +turned away from the road and headed for his house he congratulated +himself upon that stroke of his in bringing in Bristow's hogs; and yet +there remained this disquieting note in the situation, that buzzards +flying, and especially buzzards flying over Little Niggerwool, made +people curious--made them ask questions. + +He was halfway across the weedfield when, above the hum of insect +life, above the inward clamor of his own busy speculations, there came +to his ear dimly and distantly a sound that made him halt and cant his +head to one side the better to hear it. Somewhere, a good way off, +there was a thin, thready, broken strain of metallic clinking and +clanking--an eery ghost-chime ringing. It came nearer and became +plainer--tonk-tonk-tonk; then the tonks all running together briskly. + +A cowbell--that was it; but why did it seem to come from overhead, +from up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so abruptly from one +quarter to another--from left to right and back again to left? And how +was it that the clapper seemed to strike so fast? Not even the +breachiest of breachy young heifers could be expected to tinkle a +cowbell with such briskness. The squire's eye searched the earth and +the sky, his troubled mind giving to his eye a quick and flashing +scrutiny. He had it. It was not a cow at all. It was not anything that +went on four legs. + +One of the loathly flock had left the others. The orbit of his swing had +carried him across the road and over Squire Gathers' land. He was +sailing right toward and over the squire now. Craning his flabby neck +the squire could make out the unwholesome contour of the huge bird. He +could see the ragged black wings--a buzzard's wings are so often ragged +and uneven--and the naked throat; the slim, naked head; the big feet +folded up against the dingy belly. And he could see a bell too--an +ordinary cowbell--that dangled at the creature's breast and jangled +incessantly. All his life nearly Squire Gathers had been hearing about +the Belled Buzzard. Now with his own eye he was seeing him. + +Once, years and years and years ago, some one trapped a buzzard, and +before freeing it clamped about its skinny neck a copper band with a +cowbell pendent from it. Since then the bird so ornamented has been +seen a hundred times--and heard oftener--over an area as wide as half +the continent. It has been reported, now in Kentucky, now in Florida, +now in North Carolina--now anywhere between the Ohio River and the +Gulf. Crossroads correspondents take their pens in hand to write to +the country papers that on such and such a date, at such a place, +So-and-So saw the Belled Buzzard. Always it is the Belled Buzzard, +never a belled buzzard. The Belled Buzzard is an institution. + +There must be more than one of them. It seems hard to believe that one +bird, even a buzzard in his prime, and protected by law in every +Southern state and known to be a bird of great age, could live so long +and range so far, and wear a clinking cowbell all the time! Probably +other jokers have emulated the original joker; probably if the truth +were known there have been a dozen such; but the country people will +have it that there is only one Belled Buzzard--a bird that bears a +charmed life and on his neck a never-silent bell. + + * * * * * + +Squire Gathers regarded it a most untoward thing that the Belled Buzzard +should have come just at this time. The movements of ordinary, unmarked +buzzards mainly concerned only those whose stock had strayed; but almost +anybody with time to spare might follow this rare and famous visitor, +this belled and feathered junkman of the sky. Supposing now that some +one followed it to-day--maybe followed it even to a certain thick clump +of cypress in the middle of Little Niggerwool! + +But at this particular moment the Belled Buzzard was heading directly +away from that quarter. Could it be following him? Of course not! It +was just by chance that it flew along the course the squire was +taking. But, to make sure, he veered off sharply, away from the +footpath into the high weeds. He was right; it was only a chance. The +Belled Buzzard swung off, too, but in the opposite direction, with a +sharp tonking of its bell, and, flapping hard, was in a minute or two +out of hearing and sight, past the trees to the westward. + +Again the squire skimped his dinner, and again he spent the long, +drowsy afternoon upon his front gallery. In all the sky there were now +no buzzards visible, belled or unbelled--they had settled to earth +somewhere; and it served somewhat to soothe the squire's pestered +mind. This does not mean, though, that he was by any means easy in his +thoughts. Outwardly he was calm enough, with the ruminative judicial +air befitting the oldest justice of the peace in the county; but, +within him, a little something gnawed unceasingly at his nerves like +one of those small white worms that are to be found in seemingly sound +nuts. About once in so long a tiny spasm of the muscles would contract +the dewlap under his chin. The squire had never heard of that play, +made famous by a famous player, wherein the murdered victim was a +pedler, too, and a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable remorse in +the murderer's ear. As a strict church goer the squire had no use for +players or for play-actors, and so was spared that added canker to his +conscience. It was bad enough as it was. + +That night, as on the night before, the old man's sleep was broken and +fitful, and disturbed by dreaming, in which he heard a metal clapper +striking against a brazen surface. This was one dream that came true. +Just after daybreak he heaved himself out of bed, with a flop of his +broad bare feet upon the floor, and stepped to the window and peered +out. Half seen in the pinkish light, the Belled Buzzard flapped directly +over his roof and flew due south, right toward the swamp--drawing a +direct line through the air between the slayer and the victim--or, +anyway, so it seemed to the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous. + + * * * * * + +Kneedeep in yellow swamp water the squire squatted, with his shotgun +cocked and loaded and ready, waiting to kill the bird that now +typified for him guilt and danger and an abiding great fear. Gnats +plagued him and about him frogs croaked. Almost overhead a logcock +clung lengthwise to a snag, watching him. Snake-doctors, insects with +bronze bodies and filmy wings, went back and forth like small living +shuttles. Other buzzards passed and repassed, but the squire waited, +forgetting the cramps in his elderly limbs and the discomfort of the +water in his shoes. + +At length he heard the bell. It came nearer and nearer, and the Belled +Buzzard swung overhead not sixty feet up, its black bulk a fair target +against the blue. He aimed and fired, both barrels bellowing at once +and a fog of thick powder smoke enveloping him. Through the smoke he +saw the bird careen, and its bell jangled furiously; then the buzzard +righted itself and was gone, fleeing so fast that the sound of its +bell was hushed almost instantly. Two long wing feathers drifted +slowly down; torn disks of gunwadding and shredded green scraps of +leaves descended about the squire in a little shower. + +He cast his empty gun from him, so that it fell in the water and +disappeared; and he hurried out of the swamp as fast as his shaky legs +would take him, splashing himself with mire and water to his eyebrows. +Mucked with mud, breathing in great gulps, trembling, a suspicious +figure to any eye, he burst through the weed curtain and staggered into +the open, his caution all gone and a vast desperation fairly choking +him--but the gray road was empty and the field beyond the road was +empty; and, except for him, the whole world seemed empty and silent. + +As he crossed the field Squire Gathers composed himself. With plucked +handfuls of grass he cleaned himself of much of the swamp mire that +coated him over; but the little white worm that gnawed at his nerves +had become a cold snake that was coiled about his heart, squeezing it +tighter and tighter! + + * * * * * + +This episode of the attempt to kill the Belled Buzzard occurred in the +afternoon of the third day. In the forenoon of the fourth, the weather +being still hot, with cloudless skies and no air stirring, there was a +rattle of warped wheels in the squire's lane and a hail at his yard +fence. Coming out upon his gallery from the innermost darkened room of +his house, where he had been stretched upon a bed, the squire shaded +his eyes from the glare and saw the constable of his own magisterial +district sitting in a buggy at the gate waiting for some one. + +The old man came down the dirtpath slowly, almost reluctantly, with +his head twisted up sidewise, listening, watching; but the constable +sensed nothing strange about the other's gait and posture; the +constable was full of the news he brought. He began to unload the +burden of it without preamble. + +"Mornin', Squire Gathers. There's been a dead man found in Little +Niggerwool--and you're wanted." + +He did not notice that the squire was holding on with both hands to +the gate; but he did notice that the squire had a sick look out of his +eyes and a dead, pasty color in his face; and he noticed--but attached +no meaning to it--that when the Squire spoke his voice seemed flat and +hollow. + +"Wanted--fur--whut?" The squire forced the words out of his throat. + +"Why, to hold the inquest," explained the constable. "The coroner's +sick abed, and he said you bein' the nearest jestice of the peace +should serve." + +"Oh," said the squire with more ease. "Well, where is it--the body?" + +"They taken it to Bristow's place and put it in his stable for the +present. They brought it out over on that side and his place was the +nearest. If you'll hop in here with me, squire, I'll ride you right +over there now. There's enough men already gathered to make up a jury, +I reckin." + +"I--I ain't well," demurred the squire. "I've been sleepin' porely +these last few nights. It's the heat," he added quickly. + +"Well, such, you don't look very brash, and that's a fact," said the +constable; "but this here job ain't goin' to keep you long. You see +it's in such shape--the body is--that there ain't no way of makin' out +who the feller was, nor whut killed him. There ain't nobody reported +missin' in this county as we know of, either; so I jedge a verdict of +a unknown person dead from unknown causes would be about the correct +thing. And we kin git it all over mighty quick and put him underground +right away, suh--if you'll go along now." + +"I'll go," agreed the squire, almost quivering in his newborn +eagerness. "I'll go right now." He did not wait to get his coat or to +notify his wife of the errand that was taking him. In his shirtsleeves +he climbed into the buggy, and the constable turned his horse and +clucked him into a trot. And now the squire asked the question that +knocked at his lips demanding to be asked--the question the answer to +which he yearned for and yet dreaded. + +"How did they come to find--it?" + +"Well, suh, that's a funny thing," said the constable. "Early this +mornin' Bristow's oldest boy--that one they call Buddy--he heared a +cowbell over in the swamp and so he went to look; Bristow's got cows, +as you know, and one or two of 'em is belled. And he kept on followin' +after the sound of it till he got way down into the thickest part of +them cypress slashes that's near the middle there; and right there he +run acrost it--this body. + +"But, suh, squire, it wasn't no cow at all. No, suh; it was a buzzard +with a cowbell on his neck--that's whut it was. Yes, suh; that there +same old Belled Buzzard he's come back agin and is hangin' round. They +tell me he ain't been seen round here sence the year of the yellow +fever--I don't remember myself, but that's whut they tell me. The +niggers over on the other side are right smartly worked up over it. +They say--the niggers do--that when the Belled Buzzard comes it's a +sign of bad luck for somebody, shore!" + +The constable drove on, talking on, garrulous as a guinea-hen. The +squire didn't heed him. Hunched back in the buggy he harkened only to +those busy inner voices filling his mind with thundering portents. +Even so, his ear was first to catch above the rattle of the buggy +wheels the faraway, faint tonk-tonk! They were about halfway to +Bristow's place then. He gave no sign, and it was perhaps half a +minute before the constable heard it too. + +The constable jerked the horse to a standstill and craned his neck +over his shoulder. + +"Well, by doctors!" he cried, "if there ain't the old scoundrel now, +right here behind us! I kin see him plain as day--he's got an old +cowbell hitched to his neck; and he's shy a couple of feathers out of +one wing. By doctors, that's somethin' you won't see every day! In all +my born days I ain't never seen the beat of that!" + +Squire Gathers did not look; he only cowered back farther under the +buggy-top. In the pleasing excitement of the moment his companion took +no heed, though, of anything except the Belled Buzzard. + +"Is he followin' us?" asked the squire in a curiously flat voice. + +"Which--him?" answered the constable, still stretching his neck. "No, +he's gone now--gone off to the left--jest a-zoonin', like he'd forgot +somethin'." + +And Bristow's place was to the left! But there might still be time. To +get the inquest over and the body underground--those were the main +things. Ordinarily humane in his treatment of stock, Squire Gathers +urged the constable to greater speed. The horse was lathered and his +sides heaved wearily as they pounded across the bridge over the creek +which was the outlet to the swamp and emerged from a patch of woods in +sight of Bristow's farm buildings. + +The house was set on a little hill among cleared fields, and was in +other respects much like the squire's own house, except that it was +smaller and not so well painted. There was a wide yard in front with +shade trees and a lye-hopper and a well-box, and a paling fence with a +stile in it instead of a gate. At the rear, behind a clutter of +outbuildings--a barn, a smokehouse and a corncrib--was a little peach +orchard; and flanking the house on the right there was a good-sized +cowyard, empty of stock at this hour, with feeding racks ranged in a +row against the fence. A two-year-old negro child, bareheaded and +barefooted, and wearing but a single garment, was grubbing busily in +the dirt under one of these feedracks. + +To the front fence a dozen or more riding horses were hitched, flicking +their tails at the flies; and on the gallery men in their shirtsleeves +were grouped. An old negro woman, with her head tied in a bandanna and a +man's old slouch hat perched upon the bandanna, peeped out from behind a +corner. There were hound dogs wandering about, sniffing uneasily. + +Before the constable had the horse hitched the squire was out of the +buggy and on his way up the footpath, going at a brisker step than the +squire usually traveled. The men on the porch hailed him gravely and +ceremoniously, as befitting an occasion of solemnity. Afterward some +of them recalled the look in his eye; but at the moment they noted +it--if they noted it at all--subconsciously. + +For all his haste the squire, as was also remembered later, was almost +the last to enter the door; and before he did enter he halted and +searched the flawless sky as though for signs of rain. Then he hurried +on after the others, who clumped single file along a narrow little hall, +the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly under their heavy farm shoes, +and entered a good-sized room that had in it, among other things, a +high-piled feather bed and a cottage organ--Bristow's best room, now to +be placed at the disposal of the law's representatives for the inquest. +The squire took the largest chair and drew it to the very center of the +room, in front of a fireplace, where the grate was banked with withering +asparagus ferns. The constable took his place formally at one side of +the presiding official. The others sat or stood about where they could +find room--all but six of them, whom the squire picked for his coroner's +jury, and who backed themselves against the wall. + +The squire showed haste. He drove the preliminaries forward with a +sort of tremulous insistence. Bristow's wife brought a bucket of fresh +drinking water and a gourd, and almost before she was out of the room +and the door closed behind her the squire had sworn his jurors and was +calling the first witness, who it seemed likely would also be the only +witness--Bristow's oldest boy. The boy wriggled in confusion as he sat +on a cane-bottomed chair facing the old magistrate. All there, barring +one or two, had heard his story a dozen times already, but now it was +to be repeated under oath; and so they bent their heads, listening as +though it were a brand-new tale. All eyes were on him; none were +fastened on the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head, +listening--listening. + +The witness began--but had no more than started when the squire gave a +great, screeching howl and sprang from his chair and staggered +backward, his eyes popped and the pouch under his chin quivering as +though it had a separate life all its own. Startled, the constable +made toward him and they struck together heavily and went down--both +on all fours--right in front of the fireplace. + +The constable scrambled free and got upon his feet, in a squat of +astonishment, with his head craned; but the squire stayed upon the +floor, face downward, his feet flopping among the rustling asparagus +greens--a picture of slavering animal fear. And now his gagging +screech resolved itself into articulate speech. + +"I done it!" they made out his shrieked words. "I done it! I own up--I +killed him! He aimed fur to break up my home and I tolled him off into +Niggerwool and killed him! There's a hole in his back if you'll look +fur it. I done it--oh, I done it--and I'll tell everything jest like +it happened if you'll jest keep that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy! +Don't you hear it? It's a-comin' clos'ter and clos'ter--it's a-comin' +after me! Keep it away----" His voice gave out and he buried his head +in his hands and rolled upon the gaudy carpet. + +And now they heard what he had heard first--they heard the +tonk-tonk-tonk of a cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them along +the hallway without. It was as though the sound floated along. There was +no creak of footsteps upon the loose, bare boards--and the bell jangled +faster than it would dangling from a cow's neck. The sound came right to +the door and Squire Gathers wallowed among the chairlegs. + +The door swung open. In the doorway stood a negro child, barefooted and +naked except for a single garment, eying them with serious, rolling +eyes--and, with all the strength of his two puny arms, proudly but +solemnly tolling a small, rusty cowbell he had found in the cowyard. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[86] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company. + + + + +ISAAC F. MARCOSSON + + +Isaac Frederick Marcosson, editor and author, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, September 13, 1876, of Jewish ancestry. He was educated in the +public schools of Louisville, and attended High School for a year. In +1894 he entered journalism, joining the staff of the Louisville _Times_, +of which he was subsequently literary and city editor. In 1903 Mr. +Marcosson went to New York, and became associate editor of _The World's +Work_; and in connection with this work he served its publishers, +Doubleday, Page and Company, as literary adviser. While with _The +World's Work_ he wrote many articles on topics of vital interest. From +March, 1907, to 1910, Mr. Marcosson was financial editor of _The +Saturday Evening Post_ of Philadelphia. For _The Post_ he conducted +three popular departments: "Your Savings"; "Literary Folks"; and "Wall +Street Men." Every other week he had a signed article upon some subject +of general interest. Some of his articles upon "Your Savings" have been +collected and published in a small book, called _How to Invest Your +Savings_ (Philadelphia, 1907). Mr. Marcosson's latest book, _The +Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910), written upon an unusual +subject, attracted wide attention. A part of it was originally published +anonymously as a serial in _The Post_, and the response it evoked +encouraged Mr. Marcosson to make a little book of his hero, who was none +other than Jules Turnour, the famous Ringling clown. Jules furnished the +facts, or part of them, perhaps, but Mr. Marcosson made him more +attractive in cold type than he had ever been under the big tent. _The +Autobiography of a Clown_ deserved all the kind things that were said +about it. Since 1910 Mr. Marcosson has been associate editor of +_Munsey's Magazine_ and the other periodicals that are owned by Mr. +Munsey. His articles usually lead the magazine. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (April; June; December, 1910). + + +THE WAGON CIRCUS[87] + +[From _The Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910)] + +All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from town to +town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the hotel in 'buses or +snatched what sleep they could in specially built vans. The start for +the next town was usually made about three o'clock in the morning. No +"run" from town to town was more than twenty miles, and more often it +was considerably less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader, +on horseback, with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the +wagons, and cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles, +neighing horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it +wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their seats. The +elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy groom alongside. +The route was indicated by flaming torches left at points where the +roads turned. Sometimes these torches went out, and the show got lost. +More than once a farmer was rudely aroused from his slumbers, and +nearly lost his wits when he poked his head out of his window and saw +the black bulk of an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the +picturesque day of the circus. + +My first engagement was with the Burr Robbins circus, which was a big +wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was new to me, and at +first strange. But I got to like it very much. It was a great relief to +lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and feel the sweet breath of the +country. Often the nights were so still that the only sounds were the +creaking of the wagons, and occasionally the words, "Mile up," that the +elephant driver always used to urge his patient, plodding beast. + +The circus arrangement then was much different from now. Then the whole +outfit halted outside the town, which was never reached until after +daylight. The canvas men would hurry to the "lot" to put up the tents +while we remained behind to spruce up for the parade. Gay flags were +hoisted over the dusty wagons; the tired and sleepy performers turned +out of tousled beds to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous +howdah was placed on the elephant's back, and a dark-eyed beauty, +usually from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and +to be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter how +long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, everybody, +man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of course, by this time +we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping countrymen. Often the triumphant +parade of the town was made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no +let-up until the people of the community had had every bit of "free +doing" that the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in +the parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers changed +clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. If there +was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But sleep and the circus man +are strangers during the season. Ask any circus man when he sleeps, and +he will say, "In the winter time." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[87] Copyright, 1910, by Moffat, Yard and Company. + + + + +GERTRUDE KING TUFTS + + +Mrs. Gertrude King Tufts, author of _The Landlubbers_, was born in +Boone county, Kentucky, in 1877, the daughter of Col. William S. King. +She was educated in Kentucky and at private schools in Philadelphia, +after which she took a library course and went to New York to work. +The property she had inherited had been squandered, so she was +compelled to seek her own fortune. For a while she did well, but her +struggle for success was most severe. For nearly two years Miss King +knew "physical pain and the utter want of money." Finally, however, in +1907, she became editor of the educational department of the Macmillan +Company, and then she set to work upon her novel, _The Landlubbers_ +(New York, 1909), which was first conceived as a short story, and was +finished in the hot summer of 1908. Polly, heroine, is a school +teacher out West, who hates her job, saves her money, and decides to +see the world. On the trip across the Atlantic, she falls in with +Flossie, confidence queen, and she is soon "broke." Suicide seems to +be the only way out of her predicament and, at midnight, she quits her +state-room to silently slip into the ocean. She is no sooner on deck, +however, than she is confronted with cries from the crew and captain +that the ship has struck an iceberg and is sinking. The next day Polly +finds herself and Dick, hero-lover, on the old battered ship and +alone. They, then, are "the landlubbers," and their experiences on the +drifting, water-soaked craft, is the story. Miss King dramatized her +novel, as she is anxious to become famous as a playwright, "not as a +mere yarn-spinner." She also prepared a wonderful human document of +her struggles in New York that was most interesting as an excellent +piece of writing, and as an advertisement for her book. At the present +time Miss King is said to be engaged upon a "long novel----a +leisurely, picturesque thing into which I want to put a good deal of +life." Miss King was married on February 26, 1912, to Mr. Walter B. +Tufts, a New York business man. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Credo +Harris, the Kentucky novelist. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (May, 1909); _Lexington Leader_ (May + 16, 1909). + + +SHIPWRECKED[88] + +[From _The Landlubbers_ (New York, 1909)] + +I woke, not roused by any unusual sound or motion, but disturbed by a +sense of hovering evil, a horror imminent and unescapable. I sat up, +looked at my watch--for I had not turned off the light--and saw that +it was toward half-past eleven o'clock. The great ship was silent, +save for the throbbing of her iron pulses. As I listened, the fog-horn +moaned out its warning, and as the deep note died away seven bells +rang faintly from above. My watch, then, was right--and it was time! + +I remembered what I had to do, and obeyed the decision of my more +wakeful self, though I was far more influenced by the sense of vague, +impersonal fear. Still muffled in the stupor of sleep, and shaken from +head to foot by a nervous trembling, I rose, put on my long cloak, and +flung a scarf over my disordered hair, for if I were to meet anyone I +must seem merely a restless passenger seeking a breath of fresh air. I +moved rapidly as I grew more wakeful, and tried not to think. From +habit I folded my rugs neatly, and plumped up the pillow on which I +had been lying. My throat and lips were dry, and I drank a glass of +water before I unlocked my door and stepped out into the passage. + +There rose above me a long, horrible cry, a shout blent discordantly +of the voices of two-score men, a fearful sound as of the essence of +brute fear. Many feet pattered upon the deck. There were wordless +shouts, shrieked oaths, sharp commands, the boatswain's whistle +piercing through the whole mass of confused sound. The great horn +boomed just once more--I heard it through my hands upon my ears as I +cowered against the wall. + +Then the deck quivered under my feet as a horrible, grinding, rending +crash shut out every other sound, and the great ship trembled +throughout her length, and began to reel drunkenly from side to side, +settling over, with every swing, further and further to port. + +A new, more deafening clamour arose all about me, as the sleepers were +aroused, and in half a minute the corridor was filled with whitefaced +people in all sorts of dress and undress, carrying all kinds of queer +treasures, weeping, shrieking, cursing; there was even laughter, +hysterical and uncontrollable, and strange stammered words of +blasphemy, prayer, reassurance, were shaken out between chattering +teeth. A fat steward ran by, shoving rudely aside those whom till now +he had lovingly tended as the source of tips. Now he struck away the +trembling hands which clutched at his white jacket, ignoring the +shivering inquiries as to "What was the matter?" The rapid passage of +him gave the excited crowd the impulse it needed, and as one man they +surged toward the stair--I with the rest. + +But at the foot of the stair reason returned to me, and I reflected +that it was absurd for me to join in the struggle for that life which +I had just prepared to renounce. Here was death held out to me in the +cold hand of Fate, as I could not doubt--and here was I pitiably +trying to thrust away the gift! + +I wrenched myself out of that frantic crowd, and made my way back to +my stateroom with some difficulty, owing to the ship's unusual motion +and the increasing list to port. She quivered no longer, indeed, but +there passed through her from time to time a long, waving shudder, +like the throe of a dying thing, unspeakably fearful and very +sickening. As I passed beyond the close-packed crowd the sounds of +their terror became more awful. I could discern the cries of little +children, the quavering clamour of the very old. The pity of it +overcame me, and I staggered into my stateroom and closed the door +upon it all. But overhead there was still the swift tramp of feet, the +harsh sound of voices--steadier now, and less multiplied, the tokens +of a brave and awful preparation. + +The next quarter of an hour--for I am sure that the time could not +have been as much as twenty minutes, though it seemed that I sat with +clenched hands for several days--was spent in a struggle with myself +which devoured all my strength. I had heard much, and, in the folly of +my peaceful, untempted youth, had often spoken of the cowardice of +suicide. But now it required more courage and strength of will than I +had ever believed myself capable of just to sit upon that divan, +passively waiting to give back my warm, vigorous life to the infinity +whence it came. Several times I gave in, and rose and laid my hand +upon the doorknob--and conquered myself and went back to the divan and +sat down again. Meanwhile, the noise went on above and about me; the +fat steward, his face green with fear, flung my door open without +knocking. "To the boats, Miss--captain's orders--no luggage----" He +went on to the next room: "To the boats, sir!" The room was empty, and +he passed to the next: "To the boats----" His teeth knocked against +each other, tears of fright glittered down his broad face, but I +heard him open doors faithfully the length of the starboard passage. +It was, I suppose, his great hour. + +I went to close the door, and found myself confronted by a man, +barefooted, clad in shirt and trousers. It was Champion. "You awake, +miss? I came to call you--All right? I'm going to get Mr. Darragh on +deck," and he vanished. + +His friendly, anxious look broke down something in me, and I was on a +sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity awoke again, and +I longed for life, for life however stern, painful, hardwrung from peril +and deprivation, for life snatched with bleeding hands out of the fanged +jaws of the universe. I stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my +hand, for I know not how long. The swaying of the ship became less +regular, and the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened +me. I stepped over the threshold--the ship gave a last long trembling +lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there rose a +mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the hold, louder +cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled in the dark and +fell, striking my head, and something warm and wet trickled down my face +as a huge silence settled down upon me, swift and gentle as the wing of +a great brooding bird, and I was very peaceful and very happy, for was I +not being rocked--no, I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the +big backyard at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that--I +was dying, for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing +and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed quietly, +gently away. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[88] Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page and Company. + + + + +CHARLES HANSON TOWNE + + +Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided life, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, the son of Professor Paul +Towne. He left Kentucky before he was five years old, and he has been +living in New York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in +the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at the College +of the City of New York. He was editor of _The Smart Set_ for several +years, but he resigned this position to become literary editor of _The +Delineator_. At the present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of _The +Designer_, one of the Butterick publications. With H. Clough-Leighter +he published two song-cycles, entitled _A Love Garden_, and _An April +Heart_; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden he collaborated in the +preparation of three song-cycles, entitled _A Lover in Damascus_, +_Five Little Japanese Songs_, and _A Dream of Egypt_. His original and +independent work is to be found in his three volumes of verse, the +first of which was _The Quiet Singer and Other Poems_ (New York, +1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted from various magazines; +_Manhattan: a Poem_ (New York, 1909), an epic of New York City; and +_Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of +domestic happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems. +_Manhattan_ is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The poem is +the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich and the poor, the +famous and the infamous, from many points of view. The poet has turned +the most commonplace events of every-day life into verse of +exceptional quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing +show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (March, 1910); _The Forum_ (June, + 1911); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (December, 1912). + + +SPRING[89] + +[From _Manhattan, a Poem_ (New York, 1909)] + + Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs + With silver feet upon the Avenue, + And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines + The first young blossoms--purple violets + And golden daffodils. These are enough-- + These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom-- + To make the monster City feel the Spring! + One dash of color on her dun-grey hood, + One flash of yellow near her pallid face, + And she and April are the best of friends-- + Benighted town that needs a friend so much! + How she responds to that first soft caress, + And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart, + And thrills and sings, and for one little time + Forgets the foolish panic of her sons, + Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade, + And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring-- + A wise old crone upon a holiday! + + +SLOW PARTING[90] + +[From _Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911)] + + There was no certain hour + Wherein we said good-bye; + But day by day, and year by year + We parted--you and I; + And ever as we met, each felt + The shadow of a lie. + + It would have been too hard + To say a swift farewell; + You could not goad your tongue to name + The words that rang my knell; + But better that quick death than this + Glad heaven and mad hell! + + +OF DEATH + +(To Michael Monahan) + +[From the same] + + Why should I fear that ultimate thing-- + The Great Release of clown and king? + + Why should I dread to take my way + Through the same shadowed path as they? + + But can it be a shadowy road + Whereon both Youth and Genius strode? + + Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod + Its unknown length, to meet our God; + + Since Shelley, with his valiant youth, + Fared forth to learn the final Truth; + + Since Milton in his blindness went + With wisdom and a high content; + + And Angelo lit with white flame + The pathway when God called his name; + + And Dante, seeking Beatrice, + Marched fearless down the deep abyss? + + Where Plutarch went, and Socrates, + Browning and Keats, and such as these, + + Homer, and Sappho with her song + That echoes still for the vast throng; + + Lincoln and strong Napoleon, + And calm, courageous Washington; + + Great Alexander, Nero--names + That swept the world with deathless flames-- + + I need not fear that I shall fall + When the Lord God's great Voice shall call; + + For I shall find the roadway bright + When I go forth some quiet night. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[89] Copyright, 1909, by Mitchell Kennerley. + +[90] Copyright, 1911, by Mitchell Kennerley. + + + + +WILLIAM E. WALLING + + +William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, was born at +Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. When twenty years of age he was +graduated from the University of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he +subsequently did graduate work in economics and sociology for a year at +the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling has been a resident at the +University Settlement in New York. He has contributed to many of the +high-class magazines, but he is best seen as a writer in his two books, +entitled _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908); and _Socialism As It Is_ +(New York, 1912). The first title, _Russia's Message_, is one of the +authoritative works upon that race; and it has been received as such in +many quarters. And the same statement may be made of his excellent +discussion of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political and +social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, Long Island. +In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan Company will issue another +book for Mr. Walling, entitled _The Larger Aspects of Socialism_. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 6, 1908); _Review of Reviews_ + (August, 1908); _The Independent_ (May 16, 1912). + + +RUSSIA AND AMERICA[91] + +[From _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908)] + +Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more than +a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world forms an +almost complete economic whole, embracing under a single government +nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all the raw products used in +modern life; both countries are large exporters of agricultural +products, both are devoted more to agriculture than to manufacturing +industry. Both of these worlds are composed largely of newly acquired +and newly settled territory; though both are inhabited by very many +races, in each a single race prevails numerically and in most other +respects over all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole. +As the result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large +parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture, +unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic tendencies of +England, Germany, or France. We may look, according to a great German +publicist, Kautsky, to America for the great economic experiments of the +near future and to Russia for the new (social) politics. + +America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, while +Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. America +is the country of economic genius, a nation whose conceptions of +material development have reached even a spiritual height. The great +American qualities, the American virtues, the American imagination, +have thrown themselves almost wholly into business, the material +development of the country. Americans are the first of modern peoples +that have learned to respect the repeated failures of enterprising +individuals with a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures +often lead to greater heights of success. They have learned how to +excuse enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying +in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of persons +who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, know how to +wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing the +brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated, are +satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes until the time is +ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements in architecture, +in which we so clearly lead. All three of these types of men we admire +are true revolutionists, who prefer to wait, to waste, or to fail, +rather than to accept the lesser for the greater good. + +So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason for +doubting that the near future will show that the political failures +now being made by the Russians are the failures of political genius, +that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later a +hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with which the +Russians are looking forward and working to a great social +transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent results when +that transformation is achieved. Already the political revolution of +the Russian people, though not yet embodied in political institutions, +is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, as the economic +revolution of the United States. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[91] Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday, Page and Company. + + + + +THOMPSON BUCHANAN + + +Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City, +June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled +at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male +High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the +Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University +of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the +little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated +in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and +returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became +police court reporter for the now defunct _Louisville Commercial_. Mr. +Buchanan was connected with the _Commercial_ until 1900, save six +months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer +Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto +Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared, +returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr. +Buchanan went with _The Courier-Journal_; and during the same year he +was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left +Colonel Watterson's paper for _The Louisville Herald_, of which he was +dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr. +Buchanan in New York on _The Evening Journal_, with which he was +connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to +devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book, +_The Castle Comedy_ (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of +Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's _Monsieur +Beaucaire_, was followed by _Judith Triumphant_ (New York, 1905), +another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of +the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of _The Castle Comedy_ +was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of +fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, _Nancy Don't +Care_, was met with a like response from the public, and the young +playwright presented _The Intruder_, which certainly justified belief +in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The +play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done +hitherto was _A Woman's Way_, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace +George created the character of the wife with convincing power. +_Marion Stanton_ is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly +rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of +other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is +wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows" +are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details--which +desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the +size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of +the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is +called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South +is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a +very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of +her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been +well-worn long before _Marion_ made it famous. The drama was one of +the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its +author's reputation. A novelization of _A Woman's Way_ (New York, +1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but +how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as +produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time +one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and +death of Charles Lamb. _The Cub_, produced in 1910, a comedy with a +mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville +newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in +the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations, +pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called +_The Cub_ "one of the wittiest of plays"--which opinion was shared by +many who saw it. _Lula's Husbands_, a farce from the French, was also +produced in 1910. _The Rack_, produced in 1911, was followed by +_Natalie_, and _Her Mother's Daughter_, all of which were given stage +presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and +rehearsing his new play, _The Bridal Path_, a matrimonial comedy in +three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his +plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two +romances and the novelization of _A Woman's Way_, two other novels +have appeared, entitled _The Second Wife_ (New York, 1911); and +_Making People Happy_ (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the +ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious +discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is, +indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists +almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach +his audience across the footlights, is a _rara avis_. Augustus Thomas, +the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a +short time, and his finest drama, _The Witching Hour_, is set wholly +at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon +him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has +done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn +his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!" + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Theatre Magazine_ (April; May, 1909); _The + American Magazine_ (November, 1910); _The Green Book_ (January, + 1911). + + +THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP[92] + +[From _A Woman's Way_ (_Current Literature_, New York, June, 1909)] + +_Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General +Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all +of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow._ + + _General Livingston._ I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you, + sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion + any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible. + + _Lynch._ General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since + three o'clock. + + _General Livingston._ (_Sharp._) What! + + _Lynch._ And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall + certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the + story spread on the front page, sure--"Famous old soldier fined + for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man." + + +(_General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands +twitching, quivering with rage._) + + _General Livingston._ (_Gasps almost tearfully._) Have you + newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity? + + _Lynch._ Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours, + our associations are very bad. + + _General Livingston._ What do you mean? + + _Lynch._ We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in + his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the + trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr. + Stanton a---- + + _General Livingston._ (_Interrupting._) Would the papers print + that? + + _Lynch._ Would they print it? Well--(_Smiles significantly._) + + _General Livingston._ Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers + will take action. + + _Lynch._ They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters + up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say + anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the + car with him at the time of his automobile accident + was----(_Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis._) Mrs. Elizabeth + Blakemore. + + _General Livingston._ (Starting back in amazement.) Good + gracious!! + + _Bob and Morris._ (_Turn, face each other, absolute amazement + showing on their faces, speak together._) Well, what do you think + of that? (_Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a + moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first._) + + _Stanton._ (_As he comes on._) General, I wish to + apologize----(_Stops short, seeing Lynch._) + + _General Livingston._ (_Whirling on Stanton._) Apologize! + Apologize! How dare you, sir! (_Losing his self-control._) My + great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult---- + +[_Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a +moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave +the house at once. Marion demurs._] + + _Marion._ Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must + settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you + cannot coerce me in my own house. (_Walks past him to the door and + opens it._) Good evening, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ (_Sincere tone._) I hope you will believe me, Mrs. + Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to + come on this errand. + + _Marion._ Thank you, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton. + + _Marion._ Sorry, but----(_Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but + firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts + situation._) + + _Lynch._ Then please understand my position, and how I regret + personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put. + (_Marion bows._) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that + woman. + + _Marion._ Yes. + + _Lynch._ And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven + wrong. + + _Marion._ I'd expect that. Who is she? + + _Lynch._ Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (_Lynch pronounces the name + regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then + throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men + on the stage stare at Marion amazed._) + + _Marion._ Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch. + (_Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men._) + Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke! + (_The men try awkwardly to back her up._) + + _General Livingston._ Splendid! Haw! Haw! + + _Bob._ Fine, he, he! + + _Morris._ (_At head of table._) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like + it. + + _Whitney._ I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail. + + _Lynch._ (_Grimly._) You can't laugh me off. + + _Marion._ (_Struggling for self-control._) Of course not. But you + must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial + proof. (_Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's + talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had + looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most + dulcet tone._) Elizabeth! + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Her voice heard off stage._) Yes, Marion, + dear. (_An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the + door._) + + _Marion._ Come in! (_Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly, + almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's + waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving + Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm._) Don't say a + word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (_Mrs. + Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come + down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most + affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and + Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily._) Mr. + Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore? + + _Lynch._ (_In amazement._) Mrs. Blakemore! + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Bowing pleasantly._) Glad to meet you, Mr. + Lynch. + + _Lynch._ (_Repeating, dazed._) Mrs. Blakemore! + + _Marion._ (_Gaily._) And you see she's not lame a bit from her + broken leg. + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ What's the joke? + + _Marion._ (_Taunting._) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find + plaintiff and corespondent so friendly. + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Gasping._) Plaintiff! Corespondent! + + _Marion._ Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town + to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard, + naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (_She + keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist._) + + _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Taking the cue._) This is awful! Horrible! + + _Marion._ Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (_To Lynch._) + Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch? + + _Lynch._ Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded + clever you might run in a "ringer." (_Reaches in his pocket, + brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with + Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up._) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton. + + _Marion._ Thanks. (_Bows satirically._) + + _Lynch._ Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put + your arm about the _other woman_. (_A suppressed, gasping + exclamation from the men._) + + _Marion._ That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch. + + _Lynch._ Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night! + + _All._ (_With relief._) Good night. + + [_The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her + arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had + forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs. + Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed + by the others._ "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks, + "you'll get all that is coming to you." _Stanton calls back Marion + who has also deserted the room._] + + _Stanton._ Marion! Marion! + + _Marion._ (_Enters._) Has she gone? + + _Stanton._ Who? + + _Marion._ Puss? + + _Stanton._ Oh, she's not my Puss. + + _Marion._ Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she? + + _Stanton._ God knows--maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time. + I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you + forgive me and take me back? + + _Marion._ Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you + think I could stand for that cat--Puss, I mean--in this house and + me off to Reno? + +CURTAIN. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[92] Copyright, 1909, by the Current Literature Publishing Company. + + + + +WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT + + +Will Levington Comfort, "the new style novelist," was born at +Kalamazoo, Michigan, January 17, 1878. He was educated in the grammar +and high schools of Detroit, and was at Albion College, Albion, +Michigan, for a short time. Mr. Comfort was a newspaper reporter in +Detroit for a few months, but, in 1898, he did his first real +reporting on papers in Cincinnati, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. +During the Spanish-American War he served in the Fifth United States +Cavalry; and in 1899 he was war correspondent in the Philippines and +China for the "Detroit Journal Newspaper Syndicate;" and in 1904 he +was in Russia and Japan during the war for the "Pittsburgh Dispatch +Newspaper Syndicate." Thus he followed the war-god almost around the +world; and out of his experiences he wrote his anti-war novel, +_Routledge Rides Alone_ (Philadelphia, 1909). This proved to be one of +the most popular of recent American novels, now in its ninth edition. +It was followed by _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911), his +quasi-Kentucky novel. In order to get the local color for this book, +Mr. Comfort spent some months at Danville, Kentucky, the _Danube_ of +the story, and of his stay in the little town, together with his +opinion of the Kentucky actress in the book, Selma Cross, he has +written: "I always considered Selma Cross the real thing. I had quite +a wonderful time doing her, and she came to be most emphatically in +Kentucky. It was a night in Danville when some amateur theatricals +were put on, that I got the first idea of a big crude woman with a +handicap of beauty-lack, but big enough to win against every law. She +had to go on the anvil, hard and long. I was interested to watch her +in the sharp odor of decadence to which her life carried her. She +wabbles, becomes tainted a bit, but rises to shake it all off. I did +the Selma Cross part of _She Buildeth Her House_ in the Clemons +House, Danville.... I also did a novelette while I was in Kentucky. +The Lippincotts published it under the caption, _Lady Thoroughbred, +Kentuckian_." No critic has written nearer the truth of Selma Cross +than the author himself: "She was a bit strong medicine for most +people." Mr. Comfort has made many horseback trips through Kentucky, +and he has "come to feel authoritative and warmly tender in all that +concerns the folk and the land." His latest novel, _Fate Knocks at the +Door_ (Philadelphia, 1912), is far and away the strongest story he has +written. Mr. Comfort has created a style that the critics are calling +"new, big, but crude in spots;" and it certainly does isolate him from +any other American novelist of today. Whatever may be said for or +against his style, this much is certain: he who runs may read it--some +other time! His work is seldom clear at first glances. Mr. Comfort +devoted the year 1912 to the writing of a new novel, _The Road of +Living Men_, which will be issued by his publishers, the Lippincotts, +in March, 1913. He has an attractive home and family at Detroit. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lippincott's Magazine_ (March, 1908); _Lippincott's + Magazine_ (March; April; August, 1912). + + +AN ACTRESS'S HEART[93] + +[From _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911)] + +Selma Cross was sick for a friend, sick from containing herself. On +this night of achievement there was something pitiful in the need of +her heart. + +"New York has turned rather too many pages of life before my eyes, +Selma, for me to feel far above any one whose struggles I have not +endured." + +The other leaned forward eagerly. "I liked you from the first moment, +Paula," she said. "You were so rounded--it seemed to me. I'm all +streaky, all one-sided. You're bred. I'm cattle.... Some time I'll tell +you how it all began. I said I would be the greatest living +tragedienne--hurled this at a lot of cat-minds down in Kentucky fifteen +years ago. Of course, I shall. It does not mean so much to me as I +thought, and it may be a bauble to you, but I wanted it. Its +far-away-ness doesn't torture me as it once did, but one pays a ghastly +price. Yes, it's a climb, dear. You must have bone and blood and +brain--a sort of brain--and you should have a cheer from below; but I +didn't. I wonder if there ever was a fight that can match mine? If so, +it would not be a good tale for children or grown-ups with delicate +nerves. Little women always hated me. I remember one restaurant cashier +on Eighth Avenue told me I was too unsightly to be a waitress. I have +done kitchen pot-boilers and scrubbed tenement-stairs. Then, because I +repeated parts of plays in those horrid halls--they said I was crazy.... +Why, I have felt a perfect lust for suicide--felt my breast ache for a +cool knife and my hand rise gladly. Once I played a freak part--that was +my greater degradation--debased my soul by making my body look worse +than it is. I went down to hell for that--and was forgiven. I have been +so homesick, Paula, that I could have eaten the dirt in the road of that +little Kentucky town.... Yes, I pressed against the steel until +something broke--it was the steel, not me. Oh, I could tell you +much!"... + +She paused but a moment. + +"The thing so dreadful to overcome was that I have a body like a great +Dane. It would not have hurt a writer, a painter, even a singer, so +much, but we of the drama are so dependent upon the shape of our +bodies. Then, my face is like a dog or a horse or a cat--all these I +have been likened to. Then I was slow to learn repression. This a part +of culture, I guess--breeding. Mine is a lineage of Kentucky poor +white trash, who knows, but a speck of 'nigger'? I don't care now, +only it gave me a temper of seven devils, if it was so. These are some +of the things I have contended with. I would go to a manager and he +would laugh me along, trying to get rid of me gracefully, thinking +that some of his friends were playing a practical joke on him. +Vhruebert thought that at first. Vhruebert calls me _The Thing_ now. I +could have done better had I been a cripple; there are parts for a +cripple. And you watch, Paula, next January when I burn up things +here, they'll say my success is largely due to my figure and face!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[93] Copyright, 1911, by J. B. Lippincott Company. + + + + +FRANK WALLER ALLEN + + +Frank Waller Allen, novelist, was born at Milton, Kentucky, September +30, 1878, the son of a clergyman. He spent his boyhood days at +Louisville, and, in the fall of 1896, he entered Kentucky (Transylvania) +University, Lexington, Kentucky. While in college he was editor of _The +Transylvanian_, the University literary magazine; and he also did +newspaper work for _The Louisville Times_, and _The Courier-Journal_. +Mr. Allen quit college to become a reporter on the Kansas City +_Journal_, later going with the Kansas City _Times_ as book editor. He +resigned this position to return to Kentucky University to study +theology. He is now pastor of the First Christian (Disciples) church, at +Paris, Missouri. Mr. Allen's first stories were published in _Munsey's_, +_The Reader_, and other periodicals, but it is upon his books that he +has won a wide reputation in Kentucky and the West. The first title was +a sketch, _My Ships Aground_ (Chicago, 1900), and his next work was an +exquisite tale of love and Nature, entitled _Back to Arcady_ (Boston, +1905), which has sold far into the thousands and is now in its third +edition. A more perfect story has not been written by a Kentuckian of +Mr. Allen's years. _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, 1907), was so +slight that it attracted little attention, yet it is exceedingly +well-done; and in his latest book, _The Golden Road_ (New York, 1910), +he just failed to do what one or two other writers have recently done so +admirably. His Nature-loving tinker falls a bit short, but some +excellent writing may be found in this book. Mr. Allen has recently +completed another novel, _The Lovers of Skye_, which will be issued by +the Bobbs-Merrill Company in the spring of 1913. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Reader Magazine_ (October, 1905); _Who's Who in + America_ (1912-1913). + + +A WOMAN ANSWERED + +[From _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, Missouri, 1907)] + +At this moment the servant lifted the tapestries and announced: "The +lady, sir." + +This time, before he could stop her, she took his hand and kissed it. + +"There was little use in my coming today," she said, "except to thank +you." + +"Why, I do not quite understand you. What for?" asked the rector in +surprise. + +"For answering my question." + +"Tell me?" he replied. + +"You've known me a long time," she answered, "and being Jimmy Duke, it +isn't necessary for me to tell you how I've lived. But you and +me--once youth is gone, sir, and people are a long time old. I've +thought of this a great deal lately, and I've been trying to decide +what's right and what's wrong.... Then I read in the papers about you. +About the things you preach and the like, and I knew you could tell +me. I knew you'd know whether good people are faking, and which life +is best. You see, I'd never thought of it in all my life before until +just a little while ago. Just a month or such a matter." + +"And now?" asked the Shepherd of St. Mark's. + +"I could have left the old life years ago if I had wanted to," she +continued, ignoring his question. "There is a man--well, there's several +of them--but this a special one, who, for years, has wanted me to marry +him. I always liked him better than anybody I knew, but I just couldn't +give up the life. He is a plain man in a little village in Missouri, and +I thought I'd die if I went. He offered to move to the city and I was +afraid for him. You see I just didn't know what was good and what was +bad, yet I didn't want this man to become like other men I knew." + +"Tell me, what are you going to do?" he asked eagerly. He had almost +said, "Tell me what to do." + +"Well," she answered, "since I have been thinking it all over, things +as they are have become empty. There is no joy in it, and I am weary +of it all.... Yesterday I came to you. I wanted to ask you whether it +was best or not to leave the old life. But I did not have to ask you. +I saw how it was when you told me what you had done. And O, how I +thank you for straightening it all out for me. Besides," she added +with hesitancy, "after I left you last night I telegraphed for the man +in the little village out west." + +When she had gone he gazed out of the window after her as she walked +buoyant and happy through the night. + +"Perhaps," softly said the Maker of Joys, "it is the memory of the old +days that is sweetest after all." + + + + +VENITA SEIBERT + + +Miss Venita Seibert, whose charming stories of German-American child +life have been widely read and appreciated, was born at Louisville, +Kentucky, December 29, 1878. Miss Seibert was educated in the +Louisville public schools, and almost at once entered upon a literary +career. She contributed short stories and verse to the leading +periodicals, her first big serial story being published in _The +American Magazine_ during 1907 and 1908, entitled _The Different +World_. This dealt with the life and imaginings of a little +German-American girl, a dreamy, sensitive child, and showing the +poetry of German home life and the originality of childhood. The story +was highly praised by Miss Ida M. Tarbell and other able critics. +Under the title of _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910), Miss Seibert +brought these tales together in one volume. There "the chronicles of +Velleda, who understood about 'the different world,'" may be read to +the heart's desire. Miss Seibert, who resides at Louisville, Kentucky, +promises big for the future, and her next book should bring her a +wider public, as well as greater growth in literary power. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1903); _Library of + Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv). + + +THE ORIGIN OF BABIES[94] + +[From _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910)] + +Oh, it was a puzzling world. Not the least puzzling thing was babies. +Mrs. Katzman had come several times with a little brown satchel and +brought one to Tante--a little, little thing that had to be fed catnip +tea and rolled in a shawl and kept out of draughts. The advantage of +having a new baby in the house was that it meant a glorious period of +running wild, for of course one did not pretend to obey the girl who +came to cook. Also, there was much company who brought nice things to +eat for Tante, who naturally left the biggest part for the children. + +Of course God sent the little babies, but how did he get them down to +Mrs. Katzman? She averred that she got them out of the river, but this +Velleda knew to be a fib, for of course they would drown in the river. +Tante said they fell down from Heaven, but of course such a fall would +kill a little baby. Gros-mamma Wallenstein said a stork brought them, +and for a time Velleda thought Mrs. Katzman must be a stork; but when +she saw a picture of one she knew that it was only a bird. Then she +decided that the stork carried the babies to Mrs. Katzman's and she +divided them around; but Mrs. Katzman's little boy, questioned in the +most searching manner, declared that he had never seen a sign of any +stork about the premises. + +Just after Baby Ernest's coming, Velleda and Freddy went all the way +to Mrs. Katzman's house--and it was quite a long way, fully three +blocks--to beg her to exchange him for a girl. + +"We've only used him two days and he's just as good as new," stated +Velleda, guiltily concealing the fact that he cried a great deal. But +Mrs. Katzman said she really couldn't think of it, as God settled all +those matters himself. It was on this occasion that Velleda had +cross-examined Mrs. Katzman's little boy regarding the stork. There +was no doubting the truth of Georgie's statements, for he told Velleda +dolefully that he himself had long desired a brother or a sister, but +never a baby had he seen in that house. Evidently Mrs. Katzman fetched +them from somewhere else in the brown satchel. + +"You might have had ours," said Velleda. "We didn't want him. We +prayed for a girl." + +"Oh, you'll soon find out _that_ don't do any good." Georgie kicked +gloomily at a stone. "I used to pray, too, but God's awful stubborn +when it comes to babies." + +Velleda wondered at the strangeness of things. All the little girls +and some of the little boys who had no baby brother or sister to take +care of, thought it a great treat to be allowed to wheel the +baby-buggy up and down the square, really a most irksome task, as +Velleda could testify. At Velleda's house they believed with the poet +that "Time's noblest offspring is the last," so the baby reigned king, +which was not always pleasant for his smaller slaves. Therefore she +wondered at Georgie's taste. However, since he evidently regarded his +brotherless state as a deep misfortune, she was full of sympathy and +would do what she could for him. + +"You just pray a little harder," she advised; "and," struck by a +brilliant thought, "look in the brown satchel every night! Maybe +you'll find one left over." + +She and Freddy went home feeling very sorry for Georgie. He was only +another illustration of the old saying which Onkel often commented +on--the shoemaker's children wear ragged shoes, the painter's own +house is the last to receive a fresh coat, and the stork woman has no +baby of her own. + +Regarding this great question there was one point upon which everybody +agreed. Velleda had her own system of deciding questions; she sifted +the versions of her various informants, retained those points upon +which all agreed, and upon this common ground proceeded to erect the +structure of her own reasoning. Grown-ups, she knew, had a weakness +for mild fibbing, which was not lying and not wrong at all, but was +naturally very disconcerting when one burned to learn the real truth +about a thing. The stork theory, the river theory, the falling from +Heaven theory--all possessed one mutual starting point: God sent the +little babies. There was of course no doubt in that regard, and +Velleda finally decided that God placed them in the woods in a certain +spot, marked where they were to go, and then vanished into Heaven (for +of course no one had ever seen God), whereupon Mrs. Katzman approached +with the brown satchel. + +This was a most satisfactory theory, with no flaws in its logic, +reasonable and probable, and conflicting with no known law. The +question was shelved. + +Velleda, going up to the third floor room of Nellie Johnson with a +pitcher of milk which the dairywoman had asked her to deliver, found the +girl huddled up before a small stove, looking so white and miserable +that Velleda's heart ached for her, although she knew that Nellie was a +very wicked person and nobody in the neighborhood spoke to her. Across +her knees lay a white bundle. Velleda considered the matter. + +"I guess God loves you anyway, Nellie," she concluded. "He has sent +you a little baby." + +The girl tossed the bundle upon the bed with a fierce gesture. + +"God?" she said bitterly. "It ain't God sent that baby. The Devil sent +him!" + +Velleda fled down the stairs. + +It is indeed a puzzling world. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[94] Copyright, 1910, by Small, Maynard and Company. + + + + +CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK + + +Charles Neville Buck, novelist and short-story writer, was born near +Midway, Kentucky, April 15, 1879. He spent the first fifteen years of +his life at his birthplace, save the four years he was in South +America with his father, the Hon. C. W. Buck, who was United States +Minister to Peru from 1885 to 1889, and the author of _Under the +Sun_, a Peruvian romance. At the age of fifteen years, Charles Neville +Buck went to Louisville to enter the high school; and, in 1898, he was +graduated from the University of Louisville. He studied art and joined +the staff of _The Evening Post_, of Louisville, as cartoonist, which +position he held for a year, when he became an editorial writer on +that paper. Mr. Buck studied law and was admitted to the bar, but he +did not practice. In 1908 he quit journalism for prose fiction. His +short-stories were accepted by American and English magazines, but he +won his first real reputation with a novel of mental aberration, +entitled _The Key to Yesterday_ (New York, 1910), the scenes of which +were set against Kentucky, France, and South America. Mr. Buck's next +novel, _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911), was an international love +romance in which a rich young American falls in love with the +princess, and about-to-be-queen, of a bit of a kingdom near Spain. +Benton, hero, has a rocky road to travel, but he, of course, +demolishes every barrier and proves again that love finds a way. _The +Lighted Match_ is a rattling good story, and it contains many purple +patches between the hiss of the revolutionist's bomb and lovers' +sighs. Mr. Buck's latest novel, _The Portal of Dreams_ (New York, +1912), was a very clever story. His first Kentucky novel, and the +finest thing he has done, he and his publisher think, is _The Strength +of Samson_, which will appear in four parts in _The Cavalier_, a +weekly magazine, for February, 1913, after which it will be almost +immediately published in book form under the title of _The Call of the +Cumberlands_. Mr. Buck's home is at Louisville, Kentucky, but he +spends much of his time in New York, where he lives at the Hotel +Earle, in Waverly Place, a stone's throw from the apartments of his +friend, Thompson Buchanan, the Kentucky playwright. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (October 8, 1910); _Cosmopolitan + Magazine_ (August, 1911); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913). + + +THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY[95] + +[From _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911)] + +Despite the raw edge on the air, the hardier guests at "Idle Times" +still clung to those outdoor sports which properly belonged to the +summer. That afternoon a canoeing expedition was made up river to +explore a cave which tradition had endowed with some legendary tale of +pioneer days and Indian warfare. + +Pagratide, having organized the expedition with that object in view, had +made use of his prior knowledge to enlist Cara for the crew of his +canoe, but Benton, covering a point that Pagratide had overlooked, +pointed out that an engagement to go up the river in a canoe is entirely +distinct from an engagement to come down the river in a canoe. He cited +so many excellent authorities in support of his contention that the +matter was decided in his favor for the return trip, and Mrs. +Porter-Woodleigh, all unconscious that her escort was a Crown Prince, +found in him an introspective and altogether uninteresting young man. + +Benton and the girl in one canoe, were soon a quarter of a mile in +advance of the others, and lifting their paddles from the water they +floated with the slow current. The singing voices of the party behind +them came softly adrift along the water. All of the singers were young +and the songs had to do with sentiment. + +The girl buttoned her sweater closer about her throat. The man stuffed +tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and bent low to kindle it into a +cheerful spot of light. + +A belated lemon afterglow lingered at the edge of the sky ahead. +Against it the gaunt branches of a tall tree traced themselves +starkly. Below was the silent blackness of the woods. + +Suddenly Benton raised his head. + +"I have a present for you," he announced. + +"A present?" echoed the girl. "Be careful, Sir Gray Eyes. You played +the magician once and gave me a rose. It was such a wonderful +rose"--she spoke almost tenderly--"that it has spoiled me. No +commonplace gifts will be tolerated after that." + +"This is a different sort of present," he assured her. "This is a god." + +"A what!" Cara was at the stern with the guiding paddle. The man +leaned back, steadying the canoe with a hand on each gunwale, and +smiled into her face. + +"Yes," he said, "he is a god made out of clay with a countenance that +is most unlovely and a complexion like an earthenware jar. I acquired +him in the Andes for a few _centavos_. Since then we have been +companions. In his day he had his place in a splendid temple of the +Sun Worshipers. When I rescued him he was squatting cross-legged on a +counter among silver and copper trinkets belonging to a civilization +younger than his own. When you've been a god and come to be a souvenir +of ruins and dead things--" the man paused for a moment, then with the +ghost of a laugh went on "--it makes you see things differently. In +the twisted squint of his small clay face one reads slight regard for +mere systems and codes." + +He paused so long that she prompted him in a voice that threatened to +become unsteady. "Tell me more about him. What is his godship's name?" + +"He looked so protestingly wise," Benton went on, "that I named him +Jonesy. I liked that name because it fitted him so badly. Jonesy is +not conventional in his ideas, but his morals are sound. He has seen +religions and civilizations and dynasties flourish and decay, and it +has all given him a certain perspective on life. He has occasionally +given me good council." + +He paused again, but, noting that the singing voices were drawing +nearer, he continued more rapidly. + +"In Alaska I used to lie flat on my cot before a great open fire and +his god-ship would perch crosslegged on my chest. When I breathed, he +seemed to shake his fat sides and laugh. When a pagan god from Peru +laughs at you in a Yukon cabin, the situation calls for attention. I +gave attention. + +"Jonesy said that the major human motives sweep in deep channels, +full-tide ahead. He said you might in some degree regulate their floods +by rearing abutments, but that when you tried to build a dam to stop the +Amazon you are dealing with folly. He argued that when one sets out to +dam up the tides set flowing back in the tributaries of the heart it is +written that one must fail. That is the gospel according to Jonesy." + +He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward. There was +silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, the dripping of +the water from the lifted blades, and the song drifting down river. +Finally Benton added: + +"I don't know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give you +good advice--on those matters which the centuries can't change." + +Cara's voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears. + +"He has already given me good advice, dear--" she said, "good advice +that I can't follow." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[95] Copyright, 1911, by W. J. Watt and Company. + + + + +GEORGE BINGHAM + + +George Bingham ("Dunk Botts"), newspaper humorist, was born near +Wallonia, Kentucky, August 1, 1879. He quit school at the age of ten +years to become "the devil" in a printing office at Eddyville, +Kentucky. Two years later he removed to Mayfield, Kentucky, and +accepted a position on _The Mirrow_. Shortly afterwards he wrote his +first ficticious "news-letter" from an imaginary town called Boney +Ridge, Kentucky, and submitted it to the critical eye of a tramp +printer. This nomad at once saw the boy's design: to burlesque the +letters received from the _Mirrow's_ crossroad correspondents; and he +encouraged him. Mr. Bingham remained at Mayfield until he was twenty +years of age, at which time he felt important enough to go out and see +the world. Like most prodigals homesickness seized him for its very +own; and he started home perched high on a freight train. Homeward +bound he first had the name of his future paper suggested to him. +Battling through a tiny town in Tennessee he enquired of the brakeman +as to its name. + +"Walhalla," answered the "shack." + +"Hogwallow?" repeated the young Kentuckian. + +"Hell no! Who ever heard of a place called 'Hogwallow'?" + +Upon reaching home Mr. Bingham decided to put the village of +Hogwallow, Kentucky, on the map. His first letter from that town was +printed in the old _Mayfield Monitor_, under the pen-name of "Dunk +Botts," which he has retained hitherto. After having written several +Hogwallow letters, he was compelled to accept a position on a small +newspaper; then nothing more was heard of Hogwallow until 1901, when +he wrote a letter every few weeks, for a year, and then went to +California. He "arrived back home on June 1, 1905, had a chill a week +later, and launched _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ on July 15." He took +the public into his confidence, telling them that his object was to +conduct a burlesque newspaper, or, rather, a parody on one. He peopled +his imaginary town and its environs with forty or more characters +whose names summed them up without further ado; and he founded such +important places as Rye Straw, Tickville, Hog Hill church and +graveyard, Wild Onion schoolhouse, Gander Creek, and several other +necessary hamlets and institutions. On May 15, 1909, Mr. Bingham +suspended publication in order to make another trip to California. Two +years later he returned to Kentucky for the sole purpose of +resurrecting his paper. He resumed publication on June 17, 1911, at +Paducah, but Irvin Cobb's town seemingly got on his nerves and, after +three months, he tucked his "sheet" under his arm and returned to his +first love, Mayfield, where he has remained ever since. _The Hogwallow +Kentuckian_ is published every Saturday night, read in thirty-seven +states, and copied by the leading newspapers of America and England. +Mr. Bingham has written more than five thousand "news items" for the +paper, besides some five hundred short-stories, sketches, and +paragraphs. He contributes considerable Hogwallow news to Charles +Hamilton Musgrove's[96] page in _The Evening Post_ of Louisville; but +he is an "outside contributor," doing his work at Mayfield. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Bingham to the Author; the St. + Louis _Post-Dispatch_ (January 14, 1912). + + +HOGWALLOW NEWS + +[From _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ (December 21, 1912)] + +Atlas Peck can't see why his left shoe wears out so much quicker than +his right one, when his right one does just as much walking as his left. + +Until times get better and the financial questions of the nation gets +fully settled the Old Miser on Musket Ridge will live on two +hickorynuts per day. + +Sim Flinders has brought back with him from the Calf Ribs neighborhood +a feather bed made of owl feathers. While coming home with it on his +back the other night it was so soft and downy he fell to sleep while +walking along the road. + +Yam Sims appeared in public last Sunday with a new pair of pants and a +striped necktie. They have made a wonderful change in his appearance, +and until they wear out he will rank among our best people. + +A dawg fight attracted a lot of attention and broke up the +conversation at the Hog Ford moonshine still house the other day. One +of the dawgs belonged to Poke Eazley and the other to Jefferson +Potlocks, and the difficulty came up over some misunderstanding +between their owners. + +Ellick Hellwanger is fixing to celebrate his wooden wedding next week +with a quart of wood alcohol. + +Tobe Moseley's mule is able to walk around again after being propped +up against a persimmon tree for several days. + +Tobe Moseley took his jug over to the sorghum mill early Tuesday +morning of last week after some molasses, and has not yet returned. No +grave fears, however, are entertained on account of his protracted +absence, as sorghum molasses run slow in cold weather. + +Bullets have been falling in Hogwallow for the past few days. They are +thought to be those Raz Barlow fired at the moon a few nights ago. + +Luke Mathewsla has a good hawg pen for sale cheap. It would make a +good front yard, and Luke may move his house up behind it. + +Cricket Hicks has gone up to Tickville to get an almanac, as he is on +the program for a lot of original jokes at Rye Straw Saturday night. + +Isaac Hellwanger fell off of a foot lawg while watching a panel of +fence float down Gander creek the other morning. He says it don't pay +to get too interested in one thing. + +Slim Pickens has received through the mails a bottle of dandruff cure, +and he is taking two teaspoonfuls after each meal. + +Poke Eazley has been puny this week with lumbago, and had to be +excused from singing at the Dog Hill church Sunday, being too weak to +carry a tune, or lift his voice. + +Fit Smith is having his shoes remodeled, and will occupy them next week. + +Columbus Allsop's head has been itching for several days. He says that +is a sign Christmas is coming. + +The Dog Hill Preacher will be surprised by his congregation next +Sunday morning when they will give him a Christmas present, which they +have already bought. The preacher is greatly surprised every time his +congregation gives him anything. + +Fletcher Henstep's geese are being fattened for Christmas, and have +been turned loose in the Musket Ridge corn patches. They all wear +lanterns as it is late before they get in at night. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[96] Mr. Musgrove, who is to leave _The Post_ at the end of 1912 to +become humorist editor of _The Louisville Times_, was born in +Kentucky, and is the author of a charming volume of verse, _The Dream +Beautiful and Other Poems_ (Louisville; 1898). He is to issue in 1913 +another book of poems, through a Louisville firm, to be entitled _Pan +and Aeolus_. When Mr. Musgrove joins _The Times_ he will take _The +Post's_ clever cartoonist, Paul Plaschke, with him; and they will +occupy an office next to Colonel Henry Watterson's in the new +Courier-Journal and Times building. + + + + +MABEL PORTER PITTS + + +Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, Kentucky, +January 5, 1884. Her family removed to Seattle, Washington, when she was +a girl, and her education was received at the Academy of the Holy Names. +Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she now resides +at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories have appeared in several +of the eastern magazines, and they have been read with pleasure by many +people. Her first book of poems, _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other +Poems_ (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, five +thousand copies having been sold so far. This seems to show that there +are people in the United States who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is +well-known on the Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her +life, but she must be introduced to the people of her native State, +Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her poems, a collection +of them is promised for early publication, and she should have a +permanent place in the literature of Kentucky. + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Overland Monthly_ (January; December, 1904; April, + 1908). + + +ON THE LITTLE SANDY[97] + +[From _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems_ (Denver, 1907)] + + Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region + There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun, + On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion + And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done. + + There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its + border + Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door, + There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder, + And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore. + + From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling + Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate, + And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling + Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late. + + From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter + Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song, + And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter + For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng. + + Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning-- + Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams, + And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning + While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[97] Copyright, 1907, by the Author. + + + + +MARION FORSTER GILMORE + + +Miss Marion Forster Gilmore, the young Louisville poet and dramatist, +was born at Anchorage, Kentucky, November 27, 1887. She was educated +at Hampton College, Louisville, and at a private school in Washington, +D. C. At the age of fourteen years she wrote a poem while crossing the +Rocky Mountains that attracted the attention of Joaquin Miller and +Madison Cawein, and won her the friendship of both poets. When but +fifteen years old she had completed her three-act tragedy of +_Virginia_, set in Rome during the days of the Decemvirs. This is +purely a play for the study, and hardly fitted for stage presentation, +yet it has been praised by William Faversham, the famous actor. Miss +Gilmore contributed lyrics to the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ and +_Leslie's Weekly_, which, with her play, she published in a charming +book, entitled _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, +Kentucky, 1910). _The Cradle Song_, originally printed in the +_Cosmopolitan_ for May, 1908, is one of the best of her shorter poems. +Miss Gilmore has recently returned to her home at Louisville, after +having spent a year in European travel and study.[98] + + BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1909); _Current + Literature_ (August, 1910). + + +THE CRADLE SONG[99] + +[From _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, +1910)] + + Adown the vista of the years, + I turn and look with silent soul, + As though to catch a muted strain + Of melody, that seems to roll + In tender cadence to my ear. + But, as I wait with eyes that long + The singer to behold--it fades, + And silence ends the Cradle Song. + + But when the shadows of the years + Have lengthened slowly to the West, + And once again I lay me down + To sleep, upon my mother's breast, + Then well I know I ne'er again + Shall cry to God, "How long? How long?" + For, to my soul, her voice will sing + A never-ending Cradle Song. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[98] There are two other young women poets of Louisville who should be +mentioned in the same breath with Miss Gilmore: Miss Ethel Allen +Murphy, author of _The Angel of Thought and Other Poems_ (Boston, +1909), and contributor of brief lyrics to _Everybody's Magazine_; and +Miss Hortense Flexner, on the staff of _The Louisville Herald_, whose +poems in the new _Mammoth Cave Magazine_ have attracted much +attention. Miss Flexner is to have a poem published in _The American +Magazine_ in 1913. + +[99] Copyright, 1910, by the Author. + + + + +APPENDIX + + + + +MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL + + +Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority for the +statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author of _When the Cows Come +Home_, one of the loveliest lyrics in the language, lived at +Louisville for some years, and that she wrote her famous poem within +the confines of that city. The date of its composition must have been +about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, but little else +is known of her life and literary labors. It is a real pity that her +career has not come down to us in detail. She certainly "lodged a note +in the ear of time," and firmly fixed her fame with it. + + +WHEN THE COWS COME HOME + +[From _The Humbler Poets_, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)] + + With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, + 'Way down the dusty dingle, + The cows are coming home; + Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, + The airy tinklings come and go, + Like chimings from some far-off tower, + Or patterings of an April shower + That makes the daisies grow; + Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle, + 'Way down the darkening dingle, + The cows come slowly home; + And old-time friends, and twilight plays + And starry nights and sunny days, + Come trooping up the misty ways, + When the cows come home. + + With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, + Soft sounds that sweetly mingle, + The cows are coming home; + Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, + DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell, + Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue, + Across the fields I hear her OO-OO, + And clang her silver bell; + Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle, + With faint far sounds that mingle, + The cows come slowly home; + And mother-songs of long-gone years, + And baby joys, and childish tears, + And youthful hopes, and youthful fears, + When the cows come home. + + With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle, + By twos and threes and single, + The cows are coming home; + Through the violet air we see the town, + And the summer sun a-slipping down; + The maple in the hazel glade + Throws down the path a longer shade, + And the hills are growing brown; + To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle, + By threes and fours and single, + The cows come slowly home. + The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, + The same sweet June-day rest and calm, + The same sweet scent of bud and balm, + When the cows come home. + + With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle, + Through fern and periwinkle, + The cows are coming home. + A-loitering in the checkered stream, + Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, + Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis + Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies + In a drowsy dream; + To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle, + O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, + The cows come slowly home; + And up through memory's deep ravine + Come the brook's old song--its old-time sheen, + And the crescent of the silver queen, + When the cows come home. + + With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, + With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle. + The cows are coming home; + And over there on Morlin hill + Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill; + The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, + And over the poplars Venus shines. + And over the silent mill; + Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle; + With a ting-a-ling and jingle, + The cows come slowly home; + Let down the bars; let in the train + Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, + For dear old times come back again + When the cows come home. + + + + + +INDEX + + + Ainslie, Hew, I, 87-91 + + Allen, Frank Waller, II, 366-368 + + Allen, James Lane, II, 4-17 + + Allison, Young E., II, 53-56 + + Altsheler, Joseph A., II, 144-149 + + Anderson, Miss Margaret S., II, 318-320 + + Andrews, Mrs. Mary R. S., II, 104-110 + + Aroni, Ernest, II, 206 + + Audubon, John J., I, 45-51 + + Audubon, John W., I, 185-187 + + + Badin, Stephen T., I, 30-34 + + Banks, Mrs. Nancy Huston, II, 17-20 + + Barnett, Mrs. Evelyn S., II, 119-122 + + Bartlett, Elisha, I, 147-150 + + Barton, William E., II, 126-129 + + Bascom, Henry B., I, 98-102 + + Baskett, James Newton, II, 1-4 + + Bayne, Mrs. Mary Addams, II, 202-205 + + Beck, George, I, 23-26 + + Betts, Mary E. W., I, 237-239 + + Bingham, George, II, 375-378 + + Bird, Robert M., I, 135-139 + + Birney, James G., I, 91-95 + + Blackburn, J. C. S., I, 232 + + Bledsoe, Albert T., I, 169-172 + + Bolton, Mrs. Sarah T., I, 228-230 + + Bradford, John, I, 5-7 + + Breckinridge, John C., I, 231-234 + + Breckinridge, Robert J., I, 112-114 + + Breckinridge, W. C. P., I, 319-323 + + Brodhead, Mrs. Eva Wilder, II, 267-273 + + Broadus, John A., I, 261-265 + + Bronner, Milton, II, 303-305 + + Brown, John Mason, I, 240 + + Browne, J. Ross, I, 200-204 + + Bruner, James D., II, 184-186 + + Buchanan, Thompson, II, 355-362 + + Buck, Charles Neville, II, 371-375 + + Burton, George Lee, II, 222-228 + + Butler, Mann, I, 59-62 + + Butler, William O., I, 84-87 + + + Caldwell, Charles, I, 34-37 + + Call, Richard E., I, 240 + + Cawein, Madison, II, 187-198 + + Childs, Mrs. Mary F., I, 356-359 + + Chivers, Thomas H., I, 152-156 + + Clay, Henry, I, 39-44 + + Clay, Mrs. Mary R., I, 240 + + Cobb, Irvin S., II, 323-342 + + Collins, Lewis, I, 104-106 + + Collins, Richard H., 244-247 + + Comfort, Will Levington, II, 363-366 + + Connelley, Wm. E., II, 63-67 + + Conrard, Harrison, II, 236-237 + + Corwin, Thomas, I, 95-98 + + Cosby, Fortunatus, Jr., I, 119-123 + + Cottell, Dr. Henry A., II, 384 + + Cotter, Joseph S., II, 115-116 + + Crittenden, John J., I, 71-74 + + Crittenden, William L., I, 238 + + Crockett, Ingram, II, 77-80 + + Cutter, George W., I, 176-179 + + + Dargan, Mrs. Olive Tilford, II, 255-262 + + Davie, George M., I, 363-364 + + Daviess, Miss Maria Thompson, II, 279-283 + + Davis, Jefferson, I, 156-160 + + Dazey, Chas. 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S., II, 305-307 + + Madden, Miss Eva A., II, 170-172 + + Magruder, Allan B., I, 37-39 + + Marcosson, Isaac F., II, 343-345 + + Marriner, Harry L., II, 262-264 + + Marriott, Crittenden, II, 211-217 + + Martin, Mrs. George M., II, 198-202 + + Marshall, Humphrey, I, 26-29 + + Marshall, Thomas F., I, 123-126 + + Marvin, William F., I, 145-147 + + Mason, Miss Emily V., I, 191-193 + + Menefee, Richard H., I, 173-175 + + Mulligan, James H., I, 348-352 + + Murphy, Miss Ethel Allen, II, 381 + + Musgrove, Charles Hamilton, II, 377 + + Mitchel, Ormsby M., I, 166-169 + + Mitchell, Mrs. Agnes E., II, 385-386 + + Morehead, James T., I, 102-104 + + Morehead, Mrs. L. M., I, 103 + + Morris, Rob, I, 205-207 + + + Navarro, Mary Anderson de, II, 101-104 + + Norris, Mrs. Zoe A., II, 135-139 + + + Obenchain, Mrs. Eliza Calvert, II, 81-84 + + O'Hara, Theodore, I, 218-228 + + O'Malley, Charles J., II, 86-91 + + + Patterson, John, II, 123-125 + + Pattie, James O., I, 142-144 + + Penn, Shadrach, I, 82-83 + + Perrin, William H., I, 240 + + Perry, Bliss, I, 252 + + Peter, Dr. Robert, I, 240-241 + + Petrie, Mrs. Cordia G., II, 273-279 + + Piatt, Mrs. Sarah M. B., I, 303-307 + + Pickett, Thomas E., I, 241 + + Pirtle, Alfred, I, 240 + + Pitts, Miss Mabel Porter, II, 379-380 + + Plaschke, Paul, II, 377 + + Polk, Jefferson J., I, 126-128 + + Portor, Miss Laura S., II, 308-310 + + Prentice, George D., I, 129-135 + + Price, Samuel W., I, 240 + + Price, William T., I, 359-362 + + + Quisenberry, A. C., II, 27-28 + + + Rafinesque, C. S., I, 56-58 + + Ranck, George W., I, 240 + + Rankin, Adam, I, 17-19 + + Rice, Mrs. Alice Hegan, II, 238-243 + + Rice, Cale Young, II, 284-289 + + Ridgely, Benj. H., II, 129-135 + + Rives, Mrs. Hallie Erminie, II, 297-300 + + Roach, Mrs. Abby Meguire, II, 320-323 + + Robertson, George, I, 78-82 + + Robertson, Harrison, II, 74-77 + + Robins, Miss Elizabeth, II, 156-162 + + Rouquette, Adrien E., I, 187-191 + + Rule, Lucien V., II, 265-266 + + + Schoonmaker, E. D., II, 293-294 + + Seibert, Miss Venita, II, 368-371 + + Semple, Miss Ellen C., II, 162-165 + + Shaler, Nathaniel S., I, 336-342 + + Sherley, Douglass, II, 110 + + Shindler, Mrs. Mary P., I, 179-180 + + Shreve, Thomas H., I, 163-166 + + Slaughter, Mrs. Elvira M., II, 110-114 + + Smith, Langdon, II, 91-96 + + Smith, William B., II, 20-26 + + Smith, Z. F., I, 258-261 + + Spalding, John L., I, 334-335 + + Spalding, Martin J., I, 181-184 + + Speed, Thomas, I, 240 + + Stanton, Henry T., I, 297-302 + + + Taylor, Zachary, I, 62-65 + + Tevis, Mrs. Julia A., I, 107-111 + + Towne, Charles Hanson, II, 350-353 + + Tufts, Mrs. Gertrude King, II, 345-349 + + + Underwood, Francis H., I, 250-254 + + Underwood, Oscar W., II, 150-155 + + + Verhoeff, Miss Mary, I, 241 + + Vest, George G., I, 285-287 + + Visscher, William L., I, 342-344 + + + Walling, W. E., II, 353-355 + + Waltz, Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry, II, 205-209 + + Walworth, Miss Reubena H., II, 209-211. + + Warfield, Mrs. Catherine A., I, 197-200 + + Warfield, Ethelbert D., II, 116-118 + + Watterson, Henry, I, 325-331 + + Watts, William C., I, 279-282 + + Webber, Charles W., I, 211-215 + + Weir, James, Senior, I, 234-237 + + Welby, Mrs. Amelia B., I, 207-211 + + Whitsitt, William H., I, 240 + + Willson, Forceythe, I, 313-319 + + Wilson, Richard H., II, 244-247 + + Wilson, Robert Burns, II, 29-35 + + Winchester, Boyd, I, 307-310 + + Wood, Henry Cleveland, II, 60-63 + + Woods, William Hervey, II, 47-49 + + + Young, Bennett H., I, 344-348 + + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes + +Obvious punctuation and spelling errors fixed throughout. + +The oe ligature in this etext has been replaced with oe. + +Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. + +Page 106: The title and italicization has been changed from (... little +story, _With A Good Samaritan_ ...) to this (... little story, with _A +Good Samaritan_ ...) to match the title in the rest of the text. + +Page 392: In the Index Mulligan, Murphy and Musgrove are entered out +of alphabetic order as in the original. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2, by +John Wilson Townsend + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KENTUCKY IN AMERICAN *** + +***** This file should be named 39407.txt or 39407.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/0/39407/ + +Produced by Brian Sogard, Douglas L. 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