Chapter IX: Getting the Author’s Mood (4)

“A little tired, yes,” she smiled at them. “To-morrow.”

So they all kissed the painted lips good-night and, wishing her a happy to-morrow, went away.

The doctor moved to take the heavy gifts off the bed. She stopped him with a tired smile and a shake of the head. It was all she could do just then. Life was very low.

“No,” she shook, “I want them all just as they are. Mamma said to-morrow—” she halted.

“Yes.”

“Poor mamma!”

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain, dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won.
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

—Written as a funeral poem for Lincoln, and one of the great poems of the nineteenth century.

THE FACE OF THE MASTER

BY MYRTLE REED

In a little town in Italy there lived an old violin-maker whose only pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments he made. He had a little son called Pedro. Pedro was a dark little fellow with large, brown eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He loved his mother dearly, but shrank somewhat from his stern father, who was always so busy he hardly noticed him.

Pedro was errand boy for the little shop and tried to do his work patiently, cheerfully and obediently. One day an unusually fine instrument had been finished and the old man, in his joy and pride, held it in position and touched the strings softly with the bow. Pedro, who was sitting outside on the porch, heard the music and came running in to hear it, but in his haste he did not see an exquisite piece of carving on the floor and stepped upon it. Crack! it broke in two. Pedro’s father became very angry and pushed him into his little bedroom and turned the key in the lock.

In the morning Pedro’s father called him very early, as he had many errands for the boy to do. All day Pedro trudged wearily back and forth for his father. He went about his work as if in a dream, thinking always of the music he had heard and wishing with all his heart that he might play. Night was coming on and Pedro was sitting on the step outside resting, when his father told him he had yet another errand for him to do. Pedro was very tired, yet he did not say anything but went immediately on the errand. When he had delivered the message, the man showed him a short cut home. As Pedro was walking slowly home, he stopped suddenly as he heard the sound of music. Could it be a violin? He listened to find from whence it came. At last he decided it came from the little vine-covered cottage across the lane. He walked slowly over and sat down under the open window. The music was exquisite. As he listened he heard the soft wind rustling through the trees, the sound of birds calling to one another in the forest, the sound of rushing water as that of a river as it flowed headlong into the ocean.

The music changed as he listened; he heard a soft, dreamy lullaby, then again the sound of the ocean, of the waves beating upon the sand. As he listened the music grew fainter, the moon came out from behind the cloud and Pedro saw the face of the Master.

He was a bent old man with white hair and beautiful blue, shining eyes. As the music ended in one long, sweet, trembling chord, Pedro saw the Master bend his head over his violin, and as he quietly slipped away he thought he heard the sound of sobbing.

Pedro walked the rest of the way home in a dream. As he came into the work-shop he saw the beautiful violin and touched it tenderly, caressingly. Oh, if he could only play! He went to bed, but could not sleep. The beautiful music kept coming back again and again. At last he arose, dressed himself and went into the work-shop. He picked up the violin tenderly, lovingly, and went out to the orchard to where a little brook ran merrily by. It was a beautiful night, calm and peaceful, a soft wind whispered through the trees, through the stillness the sweet, clear notes of a bird were heard. The witchery of the night, its calmness and quiet beauty, seemed to want him to play. So placing the violin in position, he ran the bow gently over the strings; at first the notes were short, trembling, and broken. Soon it became very beautiful, and still he played on and on. He did not notice that day was dawning, and upon looking up he was frightened at seeing his father standing before him. But his father smiled at him and said:

“My son, you are then a musician? The music was wonderful!”

Pedro smiled, but said nothing.

“You shall have lessons from the Master,” his father said. Pedro could hardly believe it. Lessons from the Master! To learn to play!

After the day’s work was done Pedro and his father walked down the same little, narrow street to the little vine-covered cottage that he had seen the night before. Soon Pedro found himself in a little sitting-room awaiting the Master. Soon the Master came, and Pedro’s father said, “If you will teach my son to play I will make you the most beautiful violin in the world.”

The Master was very well satisfied with his violin and he did not like to teach. But he said to Pedro, “Do you like music?” Pedro smiled, his whole soul in his eyes. The Master said, “Yes, you love it, you shall play.”

The next day Pedro came for his first lesson. He enjoyed it very much and soon mastered the tedious exercises.

So the years passed and Pedro had become famous. The Master was growing old; still the most beautiful violin had not been completed. One day Pedro came to visit the Master and the housekeeper told him he was ill. Pedro waited, hoping the Master might want him. Soon he returned home and began to play. While he was playing his father told him that the Master’s violin was finished. Pedro smiled sadly and said, “The Master is ill.” That evening as he sat playing a messenger came and summoned him to the Master’s house. He took the finished violin with him, and as he looked into the Master’s room he saw him lying there on a couch, so thin, and still, and white. He smiled as Pedro entered, and said, “You have come to play for me, my son? The night is so long and I am so tired. Play, Pedro, play!” Pedro showed him the newly finished violin, but he only smiled as he nodded for Pedro to begin.

Pedro played, and played, and played. In the music he interwove all the trials, sorrows and happiness of his childhood, and his love for the Master. A soft wind rustled through the trees, the sound of a little brooklet was heard and the birds calling to one another in the forest. It all ended with one trembling chord. When he had finished the Master was sitting up in bed. “Pedro, where did you learn to play that?”

Pedro smiled. “You taught me, Master. I always knew you must have had some sorrow in your life or you never could have played so exquisitely.”

The Master said: “You are right.” And then he told him of his sorrowful and suffering life. “Play it again, Pedro. Now you understand.”

Pedro played, and played, and played. This time there was a sweetness that somehow made the sad strain less noticeable. The Master lay looking out of the window; day was breaking. As the last sweet, trembling note died away, Pedro looked into the face of the Master. There was a beautiful smile on his face. For the Master the trials and sorrows of the world were over. Pedro knelt down before the Master and kissed the thin, white hand reverently, the hand that had made so many sad lives happy with beautiful music.

VOICE FROM A FAR COUNTRY

The old couple were very lonely as they sat in their little kitchen that wintry afternoon. It was their daughter’s birthday, their only child, who had left them to go to the great, glittering world on the far side of the water. There she had won fame with her voice, while they had stayed behind in the little village and tried to be cheerful without her. Usually they succeeded pretty well, but this birthday, of all days in the year, was the hardest to bear; even Christmas was not so hard as this birthday, which brought so vividly to their minds the memories of other birthdays—the first one when the baby’s coming had found them awe-struck with the joy and wonder of it all, and each succeeding year, as their treasure grew to girlhood and from a girl to a sweet and winning woman, then faded from their sight.

They had not seen her since, for money was scarce and time valuable. She must work very hard, so she wrote them. The old couple tried to keep up a conversation as they sat in the kitchen that wintry afternoon, but failed miserably. Finally after a long silence the old man rose and said:

“Guess I’ll get the chores done before it storms, mother. Coming on to snow fast.”

“All right, father, I’ll have supper ready for you when you come in.”

“You needn’t hurry about supper. Guess I’ll go to the post-office after I get the critters fed. There might be a letter from Milly.”

“All right, father.”

There was a new note in the woman’s voice, for this was just what she had been wishing her husband to do, but had not liked to have him take the long trip to the post-office with the weather so threatening.

The old man went out, and the woman began to prepare the supper. Twilight had come and she lighted an old-fashioned lamp, so clean that it sparkled. As she set the table she hummed the refrain of a lullaby, a little song she had often crooned when her arms had not been empty.

Suddenly the door flew open, letting in great gusts of wintry wind.

“Hurry and get that door shut, Pa. Warn’t there no letters?”

“No, but there’s this.”

The old man was carrying an old box almost too large for him to handle.

“When I went to the post-office I found there warn’t no letter and I was considerably disappointed, but as I was going by Jones’s store, Jones he comes to the door and says he, ‘Say, Si, there’s a box in here fer you!’ ‘Fer me?’ says I.

“‘It come this afternoon by express, and I guess by the looks of it, it’s from your daughter in forin’ parts,’ said he.

“So here ’tis, and now, mother, where’s the hatchet?”

The hatchet was brought and the box was opened.

“My, what a funny lookin’ thing! Looks like a small size sewing machine, and here’s a brass horn, too. I wonder if Milly sent that for a joke or what?”

Silas set the carved case of polished wood on the table, and the old couple gazed in puzzled astonishment at what they saw under it. After a silence the old man said:

“Perhaps there are some directions.” Going over to the box he found, as he had prophesied, a paper of instructions.

“It’s a—P-H-O-N-O-G-R-A-P-H, and them there things air records. Well, I know about as much as I did afore. I’ll follow out the directions and see what happens. Wish I knew what it was; ’tain’t no kind of a farm implement, that’s sartin, nor a potater parer, nor sewing machine. Well, we’ll follow these rules and see what she does.”

The faces of the old couple were full of interest, as Silas attached the spring and set the phonograph in motion. At first there was a peculiar buzzing sound, but nothing unusual happened, and the old people were beginning to look disappointed when, after the buzzing, came the sound of a voice singing. Surprise, wonder, amazement, succeeded each other on the old faces, as the first notes of “Home, Sweet Home” fell on their startled ears.

“’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam—”

The old couple listened breathlessly.

“Silas, that’s Milly singing.”

“No, ’tain’t!”

But the denial died on his lips as he recognized the voice.

“A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world is ne’er met with elsewhere.”

Clear and sweet came the tones, like pearls in their rounded purity. The mother was crying bitterly.

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain.”

These words came with ringing force, and it seemed to the old folks that Milly, far away in Paris, stretched out her hands to them across the water.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

The old man was crying too, but the tears of father and mother were not tears of sorrow, for the sting had gone out of their loneliness, and as the music ceased peace fell like a mantle on the little country home.—From _The Ladies’ Home Journal_.

LITTLE BROTHER

BY MADELEINE Z. DOTY

A TRUE STORY

It was a warm summer’s day in late August. No men were visible in the Belgian hamlet. The women reaped in the fields; the insects hummed in the dry, warm air; the house-doors stood open. On a bed in a room in one of the cottages lay a woman. Beside her sat a small boy. He was still, but alert, his eyes following the buzzing flies. With a bit of paper he drove the intruders from the bed. His mother slept. It was evident from the pale, drawn face that she was ill.

Suddenly the dreaming, silent, summer day was broken by the sound of clattering hoofs. Some one was riding hurriedly through the town.

The woman moved uneasily. Her eyes opened. She smiled at the little boy.

“What is it, dear?”

The boy went to the window. Women were gathering in the street. He told his mother and hurried from the room. Her eyes grew troubled. In a few minutes the child was back, breathless and excited.

“Oh, mother, mother, the Germans are coming!”

The woman braced herself against the shock. At first she hardly grasped the news. Then her face whitened, her body quivered and became convulsed. Pain sprang to her eyes, driving out fear; beads of perspiration stood on her forehead; a little animal cry of pain broke from her lips. The boy gazed at her paralyzed, horrified; then he flung himself down beside the bed and seized his mother’s hand.

“What is it, mother, what is it?”

The paroxysm of pain passed; the woman’s body relaxed, her hand reached for the boy’s head and stroked it. “It’s all right, my son.” Then as the pain began again, “Quick, sonny, bring auntie.”

The boy darted from the room. Auntie was the woman-doctor of B——. He found her in the Square. The townspeople were wildly excited. The Germans were coming. But the boy thought only of his mother. He tugged at auntie’s sleeve. His frenzied efforts at last caught her attention. She saw he was in need and went with him.

Agonizing little moans issued from the house as they entered. In an instant the midwife understood. She wanted to send the boy away, but she must have help. Who was there to fetch and carry? The neighbors, terrified at their danger, were making plans for departure. She let the boy stay.

Through the succeeding hour a white-faced little boy worked manfully. His mother’s cries wrung his childish heart. Why did babies come this way? He could not understand. Would she die? Had his birth given such pain? If only she could speak! And once, as if realizing his necessity, his mother did speak.

“It’s all right, my son; it will soon be over.”

That message brought comfort; but his heart failed when the end came. He rushed to the window and put his little hands tight over his ears. It was only for a moment. He was needed. His mother’s moans had ceased and a baby’s cry broke the stillness.

The drama of birth passed, the midwife grew restless. She became conscious of the outer world. There were high, excited voices; wagons clattered over stones; moving-day had descended on the town. She turned to the window. Neighbors with wheelbarrows and carts piled high with household possessions hurried by. They beckoned to her.

For a moment the woman hesitated. She looked at the mother on the bed, nestling her babe to her breast; then the panic of the outside world seized her. Quickly she left the room.

The small boy knelt at his mother’s bedside, his little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy’s heart had become a man’s. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free from pain. But presently the shouts and disorder of the departing townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.

“How soon, little son, how soon?”

The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road. All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.

“My son,” she called. “My son!”

He went to her.

“You must leave me and go on.”

“I can’t, mother.”

The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come. How could she make him understand that his life and the baby’s meant more to her than her own? Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, determined little face with very steady eyes.

“Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won’t bother with babies. There isn’t any milk. Mother hasn’t any for her. You must take baby in your strong little arms and run—run with her right out of this land into Holland.”

But he could not be persuaded. The mother understood that love and a sense of duty held him. She gathered the baby in her arms and tried to rise, but the overtaxed heart failed, and she fell back half-fainting. The boy brought water and bathed her head until the tired eyes opened.

“Little son, it will kill mother if you don’t go.”

The boy’s shoulders shook. He knelt by the bed. A sob broke from him. Then there came the faint, far-distant call of the bugle. Frantically the mother gathered up her baby and held it out to the boy.

“For mother’s sake, son, for mother.”

In a flash the boy understood. His mother had risked her life for the tiny sister. She wanted the baby saved more than anything else in the world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He wound his arms about his mother in a long, passionate embrace.

“I’ll take her, mother; I’ll get her there safely.”

The bugle grew louder. Through the open window on the far-distant road could be seen a cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. Stooping, the boy caught up the red, squirming baby. Very tenderly he placed the little body against his breast and buttoned his coat over his burden.

The sound of marching feet could now be heard. Swiftly he ran to the door. As he reached the threshold he turned. His mother, her eyes shining with love and hope, was waving a last good-by. Down the stairs, out of the back door, and across the fields sped the child. Over grass and across streams flew the sure little feet. His heart tugged fiercely to go back, but that look in his mother’s face sustained him.

He knew the road to Holland. It was straight to the north; but he kept to the fields. He didn’t want the baby discovered. Mile after mile, through hour after hour, he pushed on, until twilight came. He found a little spring and drank thirstily. Then he moistened the baby’s mouth. The little creature was very good. Occasionally she uttered a feeble cry, but most of the time she slept. The boy was intensely weary. His feet ached. He sat down under a great tree and leaned against it. Was it right to keep a baby out all night? Ought he to go to some farmhouse? If he did, would the people take baby away? His mother had said, “Run straight to Holland.” But Holland was twenty miles away. He opened his coat and looked at the tiny creature. She slept peacefully.

The night was very warm. He decided to remain where he was. It had grown dark. The trees and bushes loomed big. His heart beat quickly. He was glad of the warm, soft, live little creature in his arms. He had come on this journey for his mother, but suddenly his boy’s heart opened to the tiny, clinging thing at his breast. His little hand stroked the baby tenderly. Then he stooped, and softly his lips touched the red, wrinkled face. Presently his little body relaxed, and he slept. He had walked eight miles. Through the long night the deep sleep of exhaustion held him. He lay quite motionless, head and shoulders resting against the tree-trunk, and the new-born babe enveloped in the warmth of his body and arms slept also. The feeble cry of the child woke him. The sun was coming over the horizon and the air was alive with the twitter of birds.

At first he thought he was at home and had awakened to a long happy summer’s day. Then the fretful little cries brought back memory with a rush. His new-born love flooded him. Tenderly he laid the little sister down. Stretching his stiff and aching body, he hurried for water. Very carefully he put a few drops in the little mouth and wet the baby’s lips with his little brown finger. This proved soothing and the cries ceased. The tug of the baby’s lips on his finger clutched his heart. The helpless little thing was hungry, and he too was desperately hungry. What should he do? His mother had spoken of milk. He must get milk. Again he gathered up his burden and buttoned his coat. From the rising ground on which he stood he could see a farmhouse with smoke issuing from its chimney. He hurried down to the friendly open door. A kind woman gave him food. She recognized him as a little refugee bound for Holland. He had difficulty in concealing the baby, but fortunately she did not cry. The woman saw that he carried something, but when he asked for milk she concluded he had a pet kitten. He accepted this explanation. Eagerly he took the coveted milk and started on.

But day-old babies do not know how to drink. When he dropped milk into the baby’s mouth she choked and sputtered. He had to be content with moistening her mouth and giving her a milk-soaked finger.

Refreshed by sleep and food, the boy set off briskly. Holland did not now seem so far off. If only his mother were safe! Had the Germans been good to her? These thoughts pursued and tormented him. As before, he kept off the beaten track, making his way through open meadows and patches of trees. But as the day advanced, the heat grew intense. His feet ached, his arms ached, and, worst of all, the baby cried fretfully.

At noon he came to a little brook sheltered by trees. He sat down on the bank and dangled his swollen feet in the cool, fresh stream. But his tiny sister still cried. Suddenly a thought came to him. Placing the baby on his knees, he undid the towel that enveloped her. There had been no time for clothes. Then he dipped a dirty pocket-handkerchief in the brook and gently sponged the hot, restless little body. Very tenderly he washed the little arms and legs. That successfully accomplished, he turned the tiny creature and bathed the small back. Evidently this was the proper treatment, for the baby grew quiet. His heart swelled with pride. Reverently he wrapped the towel around the naked little one and, administering a few drops of milk, again went on.

All through that long, hot afternoon he toiled. His footsteps grew slower and slower; he covered diminishing distances. Frequently he stopped to rest, and now the baby had begun again to cry fitfully. At one time his strength failed. Then he placed the baby under a tree and rising on his knees uttered a prayer:

“O God, she’s such a little thing, help me to get her there.”

Like a benediction came the cool breeze of the sunset hour, bringing renewed strength.

* * * * *

In the afternoon of the following day a wagon stopped before a Belgian refugee-camp in Holland. Slowly and stiffly a small boy slid to the ground. He had been picked up just over the border by a friendly farmer, and driven to camp. He was dirty, bedraggled and footsore. Very kindly the ladies’ committee received him. He was placed at the table and a bowl of hot soup was set before him. He ate awkwardly with his left hand. His right hand held something beneath his coat, which he never for a moment forgot. The women tried to get his story, but he remained strangely silent. His eyes wandered over the room and back to their faces. He seemed to be testing them. Not for an hour, not until there was a faint stirring in his coat, did he disclose his burden. Then, going to her whom he had chosen as most to be trusted, he opened his jacket. In a dirty towel lay a naked, miserably thin, three-days’-old baby.

Mutely holding out the forlorn object, the boy begged help. Bit by bit they got his story. Hurriedly a Belgian refugee mother was sent for. She was told what had happened, and she took the baby to her breast. Jealously the boy stood guard while his tiny sister had her first meal. But the spark of life was very low.

For two days the camp concentrated on the tiny creature. The boy never left his sister’s side. But her ordeal had been too great. It was only a feeble flicker of life at best, and during the third night the little flame went out. The boy was utterly crushed. He had now but one thought—to reach his mother. It was impossible to keep the news from him longer. He would have gone in search. Gently he was told of the skirmish that had destroyed the Belgian hamlet. There were no houses or people in the town that had once been his home.

* * * * *

“That is his story,” ended the friendly little Dutch woman.

“And his father?” I inquired.

“Killed at the front,” was the reply.

I rose to go, but could not get the boy out of my mind. What a world! What intolerable suffering! Was there no way out? Then the ever-recurring phrase of the French and Belgian soldiers came to me. When I had shuddered at ghastly wounds, at death, at innumerable white crosses on a bloody battlefield, invariably, in dry, cynical, hopeless tones, the soldier would make the one comment,—

“_C’est la guerre; que voulez-vous?_”—“It is war; what would you?”

DRAMATIC SELECTIONS

BROWN WOLF

BY JACK LONDON

The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally, “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’ the dog right here an’ now.”

Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach.

“Maybe Mr. Miller is right,” she said. “I’m afraid that he is. Wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of Brown. He made friends with him instantly, and you know that’s something he never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”

Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness.

“I guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but Brown, and he must belong to Mr. Miller.”

“Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him?” she suggested. “We can buy him.”

Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness.

“I had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high then anyway; but that wasn’t what made the fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve hundred for him. I didn’t sell ’m then an’ I ain’t a-sellin’ ’m now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I’ve ben lookin’ for ’m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he’d ben stole—not the value of him, but the—well, I liked ’m. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I seen ’m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It was too good to be true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ’m to bed, snug every night. His mother died, and I brought ’m up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He never knew any mother but me.”

Madge began to speak:

“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”

Skiff Miller looked puzzled.

“Have you thought about him?” she asked.

“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.

“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no choice. It had never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.

“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also,” she urged.

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.

“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.

It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”

She nodded her head with positiveness. “I’m sure of it.”

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.

“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.

“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I do like him.”

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Finally he said:

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight in them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth an’ has got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him. Whatever he says goes. You people stay right here settin’ down; I’ll say ‘good-by’ and walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to come with me, let ’m come. I won’t call ’m to come an’ don’t you call ’m to come back.”

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must play fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”

“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her assurances.

“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft. When their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an’ lie—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—I’m only discoursin’ about women in general.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.

“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied; “Brown ain’t decided yet. Now, you won’t mind if I go away slow. It’s no more’n fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred yards.”

Madge agreed and added, “And I promise you faithfully that we won’t do anything to influence him.”

“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said, in the ordinary tones of one departing.

At this change in his voice Wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore-paws on her hip and at the same time licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.

“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness and strove gently to make him pause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man.

Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, making short, nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick, sharp whines and beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, his mouth opening and closing with jerky movements, each time opening wider. The jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide open mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose—an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curveting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore-paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.

This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward; slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to reappear. He waited a long minute, quietly, silently without movement as though turned to stone—withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun.

He broke into a trot and Madge’s lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf’s trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made. Not once did he turn his head, his wolf’s brush standing out straight behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.—From “Love of Life,” copyrighted by _The Macmillan Co._, New York, and used by their kind permission.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS

BY WILSON BARRETT

It was a festival day in Rome. Nero had decreed it. In the Circus was to be given a performance the like of which had never before been witnessed. The whole city was excited by the rumors of the numbers of Christians doomed to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were to encounter.

The dungeon beneath the amphitheatre in which the Christians were imprisoned was a large, gloomy, stone vault, destitute of furniture of any kind.

Great was the contrast between the dark, damp cell and the sunlit arena, crowded with eager, gayly dressed patricians. In the dungeon were scores of men and women waiting for the signal to pass forth to a certain and cruel death; in the auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands upon thousands impatiently awaiting their coming forth, and gloating already in imagination upon the horrors they must undergo.

The roars of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even when the doors were closed; so could the equally merciless howls of the blood-thirsty populace. How they were to die had not been told the martyrs; only this they knew, that they were to die, and that every endeavor would be made to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and cruel as possible.

Among them were a few that trembled and felt sick with physical fear, but not one murmured. Their eyes were mentally fixed upon the Cross.

Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors were thrown open, and the arena beyond could be seen by the prisoners, flooded with golden sunshine.

“Now, then, march!”

For a moment there was a pause, but almost before it could be realized Mercia’s clear, sweet voice rang out the first words of their beloved hymn:

“Shepherd of souls that stumble by the way,
Pilot of vessels storm-tossed in the night,
Healer of wounds, for help to Thee we pray.”

Singing these words with uplifted eyes and undaunted hearts, those noble martyrs went calmly and resignedly through the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death to the everlasting peace that awaited them beyond.

Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon. It was generally understood that Marcus Superbus, the handsome, wealthy young Prefect of Rome, was madly in love with this Christian girl, and the adventuress who hoped to entrap Marcus prevailed upon Nero to make Mercia’s punishment unique and horrible.

She sank upon her knees with her face pressed against the iron bars. Presently the door leading to the corridor was unbarred. Two officers entered, ushering in Marcus, who started on finding Mercia alone. Dismissing the guards, he closed the door and gazed with infinite tenderness upon the white figure at his feet—Mercia.

For a time Marcus could not speak; his heart felt like bursting with grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this loathsome dungeon she could still preserve her courage and could still pray for forgiveness for her persecutors.

“Mercia! Mercia!”

“What would you with me?”

“I came to save thee. I have knelt to Nero for thy pardon. He will grant it upon one condition—that thou dost renounce thy false worship—”

“It is not false! It is true and everlasting.”

“Everlasting? Nothing is everlasting! There is no after-life; the end is here. Men come and go; they drink their little cup of woe or happiness, and then sleep—the sleep that knows no awakening.”

“Art thou sure of that? Ask thyself, are there no inward monitors that silently teach thee there is a life to come?”

“All men have wishes for a life to come, if it could better this.”

“It _will_ better this, if this life be _well_ lived. Hast thou lived well?”

“No; thou hast taught me that I never knew the shame of sin until I knew thy purity. Ah! whence comes thy wondrous grace?”

“If I have any grace it comes from Him who died on Calvary’s cross that grace might come to all.”

“Thou dost believe this?”

“I _do_ believe it.”

“But thou hast no proof.”

“Yes. The proof is here.”

“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each tells himself _his_ is the _true_ god. All are mistaken.”

“All _are_ mistaken.”

“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou die for _such_ a thing?”

“I will die for my Master gladly.”

“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt _not_ die! I cannot let thee go! I love you so! I love you so!”

“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”

“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my wife!”

“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”

“Thou wilt love?”

“I will not deny Him who died for me!”

“Mercia, if thy God exists He made us both, the one for the other. Hearken! I am rich beyond all riches. I have power, skill, strength; with these the world would be my slave, my vassal. Nero is hated, loathed—is tottering on his throne. I have friends in plenty who would help me—the throne of Cæsar might be mine—and thou shalt share it with me if thou wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that lovely head if thou wilt but live—only consent to live!”

“My crown is not of earth, Marcus; it awaits me there.”

“I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia! I have, to save thy precious life, argued and spoken against thy faith, thy God, but to speak truth to thee, I have been sorely troubled since I first saw thee. Strange yearnings of the spirit come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle with them, but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fears, strange thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this world?—a little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two vast eternities, that from which we have traveled, that towards which we go. Oh, but to know! How can I know, Mercia? Teach me how to know!”

“Look at the Cross, and pray, ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Give up all that thou hast, and follow Him!”

“Would He welcome even me?”

“Yea, even thee, Marcus.”

Now there sounded on their ears another call from the trumpets. The brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, followed this time by Tigellinus.

“Prefect, the hour has come. Cæsar would have this maid’s decision. Doth she renounce Christus and live, or cling to him and die?”

“Mercia, answer him!”

“I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus!”

“No, not ‘Farewell.’ Death cannot part us. I, too, am ready! My lingering doubts are dead; the light hath come! Return to Cæsar; tell him Christus hath triumphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian.”

His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had transfigured the features of Mercia. They were glorified by the presence of Him who had promised to them, even as He had promised to the penitent thief dying on the Cross beside Him—“Verily, I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed and shiny, which stood in a forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad and tall and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees, and built their nests there, he used to call up to them, “Come down, come down, rest in my branches!” But they always said, “Oh, no, no, you are too little.”

And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees and murmured to them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up and called—“Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said, “Oh, no, you are too little, you are too little.” And in the winter the white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree close down in the cover of the others would call up, “Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap too! I want to play too!” But the snow always said—“Oh, no, no, no, you are too little, you are too little.”

The worst of all was when men came with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut the big trees and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and carried away, the others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship and go far away over the ocean and see many wonderful things, or you might be a part of a fine house in a great city and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life but he was always too little; the men passed him by. But, by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came with a sledge and horses and after they had cut here and there, they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree and looked all about. “There are none little enough,” they said. Oh! how the Little Fir Tree pricked up his needles. “Here is one,” said one of the men; “it is just little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree. The little Fir Tree was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down. And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering so contentedly whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine house in the city. But when they came to the town he was taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life. People kept coming to look at the trees and take them away, but always when they saw the Little Fir Tree, they shook their heads and said, “It is too little, too little!” Until finally two children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree, they cried out, “We’ll take this one; it is just little enough!” They took him out of his tub and carried him away between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house since he was going away with children. He kept wondering while they took him in through some big doors and set him up in another tub on the table in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away and came back again with a big basket carried between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often wished the birds and wind and snow to do; he felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his branches, and when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look, he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains!