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- float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } - -</style> -<title>IN THE MORNING GLOW</title> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="In the Morning Glow" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="Roy Rolfe Gilson" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1902" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="43862" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2013-10-01" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="In the Morning Glow Short Stories" /> - -<link href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" rel="schema.DCTERMS" /> -<link href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators" rel="schema.MARCREL" /> -<meta content="In the Morning Glow Short Stories" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="glow.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta content="2013-10-01T21:44:53.440712+00:00" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.modified" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43862" rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" /> -<meta content="Roy Rolfe Gilson" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta content="2013-10-01" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.created" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="EpubMaker 0.3.20a7 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="in-the-morning-glow"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">IN THE MORNING GLOW</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="align-None container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>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 </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> -included with this eBook or online at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="align-None container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: In the Morning Glow -<br /> Short Stories -<br /> -<br />Author: Roy Rolfe Gilson -<br /> -<br />Release Date: October 01, 2013 [EBook #43862] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>IN THE MORNING GLOW</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="align-None container coverpage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-154"> -<span id="cover-art"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt="Cover art" src="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">Cover art</span></div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container frontispiece"> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 66%" id="figure-155"> -<span id="what-a-beautiful-dream"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""'WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DREAM!'")" src="images/img-front.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"'WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DREAM!'" (See page </span><a class="italics reference internal" href="#id1">187</a><span class="italics">)</span></div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container titlepage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="x-large">IN THE -<br />MORNING GLOW</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">SHORT STORIES</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">By</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">ROY ROLFE GILSON</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="small">AUTHOR OF -<br />"Miss Primrose" "The Flower of Youth" -<br />Etc. Etc.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">ILLUSTRATED</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">NEW YORK -<br />GROSSET & DUNLAP -<br />PUBLISHERS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="small">Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">Copyright, 1902, by HARPER & BROTHERS.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics small">All rights reserved.</em></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="small">Published October, 1902.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container dedication"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">TO -<br />MY WIFE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">Contents</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#grandfather">GRANDFATHER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#grandmother">GRANDMOTHER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#while-aunt-jane-played">WHILE AUNT JANE PLAYED</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#little-sister">LITTLE SISTER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#our-yard">OUR YARD</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-toy-grenadier">THE TOY GRENADIER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#father">FATHER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#mother">MOTHER</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">Illustrations</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#what-a-beautiful-dream">"'WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DREAM!'"</a><span> . . . . . . </span><em class="italics">Frontispiece</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#when-grandfather-wore-his-white-vest-you-walked-like-other-folks">"WHEN GRANDFATHER WORE HIS -WHITE VEST YOU WALKED LIKE OTHER FOLKS"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#you-stole-softly-to-his-side">"YOU STOLE SOFTLY TO HIS SIDE"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#watched-him-make-the-blue-fragments-into-the-blue-pitcher-again">"WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE -FRAGMENTS INTO THE BLUE PITCHER AGAIN"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-sail-boats-he-whittled-for-you-on-rainy-days">"THE SAIL-BOATS HE WHITTLED FOR YOU ON RAINY DAYS"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#you-clung-to-her-apron-for-support-in-your-mute-agony">"YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR -SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#you-watched-them-as-they-went-down-the-walk-together">"YOU WATCHED THEM AS THEY -WENT DOWN THE WALK TOGETHER"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#to-and-fro-grandmother-rocked-you">"TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCKED YOU"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#you-said-now-i-lay-me-in-unison">"YOU SAID 'NOW I LAY ME' IN UNISON"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#mother-tucked-you-both-into-bed-and-kissed-you">"MOTHER TUCKED YOU BOTH INTO -BED AND KISSED YOU"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#they-took-you-as-far-as-the-bedroom-door-to-see-her">"THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE -BEDROOM DOOR TO SEE HER"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#bad-dream-was-it-little-chap">"'BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE CHAP?'"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#father-what-do-you-think-when-you-don-t-say-anything-but-just-look">"'FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK -WHEN YOU DON'T SAY ANYTHING, BUT JUST LOOK?'"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#mother-you-said-softly">"'MOTHER,' YOU SAID, SOFTLY"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#the-picture-book">"THE PICTURE-BOOK"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#before-you-went-to-bed">"BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED"</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="grandfather"><span class="bold large">Grandfather</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="W" src="images/img-cap-w.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>hen you gave Grandfather -both your hands and put one -foot against his knee and the -other against his vest, you -could walk right up to his white beard -like a fly—but you had to hold tight. -Sometimes your foot slipped on the knee, -but the vest was wider and not so hard, -so that when you were that far you were -safe. And when you had both feet in the -soft middle of the vest, and your body -was stiff, and your face was looking right -up at the ceiling, Grandfather groaned -down deep inside, and that was the sign -that your walk was ended. Then Grandfather -crumpled you up in his arms. But -on Sunday, when Grandfather wore his -white vest, you walked like other folks.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-156"> -<span id="when-grandfather-wore-his-white-vest-you-walked-like-other-folks"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""WHEN GRANDFATHER WORE HIS WHITE VEST YOU WALKED LIKE OTHER FOLKS"" src="images/img-004.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"WHEN GRANDFATHER WORE HIS WHITE VEST YOU WALKED LIKE OTHER FOLKS"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the morning Grandfather sat in the -sun by the wall—the stone wall at the -back of the garden, where the golden-rod -grew. Grandfather read the paper and -smoked. When it was afternoon and -Mother was taking her nap, Grandfather was -around the corner of the house, on the -porch, in the sun—always in the sun, for -the sun followed Grandfather wherever he -went, till he passed into the house at -supper-time. Then the sun went down and it -was night.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather walked with a cane; but -even then, with all the three legs he -boasted of, you could run the meadow to the -big rock before Grandfather had gone -half-way. Grandfather's pipe was corn-cob, -and every week he had a new one, for the -little brown juice that cuddled down in -the bottom of the bowl, and wouldn't come -out without a straw, wasn't good for folks, -Grandfather said. Old Man Stubbs, who -came across the road to see Grandfather, -chewed his tobacco, yet the little brown -juice did not hurt him at all, he said. Still -it was not pleasant to kiss Old Man Stubbs, -and Mother said that chewing tobacco -was a filthy habit, and that only very -old men ever did it nowadays, because -lots of people used to do it when -Grandfather and Old Man Stubbs were little -boys. Probably, you thought, people did -not kiss other folks so often then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One morning Grandfather was reading -by the wall, in the sun. You were on -the ground, flat, peeping under the grass, -and you were so still that a cricket came -and teetered on a grass-stalk near at hand. -Two red ants climbed your hat as it lay -beside you, and a white worm swung -itself from one grass-blade to another, -like a monkey. The ground under the -apple-trees was broken out with sun-spots. -Bees were humming in the red clover. -Butterflies lazily flapped their wings and -sailed like little boats in a sea of -goldenrod and Queen Anne's lace.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dee, dee-dee, dee-dee," you sang, and -Mr. Cricket sneaked under a plantain -leaf. You tracked him to his lair with -your finger, and he scuttled away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Grand</em><span>father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not a word. Then you looked. Grandfather's -paper had slipped to the ground, -and his glasses to his lap. He was fast -asleep in the sunshine with his head upon -his breast. You stole softly to his side -With a long grass you tickled his ear. -With a jump he awoke, and you tumbled, -laughing, on the grass.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-157"> -<span id="you-stole-softly-to-his-side"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""YOU STOLE SOFTLY TO HIS SIDE"" src="images/img-008.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"YOU STOLE SOFTLY TO HIS SIDE"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ain't you 'shamed?" cried -Lizzie-in-the-kitchen, who was hanging out the -clothes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Huh! Grandfather don't care."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather never cared. That is one -of the things which made him Grandfather. -If he had scolded he might have -been Father, or even Uncle Ned—but he -would not have been Grandfather. So -when you spoiled his nap he only said, -"H'm," deep in his beard, put on his -glasses, and read his paper again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When it was afternoon, and the sun -followed Grandfather to the porch, and -you were tired of playing House, or -Hop-Toad, or Indian, or the Three Bears, it -was only a step from Grandfather's foot -to Grandfather's lap. When you sat back -and curled your legs, your head lay in -the hollow of Grandfather's shoulder, in -the shadow of his white beard. Then -Grandfather would say,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Once upon a time there was a bear..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Or, better still,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Once, when I was a little boy..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Or, best of all,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When Grandfather went to the war..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was the story where Grandfather -lay all day in the tall grass watching -for Johnny Reb, and Johnny Reb was -watching for Grandfather. When it came -to the exciting part, you sat straight up -to see Grandfather squint one eye and -look along his outstretched arm, as though -it were his gun, and say, "Bang!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Johnny Reb saw the tip of Grandfather's -blue cap just peeping over the -tops of the tall grass, and so he, too, went -"Bang!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And ever afterwards Grandfather walked -with a cane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did Johnny Reb have to walk with a -cane, too, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Johnny Reb, he just lay in the tall -grass, all doubled up, and says he, 'Gimme -a chaw o' terbaccer afore I die.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you give it to him, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He died 'fore I could get the plug out -o' my pocket."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mother would say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wouldn't, Father—such stories to a child!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Grandfather would smoke grimly, -and would not tell you any more, and you -would play Grandfather and Johnny Reb -in the tall grass. Lizzie-in-the-kitchen -would give you a piece of brown-bread -for the chaw of tobacco, and when Johnny -Reb died too soon you ate it yourself, -to save it. You wondered what would -have happened if Johnny Reb had not -died too soon. Standing over Johnny -Reb's prostrate but still animate form in -the tall grass, with the brown-bread -tobacco in your hand, you even -contemplated playing that your adversary lived -to tell the tale, but the awful thought -that in that case you would have to give -up the chaw (the brown-bread was fresh -that day) kept you to the letter of -Grandfather's story. Once only did you play -that Johnny Reb lived—but the brown-bread -was hard that day, and you were -not hungry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather wore the blue, and on his -breast were the star and flag of the Grand -Army. Every May he straightened his -bent shoulders and marched to the music -of fife and drum to the cemetery on the -hill. So once a year there were tears in -Grandfather's eyes. All the rest of that -solemn May day he marched in the garden -with his hands behind him, and a -far-away look in his eyes, and once in a -while his steps quickened as he hummed -to himself,</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching."</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And if it so happened that he told you -the story of Johnny Reb that day, he -would always have a new ending:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then we went into battle. The Rebs -were on a tarnal big hill, and as we charged -up the side, 'Boys,' says the Colonel—'boys, -give 'em hell!' says he. And, sir, -we just did, I tell you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh Father, Father—</span><em class="italics">don't!</em><span>—such -language before the child!" Mother would -cry, and that would be the end of the new -end of Grandfather's story.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On a soap-box in Abe Jones's corner -grocery, Grandfather argued politics with -Old Man Stubbs and the rest of the boys.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've voted the straight Republican -ticket all my life," he would say, proudly, -when the fray was at its height, "and, by -George! I'll not make a darned old fool o' -myself by turning coat now. Pesky few -Democrats ever I see who—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here Old Man Stubbs would rise from -the cracker-barrel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I understand you correctly, sir, you -have called me a darned old fool."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not at all, Stubbs," Grandfather would -reply, soothingly. "Not by a jugful. Now -you're a Democrat—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And proud of it, sir," Old Man Stubbs -would break in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're a Democrat, Stubbs, and as -such you are not responsible; but if I was -to turn Democrat, Stubbs, I'd be a darned -old fool."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And in the roar that followed, Old Man -Stubbs would subside to the cracker-barrel -and smoke furiously. Then Grandfather -would say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stubbs, do you remember old Mose -Gray?" That was to clear the battle-field -of the political carnage, so to speak—so -that Old Man Stubbs would forget his -grievance and walk home with Grandfather -peaceably when the grocery closed -for the night.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If it was winter-time, and the snowdrifts -were too deep for grandfathers and -little boys, you sat before the fireplace, -Grandfather in his arm-chair, you flat -on the rug, your face between your hands, -gazing into the flames.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was the greatest man that ever -lived, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jesus of Nazareth, boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And who was the greatest soldier?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ulysses S. Grant."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the next greatest?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"George Washington."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Old Man Stubbs says Napoleon -was the greatest soldier."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Old Man Stubbs? Old Man Stubbs? -What does he know about it, I'd like to -know? He wasn't in the war. He's -afraid of his own shadder. U. S. Grant -was the greatest general that ever lived. -I guess I know. I was there, wasn't I? -Napoleon! Old Man Stubbs! Fiddlesticks!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Grandfather would sink back into -his chair, smoking wrath and weed in -his trembling corn-cob, and scowling at -the blazing fagots and the curling -hickory smoke. By-and-by—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was the greatest woman that -ever lived, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your mother, boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Father"—it was Mother's voice—"you forget."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Forget nothing," cried Grandfather, -fiercely. "Boy, your mother is the best -woman that ever lived, and mind you -remember it, too. Every boy's mother is -the best woman that ever lived."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when Grandfather leaned forward -in his chair and waved his pipe, there -was no denying Grandfather.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At night, after supper, when your clothes -were in a little heap on the chair, and -you had your nighty on, and you had -said your prayers, Mother tucked you -in bed and kissed you and called -Grandfather. Then Grandfather came -stumping up the stairs with his cane. Sitting -on the edge of your bed, he sang to you,</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"The wild gazelle with the silvery feet</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>I'll give thee for a playmate sweet."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And after Grandfather went away the -wild gazelle came and stood beside you, -and put his cold little nose against your -cheek, and licked your face with his tongue. -It was rough at first, but by-and-by it got -softer and softer, till you woke up and -wanted a drink, and found beside you, -in place of the wild gazelle, a white mother -with a brimming cup in her hand. She -covered you up when you were through, -and kissed you, and then you went -looking for the wild gazelle, and sometimes -you found him; but sometimes, when -you had just caught up to him and -his silvery feet were shining like stars, -he turned into Grandfather with his cane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hi, sleepy-head! The dicky-birds are -waitin' for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then Grandfather would tickle you -in the ribs, and help you on with your -stockings, till it was time for him to sit by -the wall in the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When you were naughty, and Mother -used the little brown switch that hung -over the wood-shed door, Grandfather -tramped up and down in the garden, and -the harder you hollered, the harder -Grandfather tramped. Once when you played -the empty flower-pots were not flower-pots -at all, but just cannon-balls, and -you killed a million Indians with them, -Mother showed you the pieces, and the -switch descended, and the tears fell, and -Grandfather tramped and tramped, and -lost the garden-path completely, and -stepped on the pansies. Then they shut -you up in your own room up-stairs, and -you cried till the hiccups came. You -heard the dishes rattling on the -dining-room table below. They would be eating -supper soon, and at one end of the table -in a silver dish there would be a -chocolate cake, for Lizzie-in-the-kitchen had -baked one that afternoon. You had seen -it in the pantry window with your own -eyes, while you fired the flower-pots. Now -chocolate cake was your favorite, so you -hated your bread-and-milk, and tasted -and wailed defiantly. Now and then you -listened to hear if they pitied and came -to you, but they came not, and you moaned -and sobbed in the twilight, and hoped -you would die, to make them sorry. -By-and-by, between the hiccups, you heard -the door open softly. Then Grandfather's -hand came through the crack with a piece -of chocolate cake in it. You knew it was -Grandfather's hand, because it was all -knuckly. So you cried no more, and -while the chocolate cake was stopping -the hiccups, you heard Grandfather steal -down the stairs, softly—but it did not -sound like Grandfather at all, for you -did not hear the stumping of his cane. -Next morning, when you asked him about -it, his vest shook, and just the tip of his -tongue showed between his teeth, for that -was the way it did when anything pleased -him. And Grandfather said:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't ever tell?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sure as shootin'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then—" but Grandfather kept -shaking so he could not tell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Grandfather! </span><em class="italics">Why</em><span> didn't the cane -sound on the stairs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whisht, boy! I just wrapped my old -bandanna handkerchief around the end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But worse than that time was the awful -morning when you broke the blue pitcher -that came over in the </span><em class="italics">Mayflower</em><span>. An old -family law said you should never even -touch it, where it sat on the shelf by the -clock, but the Old Nick said it wouldn't -hurt if you looked inside—just once. -You had been munching bread-and-butter, -and your fingers were slippery, and -that is how the pitcher came to fall. -Grandfather found you sobbing over the pieces, -and his face was white.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sonny, Sonny, what have you done?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I—I d-didn't mean to, Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In trembling fingers Grandfather -gathered up the blue fragments—all that was -left of the family heirloom, emblem of -Mother's ancestral pride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh! Don't cry, Sonny. We'll make -it all right again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M-Moth—Mother 'll whip me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh, boy. No, she won't. We'll take -it to the tinker. He'll make it all right -again. Come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And you and Grandfather slunk guiltily -to the tinker and watched him make the -blue fragments into the blue pitcher again, -and then you carried it home, and as -Grandfather set it back on the shelf you -whispered:</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-158"> -<span id="watched-him-make-the-blue-fragments-into-the-blue-pitcher-again"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE FRAGMENTS INTO THE BLUE PITCHER AGAIN"" src="images/img-020.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE FRAGMENTS INTO THE BLUE PITCHER AGAIN"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather bent his ear to you. Very -softly you said it:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather, the cracks don't show -at all from here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather nodded his head. Then -he tramped up and down in the garden. -He forgot to smoke. Crime weighed upon -his soul.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Boy," said he, sternly, stopping in -his walk. "You must never be naughty -again. Do you hear me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't, Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfather resumed his tramping; then -paused and turned to where you sat on -the wheelbarrow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if you ever </span><em class="italics">are</em><span> naughty again, -you must go at once and tell Mother. Do -you understand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Up and down Grandfather tramped -moodily, his head bent, his hands clasped -behind him—up and down between the -verbenas and hollyhocks. He paused -irresolutely—turned—turned again—and came -back to you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Boy, Grandfather's just as bad and -wicked as you are. He ought to have -made you tell Mother about the pitcher -first, and take it to the tinker afterwards. -You must never keep anything from your -mother again—never. Do you hear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Grandfather," you whimpered, -hanging your head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You gave him your hand. Mother listened, -wondering, while Grandfather spoke -out bravely to the very end. You had -been bad, but he had been worse, he -confessed; and he asked to be punished for -himself and you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother did not even look at the cracked -blue pitcher on the clock-shelf, but her -eyes filled, and at the sight of her tears -you flung yourself, sobbing, into her arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Mother, don't whip Grandfather. -Just whip me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't the blue pitcher I care about," -she said. "It's only to think that -Grandfather and my little boy were afraid to -tell me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at this she broke out crying with -your wet cheek against her wet cheek, -and her warm arms crushing you to her -breast. And you cried, and Grandfather -blew his nose, and Carlo barked and leaped -to lick your face, until by-and-by, when -Mother's white handkerchief and -Grandfather's red one were quite damp, you -and Mother smiled through your tears, -and she said it did not matter, and -Grandfather patted one of her hands while you -kissed the other. And you and Grandfather -said you would never be bad again. -When you were good, or sick—dear -Grandfather! It was not what he said, -for only Mother could say the love-words. -It was the things he did without saying -much at all—the circus he took you to see, -the lessons in A B C while he held the -book for you in his hand, the sail-boats -he whittled for you on rainy days—for -Grandfather was a ship-carpenter before -he was a grandfather—and the willow -whistles he made for you, and the soldier -swords. It was Grandfather who fished -you from the brook. Grandfather saved -you from Farmer Tompkins's cow—the -black one which gave no milk. Grandfather -snatched you from prowling dogs, -and stinging bees, and bad boys and their -wiles. That is what grandfathers are for, -and so we love them and climb into their -laps and beg for sail-boats and tales—and -</span><em class="italics">that</em><span> is their reward.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 96%" id="figure-159"> -<span id="the-sail-boats-he-whittled-for-you-on-rainy-days"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""THE SAIL-BOATS HE WHITTLED FOR YOU ON RAINY DAYS"" src="images/img-024.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"THE SAIL-BOATS HE WHITTLED FOR YOU ON RAINY DAYS"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>One day—your birthday had just gone -by and it was time to think of -Thanksgiving—you walked with Grandfather in -the fields. Between the stacked corn the -yellow pumpkins lay, and they made you -think of Thanksgiving pies. The leaves, -red and gold, dropped of old age in the -autumn stillness, and you gathered an -armful for Mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't all the people die every -year, Grandfather, like the leaves?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everybody dies when his work's done, -little boy. The leaf's work is done in -the fall when the frost comes. It takes -longer for a man to do his work, 'cause -a man has more to do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When will your work be done, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's almost done now, little boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh no, Grandfather. There's lots for -you to do. You said you'd make me -a bob-sled, and a truly engine what goes, -when I'm bigger; and when I get to be -a grown-up man like Father, you are to -come and make willow whistles for my -little boys."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And you were right, for while the frost -came again and again for the little leaves, -Grandfather stayed on in the sun, and -when he had made you the bob-sled he -still lingered, for did he not have the truly -engine to make for you, and the willow -whistles for your own little boys?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Waking from a nap, you could not -remember when you fell asleep. You -wondered what hour it was. Was it morning? -Was it afternoon? Dreamily you came -down-stairs. Golden sunlight crossed the -ivied porch and smiled at you through the -open door. The dining-room table was -set with blue china, and at every place -was a dish of red, red strawberries. Then -you knew it was almost supper-time. -You were rested with sleep, gentle with -dreams of play, happy at the thought -of red berries in blue dishes with sugar -and cream. You found Grandfather in -the garden sitting in the sun. He was -not reading or smoking; he was just waiting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you tired waiting for me, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, little boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I came as soon as I could, Grandfather."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The leaves did not move. The flowers -were motionless. Grandfather sat quite -still, his soft, white beard against your -cheek, flushed with sleep. You nestled -in his lap. And so you sat together, with -the sun going down about you, till Mother -came and called you to supper. Even -now when you are grown, you remember, -as though it were yesterday, the long nap -and the golden light in the doorway, and -the red berries on the table, and -Grandfather waiting in the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One day—it was not long afterwards—they -took you to see Aunt Mary, on the -train. When you came home again, -Grandfather was not waiting for you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where is Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather isn't here any more, dearie. -He has gone 'way up in the sky to see -God and the angels."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And won't he ever come back to our -house?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, dear; but if you are a good boy, -you will go to see him some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, oh, Mother, what will Grandfather -do when he goes to walk with the -little boy angels? See—he's gone and -forgot his cane!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="grandmother"><span class="bold large">Grandmother</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="I" src="images/img-cap-i033.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>n the days when you went -into the country to visit her, -Grandmother was a gay, spry -little lady with velvety cheeks -and gold-rimmed spectacles, knitting reins -for your hobby-horse, and spreading -bread-and-butter and brown sugar for you in -the hungry middle of the afternoon. For -a bumped head there was nothing in the -bottles to compare with the magic of her lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what did the floor do to my poor -little lamb? See! Grandmother will make -the place well again." And when she -had kissed it three times, lo! you knew -that you were hungry, and on the -door-sill of Grandmother's pantry you shed -a final tear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When you arrived for a visit, and -Grandmother had taken off your cap and coat as -you sat in her lap, you would say, softly, -"Grandmother." Then she would know -that you wanted to whisper, and she would -lower her ear till it was even with your -lips. Through the hollow of your two -hands you said it:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I would like some sugar pie -now, Grandmother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then she would laugh till the tears -came, and wipe her spectacles, for that -was just what she had been waiting for -you to say all the time, and if you had -not said it—but, of course, that was -impossible. Always, on the day before you -came, she made two little sugar pies in -two little round tins with crinkled edges. -One was for you, and the other was for -Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After you had eaten your pies you chased -the rooster till he dropped you a white -tail-feather in token of surrender, and -just tucking the feather into your cap -made you an Indian. Grandmother stood -at the window and watched you while you -scalped the sunflowers. The Indians and -tigers at Grandmother's were wilder than -those in Our Yard at home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Being an Indian made you think of -tents, and then you remembered Grandmother's -old plaid shawl. She never wore -it now, for she had a new one, but she -kept it for you in the closet beneath the -stairs. While you were gone, it hung in -the dark alone, dejected, waiting for you -to come back and play. When you came, -at last, and dragged it forth, it clung to -you warmly, and did everything you said: -stretched its frayed length from chair to -chair and became a tent for you; swelled -proudly in the summer gale till your boat -scudded through the surf of waving grass, -and you anchored safely, to fish with string -and pin, by the Isles of the Red Geraniums.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The pirates are coming," you cried -to Lizbeth, scanning the horizon of picket -fence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The pirates are coming," she repeated, -dutifully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now we must haul up the anchor," -you commanded, dragging in the stone. -Lizbeth was in terror. "Oh, my poor -dolly!" she cried, hushing it in her arms. -Gallantly the old plaid shawl caught the -breeze; and as it filled, your boat leaped -forward through—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry! Lizbeth! Come and be washed for dinner!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandmother's voice came out to you -across the waters. You hesitated. The -pirate ship was close behind. You could -see the cutlasses flashing in the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"More sugar pies," sang the Grandmother -siren on the rocks of the front -porch, and at those melting words the -pirate ship was a mere speck on the -horizon. Seizing Lizbeth by the hand, you -ran boldly across the sea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By the white bowl Grandmother took -your chin in one hand and lifted your face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My, what a dirty boy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With the rough wet rag she mopped the -dirt away—grime of your long -sea-voyage—while you squinted your eyes and -pursed up your lips to keep out the soap. -You clung to her apron for support in your -mute agony.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 68%" id="figure-160"> -<span id="you-clung-to-her-apron-for-support-in-your-mute-agony"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY"" src="images/img-036.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grand—" you managed to sputter -ere the wet rag smothered you. Warily -you waited till the cloth went higher, -to your puckered eyes. Then, "Grand-m-m—" But -that was all, for with a trail -of suds the rag swept down again, and -as the half-word slipped out, the soap -slipped in. So Grandmother dug and -dug till she came to the pink stratum of -your cheeks, and then it was wipe, wipe, -wipe, till the stratum shone. Then it -was your hands' turn, while Grandmother -listened to your belated tale, and last -of all she kissed you above and gave you -a little spank below, and you were done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All through dinner your mind was on -the table—not on the middle of it, where -the meat was, but on the end of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry, why don't you eat your bread?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I don't feel for bread, Grandmother," -you explained, looking at the -end of the table. "I just feel for pie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was hard when you were back home -again, for there it was mostly bread, and -no sugar pies at all, and very little cake.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandmother lets me have </span><em class="italics">two</em><span> pieces," -you would urge to Mother, but the -argument was of no avail. Two pieces, she -said, were not good for little boys.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then why does Grandmother let me -have them?" you would demand, sullenly, -kicking the table leg; but Mother could -not hear you unless you kicked hard, -and then it was naughty boys, not -Grandmothers, that she talked about. And if -that happened which sometimes does to -naughty little boys—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandmother don't hurt at all when -</span><em class="italics">she</em><span> spanks," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So there were wrathful moments when -you wished you might live always with -Grandmother. It was so easy to be good -at her house—so easy, that is, to get two -pieces of cake. And when God made little -boys, you thought, He must have made -Grandmothers to bake sugar pies for them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Suppose you were a little boy like me, -Grandmother?" you once said to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That would be fine," she admitted; -"but suppose you were a little -grandmother like me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," you replied, with candor, "I -think I would rather be like Grandfather, -'cause he was a soldier, and fought Johnny Reb."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And if you were a grandfather," Grandmother -asked, "what would you do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, if I were a grandfather," you -said—"why—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, what would you do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, if I were a grandfather," you -said, "I should want you to come and be -a grandmother with me." And Grandmother -kissed you for that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I like you best as a little boy," -she said. "Once Grandmother had a little -boy just like you, and he used to climb -into her lap and put his arms around her. -Oh, he was a beautiful little boy, and -sometimes Grandmother gets very lonesome -without him—till you come, and -then it's like having him back again. -For you've got his blue eyes and his brown -hair and his sweet little ways, and -Grandmother loves you—once for yourself and -once for him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But where is the little boy now, Grandmother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a man now, darling. He's your -own father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Every Sunday, Grandmother went to -church. After breakfast there was a flurry -of dressing, with an opening and shutting -of doors up-stairs, and Grandfather would -be down-stairs in the kitchen, blacking -his Sunday boots. On Sunday his beard -looked whiter than on other days, but -that was because he seemed so much -blacker everywhere else. He creaked out -to the stable and hitched Peggy to the -buggy and led them around to the front -gate. Then he would snap his big gold -watch and go to the bottom of the stairs -and say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maria! Come! It's ten o'clock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandmother's door would open a -slender crack—"Yes, John"—and Grandfather -would creak up and down in his -Sunday boots, up and down, waiting, till -there was a rustling on the stairs and -Grandmother came down to him in a glory -of black silk. There was a little frill of -white about her neck, fastened with her -gold brooch, and above that her gentle -Sabbath face. Her face took on a new -light when Sunday came, and she never -seemed so near, somehow, as on other -days. There was a look in her eyes that -did not speak of sugar pies or play. There -was a little pressure of the thin lips and -a silence, as though she had no time for -fairy-tales or lullabies. When she set -her little black bonnet on her gray hair -and lifted up her chin to tie the ribbon -strings beneath, you stopped your game -to watch, wondering at her awesomeness; -and when in her black-gloved fingers she -clasped her worn Bible and stooped and -kissed you good-bye, you never thought -of putting your arms around her. She -was too wonderful—this little Sabbath -Grandmother—for that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Through the window you watched them -as they went down the walk together to -the front gate, Grandmother and Grandfather, -the tips of her gloved fingers laid -in the hollow of his arm. Solemn was -the steady stumping of his cane. Solemn -was the day. Even the roosters knew -it was Sunday, somehow, and crowed -dismally; and the bells—the church-bells -tolling through the quiet air—made you -lonesome and cross with Lizbeth. Your -collar was very stiff, and your Sunday -trousers were very tight, and there was -nothing to do, and you were dreary.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 68%" id="figure-161"> -<span id="you-watched-them-as-they-went-down-the-walk-together"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""YOU WATCHED THEM AS THEY WENT DOWN THE WALK TOGETHER"" src="images/img-042.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"YOU WATCHED THEM AS THEY WENT DOWN THE WALK TOGETHER"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>After dinner Grandfather went to sleep -on the sofa, with a newspaper over his -face. Then Grandmother took you up into -her black silk lap and read you Bible -stories and taught you the Twenty-third -Psalm and the golden text. And every -one of the golden texts meant the same -thing—that little boys should be very -good and do as they are told.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandmother's Sunday lap was not so -fine as her other ones to lie in. Her -Monday lap, for instance, was soft and gray, -and there were no texts to disturb your -reverie. Then Grandmother would stop -her knitting to pinch your cheek and say, -"You don't love Grandmother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How much?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"More'n tonguecantell. What is a -tonguecantell, Grandmother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And while she was telling you she would -be poking the tip of her finger into the -soft of your jacket, so that you doubled -up suddenly with your knees to your -chin; and while you guarded your ribs a -funny spider would crawl down the back -of your neck; and when you chased the -spider out of your collar it would -suddenly creep under your chin, or there -would be a panic in the ribs again. By -that time you were nothing but wriggles -and giggles and little cries.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't, Grandmother; you tickle." And -Grandmother would pause, breathless as -yourself, and say, "</span><em class="italics">Oh</em><span>, my!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now you must do it some more, Grandmother," -you would urge, but she would -shake her head at you and go back to her -knitting again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandmother's tired," she would say.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You were tired, too, so you lay with -your head on her shoulder, sucking your -thumb. To and fro Grandmother rocked -you, to and fro, while the kitten played -with the ball of yarn on the floor. The -afternoon sunshine fell warmly through -the open window. Bees and butterflies -hovered in the honeysuckles. Birds were -singing. Your mind went a-wandering—out -through the yard and the front gate and -across the road. On it went past the -Taylors' big dog and up by Aunty Green's, -where the crullers lived, all brown and -crusty, in the high stone crock. It -scrambled down by the brook where the -little green frogs were hopping into the -water, leaving behind them trembling rings -that grew wider and wider and wider, till -pretty soon they were the ocean. That was -a big thought, and you roused yourself.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 66%" id="figure-162"> -<span id="to-and-fro-grandmother-rocked-you"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCKED YOU"" src="images/img-046.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCKED YOU"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How big is the ocean, Grandmother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As big—oh, as big as all out-doors."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your mind waded out into the ocean -till the water was up to its knees. Then -it scrambled back again and lay in the -warm sand and looked up at the sky. -And the sand rocked to and fro, to and -fro, as your mind lay there, all curled up -and warm, by the ocean, watching the -butterflies in the honeysuckles and the -crullers in the crock. And all the people -were singing ... all the people in the -world, almost ... and the little green -frogs.... "Bye—bye, bye—bye," they -were singing, in time to the rocking of -the sand ... "Bye—bye" ... "Bye" -... "Bye" ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when you awoke you were on the -sofa, all covered up with Grandmother's -shawl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So you liked the gay week-day Grandmother -best, with her soft lap and her -lullabies. Grandfather must have liked -her best too, you thought, for when he -went away forever and forgot his cane, it -was the Sunday Grandmother he left -behind—a little, gray Grandmother sitting -by the window and gazing silently through -the panes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What she saw there you never knew—but -it was not the trees, or the distant -hills, or the people passing in the road.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="while-aunt-jane-played"><span class="bold large">While Aunt Jane Played</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="A" src="images/img-cap-a051.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>unt Jane played the piano -in the parlor. You could -play, too—"Peter, Peter, -Punkin-eater," with your forefinger, -Aunt Jane holding it in her hand -so that you would strike the right notes. -But when Aunt Jane played she used -both hands. Sometimes the music was so -fast and stirring that it made you dance, -or romp, or sing, or play that you were -not a little boy at all, but a soldier like -Grandfather or George Washington; and -sometimes the music was so soft and -beautiful that you wanted to be a prince in a -fairy tale; and then again it was so slow -and grim that you wished it were not -Sunday, for the Sunday tunes, like your tight, -black, Sunday shoes, had all their buttons -on, and so were not comfy or made for -fun. You could not march to them, or -fight to them, or be a grown-up man to -them. Somehow they always reminded -you that you were only a pouting, naughty -little boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sound of the piano came out to -you as you lingered by the table where -Lizzie-in-the-kitchen was making pies. You -ran into the parlor and sat on a hassock -by Aunt Jane, watching her as she played. -It was not a fast piece that day, nor yet -a slow one, but just in-between, so that -as you sat by the piano you wondered if -the snow and sloppy little puddles would -ever go and leave Our Yard green again. -Even with rubber boots now Mother made -you keep the paths, and mostly you had -to stay in the house. Through the window -you could see the maple boughs still bare, -but between them the sky was warm and -blue. Pretty soon the leaves would be -coming, hiding the sky.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Auntie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," though she did not stop playing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where do the leaves come from?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From the little buds on the twigs, dearie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But how do they know when it's time -to come, Auntie Jane? 'Cause if they -came too soon, they might catch cold and die."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, the sun tells them when."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How does the sun tell them, Auntie?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, he makes the trees all warm, -and when the buds feel it, out they come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your eyes were very wide. They were -always wide when you wondered; and -sometimes when you were not wondering -at all, just hearing Aunt Jane play would -make you, and then your eyes would grow -bigger and bigger as you sat on the -hassock by the piano, looking at the maple -boughs and hearing the music and being -a little boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a beautiful piece that Aunt Jane -was playing that March morning. The -sun came and shone on the maple boughs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now the sun is telling the little -buds," you said to yourself in time to -Aunt Jane's music, but so softly that she -did not hear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now the little buds are saying -'All right,'" you whispered, more softly -still, for the bigger your eyes got, the -smaller, always, was your voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A little song-sparrow came and teetered -on a twig.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Auntie, see! The birdie's come, -too, to tell the buds, I guess."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Aunt Jane turned her head and smiled -at the sparrow, but she did not stop -playing. Your heart was beating in time to -the music, as you sat on the hassock by -the piano, watching the bird and the sun. -The sparrow danced like Aunt Jane's -fingers, and put up his little open bill. He -was singing, though you could not hear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Auntie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who told the little bird?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God told the little bird, dearie—away -down South where the oranges and roses -grow in the winter, and there isn't any -snow. And the little bird flew up here -to Ourtown to build his nest and sing in -our maple-tree."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your eyes were so wide now that you -had no voice at all. You just sat there -on the hassock while Aunt Jane played.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Away down South ... away down -South, singing in an orange-tree, you saw -the little bird ... but now he stopped to -listen with his head on one side, and his -bright eye shining, while the warm wind -rustled in the leaves ... God was telling -him ... So the little bird spread his -wings and flew ... away up in the blue -sky, above the trees, above the steeples, -over the hills and running brooks -... miles and miles and miles ... till he -came to Our Yard, in the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And here he is now," you ended aloud -your little story, for you had found your -voice again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is here, dearie?" asked Aunt -Jane, still playing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, the little bird," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sparrow flew away. The sun came -through the window to where you sat on -the hassock, by the piano. It warmed -your knees and told you—what it told the -buds, what God told the little bird in the -orange-tree. Like the little bird you could -stay no longer. You ran out-of-doors -into the soft, sweet wind and the morning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Aunt Jane gave the keys a last caress. -Grandmother turned in her chair by the -sitting-room window.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What were you playing, Janey?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mendelssohn's 'Spring Song,' Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The little gray Grandmother looked -out-of-doors again to where you played, -singing, in the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it beautiful?" she murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You waved your hand to her and laughed, -and she nodded back at you, smiling -at your fun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bless his heart, </span><em class="italics">he's</em><span> playing the music, -too," she said.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="little-sister"><span class="bold large">Little Sister</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="I" src="images/img-cap-i061.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>n the daytime she played -with you, and believed all -you said, and was always -ready to cry. At night she -slept with you and the four dolls. She -was your little sister, Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whose little girl are you?" they would -ask her. If she were sitting in Father's -lap, she would doubtless reply—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father's little girl."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, </span><em class="italics">Lizbeth</em><span>!" Mother would cry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—and Mother's," Lizbeth would add, -to keep peace in the family. Though she -never mentioned you at such times, she -told you privately that she would marry -you when you grew to be a man, and -publicly she remembered you in her -prayers. Kneeling down at Mother's knee, you -and Lizbeth, in your little white nighties, -before you went to bed, you said "Now -I lay me" in unison, and ended with -blessing every one, only at the very end </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> -said:</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 66%" id="figure-163"> -<span id="you-said-now-i-lay-me-in-unison"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""YOU SAID 'NOW I LAY ME' IN UNISON"" src="images/img-062.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"YOU SAID 'NOW I LAY ME' IN UNISON"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—and God bless Captain Jinks," for -even a wooden soldier needed God in those -long, dark nights of childhood, while -Lizbeth said:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—and God bless all my dollies, and -send my Sally doll a new leg."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But though God sent three new legs in -turn, Sally was always losing them, so -that finally Lizbeth confided in Mother:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pretty soon God 'll be tired of sending -Sally new legs, I guess. </span><em class="italics">You</em><span> speak -to Him next time, Mother, 'cause I'm -'shamed to any more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when Mother asked Him, He sent -a new Sally instead of a new leg. It would -be cheaper, Mother told Father, in the -long-run.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the diplomatic precedence of -Lizbeth's prayers, Father and Mother were -blessed first, and you came between -"Grandfather and Grandmother" and -"God bless my dollies." Thus was your -family rank established for all time by -a little girl in a white night-gown. You -were a little lower than your elders, it is -true, but you were higher than the -legless Sally or the waxen blonde.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Lizbeth and you were good, you -loved each other, and when you were bad, -both of you at the same time, you loved -each other too, </span><em class="italics">very</em><span> dearly. But sometimes -it happened that Lizbeth was good -and you were bad, and then she only loved -Mother, and ran and told tales on you. -And you—well, you did not love anybody -at all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When your insides said it would be a -long time before dinner, and your mouth -watered, and you stood on a chair by the -pantry shelf with your hand in a brown -jar, and when Lizbeth found you there, -you could tell by just looking at her face -that she was very good that day, and that -she loved Mother better than she did you. -So you knew without even thinking about -it that you were very bad, and you did not -love anybody at all, and your heart quaked -within you at Lizbeth's sanctity. But -there was always a last resort.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lizbeth, if you tell"—you mumbled -awfully, pointing at her an uncanny forefinger -dripping preserves—"if you tell, a -great big black Gummy-gum 'll get you -when it's dark, and he'll pick out your eyes -and gnaw your ears off, and he'll keep -one paw over your mouth, so you can't -holler, and when the blood comes—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth quailed before you. She began -to cry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't tell, </span><em class="italics">will</em><span> you?" you demanded, -fiercely, making eyes like a -Gummy-gum and showing your white teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—o—o," wailed Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, stop crying, then," you -commanded, sucking your syrupy fingers. -"If you cry, the Gummy-gum 'll come -and get you </span><em class="italics">now</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth looked fearfully over her shoulder -and stopped. By that time your fingers -were all sucked, and the cover was back -on the jar, and you were saved. But that -night, when Mother and Father came home, -you watched Lizbeth, and lest she should -forget, you made the eyes of a Gummy-gum, -when no one but Lizbeth saw. Mother -tucked you both into bed and kissed -you and put out the light. Then Lizbeth -whimpered.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 66%" id="figure-164"> -<span id="mother-tucked-you-both-into-bed-and-kissed-you"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""MOTHER TUCKED YOU BOTH INTO BED AND KISSED YOU"" src="images/img-068.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"MOTHER TUCKED YOU BOTH INTO BED AND KISSED YOU"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Lizbeth," said Mother from the dark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Quick as a flash you snuggled up to -Lizbeth's side. "The Gummy-gum 'll get -you if you don't stop," you whispered, -warningly—but with one dismal wail -Lizbeth was out of bed and in Mother's arms. -Then you knew all was over. Desperately -you awaited retribution, humming a little -song, and so it was to the tune of "I want -to be an angel" that you heard Lizbeth -sob out her awful tale:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry ... he ... he said the Gummy-gum -'d get me ... if I told about the -p'serves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And it was </span><em class="italics">you</em><span> the Gummy-gum got -that time, and your blood, you thought, -almost came.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But other nights when you went to -bed—nights after days when you had -both been good and loved each other—it -was fine to lie there in the dark with -Lizbeth, playing Make-Believe before you fell -asleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I tell you," you said, putting up your -foot so that the covers rose upon it, making -a little tent—"I tell you; let's be Indians."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's," said Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And this is our little tent, and there's -bears outside what 'll eat you up if you -don't look out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth shivered and drew her knees -up to her chin, so that she was nothing -but a little warm roll under the wigwam.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now the bears are coming—wow! wow! wow!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as the great hungry beasts -pushed their snouts under the canvas and -growled and gnashed their teeth, Lizbeth, -little squaw, squealed with terror, and -seized you as you lay there helpless in -your triple rôle of tent and bears and -Indian brave; seized you in the ticklish ribs -so that the wigwam came tumbling about -your ears, and the Indian brave rolled -and shrieked with laughter, and the brute -bears fled to their mountain caves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Children!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"W-what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stop that noise and go right to sleep. -Do you hear me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was it not the voice of the mamma bear? -Stealthily you crept under the fallen -canvas, which had grown smaller, somehow, -in the </span><em class="italics">mêlée</em><span>, so that when you pulled it -up to your chin and tucked it in around -you, Lizbeth was out in the cold; and -when Lizbeth tucked herself in, then you -were shivering. But by-and-by you -huddled close in the twisted sheets and talked -low beneath the edge of the coverlet, so that -no one heard you—not even the Gummy-gum, -who spent his nights on the back stairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does the Gummy-gum eat little folks -while they're asleep?" asked Lizbeth, with -a precautionary snuggle-up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; 'cause the Gummy-gum is afraid -of the little black gnomes what live in -the pillows."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, if the little black gnomes live -in the pillows, why can't you feel them then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Cause, now, they're so teenty-weenty -and so soft."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And can't you ever see them at all?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; 'cause they don't come out till -you're asleep."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh ... Well, Harry—now—if a -Gummy-gum had a head like a horse, -and a tail like a cow, and a bill like a -duck, what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why—why, he </span><em class="italics">wouldn't</em><span>, 'cause he </span><em class="italics">isn't</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh ... Well, is the Gummy-gum just -afraid of the little gnomes, and that's all?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um-hm; 'cause the little gnomes have -little knives, all sharp and shiny, what -they got on the Christmas-tree."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Our</em><span> Christmas-tree?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; the little gnomes's Christmas-tree."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The little gnomes's Christmas-tree?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um-hm."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Cause ... why, there ain't any why -... just Christmas-tree."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just ... just Christmas-tree?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why ... I thought ... I ..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And you and Lizbeth never felt Mother -smooth out the covers at all, though she -lifted you up to straighten them; and so -you slept, spoon-fashion, warm as toast, -with the little black gnomes watching in -the pillows, and the Gummy-gum, hungry -but afraid, in the dark of the back stairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pear-tree on the edge of the -enchanted garden, green with summer and -tremulous with breeze, sheltered a little -girl and her dolls. On the cool turf she -sat alone, preoccupied, her dress starched -and white like the frill of a valentine, her -fat little legs straight out before her, her -bright little curls straight down behind, -her lips parted, her eyes gentle with a -dream of motherhood—Mamma Lizbeth -crooning lullabies to her four children -cradled in the soft grass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll tell you just one more story," she -was saying, "just one, and that's all, and -then you children must go to sleep. Sally, -lie still! Ain't you 'shamed, kicking all -the covers off and catching cold? Naughty -girl. Now you must listen. Well ... -Once upon a time there was a fairy what -lived in a rose, and she had beautiful -wings—oh, all colors—and she could go wherever -she wanted to without anybody ever seeing -her, 'cause she was iwisible, which is when -you can't see anybody at all. Well, one -day the fairy saw a little girl carrying -her father's dinner, and she turned -herself into an old witch and said to the little -girl, 'Come to me, pretty one, and I will -give thee a stick of peppermint candy.' Now -the little girl, she just loved candy, -and peppermint was her favorite, but she -was a good little girl and minded her -mother most dut'fly, and never told any lies or -anything; so she courtesied to the old witch -and said, 'Thank you kindly, but I must -hurry with my father's dinner, or he will -be hungry waiting.' </span><em class="italics">And what do you -think</em><span>? Just then the old witch turned into -the beautiful fairy again, and she kissed -the little girl, and gave her a whole bag of -peppermint candy, and a doll what talked, -and a velocipede for her little brother. -And what does this story teach us, children? -... Yes. That's right. It teaches us to -be good little boys and girls and mind our -parents. And that's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dolls fell asleep. Lizbeth whispered -lest they should awake, and tiptoed through -the grass. A blue-jay called harshly from -a neighboring tree. Lizbeth frowned and -glanced anxiously at the grassy trundle-bed. -"'Sh!" she said, warningly, her -finger on her lip, whenever you came near.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly there was a rustle in the leaves -above, and out of their greenness a little -pear dropped to the grass at Lizbeth's feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's mine," you cried, reaching out -your hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—o," screamed Lizbeth. "It's for -my dollies' breakfast," and she hugged -the stunted, speckled fruit to her bosom -so tightly that its brown, soft side was -crushed in her hands. You tried to snatch -it from her, but she struck you with her -little clinched fist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—o," she cried again. "It's my -dollies' pear." Her lip quivered. Tears -sprang into her eyes. You straightened -yourself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right," you muttered, fiercely. "All -right for you. I'll run away, I will, and -I'll never come back—</span><em class="italics">never</em><span>!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You climbed the stone wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," cried Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll never come back," you called, -defiantly, as you stood on the top.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," Lizbeth screamed, scrambling to -her feet and turning to you a face wet -with tears and white with terror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never, </span><em class="italics">never</em><span>!" was your farewell to -her as you jumped. Deaf to the pitiful -wail behind you, you ran out across the -meadow, muttering to yourself your -fateful, parting cry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth looked for a moment at the wall -where you had stood. Then she ran -sobbing after you, around through the gate, -for the wall was too high for her, and out -into the field, where to her blurred vision -you were only a distant figure now, never, -never to return.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry!" she screamed, and the wind -blew her cry to you across the meadow, -but you ran on, unheeding. She struggled -after you. The daisies brushed her -skirt. Creeping vines caught at her little -shoes and she fell. Scratched by briers, -she scrambled to her feet again and -stumbled on, blind with tears, crying ever -"Harry, Harry!" but so faintly now in her -sobs and breathlessness that you did not -hear. At the top of a weary, weary slope -she sank helpless and heartbroken in the -grass, a little huddle of curls and pinafore, -so that your conscience smote you as you -stood waiting, half hidden by the hedge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't be a cry-baby. I was only -fooling," you said, and at the sound of your -voice Lizbeth lifted her face from the -grasses and put out her arms to you with a cry. -In one hand was the little pear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't want the old thing," you -cried, throwing yourself beside her on the -turf. Smiling again through her tears, -Lizbeth reached out a little hand scratched -by briers, and patted your cheek.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harry," she said, "you can have all -my animal crackers for your m'nagerie, -if you want to, and my little brown -donkey; and I'll play horse with you any -time you want me to, Harry, I will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So, after all, you did not run away, -and you and Lizbeth went home at last -across the meadow, hand in hand. -Behind you, hidden and forgotten in the -red clover, lay your quarrel and the little -pear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Lizbeth loved you, there were -stars in her brown eyes; when you looked -more closely, so that you were very near -their shining, you saw in their round, black -pupils, smiling back at you, the face of a -little boy; and then in your own eyes, -Lizbeth, holding your cheeks between her -hands, found the face of a little girl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, it's </span><em class="italics">me</em><span>!" she cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when you looked again into -Lizbeth's eyes, you saw yourself; and "Oh, -Mother," you said afterwards, for you had -thought deeply, "I think it's the </span><em class="italics">good</em><span> -Harry that's in Lizbeth's eyes, 'cause -when I look at him, he's always smiling." That -was as far as you thought about it -then; but once, long afterwards, it came to -you that little boys never find their -pictures in a sister's eyes unless they are -good, and love her, and hold her cheeks -between their hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth's cheeks were softer than yours, -and when she played horse, or the day -was windy, so that the grass rippled and -the trees sang, or when it was tub-day with -soap and towels up-stairs, her cheeks were -pink as the roses in Mother's garden. That -is how you came to tell Mother a great -secret, one evening in summer, as you sat -with her and Lizbeth on the front steps -watching the sun go down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I guess it's tub-day in the sky, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tub-day?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, yes. All the little clouds have -been having their bath, I think, 'cause -they're all pink and shiny, like Lizbeth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But once Lizbeth's cheeks were white, -and she stayed in bed every day, and you -played by yourself. Twice a day they -took you as far as the bedroom door to -see her.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-165"> -<span id="they-took-you-as-far-as-the-bedroom-door-to-see-her"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE BEDROOM DOOR TO SEE HER"" src="images/img-078.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE BEDROOM DOOR TO SEE HER"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'lo," you said, as you peeked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'lo," she whispered back, very softly, -for she was almost asleep, and she did -not even smile at you, and before you -could tell her what the Pussy-cat did they -took you away—but not till you had seen -the two glasses on the table with the silver -spoon on top.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no noise in the days then. -Even the trees stopped singing, and the -wind walked on tiptoe and whispered into -people's ears, like you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it to-day Lizbeth comes down-stairs?" -you asked every morning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think Lizbeth will play with -me to-morrow?" you asked every night. -Night came a long time after morning -in the days when Lizbeth could not play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, dear, I don't think I feel very well," -you told Mother. Tears spilled out of -your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. -Mother felt your brow and looked at your -tongue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> know what's the matter with my -little boy," she said, and kissed you; but -she did not put you to bed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One day, when no one was near, you -peeked and saw Lizbeth. She was alone -and very little and very white.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'lo," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'lo," she whispered back, and smiled -at you, and when she smiled you could -not wait any longer. You went in very -softly and kissed her where she lay and -gave her a little hug. She patted your -cheek.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd like my dollies," she whispered. -You brought them to her, all four—the -two china ones and the rag brunette and -the waxen blonde.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dollies are sick," she said. "They -'most died, I guess. Play you're sick, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother found you there—Lizbeth and -you and the four dolls, side by side on the -bed, all in a little sick row. And from -the very moment that you kissed Lizbeth -and gave her the little hug, she grew -better, so that by-and-by the wind blew louder -and the trees sang lustily, and all Our -Yard was bright with flowers and sun and -voices and play, for you and Lizbeth and -the four dolls were well again.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="our-yard"><span class="bold large">Our Yard</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="T" src="images/img-cap-t.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>he breadth of Our Yard used -to be from the beehives to -the red geraniums. When -the beehives were New York, -the geraniums were Japan, so the -distance is easy to calculate. The -apple-tree Alps overshadowed New York then, -which seems strange now, but geography -is not what it used to be. In the lapse -of years the Manhattan hives have -crumbled in the Alpine shade, an earthquake -of garden spade has wiped Japan from -the map, and where the scarlet islands -lay in the sun there are green billows now, -and other little boys in the grass, at play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the old days when you sailed away -on the front gate, which swung and -creaked through storms, to the other side of -the sea, you could just descry through -a fog of foliage the rocky shores of the -back-yard fence, washed by a surf of -golden-rod. If you moored your ship—for -an unlatched gate meant prowling -dogs in the garden, and Mother was cross -at that—if you anchored your gate-craft -dutifully to become a soldier, you could -march to the back fence, but it was a long -journey. Starting, a drummer-boy, you -could never foretell your end, for the future -was vague, even with the fence in view, -and your cocked hat on your curls, and -your drumsticks in your hand. Lizbeth -and the dolls might halt you at the front -steps and muster you out of service to -become a doctor with Grandmother's -spectacles and Grandfather's cane. And if -the dolls were well that day, with normal -pulses and unflushed cheeks, and you -marched by with martial melody, there -was your stalled hobby-horse on the side -porch, neighing to you for clover hay; -and stopping to feed him meant desertion -from the ranks, to become a farmer, tilling -the soil and bartering acorn eggs and -clean sand butter on market-day. And -even though you marched untempted by -bucolic joys, there lay in wait for you the -kitchen door, breathing a scent of crullers, -or gingerbread, or apple-pies, or leading -your feet astray to the unscraped frosting-bowl -or the remnant cookies burned on -one side, and so not good for supper, but -fine for weary drummer-boys. So -whether you reached the fence that day was -a question for you and the day and the -sirens that beckoned to you along your play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Across the clover prairie the trellis -mountains reared their vine-clad heights. -Through their morning-glories ran a little -pass, which led to the enchanted garden -on the other side, but the pass was so narrow -and overhung with vines that when -Grandfather was a pack-horse and carried you -through on his back, your outstretched -feet would catch on the trellis sides. Then -the pack-horse would pick his way -cautiously and you would dig your heels -into his sides and hold fast, and so you -got through. Once inside the garden, oh, -wonder of pansies and hollyhocks and -bachelor's-buttons and roses and sweet -smells! The sun shone warmest there, -and the fairies lived there, Mother said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But when it rains, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, then they hide beneath the trellis, -under the honeysuckles."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother wore an apron and sun-bonnet, -and knelt in the little path, digging with -a trowel in the moist, brown earth. You -helped her with your little spade. Under -a lilac-bush Lizbeth made mud-pies, and -the pies of the enchanted garden were the -brownest and richest in all Our Yard. -They were the most like Mother's, -Lizbeth said. Grandfather sat on the -wheelbarrow-ship and smoked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do fairies smoke, Grandfather?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The old grandfather fairies do," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of all the flowers in the enchanted -garden you liked the roses best, and of all -the roses you liked the red. There was a -big one that hung on the wall above your -head. You could just reach it when you -stood on tiptoe, and pulling it down to -you then, you would bury your face in -its petals and take a long snuff, and say,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Um-m-m."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when you let it go, it bobbed and -courtesied on its prickly stem. But one -morning, very early, when you pulled it -down to you, you were rough with it, and -it sprinkled your face with dew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The rose is crying," Lizbeth said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You should be very gentle with roses," -Mother told you. "Sometimes when folks -are sick or cross, just the sight of a red -rose cheers them and makes them smile -again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was a beautiful thought, and it -came back to you the day you left Our -Yard and ran away. You were gone a -long time. It was late in the afternoon -when you trudged guiltily back again, -and when you were still a long way off -you could see Mother waiting for you at -the gate. The brown switch, doubtless, -was waiting too. So you stole into Our -Yard through the back fence, and hid -in the enchanted garden, crying and afraid. -It began to rain, a gentle summer shower, -and like the fairies you hid beneath the -honeysuckles. Looking up through your -tears, you saw the red rose—and -remembered. The rain stopped. You climbed -upon the wheelbarrow-ship and pulled -the rose from the vine. Trembling, you -approached the house. Softly you opened -the front door. At the sight of you Mother -gave a little cry. Your lip quivered; the -tears rolled down your cheeks; for you -were cold and wet and dreary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"M-mother," you said, with outstretched -hand, "here's a r-rose I brought you"; -and she folded you and the flower in her -arms. It was true, then, what she had -told you—that when people are cross there -is sometimes nothing in the world like -the sight of a sweet red rose to cheer them -and make them smile again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once in Our Yard, you were safe from -bad boys and their fists, from bad dogs -and their bites, and all the other perils -of the road. Yet Our Yard had its dangers -too. Through the rhubarb thicket in the -corner of the fence stalked a black bear. -You had heard him growl. You had -seen the flash of his white teeth. You -had tracked him to his lair. Just behind -you, one hand upon your coat, came Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh! I see him," you whispered, as -you raised your wooden gun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Bang! Bang!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And the bear fell dead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't hurt Pussy," said Mother, warningly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," you said, and the dead bear -purred and rubbed his head against your -legs. Once, after you had killed and -eaten him, he mewed and ran before you -to his basket-cave; and there were five -little bears, all blind and crying, and you -took them home and tamed them by the -kitchen fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the bear was nothing to the Wild -Man who lived next door. In the barn, -close to your fence, he lay in wait for little -girls and boys to eat them and drink their -blood and gnaw their bones. Oh, you -had seen him once yourself, as you peered -through a knot-hole in the barn-side. He -was sitting on an upturned water-pail, -smoking a pipe and muttering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You and Lizbeth stole out to look at -him. Hand in hand you tiptoed across the -clover prairie where the red Indians roved. -You scanned the horizon, but there was -not a feather or painted face in sight -to-day—though they always came when -you least expected them, popping up from -the tall grass with wild, blood-curdling -yells, and scalping you when you didn't -watch out. Across the prairie, then, you -went, silently, hand in hand. The sun -fell warm and golden in the open. Birds -were singing in the sky, unmindful of the -lurking perils among the tall grass and -beyond the fence. Back of you were home -and Mother's arms, and in the pantry -window, cooling, two juicy pies. Before you, -across the clover, a great gray dungeon -frowned upon you; within its walls a -creature of blood and mystery waiting with -hungry jaws. Hushed and timorous, you -approached.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I'm afraid," Lizbeth whimpered. -Savagely you caught her arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh! He'll hear you," you hissed -through chattering teeth. A cloud hid the -sun, and the ominous shadow fell upon -you as you crouched, trembling, on the -edge of the raspberry wood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sh!" you said. Under cover of the -forest shade you crept with bated breath, -on all-fours, stealthily. Oh, what was -that? That awful sound, that hideous -groan? From the barn it came, with a -crunching of teeth and a rattle of chain. -Lizbeth gave a little cry, seized you, and -hid her face against your coat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh!" you said. "That's him! Hear him!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Through wood and prairie rang a piercing cry—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother! I want my mother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Lizbeth fled, wailing, across the -plain. You followed—to cheer her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cowardy Calf!" you said, but you -did not say it till you had reached the -kitchen door. And in hunting the Wild -Man you never got farther than his groan.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mornings in Our Yard the clover prairie -sparkled with a million gems. The fairies -had dropped them, dancing in the -moonbeams, while you slept. Strung on a -blade of grass you found a necklace of -diamonds left by the queen herself in her -flight at dawn, but when you plucked it, -the quivering brilliants melted into water -drops and trickled down your hand. Then -the warm sun came and took the diamonds -back to the fairies again—but your shoes -were still damp with dew. And by-and-by -you would be sneezing, and Mother -would be taking down bottles for you, -for the things that fairies wear are not -good for little boys. And if ever you -squash the fairies' diamonds beneath your -feet, and don't change your shoes, the -fairies will be angry with you, and you -will be catching cold; and if you take the -queen's necklace—oh, then watch out, for -they will be putting a necklace of red -flannel on you!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Wide-awake was Our Yard in the morning -with its birds and wind and sunshine -and your play, but when noonday dinner -was over there was a yawning in the trees. -The birds hushed their songs. Grandfather -dozed in his chair on the porch. -The green grass dozed in the sun. And -as the shadows lengthened even the perils -slept—Indians on the clover prairie, bear -in the rhubarb thicket, Wild Man in the -barn. In the apple-tree shade you lay -wondering, looking up at the sky—wondering -why bees purred like pussy-cats, -why the sparrows bowed to you as they -eyed you sidewise, what they twittered -in the leaves, where the clouds went when -they sailed to the end of the sky. Three -clouds there were, floating above the -apple-tree, and two were big and one was -little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The big clouds are the Mother and -Father clouds," you told yourself, for no -one was there to hear, "and the little one -is the Little Boy cloud, and they are out -walking in the sky. And now the Mother -cloud is talking to the Little Boy cloud. -'Hurry up,' she says; 'why do you walk -so slow?' And the Little Boy cloud says, -'I can't go any faster 'cause my legs are -so short.' And then the Father cloud -laughs and says, 'Let's have some -ice-cream soda.' Then the Little Boy cloud -says, 'I'll take vaniller, and make it sweet,' -and they all drink. And by-and-by they -all go home and have supper, and after -supper the Mother cloud undresses the -Little Boy cloud, and puts on his nighty, -and he kneels down and says, 'Now I -lay me down to sleep.' And then the -Mother cloud kisses the Little Boy cloud -on both cheeks and on his eyes and on -his curls and on his mouth twice, and -he cuddles down under the moon and goes -to sleep. And that's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Far beyond the apple-tree, far beyond -your ken, the three clouds floated—Father -and Mother and Little Son—else your -story had been longer; and in the floating -of little clouds, in the making of little -stories, in the sleeping of little boys, it was -always easiest when Our Yard slumbered -in the afternoon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When supper was over a bonfire blazed -in the western sky, just over the back -fence. The clouds built it, you explained -to Lizbeth, to keep themselves warm at -night. It was a beautiful fire, all gold -and red, but as Our Yard darkened, the -fire sank lower till only the sparks -remained, and sometimes the clouds came -and put the sparks out too. When the -moon shone you could see, through the -window by your bed, the clover prairie -and the trellis mountains, silver with -fairies, and you longed to hold one in -your hand. But when the night fell -moonless and starless, the fairies in Our -Yard groped their way—you could see -their lanterns twinkling in the trees—and -there were goblins under every bush, -and, crouching in the black shadows, was -the Wild Man, gnawing a little boy's bone. -Oh, Our Yard was awful on a dark night, -and when you were tucked in bed and -the lamp was out and Mother away downstairs, -you could hear the Wild Man crunching -his bone beneath your window, and -you pulled the covers over your head. -But always, when you woke, Our Yard -was bright and green again, for though -the moon ran away some nights, the sun -came every day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With all its greenness and its brightness -and its vastness and its enchanted -garden, Our Yard bore a heavy yoke. -You were not quite sure what the -burden was, but it was something about tea. -Men, painted and feathered like the red -Indians, had gone one night to a ship in -the harbor and poured the tea into the sea. -That you knew; and you had listened and -heard of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. -Through the window you saw Our Yard -smiling in the morning sun; trees green -with summer; flight of white clouds in -the sky; flight of brown birds in the bush. -Wondering, you saw it there, a fair land -manacled by a tyrant's hand, and the -blood mounted to your cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother, I want my sword."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is where you left it, my boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And my soldier-hat and drum."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They are under the stairs."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Over your shoulder you slung your -drum. With her own hands Mother -belted your sword around you and set your -cocked hat on your curls. Then twice -she kissed you, and you marched away to -the music of your drum. She watched -you from the open door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a windy morning, and you were -bravest in the wind. From the back fence -to the front gate, from the beehives to the -red geraniums, there was a scent and -stir of battle in the air. Rhubarb thicket -and raspberry wood re-echoed with the -beat of drums and the tramp of marching -feet. Far away beyond the wood-pile -hills, behind the trellis mountains where -the morning-glories clung, tremulous, in -the gale, even the enchanted garden woke -from slumber and the flowers shuddered -in their peaceful beds. On you marched, -through the wind and the morning, on -through Middlesex, village and farm, till -you heard the cannon and the battle-cries.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Halt!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You unslung your drum. Mounting -your charger, you galloped down the line.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Forward!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And you rode across the blood-stained -clover. Into the battle you led them, -sword in hand—into the thickest of the -fight—while all about you, thundering in -the apple-boughs, reverberating in the -wood-pile hills, roared the guns of the -west wind. Fair in the face of that -cannonade you flung the flower of your army. -Around you lay the wounded, the dead, -the dying. Beneath you your charger -fell, blood gushing from his torn side. -A thrust bayonet swept off your cocked -hat. You were down yourself. Tut! -'Twas a mere scratch—and you struggled -on. Repulsed, you rallied and charged -again ... again ... again, across the -clover, to the mouths of the smoking guns. -Afoot, covered with blood, your shattered -sword gleaming in the morning sun, you -stood at last on the scorched heights. -Before your flashing eyes, a rout of -redcoats in retreat; behind your tossing curls, -the buff and blue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A cry of triumph came down the beaten wind:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother! Mother! We licked 'em!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whom?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Briddish!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Our Yard was free.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-toy-grenadier"><span class="bold large">The Toy Grenadier</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="I" src="images/img-cap-i107.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>t was a misnomer. He was -not a captain at all, nor -was he of the Horse Marines. -He was a mere private in -the Grenadier Guards, with his musket -at a carry and his heels together, and his -little fingers touching the seams of his -pantaloons. Still, Captain Jinks was the -name he went by when he first came to -Our House, years ago, and Captain Jinks -he will be always in your memory—the -only original Captain Jinks, the ballad -to the contrary notwithstanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Christmas Eve when you first -saw him. He was stationed on sentry -duty beneath a fir-tree, guarding a pile -of commissary stores. He looked neither -to the left nor to the right, but straight -before him, and not a tremor or blink or -sigh disturbed his military bearing. His -bearskin was glossy as a pussy-cat's fur; -his scarlet coat, with the cross of honor -on his heart, fitted him like a glove, and -every gilt button of it shone in the -candlelight; and oh, the loveliness, the -spotless loveliness, of his sky-blue pantaloons!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My boy," said Father, "allow me to -present Captain Jinks. Captain Jinks, -my son."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!" you cried, the moment you clapped -eyes on him. "Oh, Father! What a -beautiful soldier!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at your praise the Captain's checks -were scarlet. He would have saluted, no -doubt, had you been a military man, but -you were only a civilian then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take him," said Father, "and give -him some rations. He's about starved, I -guess, guarding those chocolates."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So you relieved the Captain of his stern -vigil—or, rather, the Captain and his -gun, for he refused to lay down his arms -even for mess call, without orders from -the officer of the guard, though he did -desert his post, which was inconsistent -from a military point of view, and deserved -court-martial. And while he was gone -the commissary stores were plundered -by ruthless, sticky hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lizbeth brought a new wax doll to mess -with the Captain. A beautiful blonde -she was, and the Captain was gallantry -itself, but she was a little stiff with him, -in her silks and laces, preferring, no doubt, -a messmate with epaulets and sword. So -the chat lagged till the Rag Doll came—an -unassuming brunette creature—and -the Captain got on very well with her. -Indeed, when the Wax Doll flounced away, -the Captain leaned and whispered in the -Rag Doll's ear. What he said you did -not hear, but the Rag Doll drew away, shyly—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very sudden," she seemed to say. -But the Captain leaned nearer, at an angle -perilous to both, and—kissed her! The -Rag Doll fainted to the floor. The Captain -was at his wits' end. Without orders he -could not lay aside his gun, for he was -a sentry, albeit off his post. Yet here -was a lady in distress. The gun or the -lady? The lady or the gun? The Captain -struggled betwixt his honor and his love. -In the very stress of his contending -emotions he tottered, and would have fallen -to the Rag Doll's side, but you caught -him just in time. Lizbeth applied the -smelling-bottle to the Rag Doll's nose, -and she revived. Pale, but every inch -a rag lady, she rose, leaning on Lizbeth. -She gave the Captain a withering glance, -and swept towards the open door. The -Captain did not flinch. Proudly he drew -himself to his full height; his heels -clicked together; his gun fell smartly to his -side; and as the lady passed he looked her -squarely in her scornful eyes, and bore -their </span><em class="italics">congé</em><span> like a soldier.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Next morning—Christmas morning—in -the trenches before the Coal Scuttle, -the Captain fought with reckless bravery. -The earthworks of building-blocks reached -barely to his cartridge-belt, yet he stood -erect in a hail of marble balls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jinks, you're clean daft," cried -Grandfather. "Lie down, man!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the Captain would not budge. -Commies and glassies crashed around him. -They ploughed up the earthworks before -him; they did great execution on the legs -of chairs and tables and other non-combatants -behind. Yet there he stood, unmoved -in the midst of the carnage, his -heels together, his little fingers just -touching the seams of his pantaloons. It was -for all the world as though he were on -dress parade. Perhaps he was—for while -he stood there, valorous in that Christmas -fight, his eyes were on the heights of -Rocking Chair beyond, where, safe from the -marble hail, sat the Rag Doll with Lizbeth -and the waxen blonde.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a rumble—a crash through -the torn earthworks—a shock—a scream -from the distant heights—and the -Captain fell. A monstrous glassy had struck -him fairly in the legs, and owing to his -military habit of standing with them -close together—well, it was all too sad, -too harrowing, to relate. An ambulance -corps of Grandfather and Uncle Ned carried -the crippled soldier to the Tool Chest -Hospital. He was just conscious, that was -all. The operation he bore with great -fortitude, refusing to take chloroform, -and insisting on dying with his musket -beside him, if die he must. What seemed -to give him greatest anguish was his -heels, for, separated at last, they would -not click together now; and his little -fingers groped nervously for the misplaced -seams of his pantaloons.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Long afterwards, when the Captain had -left his cot for active duty again, it was -recalled that the very moment when he -fell so gallantly in the trenches that day -a lady was found unconscious, flat on -her face, at the foot of Rocking Chair Hill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Captain Jinks was never the same after -that. Still holding his gun as smartly -as before, there was, on the other hand, -a certain carelessness of attire, a certain -dulness of gilt buttons, a smudginess -of scarlet coat, as though it were -thumb-marked; and dark clouds were beginning -to lower in the clear azure of his pantaloons. -There was, withal, a certain rakishness -of bearing not provided for in the -regulations; a little uncertainty as to legs; a -tilt and limp, as it were, in sharp contrast -to the trim soldier who had guarded the -commissary chocolates under the Christmas -fir. Moreover—though his comrades at -arms forbore to mention it, loving him for -his gallant service—he was found one -night, flat on his face, under the -dinner-table. Now the Captain had always been -abstemious before. Liquor of any kind he -had shunned as poison, holding that it -spotted his uniform; and once when forced -to drink from Lizbeth's silver cup, at the -end of a dusty march, his lips paled at -the contaminating touch, his red cheeks -blanched, and his black mustache, in a -single drink, turned gray. But here he -lay beneath the festive board, bedraggled, -his nose buried in the soft rug, hopelessly -inarticulate—though the last symptom was -least to be wondered at, since he had -always been a silent man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You shook him where he lay. There -was no response. You dragged him forth -in his shame and set him on his feet again, -but he staggered and fell. Yet as he lay -there in his cups—oh, mystery of -discipline!—his heels were close together, his -toes turned out, his musket was at a carry, -and his little fingers were just touching -the seams of his pantaloons.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For the good of the service Mother -offered to retire the Captain on half pay, -and give him free lodging on the garret -stair, but he scorned the proposal, and -you backed him in his stand. All his life -he had been a soldier. Now, with war -and rumors of war rife in the land, should -he, Captain Jinks, a private in the -Grenadier Guards, lay down his arms for the -piping peace of a garret stair? No, by -gad, sir! No! And he stayed; and, -strangest thing of all, he was yet to fight -and stand guard and suffer as he had -never done before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But while the Captain thus sadly went -down hill, the Rag Doll retired to a modest -villa in the closet country up-stairs. It -was quiet there, and she could rest her -shattered nerves. Whether she blamed -herself for her rejected lover's downfall, -or whether it was mere petulance at the -social triumphs of the waxen blonde is a -question open to debate. Sentimentalists -will find the former theory more to their -fancy, but, the blonde and her friends told -a different tale. Be that as it may, the -Rag Doll went away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>January passed in barracks; then February -and March, with only an occasional -scouting after cattle-thieves and brigand -bands. The Captain chafed at such inactivity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"War! You call this war!" his very -bristling manner seemed to say. "By -gad! sir, when I was in the trenches before..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was fine then to see the Captain and -Grandfather—both grizzled veterans with -tales to tell—side by side before the -library fire. When Grandfather told the -story of Johnny Reb in the tall grass, the -Captain was visibly moved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jinks," Grandfather would say—"Jinks, -you know how it is -yourself—when the bacon's wormy and the coffee's -thin, and there's a man with a gun before -you and a girl with a tear behind."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at the mention of the girl and the -tear the Captain would turn away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Spring came, and with it the marching -orders for which you and the Captain -had yearned so long. There was a stir in -the barracks that morning. The Captain -was drunk again, it is true, but drunk -this time with joy. He could not march -in the ranks—he was too far gone for -that—so you stationed him on a wagon -to guard the commissary stores.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A blast from the bugle—Assembly—and -you fell into line.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Forward—</span><em class="italics">March!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And you marched away, your drum -beating a double-quick, the Captain -swaying ignominiously on the wagon and -hugging his old brown gun. As the -Guards swung by the reviewing-stand, -their arms flashing in the sun, the -Captain did not raise his eyes. So he never -knew that looking down upon his shame -that April day sat his rag lady, with -Lizbeth and the waxen blonde. Her cheeks -were pale, but her eyes were tearless. -She did not utter a sound as her tottering -lover passed. She just leaned far out -over the flag-hung balcony and watched -him as he rode away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a hard campaign. Clover Plain, -Wood-pile Mountain, and the Raspberry -Wilderness are names to conjure with. -From the back fence to the front gate, from -the beehives to the red geraniums, the -whole land ran with blood. Brevetted -for personal gallantry on the Wood-pile -Heights, you laid aside your drum for -epaulets and sword. The Guards and the -Captain drifted from your ken. When -you last saw him he was valiantly -defending a tulip pass, and defying a -regiment of the Black Ant Brigade to come -and take him—by gad! sirs—if they dared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The war went on. Days grew into -weeks, weeks into months, and the -summer passed. Search in camps and -battlefields revealed no trace of Captain Jinks. -Sitting by the camp-fire on blustering -nights, your thoughts went back to the -old comrade of the winter days.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor Captain Jinks!" you sighed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jinks?" asked Grandfather, laying -down his book.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. He's lost. Didn't you know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jinks among the missing!" Grandfather -cried. Then he gazed silently into -the fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor old Jinks!" he mused. "He -was a brave soldier, Jinks was—a brave -soldier, sir." He puffed reflectively on his -corn-cob pipe. Presently he spoke again, -more sadly than before:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But he had one fault, Jinks had—just -one, sir. He was a leetle too fond o' -his bottle on blowy nights."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>November came. The year and the -war were drawing to a close. Before -Grape Vine Ridge the enemy lay intrenched -for a final desperate stand. To your -council of war in the fallen leaves came -Grandfather, a scarf around his throat, -its loose ends flapping in the gale. He -leaned on his cane; you, on your sword.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bring up your guns, boy," he cried. -"Bring up your heavy guns. Fling your -cavalry to the left, your infantry to the -right. 'Up, Guards, and at 'em!' Cold -steel, my boy—as Jinks used to say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Grandfathers for counsel; little boys -for war. At five that night the enemy -surrendered—horse, foot, and a hundred -guns. Declining the General's proffered -sword, you rode back across the battle -field to your camp in the fallen leaves. -The afternoon was waning. In the -gathering twilight your horse stumbled on a -prostrate form. You dismounted, knelt, -brushed back the leaves, peered into the -dimmed eyes and ashen face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Captain!" you cried. "Captain Jinks!" And -at your call came Lizbeth, running, -dragging the Rag Doll by her hand. -Breathless they knelt beside him where -he lay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, it's Captain Jinks," said Lizbeth, -but softly, when she saw. Prone on the -battle-field lay the wounded Grenadier, -his uniform gray with service in the wind -and rain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Captain!" you cried again, but he did -not hear you. Then the Rag Doll bent -her face to his, in the twilight, though she -could not speak. A glimmer of recognition -blazed for a moment, but faded in -the Captain's eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's tired marching, I guess," said Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Sh!" you said. "He's dying."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You bent lower to feel his fluttering -pulse. You placed your ear to the cross -of honor, rusted, on his breast. His heart -was silent. And so he died—on the -battlefield, his musket at his side, his heels -together, his little fingers just touching -the seams of his pantaloons.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="father"><span class="bold large">Father</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="E" src="images/img-cap-e.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>very evening at half-past -six there was a sound of -footsteps on the front porch. -You ran, you and Lizbeth, -and by the time you had reached the door -it opened suddenly from without, and you -each had a leg of Father. Mother was -just behind you in the race, and though -she did not shout or dance, or pull his coat -or seize his bundles, she won his first kiss, -so that you and Lizbeth came in second -after all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hello, Buster!" he would sing out to -you, so that you cried, "My name ain't -Buster—it's Harry," at which he would -be mightily surprised. But he always -called Lizbeth by her right name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, Lizbeth," he would say, kneeling, -for you had pulled him down to you, -bundles and all, and Lizbeth would cuddle -down into his arms and say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fa</em><span>-ther."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Father, now what do you think? -My Sally doll has got the measles awful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No! You don't say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And "Father!" you would yell into -his other ear, for while Lizbeth used one, -you always used the other—using one by -two persons at the same time being -strictly forbidden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, my son.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Jones boy was here to-day -and—and—and he said—why, now, he said—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fa</em><span>-ther" (it was Lizbeth talking into -</span><em class="italics">her</em><span> ear now), "do you think my Sally -doll—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Mother who rescued Father and -his bundles at last and carried you off -to supper, and when your mouth was not -too full you finished telling him what the -Jones boy said, and he listened gravely, -and prescribed for the Sally doll. Though -he came home like that every night except -Sunday in all the year, you always had -something new to tell him in both ears, -and it was always, to all appearances, the -most wonderful thing he had ever heard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But now and then there were times -when you did not yearn for the sound -of Father's footsteps on the porch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait till Father comes home and -Mother tells him what a bad, bad boy you -have been!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care," you whispered, defiantly, -all to yourself, scowling out of the window, -but "Tick-tock, tick-tock" went the clock -on the mantel-shelf—"Tick-tock, tick-tock"—more -loudly, more swiftly than -you had ever heard it tick before. Still -you were brave in the broad light of day, -and if sun and breeze and bird-songs but -held out long enough, Mother might -forget. You flattened your nose against the -pane. There was a dicky-bird hopping on -the apple-boughs outside. You heard him -twittering. If you were only a bird, now, -instead of a little boy. Birds were so -happy and free. Nobody ever made them -stay in-doors on an afternoon made for -play. If only a fairy godmother would -come in a gold coach and turn you into a -bird. Then you would fly away, miles -and miles, and when they looked for you, -at half-past six, you would be chirping -in some cherry-tree.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tick-tock, tick-tock—whir-r-r! One! -Two! Three! Four! Five!" struck the -clock on the mantel-shelf. The bright -day was running away from you, leaving -you far behind to be caught, at half-past -six—caught and ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Father might not come home to -supper to-night! Once he did not. At -the thought the sun lay warm upon your -cheek, and you rapped on the pane bravely -at the dicky-bird outside. The bird flew -away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Swiftly the day passed. Terribly fell -the black night, fastening its shadows on -you and all the world. Grimly Mother -passed you, without a look or word. She -pulled down the window shades. One -by one she lighted the lamps—the tall -piano-lamp with the red globe, the little -green lamp on the library-table, the -hanging lamp in the dining-room. Already -the supper-table was set.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The clock struck six!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You watched Mother out of the corners -of your eyes. Had she forgotten?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," you said, engagingly. "See -me stand on one leg."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother does not care to look at naughty -little boys."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You were very little to punish. Besides, -you were not feeling very well. It -was not your tummy, nor your head, nor -yet the pussy-scratch on your finger. It -was a deeper pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tick-tock, tick-tock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If you should die like the Jones boy's -little brother and be put in the cemetery -on the hill, they would be sorry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tick-tock, tick-tock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother went to the window and peered out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"TICK-TOCK!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whir-r-r-"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And the clock struck half-past six!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Steps sounded upon the porch—Mother -was going to the door—it opened!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where's Buster?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Mother told!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>... And somehow when Father spanked -it always seemed as if he were meddling. -He was an outsider all day. Why, -then, did he concern himself so mightily -at night?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After supper Father would sit before -the fire with you on one knee and Lizbeth -on the other, while Mother sewed, till -by-and-by, just when you were most comfy -and the talk most charming, he would say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, Father must go now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh no, Father. Don't go yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Father must. He must go to -Council-meeting."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's a Council-meeting, Father?" -you asked, and while he was telling you -he would be putting on his coat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't sit up for me," he would tell -Mother, and the door would shut at -half-past seven just as it had opened at -half-past six, with the same sound of footsteps -on the porch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, dear," you would say. "Father's -always going somewhere. I guess he -doesn't like to stay home, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mother would take you and Lizbeth -on her lap.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dearies, Father would love to stay -at home and play with you and Mother, -but he can't. All day long he has to -work to take care of us and buy us -bread-and-butter—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And chocolate cake, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, and chocolate cake. And he -goes to the Council to help the other men -take care of Ourtown so that the burglars -won't get in or the street-lamps go out -and leave us in the dark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your eyes were very round. That night -after you and Lizbeth were in bed and the -lights were out, you thought of the Council -and the burglars so that you could not -sleep, and while you lay there thinking, -the wolf-wind began to howl outside. -Then suddenly you heard the patter, patter, -patter of its feet upon the roof. You -shuddered and drew the bedclothes over your -head. What if It got inside? Could It -bite through the coverlet with its sharp -teeth? Would the Council come and save -you just in time? ... Which would be -worse, a wolf or a burglar? A wolf, of -course, for a burglar might have a little -boy of his own somewhere, in bed, curled -up and shivering, with the covers over his -head.... But what if the burglar had -no little boy? Did burglars ever have -little boys? ... How could a man ever -be brave enough to be a burglar, in the -dead of night, crawling through windows -into pitch-dark rooms, ... into little boys' -rooms, ... crawling in stealthily with -pistols and false-faces and l-lanterns? ...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But That One was crawling in! Right -into your room, ... right in over the -window-sill, ... like a cat, ... with a -false-face on, and pistols, loaded and pointed -right at you.... You tried to call; -... your voice was dried up in your throat, -... and all the time He was coming -nearer, ... nearer, ... nearer...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bad dream, was it, little chap?" asked -the Council, holding you close to his coat, -all smoky of cigars, and patting your cheek.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 65%" id="figure-166"> -<span id="bad-dream-was-it-little-chap"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE CHAP?"" src="images/img-136.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE CHAP?"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"F-father, where did he go?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who go, my boy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, the burglar, Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There wasn't any burglar, child."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, yes, Father. I saw him. Right -there. Coming through the window."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And it took Father and Mother and -two oatmeal crackers and a drink of water -to convince you that it was all a dream. -So whether it was in frightening burglars -away, or keeping the street-lamps burning, -or smoking cigars, or soothing a little boy -with a nightmare and a fevered head, the -Council was a useful body, and always -came just in time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On week-day mornings Father had gone -to work when you came down-stairs, but -on Sunday mornings, when you awoke, a -trifle earlier if anything—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father!" a little louder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then a sleepy "Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We want to get up."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't time yet. You children go to sleep."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You waited. Then—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father, is it time yet?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. You children lie still."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So you and Lizbeth, wide-awake, -whispered together; and then, to while away -the time while Father slept, you played -Indian, which required two little yells -from you to begin with (when the Indian -You arrived in your war-paint) and two -big yells from Lizbeth to end with (when -the Paleface She was being scalped).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Father said it was "no use," and -Mother took a hand. You were quiet after -that, but it was yawny lying there with -the sun so high. You listened. Not a -sound came from Father and Mother's -room. You rose cautiously, you and -Lizbeth, in your little bare feet. You stole -softly across the floor. The door was a -crack open, so you peeked in, your face -even with the knob and Lizbeth's just -below. And then, at one and the same -instant, you both said "Boo!" and grinned; -and the harder you grinned the harder -Father tried not to laugh, which was a -sign that you could scramble into bed with -him, you on one side and Lizbeth on the -other, cuddling down close while Mother -went to see about breakfast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was very strange, but while it had -been so hard to drowse in your own bed, -the moment you were in Father's you -did not want to get up at all. Indeed, it -was Father who wanted to get up first, -and it was you who cried that it was not time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Week-days were always best for most -things, but for two reasons Sunday was the -best day of all. One reason was Sunday -dinner. The other was Father. On -Sunday the dinner-table was always whitest -with clean linen and brightest with silver -and blue china and fullest of good things -to eat, and sometimes Company came and -brought their children with them. On -Sunday, too, there was no store to keep, and -Father could stay at home all day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came down to breakfast in slippers -and a beautiful, wide jacket, which was -brown to match the coffee he always took -three cups of, and the cigar which he smoked -afterwards in a big chair with his feet -thrust out on a little one. While he smoked -he would read the paper, and sometimes he -would laugh and read it out loud to Mother; -and sometimes he would say, "That's so," -and lay down his paper and talk to -Mother like the minister's sermon. And once -he talked so loudly that he said "Damn." Mother -looked at you, for you were listening, -and sent you for her work-basket up-stairs. -After that, when you talked loudest to -Lizbeth or the Jones boy, you said "Damn," -too, like Father, till Mother overheard you -and explained that only fathers and -grandfathers and bad little boys ever said such -things. It wasn't a pretty word, she said, -for nice little boys like you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Mother, if the bad little boys say -it, why do the good fathers say it—hm?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother explained that, too. Little boys -should mind their mothers, she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was easy enough not to say the word -when you talked softly, but when you -talked loudest it was hard to remember -what Mother said. For when you talked -softly, somehow, you always remembered -Mother, and when you talked loudly it -was Father you remembered best.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sun rose high and warm. It was a -long time after breakfast. Fragrance came -from the kitchen to where you sat in the -library, all dressed-up, looking at -picture-books and waiting for dinner, and -wondering if there would be pie. Father was all -dressed-up, too, and while he read silently, -you and Lizbeth felt his cheeks softly with -your finger-tips. Where the prickers had -been at breakfast-time it was as smooth -as velvet now. Father's collar was as -white as snow. In place of his jacket he -wore his long, black Sunday coat, and in -his shoes you could almost see your face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father's beautifulest on Sunday," Lizbeth said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So am I," you said, proudly, looking -down your blouse and trousers to the shine -of your Sunday shoes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So are you, too," you added kindly to -Lizbeth, who was all in white and curls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then you drew a little chair beside -Father's and sat, quiet and very straight, -with your legs crossed carelessly like his -and an open book like his in your lap. -And when Father changed his legs, you -changed your legs, too. Lizbeth looked -at you two awhile awesomely. Then she -brought her little red chair and sat beside -you with the Aladdin book on her lap, -but she did not cross her legs. And so -you sat there, all three, clean and dressed-up -and beautiful, by the bay-window, while -the sun lay warm and golden on the library -rug, and sweeter and sweeter grew the -kitchen smells.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then dinner came, and the last of it was -best because it was sweetest, and if -Company were not there you cried:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's going to be pie to-day, isn't it, -Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Mother would only smile -mysteriously while the roast was carried away. Then -Lizbeth guessed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's pudding," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, pie," you cried again, "'cause -yesterday was pudding."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, Father, you guess," said Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I guess?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at that Father would knit his brows -and put one finger to one side of his nose, -so that he could think the harder, and -by-and-by he would say:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. I'll bet it's custard."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh </span><em class="italics">no</em><span>, Father," you broke in, for you -liked pie best, and even to admit the -possibility of custard, aloud, might make -it come true.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it's lemon jelly with cream," -said Father, trying another finger to his -nose and pondering deeply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you only have one guess," cried -you and Lizbeth together, and Father, -cornered, stuck to the jelly and cream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, dear," Lizbeth said, "I don't see -what good it does to brush off the crumbs -in the middle of dinner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Silence fell upon the table, you and -Lizbeth holding Father's outstretched hands. -Your eyes were wide, the better to see. -Your lips were parted, the better, doubtless, -to hear. Only Mother was serene, for -only Mother knew. And then through the -stillness came the sound of rattling plates.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pie," you whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pudding," whispered Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jelly," whispered Father, hoarsely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door swung open. You rose in -your seats, you and Lizbeth and Father, -craning your necks to see, and, seeing—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Pie!</em><span>" you cried, triumphantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" said Father, lifting his pie-crust -gayly with the tip of his fork.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Apples," you said, peeping under your crust.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Apples, my son? Apples? Why, no. -Bless my soul! As I live, this is a robber's -cave filled with sacks of gold."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, </span><em class="italics">Father</em><span>!" you cried, incredulous, -not knowing how to take him yet; but -you peeped again, and under your -pie-crust it was like a cave, and the little slices -of juicy apple lay there like sacks of gold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And see!" said Father, pointing with -his fork, "there is the entrance to the -cave, and when the policemen chased the -robbers—pop! they went, right into their -hole, like rabbits."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And sure enough, in the upper crusts -were the little cuts through which the -robbers popped. Your eyes widened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And oh, Father," you said, "the smoke -can come out through the little holes when -the robbers build their fire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aha!" cried Father, fiercely. "I'm the -policeman breaking into the cave while -the robbers are away," and he took a bite.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I'm another policeman," you cried, -catching the spirit of the thing and taking -a bigger bite than Father's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I'm a policeman's wife coming -along, too," said Lizbeth, helping herself, -so that Mother said:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John, John, how am I ever going to -teach these children table manners when—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But see, Mother, see!" Father explained, -taking another bite, and ignoring Mother's -eyes. "If we don't get the gold away -the robbers will come back and—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Kill us!" you broke in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, kill us, Mother!" shouted Father, -balancing another sack of gold on the end -of his fork. "Yes, yes, Mother, don't you see?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I see," said Mother, just between laugh -and frown, and when the robbers came -back around the coffee-pot hill, lo! there -was no gold or cave awaiting them—only -three plates scraped clean, and two jubilant -policemen and a policeman's wife, full of gold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when Father was Father again, -leaning on the back of Mother's chair, -she said to him, "You're nothing but a -great big boy," so that Father chuckled, -his cheek against hers and his eyes -shining. That was the way with Father. Six -days he found quite long enough to be a -man; so on Sunday he became a boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The gate clicked behind you, Father in -the middle and you and Lizbeth holding -each a hand, and keeping step with him -when you could, running a little now and -then to catch up again. Your steps were -always longest on Sunday when you -walked with Father, and even Lizbeth -knew you then for a little man, and peeked -around Father's legs to see you as you -strode along. Father was proud of you, -too, though he did not tell you. He just -told other people when he thought you -could not hear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little pitchers have big ears," Mother -would warn him then, but you heard quite -plainly out of one ear, and it was small -at that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Everybody looked as you three went -down the shady street together, and the -nice young ladies gave you smiles and -the nice old ladies gave you flowers, handing -them out to you over their garden walls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you. My name is Harry," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I'm Lizbeth," said little sister. -And as you passed on your stride grew -longer and your voice sank bigger and -deeper in your throat, like Father's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it wasn't the town you liked best -to walk in with Father in the long, warm -Sunday afternoons. It was the river-side, -where the willows drooped over the running -waters, and the grass was deepest and -greenest and waved in the sun. On the -meadow-bank at the water's silver edge -you sat down together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who can hear the most?" asked Father.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You listened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hear the river running over the log," -you said, softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the birds," whispered Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the wind in the willows," said Father.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the cow-bells tinkling way, way -off," you added, breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, and I hear the grass whispering," -said Lizbeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And oh, a bee," you cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And something else," said Father.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You held your breath and listened. -From the distant village the wind blew -you faintly the sound of—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Church-bells," cried you and Lizbeth -together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You fell to playing in the long grass. -Lizbeth gathered daisies for Mother. You -lay with your face just over the river-bank, -humming a little song and gazing down -into the mirror of the waters. You -wondered how it would feel to be a little -boy-fish, darting in and out among the river -grasses.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By-and-by you went back to Father and -sat beside him with your cheek against his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you think when you don't -say anything, but just look?"</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 68%" id="figure-167"> -<span id="father-what-do-you-think-when-you-don-t-say-anything-but-just-look"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""'FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU DON'T SAY ANYTHING, BUT JUST LOOK?'"" src="images/img-150.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"'FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU DON'T SAY ANYTHING, BUT JUST LOOK?'"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I just look?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. Do you think what I do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, what do you think?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I think I'd like to be a big man -like you and wear a long coat, and take -my little boy and girl out walking. Did -you think that, Father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. I was thinking how nice it would -be just to be a little boy again like you -and go out walking by the river with my -father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Father, how funny! I wanted -to be you and you wanted to be me. I -guess people always want to be somebody -else when they just look and don't -say anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What makes you think that, my boy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, there's Grandmother. </span><em class="italics">She</em><span> sits -by the window all day long and just looks -and looks, and wishes she was an angel -with Grandfather up in the sky."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Lizbeth?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Lizbeth wishes she was Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And how about Mother? Does she -wish she were somebody else, do you think?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh no, Father, </span><em class="italics">she</em><span> doesn't, 'cause -then she wouldn't have me and Lizbeth. -Besides, she don't have time to just sit -and look, Mother don't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your eyes were big and shining. Father -just looked and looked a long time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what do you think </span><em class="italics">now</em><span>, Father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was thinking of Mother waiting for -you and Lizbeth and Father, and -wondering why we don't come home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And almost always after that, when -you went out walking with Father, -Sundays, Mother went with you. It seemed -strange at first, but fine, to have her sit -with you on the river-bank and just look -and look and look, smiling but never -saying a word; and though you asked her -many times what she thought about as -she sat there dreaming, she was never -once caught wishing that she were anybody -but her own self. She was happy, she -told you; but while it was you she told, -she would be looking at Father.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Oh, it was golden in the morning glow, -when you were a little boy. But clouds -skurried across the sky—black clouds, -storm clouds—casting their chill and -shadow for a while over all Our Yard, -darkening Our House, so that a little boy -playing on the hearth-rug left his toy -soldier prostrate there to wander, wondering, -from room to room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother, why doesn't Father play with -us like he used to?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother, why do you sew and sew and -sew all the time? Hm, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All through the long evenings till -bed-time came, and long afterwards, Father -and Mother talked low together before the -fire. The murmur of their voices downstairs -was the last thing you heard before -you fell asleep. It sounded like the brook -in the meadow where the little green frogs -lived, hopping through water-rings.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of those secret conferences by the fire -you could make nothing at all. Mother -stopped you whenever you drew near.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Run away, dear, and play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You frowned and sidled off as far as -the door, lingering wistfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father, the Jones boy made fun of -me to-day. He called me Patchy-pants."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind what the Jones boy says," -Mother broke in; but Father said, "He -ought to have a new pair, Mother." You -brightened at that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Jones boy's got awful nice pants," -you said; "all striped like a zebra."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Father smiled a little at that. Mother -looked down at her sewing, saying never -a word. That night you dreamed you -had new pants, all spotted like a leopard, -and you were proud, for every one knows -that a leopard could whip a zebra, once -he jumped upon his back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Leaning on the garden fence, the Jones -boy watched you as you sprinkled the -geraniums with your little green watering-can.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where'd you get it?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Down at my father's store," you -replied, loftily, for the Jones boy had no -watering-can.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your father hasn't got a store any more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has, too," you replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He hasn't, either, 'cause my pa says -he hasn't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care what your pa says. My -father has, too, got a store."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He hasn't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He hasn't, either."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has, teether."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say he hasn't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I say he has," you screamed, and -threw the watering-can straight at the -Jones boy. It struck the fence and the -water splashed all over him so that he -retreated to the road. There in a rage he -hurled stones at you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your—father—hasn't—got—any— -store—any—more—old—Patchy-pants— -old—Patchy-pants—old—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then suddenly the Jones boy fled, -and when you looked around there was -Father standing behind you by the geraniums.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind what the Jones boy says," -he told you, and he was not angry with -you for throwing the watering-can. The -little green spout of it was broken when -you picked it up, but Father said he would -buy you a new one.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To-morrow, Father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, not to-morrow—some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You and Lizbeth, tumbling down-stairs -to breakfast, found Father sitting before -the fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father!" you cried, astonished, for it -was not Sunday, and though you ran to -him he did not hear you till you pounced -upon him in his chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Father," you said, joyfully, "are -you going to stay home and play with us -all day?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Fa</em><span>-ther!" cried Lizbeth. "Will you -play house with us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh no, Father. Play </span><em class="italics">store</em><span> with us," -you cried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't bother Father," Mother said, -but Father just held you both in his arms -and would not let you go.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—let them stay," he said, and -Mother slipped away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother's got an awful cold," said -Lizbeth. "Her eyes—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So has Father; only Father's cold is -in his voice," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You scarcely waited to eat your breakfast -before you were back again to Father -by the fire, telling him of the beautiful -games just three could play. But while -you were telling him the door-bell rang, -and there were two men with books -under their arms, come to see Father. They -stayed with him all day long—you could -hear them muttering in the library—and -all day you looked wistfully at the -closed door, lingering there lest Father -should come out to play and find you gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not come out till dinner-time. -After dinner he walked in the garden alone. -He held a cigar in his clinched teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't you smoke the cigar, Father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not hear you. He just walked -up and down, up and down, with his eyes -on the ground and his hands thrust hard -into the pockets of his coat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother watched him for a moment -through the window. Then with her own -hands she built a fire in the grate, for -the night was chill. Before it she drew -an easy-chair, and put Father's smoking-jacket -on the back of it and set his slippers -to warm against the fender. On a -reading-table near by she laid the little -blue china ash-tray you had given Father -for Christmas, and beside it a box of -matches ready for his hand. Then she -called him in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came and sat there before the fire, -saying nothing, but looking into the -flames—looking, looking, till your mind ran back -to a Sunday afternoon in summer by the -river-side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know what you are thinking, Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slowly he turned his head to you, so -that you knew he was listening though -he did not speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're thinking how nice it would be, -Father, if you were a little boy like me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made no answer. Mother came and -sat on one of the arms of his chair, her -cheek against his hair. Lizbeth undressed -her dolls for the night, crooning a lullaby. -One by one you dropped your marbles -into their little box. Then you rose and -sat like Mother on an arm of Father's -chair. For a while you dreamed there, -drowsy, in the glow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," you said, softly.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 65%" id="figure-168"> -<span id="mother-you-said-softly"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""'MOTHER, YOU SAID, SOFTLY'"" src="images/img-162.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"'MOTHER, YOU SAID, SOFTLY'"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she whispered back to you.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother, isn't it </span><em class="italics">fine</em><span>?" you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fine, dearie?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Mother, everything ... 'specially—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sweetheart?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—'specially just having Father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Father gave a little jump; seized you; -crushed you in his arms, stars shining -in his brimming eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little chap—little chap," he cried, but -could get no further, till by-and-by—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," he said—and his voice was -clear and strong—"Mother, with a little -chap like that and two girls like you and -Lizbeth—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice caught, but he shook it free -again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—</span><em class="italics">any</em><span> man could begin—all over -again—and </span><em class="italics">win</em><span>," he said.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="mother"><span class="bold large">Mother</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><img class="dropcap inline" style="height: 6.00em" alt="A" src="images/img-cap-a165.jpg" /><span class="dropspan"></span><span>," you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what's that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"B."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You sat on Mother's lap. The wolf-wind -howled at the door, and you shuddered, -cuddling down in Mother's arms -and the glow. The wilder the wolf-wind -howled, the softer was the lamp-light, -the redder were the apples on the table, -the warmer was the fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On your knees lay the picture-book -with its sad, sad little tale. Mother read -it to you—she had read it fifty times -before—her face grave, her voice low and tragic, -while you listened with bated breath:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Who killed Cock Robin?</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'I,' said the Sparrow,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'With my bow and arrow—</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>I killed Cock Robin.'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-169"> -<span id="the-picture-book"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""THE PICTURE-BOOK"" src="images/img-166.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"THE PICTURE-BOOK"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was the first murder you had ever -heard about. You saw it all, the hideous -spectacle—a beautiful, warm, red breast -pierced by that fatal dart—a poor, soft -little birdie, dead, by an assassin's hand. -A lump rose in your throat. A tear rose -in your eye—two tears, three tears. They -rolled down your cheek. They dropped, -hot and sad, on the fish with his little -dish, on the owl with his spade and trowel, -on the rook with his little book.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"P-poor Cock R-robin!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There, there, dear. Don't cry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, M-mother—the Sparrow—he k-killed him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Alas, yes! The Sparrow had killed him, -for the book said so, but had you heard?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"N-no, w-what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The book, it seems, like other books, -had told but half the story. Mother knew -the other half. Cock Robin was murdered, -murdered in cold blood, it was true, -but—O merciful, death-winged arrow!—he -had gone where the good birds go. And -there—O joy!—he had met his robin -wife and his little robin boy, who had -gone before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I expect they are all there now, -dear," she told you, kissing your -tear-stained cheek, "the happiest robins that -ever were."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dry and wide were your eyes. In the -place where the good birds go, you saw -Cock Robin. His eyes and his fat, red -breast were bright again. He chirped. -He sang. He hopped from bough to bough, -with his robin wife and his little robin -boy. For in the mending of little stories -or the mending of little hearts, like the -mending of little stockings, Mother was -wonderful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In those times there were knees to your -stockings, knees with holes in them at -the end of the day, with the soiled skin -showing through.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just look!" Mother would cry. "Just -look there! And I'd only just mended them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you see, Mother, when you play -Black Bear—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I see," she said, and before you went -to bed you would be sitting on the edge -of a tub, paddling your feet in the water.</span></p> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-170"> -<span id="before-you-went-to-bed"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt=""BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED"" src="images/img-168.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">"BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED"</span></div> -</div> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You dirty boy," she would be saying, -scrubbing at the scratched, black knees; -but when you were shining again she -would be saying—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You darling!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And though your stockings were whole -in the clean of morning when you scampered -out into the sun, in the dirt of night -when you scampered back again—O skein, -where is thy yarn? O darning-needle, -where is thy victory?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Summer mornings, in the arbor-seat -of the garden, Mother would be sewing, -her lap brimming, her work-basket at -her feet, the sun falling golden through -the trellised green. In the nap of the -afternoon, when even the birds drowsed -and the winds slept, she would be sewing, -ever sewing. And when night fell and -the dishes were put away, she would be -sewing still, in the lamp-light's yellow glow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother, why do you sew and sew?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To make my little boy blue sailor -suits and my little girl white frocks, and -to stop the holes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you like to sew, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't mind it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But doesn't it make you tired, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, now and then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I should think you'd rest sometimes, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Should you, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I would. Oh, I'd sew a </span><em class="italics">little</em><span>—just -enough—and then I'd play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Mother does sew </span><em class="italics">just enough</em><span>, and -it takes all day, my dear. What do you -say to that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You pondered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," you said, and stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" she said, and laughed. Then -you laughed, too.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A mother," you told them afterwards, -"is a person what takes care of you, and -loves you, and sews and sews—just enough—all day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Since mothers take care of little boys, -they told you, little boys should take care -of their mothers, too. So right in front -of her you stood, bravely, your fists -clinched, your lips trembling, your eyes flashing -with rage and tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You sha'n't touch my mother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Mother's arms stole swiftly around -you, pinning your own to your side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father was only fooling, dear," she -said, kneeling behind you and folding -you to her breast. "See, he's laughing at us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, little chap," he said, "Father -was only playing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mother wiped away your tears, smiling -at them, but proudly. You looked doubtfully -at Father, who held out his arms to -you; then slowly you went to him, urged -by Mother's hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must always take care of Mother -like that," he said, "and never let any one -hurt her, or bother her, when Father's away."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother's little knight," she said, kissing -your brow. And ever afterwards she -was safe when you were near.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, that Mrs. Waddles. I wish she -wouldn't bother me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Under her breath Mother said it, but -you heard, and you hated Mrs. Waddles -with all your soul, and her day of -reckoning came. Mother was in the garden and -did not hear. You answered the knock -yourself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little darling, how—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't see my mother to-day," -you said, stiffly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's very strange," said Mrs. Waddles, -with a forward step.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," you said, a little louder, throwing -yourself into the breach and holding -the door-knob with all your might. "No! -You mustn't come in!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You impertinent little child!" cried -Mrs. Waddles, threateningly, but you -faced her down, raising your voice -again:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't see my mother any more," -you repeated, firmly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And why not, I'd like to know?" -demanded the old lady, swelling visibly. -"Why not, I'd like to know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Cause I'm to take care of my mother -when my father's away, and he said not -to let anybody bother her that she don't -want to see."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a long explanation and took all -your breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, is </span><em class="italics">that</em><span> it?" cackled Mrs. Waddles, -with withering scorn. "And how do you -</span><em class="italics">know</em><span> that your mother doesn't want to -see me—</span><em class="italics">hey</em><span>?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Cause—she—said—so!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You separated your words like the ABC -book, that Mrs. Waddles might understand. -It was a master-stroke. Gasping, her face -on fire, gathering her skirts together with -hands that trembled in their black silk -mitts, Mrs. Waddles turned and swept away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never!" she managed to utter as she -slammed the gate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You shut the door softly, the battle won, -and went back to the garden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, </span><em class="italics">that's</em><span> over," you said, with a -sigh, as Mother herself would have said it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's over, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Waddles," you replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So you took care of Mother so well that -she loved you more and more as the days -of your knighthood passed; and she took -care of you so well that your cheeks grew -rosier and your eyes brighter and your -legs stronger, and you loved her more and -more with the days of her motherhood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even being sick was fine in those days, -for she brought you little things in bowls -with big spoons in them, and you ate till -you wanted more—a sign that you would -not die. And so you lay in the soft of -the pillows, with the patchwork coverlet -that Mother made with her own hands. -There was the white silk triangle from -her wedding-gown, and a blue one from a -sash that was her Sunday best, long ago, -when she was a little girl. There was -a soft-gray piece from a dress of -Grandmother's, and a bright-pink one that was -once Lizbeth's, and a striped one, blue -and yellow, that was once Father's necktie -in the gay plumage of his youth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As you lay there, sick and drowsy, the -bridal triangle turned to snow, cold and -white and pure, and you heard sleighbells -and saw the Christmas cards with -the little church in the corner, its steeple -icy, but its windows warm and red with -the Christmas glow. That was the white -triangle. But the blue one, next, was -sky, and when you saw it you thought -of birds and stars and May; and if it so -happened that your eyes turned to the -gray piece that was Grandmother's, and -the sky that was blue darkened and the -rain fell, you had only to look at the pink -piece that was Lizbeth's, or the blue and -yellow that was Father's, to find the -flowers and the sun again. Then the colors -blended. Dandelions jingled, sleigh-bells -and violets blossomed in the snow, and you -slept—the sleep that makes little boys well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bees and the wind were humming -in the cherry-trees, for it was May. You -were all alone, you and Mother, in the -garden, where the white petals were -falling, silently, like snow-flakes, and the -birds were singing in the morning glow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your feet scampered down the paths. -Your curls bobbed among the budding -shrubs and vines. You leaped. You -laughed. You sang. In your wide eyes -blue of the great sky, green of the grasses. -On your flushed cheeks sunshine and -breeze. In your beating heart childhood -and spring—a childhood too big, a spring -too wonderful, for the smallness of one -little, brimming boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look, Mother! See me jump."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And see me almost stand on my head."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wonderful!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know what I'll be when I grow to -be a man, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What will you be?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A circus-rider."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gracious!" said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On a big, white horse, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And we'll jump 'way over the moon, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The moon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, the moon. See!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then you jumped over the rake-handle. -You were practising for the moon, you said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But maybe I </span><em class="italics">won't</em><span> be a circus-rider, -Mother, after all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maybe not," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maybe I'll be President, like George -Washington. Father said I could. Could -I, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—you might—some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But the Jones boy couldn't, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why couldn't the Jones boy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because he swears and tells lies. </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> -don't. And George Washington didn't, -Mother. I guess I won't be a circus-rider, -after all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I'm glad of that, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I guess I'll keep right on, Mother—as -long as I've started—and just be -President."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, that will be fine," said she. She -was sewing in the arbor, her lap filled with -linen, her work-basket at her feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think I'd like to sing a song now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Straight and proper you stood in the -little path, your heels together, your hands -at your side, and so you sang to her the -song of the little duck:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"'Quack, quack,' said the Duck,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Quack, quack.'</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Quack, quack,' said—"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>You stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Try it a little lower, dear."</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"'Quack, quack,' said—"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"No, that's </span><em class="italics">too</em><span> low," you said. You -tried again and started right that time -and sang it through, the song of the little -duck who</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"'... wouldn't be a girl,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>With only a curl,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>I wouldn't be a girl, would you?'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Oh, it's beautiful," Mother said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now it's your turn, Mother, to tell a story."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A story?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. About the violets."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The violets?" she said, poising her -needle, musingly. "The blue, blue violets—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As blue as the sky, Mother," you said, -softly, for it is always in the hush of the -garden that the stories grow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As blue as the sky," she said. "Ah, -yes. Well, once there wasn't a violet in -the whole world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor a single star," you said, awesomely, -helping her. And as you sat there -listening the world grew wider and wider—for -when you are a little boy the world is -always just as wide as your eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a violet or a single star in the -whole world," Mother went on. "And -what do you think? They just took little -bits of the blue sky and sprinkled them -all over the green world, and they were -the first violets."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the stars, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, don't you see? The stars are -the little holes they left in the blue sky, -with the light of heaven shining through."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!" you said, softly. "Oh, Mother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then, in the hush of the garden, you -looked at her, and lo! her eyes were blue -like the violets, and bright like the stars, -for the light of heaven was shining through.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was the most wonderful person in -the whole world—who never did anything -wrong, who knew everything, even who -God was, watching, night and day, over -little boys. Even the hairs of your head -were numbered, she told you, and not a -little bird died but He knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And did He know when Cock Robin -died, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. He knew."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And when I hurt my finger, Mother? -Did He know then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, He knows everything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And was He sorry, Mother, when I -hurt my finger?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very sorry, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then why did He </span><em class="italics">let</em><span> me hurt my finger—why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a moment she did not speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dearie," she said at last, "I don't -know. There are many things that -nobody knows but God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hushed and wondering you sat in -Mother's lap, for His eye was upon you. -Somewhere up in the sky, above the -clouds, you knew He was sitting, on a -great, bright throne, with a gold crown -upon His head and a sceptre in His -hand—King of Kings and Lord of All. Down -below Him on the green earth little birds -were falling, little boys were hurting their -fingers and crying in their Mothers' arms, -and He saw them all, every one, little -birds and little boys, but did not help them. -You crept closer to Mother's bosom, -flinging your arms about her neck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't let Him get me, Mother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, darling, He loves you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh no, Mother—not like you do; not -like you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bees and the wind were in the apple -trees, for it was May. You were all alone, -you and Mother, in the garden, where -the white petals were falling, like -snowflakes, silently. In the swing Grandfather -built for you, you sat swaying, to and fro, -in the shadows; and the shadows swayed, -to and fro, in the gale; and to and fro your -thoughts swayed in your dreaming.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The wind sang in the apple-boughs, -the flowering branches filled and bent, -and all about you were the tossing, -shimmering grasses, and all above you birds -singing and flitting in the sky. And so -you swayed, to and fro, till you were a -sailor, in a blue suit, sailing the blue sea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The wind sang in the rigging. The -white sails filled and bent. Your ship -scudded through the tossing, shimmering -foam. Gulls screamed and circled in the -sky, ... and so you sailed and sailed -with the sea-breeze in your curls...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The ship anchored.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The swing stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>You were only a little boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," you said, softly, for your -voice was drowsy with your dream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not hear you. She sat there -in the arbor-seat, smiling at you, her hands -idle, her sewing slipping from her knees. -You did not know it then, but you do -now—that to see the most beautiful woman in -the whole world you must be her little boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There in her garden, in her lap, with -her arms around you and her cheeks -between your hands, you gazed, wondering, -into the blue fondness of her eyes. You -saw her lips, forever smiling at you, forever -seeking your own. You heard her voice, -sweet with love-words—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dearest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My darling."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My own dear little boy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then her arms crushing you to -her breast; and then her lips; and then -her voice again—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Once in this very garden, in this very -seat, Mother sat dreaming of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of me, Mother?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of you. Here in the garden, with -that very bush there red with blossoms, -and the birds singing in these very trees. -She dreamed that you were a little baby—a -little baby, warm and soft in her arms—and -while the wind sang to the flowers -Mother sang you a lullaby, and you stretched -out your hands to her and smiled; and -then—ah, darling!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But it was a </span><em class="italics">dream</em><span>, Mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was only a dream—yes—but it came -true. It came true on a night in -June—the First of June, it was—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">My</em><span> birthday, Mother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your birthday, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext" id="id1"><span>"Oh, Mother," you said, breathlessly—"what -a beautiful dream!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>THE END</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">A FEW OF -<br />GROSSET & DUNLAP'S -<br />Great Books at Little Prices</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">NEW, CLEVER, ENTERTAINING.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>GRET: The Story of a Pagan. By Beatrice Mantle. Illustrated -by C. M. Relyea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The wild free life of an Oregon lumber camp furnishes the setting for this -strong original story. Gret is the daughter of the camp and is utterly -content with the wild life—until love comes. A fine book, unmarred by -convention.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated -by Howard Pyle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A vivid yet delicate portrayal of characters in an old New England town.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Lavendar's fine, kindly wisdom is brought to bear upon the lives of -all, permeating the whole volume like the pungent odor of pine, healthful -and life giving. "Old Chester Tales" will surely be among the books that -abide.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE MEMOIRS OF A BABY. By Josephine Daskam. Illustrated -by F. Y. Cory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dawning intelligence of the baby was grappled with by its great aunt, -an elderly maiden, whose book knowledge of babies was something at which -even the infant himself winked. A delicious bit of humor.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated -by Elizabeth Shippen Green.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The heart tragedies of this little girl with no one near to share them, are -told with a delicate art, a keen appreciation of the needs of the childish -heart and a humorous knowledge of the workings of the childish mind.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE FLY ON THE WHEEL. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. -Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An Irish story of real power, perfect in development and showing a true -conception of the spirited Hibernian character as displayed in the tragic as -well as the tender phases of life.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE MAN FROM BRODNEY'S. By George Barr McCutcheon. -Illustrated by Harrison Fisher.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An island in the South Sea is the setting for this entertaining tale, and -an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most complicated -plot. One of Mr. McCutcheon's best books.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. -Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again Uncle Remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another -little boy to that non-locatable land called "Brer Rabbit's Laughing -Place," and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play their -parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE CLIMBER. By E. F. Benson. With frontispiece.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman's soul—a woman who -believed that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds -instead the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>LYNCH'S DAUGHTER. By Leonard Merrick. Illustrated by -Geo. Brehm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A story of to-day, telling how a rich girl acquires ideals of beautiful and -simple living, and of men and love, quite apart from the teachings of her -father, "Old Man Lynch" of Wall St. True to life, clever in treatment.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">GROSSET & DUNLAP'S -<br />DRAMATIZED NOVELS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">A Few that are Making Theatrical History</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>MARY JANE'S PA. By Norman Way. Illustrated with scenes -from the play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Delightful, irresponsible "Mary Jane's Pa" awakes one morning to find -himself famous, and, genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he wanders -from home to work out his own unique destiny. One of the most humorous -bits of recent fiction.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>CHERUB DEVINE. By Sewell Ford.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cherub," a good hearted but not over refined young man is brought in -touch with the aristocracy. Of sprightly wit, he is sometimes a merciless -analyst, but he proves in the end that manhood counts for more than -ancient lineage by winning the love of the fairest girl in the flock.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A WOMAN'S WAY. By Charles Somerville. Illustrated with -scenes from the play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A story in which a woman's wit and self-sacrificing love save her husband -from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently tragic situation -into one of delicious comedy.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE CLIMAX. By George C. Jenks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little village -where she was born and the limited audience of St. Jude's to train for the -opera in New York. She leaves love behind her and meets love more ardent -but not more sincere in her new environment. How she works, how she -studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A FOOL THERE WAS. By Porter Emerson Browne. Illustrated -by Edmund Magrath and W. W. Fawcett.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A relentless portrayal of the career of a man who comes under the influence -of a beautiful but evil woman; how she lures him on and on, how he -struggles, falls and rises, only to fall again into her net, make a story of -unflinching realism.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE SQUAW MAN. By Julie Opp Faversham and Edwin -Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine courageous -hero and a beautiful English heroine.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE GIRL IN WAITING. By Archibald Eyre. Illustrated -with scenes from the play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a -venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. By Baroness Orczy. Illustrated -with scenes from the play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A realistic story of the days of the French Revolution, abounding in -dramatic incident, with a young English soldier of fortune, daring, -mysterious as the hero.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">TITLES SELECTED FROM -<br />GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">REALISTIC, ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated -by Joseph Clement Coll.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, and -of a beautiful garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange -subtle happenings were closed to the world by a Sultan's seal.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller. -Full page vignette illustrations by M. Leone Bracker.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity -to the office of mayor of his native city. His experiences -while "climbing," make a most interesting example of the -possibilities of human nature to rise above circumstances.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville -Buck. Illustrated by R. Schabelitz.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in -Paris, which obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has -to his former life is a rusty key. What door in Paris will it -unlock? He must know that before he woos the girl he loves.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. -Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A -young Chicago engineer, who is building a road through the -Hudson Bay region, is involved in mystery, and is led into -ambush by a young woman.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. -Illustrated by Will Grefe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young -lord wins in love against his selfish and cowardly brother and -apparently against fate itself.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated -by Thomas Fogarty. Elaborate wrapper in colors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate -plans for the education of the negro goes to visit her nephew -in Arkansas, where she learns the needs of the colored race -first hand and begins to lose her theories.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">KATE DOUGLAS WIGGINS -<br />STORIES OF PURE DELIGHT</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE OLD PEABODY PEW. Large Octavo. Decorative -text pages, printed in two colors. Illustrations by Alice -Barber Stephens.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this -author's pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet -freshness of an old New England meeting house.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>PENELOPE'S PROGRESS. Attractive cover design in -colors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very -clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting -themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. Uniform in style -with "Penelope's Progress."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the -border to the Emerald Isle, and again they sharpen their wits against -new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One of the most beautiful studies of childhood—Rebecca's artistic, -unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand cut midst a circle -of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a -phenomenal dramatic record.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA. With illustrations by F. C. Yohn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca -through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>ROSE O' THE RIVER. With illustrations by George Wright.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy -young farmer. The girl's fancy for a city man interrupts their love -and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader -follows the events with rapt attention.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>IN THE MORNING GLOW</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43862"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43862</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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