Chapter V

An hour afterwards there was a halloo at the lower gate. It was answered by the dogs, who rushed out, barring the way, and stopping the newcomer at the entrance. According to pioneer custom, he sat on his horse till the dogs had been called in by their master.

At a word from Trevellian they slunk back to their kennels.

“Good evening, Jack—you were not expecting me, eh?”

“I am just as glad to see you, General—ride in,” and he opened the gate with a quick, nervous jerk. “I was just about to have the blues,” he added—“yes, we all have them at times.”

The older man seemed to have guessed this, for he had dismounted and hitched his horse, and, arm in arm, they walked up the path to the house.

“I promised Mrs. Jackson I’d not stay long, Jack, but as much as we love them, boy, there are times when a man must talk to a man. Nothing else will do,” and he slapped the other affectionately on the shoulder.

Both, for a while, were constrained, and each knew it. Trevellian knew what the older man had come for, and the other knew that Trevellian had guessed.

In endeavoring to be natural, the General was slightly embarrassed, a thing so unnatural with him that he worried more as he recognized it. But it convinced him how deeply interested he was in the affair before him—how much he cared for the future of the young man at his side.

“That tobacco they raised at the Hermitage while I was away this year is not the best in the world, Jack,” he said, passing his buckskin pouch to the other, “but it will help us out.”

The two were soon smoking. It was plain that the older man had plans, and that he would soon unfold them. Under any other circumstances his talk would have been different—the day’s racing, the banterings, the jokes, the oft-repeated tales of it, the speculation on this and that event, the praise or condemnation of horse or jockey.

To-night it was different. They smoked in silence, and after a while the General said:

“I heard from Washington to-day.”

Trevellian looked up quickly—expectantly.

“Not about Pensacola,” went on the other, “but the treaty with the Creeks. I am directed by the Secretary of War to conclude it, and I will soon meet them at Ft. Jackson. I’ll want you to go with me—of course—and the First Regiment.” He stopped and tapped the young man lightly on the arm:

“And that’s not all the troops I’ll slip into that vicinity. I’ve a good excuse—there has been no reply to my letter concerning the landing of British troops at Pensacola, and the treachery of Spain in permitting it, and I’ll take silence for consent, and with the troops in the forts and on the frontier I’ll order your regiment in and hold all in good striking distance of that nest of Spanish snakes. And we’ll strike, Jack—we’ll strike!”

He arose and began to pace the room.

“I’ll not stay tethered while Spain permits our enemy to use her harbor to shelter them. What do they know at Washington, a thousand miles away, with their ears sealed for fear they’ll have another war on their hands? The government—all governments are abstract things, at best. It is the men in them that count—the concrete agents who carry out the things to be done, and there are things every man is called on to solve for himself, both in war and in life—there are times when the general is the government, and if he fails to rise to the occasion he is a flunk and a failure.”

He was still walking around the room, talking more to himself than to Jack.

“Now, the situation is this: I know. The government doesn’t want to know. It’s my business to fight and whip the foes of my country. It’s my government’s to keep out of more than one fight at a time. That’s all right—but when I can kill two bears with one ball, it’s better than killing one of them and wounding the other. The British are swarming in Pensacola. They are our enemy, and once securely entrenched there they will entrench from the Rio Grande to Mobile Bay. Then it will be too late. In driving them from Pensacola I’ll drive out Spain at the same time and hold it so securely that Spain may bluff for a while, but will finally give in—and Florida will be ours.”

And so he smoked and walked, planning it all out, and in an hour it was arranged, and the General grew calmer and sat down again.

“Now, while we are gone, the election will come off. To-day you had Bristow beat—”

“_You_ had him beat, General,” the younger man smiled for the first time.

The General gave his first chuckle. The ice was broken.

“But now—” began the General.

“I am out of the race, sir,” said Trevellian, rising. “I shall so announce it to-morrow. I am going with you and fight,” he added.

The General arose quickly: “No, you are not out of it, Jack—not while I am about.”

“What do you mean, General?” He came over and stood face to face with the older man.

“Let us be seated,” said the other. “I will go into detail. Bristow remained with us for supper to-night—”

The younger man was still silent.

“But first, Jack, shall I tell you all?”

Jack nodded.

“It was a little thing—perhaps I should not speak of it. Mrs. Jackson says”—and he smiled—“that for an old Indian fighter I am taking on a lot of romance since I returned, and that you two have caused it. Well, my heart is in this thing, and you know it. But I loved Templeton and I love you, my boy.”

The other bowed his head reverently.

“The girl loves you, Jack; I know it. I know when a woman loves. She is wretched to-night. Why, didn’t I see her when she came home—in spite of Bristow, everybody—everything—with her face set like a flint monument in grief. To-night she was weeping in her room. Mrs. Jackson told me—by God, but you have broken her heart, and you must tell me, Jack.”

Jack arose hastily and walked the room in silent agitation. At last he stopped and stood before the other.

“I cannot, my General—my God, I cannot! Blame me, cut me off from your esteem and friendship as I am already cut off from hers. This thing is between me and my Maker.

“No man,” said the General, rising, “has the right to ask of you things which are between you and your God. I do not want to know—and this —is—”

“And I cannot tell you anything, my friend—my more than friend.”

He stood before his father’s picture—the Trevellian portrait that hung above them on the wall. He bowed his head in the agony of it all.

“I have never kept anything from you before, and you know how hard it is for me to do this, but—”

The other man was walking the room. He turned and said:

“Well, then, I will tell you what happened. Bristow has said enough for me to challenge him—said it at my table,” and his face flushed with the purpling rage which could so quickly mount to it. “My friends’ fights are my own, Jack—you know that—”

“You have not challenged him, General?” and Jack paled suddenly.

“I will to-morrow—as soon as Patton Anderson can take him a note. I’ll challenge him, and I’ll kill him.” He came up closer to Jack.

“It’s not you and what he said I’m thinking of. You only give me the chance. I’ve been wanting to kill him ever since that cowardly night.”

“You could not prove it before a court-martial, General.”

“No, d—n him—no—I wish I could. But there are things a man knows he cannot prove by the red-tape letter of the law which—no—no—he is too smart to be caught. But I know it and you know, and every man of sense, that he treacherously instigated and led the mutiny of those starved and homesick troops in the Creek wilderness. When—ha, Jack, you know it was he!”

The General was getting hot.

“But you—you stopped it,” smiled the other.

“Yes—with a rifle in their path, and I wish I had shot him then. No, I am not fighting your battles, young man. You may take care of yourself, as I said to him—I am going to kill him for instigating that mutiny when the life of the army and the fate of the war hung on our fighting it to a finish.”

“But you will not challenge him, General—you must promise me you will not.”

The General turned purple with anger—his eyes flashed indignantly into those of the younger man. He stuck his bony finger in Jack’s face and fairly shrieked:

“D—n you, Jack, and your sissy, foolish silence! Yes, sir, I will, unless you tell me you are guilty—that you are not worth Juliette’s love—that the boy is your son. And if you are silent, why then—”

“And if I am silent, General, why then you will believe I am guilty and let this thing pass?”

The General nodded.

“General, I must—I must—I cannot—I must be silent.”

The General looked up.

Jack’s eyes were wet. The General grasped his hand silently.

“By God, you are not guilty, Jack—you will tell me in your own time. I said I’d kill him, but—well, you’ve spoiled my plans. I’ll let him go for your sake.”

“For my sake, General, and I swear to you you shall one day know. Let him have the office—let him have the girl. I’ll have my sacred promise to the dead and my manhood left—that I’ll never part with.”

[_To be continued_]

It is quite fitting that the author of _Makers of Virginia History_ should be chosen as Director of the Division of History, Education and Social Economy of the Jamestown Exposition. Mr. Julian Alvin Carroll Chandler brings to his work also an experience of more than thirteen years’ work in the educational field, having been instructor at William and Mary College, Richmond College, Morgan College, Baltimore, and president of the Woman’s College, Richmond. Mr. Chandler holds degrees from William and Mary, Richmond College and Johns Hopkins and has long been an authority on Southern history, being an active member of the Virginia Historical Society, American Historical Association and Society for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities; and having written _Representation in Virginia_, _History of Suffrage in Virginia_, _Makers of Virginia History_ and _Makers of American History_ (joint author). Since the year 1904 he has been editor for the publishing house of Silver, Burdett & Co.—the only Southern man who is editor of a New York publishing house.

Mr. Chandler’s interest in the work of the Jamestown Exposition and his thorough knowledge of the ground and departments covered led to his being asked to take charge of a special department and he received a year’s leave of absence from his publishing house in order to accept the position. His plans include a splendid historical exhibit of the sources of history as shown in rare documents and letters, valuable relics, oil paintings and statuary relating to the beginnings of our country; an educational exhibit, showing the best in our schools throughout the country, with especial stress upon the schools of the South. Consolidation of schools; grading of rural schools; the establishment of county high schools and county agricultural schools, teaching of manual training and domestic science will be fully brought out in this exhibit and will contain much of practical assistance to teachers in all parts of the country. Mr. Chandler’s indefatigable efforts and tireless energy will make this department a thoroughly interesting one. He is a young man, having been born in Guineys, Virginia, in 1872.

* * * * *

Joseph Forney Johnston, who was elected Alternate United States Senator in the Democratic Primary in Alabama, in August last, was born in Lincoln county, North Carolina, in 1843. He entered the Confederate Army, as a private, in April, 1861, served until the war closed, was wounded four times, and rose to the rank of captain. After the war closed, he returned to Alabama, where he had been studying law when the war commenced. On being admitted to the bar in 1866, he practiced law at Selma until he removed to Birmingham, in 1884, to accept the presidency of a bank. He continued in the banking business until he was elected governor in 1896.

Whilst in Selma, he lead the movement which overthrew Republican rule, and served his party many years as chairman of county, congressional and state committees. He never held any office, and never sought any, until he became a candidate for governor.

In the panic of 1893, he was one of the factors that averted financial disaster to Birmingham. He was one of the organizers and first president of the Sloss Iron & Steel Company; so that when he became governor he had behind him large business experience, and a wide knowledge of the conditions and resources of Alabama.

He was nominated for governor in 1896, in one of the most exciting campaigns the state ever witnessed, and in spite of the opposition of the railroads, great corporations and money power.

When he became governor he found a large deficit in the state treasury, the public schools languishing and the public credit impaired. When he quit office, after serving two terms, the deficit had been wiped out, the terms of the public schools largely extended, more competent teachers secured by wise laws compelling examinations, the credit of the state at the highest point ever reached, and the public service the most efficient in the history of the state. Every department of the state government had lasting impression made upon it by the firmness of his grip; the laws and policies he established, though severely criticised at the time, have remained, through adverse administrations, untouched, and stand yet as monuments to his justice and sagacity. We find from his record that he began ten years ago the fight on graft that is now sweeping the country; that he has a mailed fist that does cheerful and effective battle with corrupt interests and all interests that conflict with the laws and with the rights of the public, and that he can serenely stand under fire until an ultimate victory appears out of the smoke of battle.

When we consider Mr. Johnston’s past services, his indomitable spirit, his unvarying regard for the public interest throughout his entire career, his fearlessness, aggressiveness and candor, his large experience in practical affairs, as well as American politics, it is not difficult to see why the people have chosen him for successive honors.

It is rare that dominant qualities of the kind possessed by Governor Johnston are coupled with a personality so genial and winning and so rare a faculty for attaching warm friendships. The boy released from the Army of Northern Virginia, with his five scars, courageously leaving the home of his fathers to begin life in Alabama with a capital stock consisting of a mule and wagon and a box of tobacco, was no more friendly, no more kind-hearted and approachable than is now this man of affairs and broad renown, who has been chosen by the democrats of Alabama for succession to the United States Senate.

* * * * *

One of the heroes of the battle of San Jacinto, that victory won by sheer force of despair, was General Edward Burleson, who commanded the center at that famous encounter with the blood-thirsty Santa Anna. Subsequently, when the little republic of the Lone Star was added to the gallery of nations General Burleson was made Commander-in-Chief of the army and was one of the early vice presidents of the republic. Originally from North Carolina, General Burleson removed in early youth to Tennessee and followed Jackson on his campaign which ended at New Orleans, serving as one of “Old Hickory’s” lieutenants. This experience made him immensely valuable to Sam Houston. The last legislature of Texas placed a handsome portrait of this pioneer public servant upon the walls of its magnificent capital amidst a goodly array of great and good men whose efforts lifted Texas to her present proud position among the commonwealths of the union.

General Burleson’s son, Major Edward Burleson, was also a soldier of the young republic and helped to frame its constitution. He settled at the head of the lovely San Marcos river and there the subject of this sketch, Albert Sidney Burleson, was born on the third of June, 1863. His father was away fighting for the Confederate cause at that time, as were five of his mother’s brothers—one, Fergus Kyle, a captain in the Terry Rangers. It would seem that young Burleson was pre-ordained to be either a soldier or a statesman, with chances more in favor of the former than the latter. After graduating from the State Agricultural and Mechanical College and from Baylor University (founded by his cousin, Reverend Rufus C. Burleson), he decided on the law, taking his degree at the State University, and serving as Assistant City Attorney at Austin for six years. He next served four years as District Attorney and was then elected to Congress. He is now serving his fourth term at Washington, where he has served his state ably and well.

Last winter Mr. Burleson was put on the appropriation committee and has secured important appropriations for his state, among them being appropriations for experiments in exterminating Johnson grass and the boll weevil; experimental stations for the cultivation of tobacco and tea; an allowance of ten thousand dollars yearly for the maintenance of a School of Mines at the State University; laws enabling Confederate Veterans who took part in the Mexican and Spanish wars to enter National Soldiers’ Homes; dam at El Paso (secured in conjunction with the efforts of Congressman Smith), thereby making Texas a participant in the appropriations for the reclamation of arid lands; the reimbursement of nearly half a million dollars for monies expended by Texas in protecting her frontier from Indian depredations.

Mr. Burleson is an expert on agricultural matters and was a member of the agricultural committee for two terms. He is also the author of the Cotton Statistics Law, by which the control of the cotton market has been wrested from the stock exchange, and the regulation of prices placed in the hands of the farmers. It is natural and right that this law, so far-reaching in its benefits, should be enacted through the efforts of a representative of our leading cotton state.

It is unnecessary to add that Mr. Burleson is possessed of a wonderful persistence and tireless energy which enable him to accomplish everything he undertakes. He takes his politics seriously and he never stops working. He is a forceful debater and makes a dramatic speech, having the eloquence of a man who believes what he says. He is noted not only for this convincing earnestness, but for the absolute accuracy of all his statements and his thorough mastery of every point he presents. He has, withal, a vast store of characteristic Western stories and his jolly wit, coupled with his loyalty to his friends, makes him one of the most popular of congressmen.

TRANSITION

The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,
In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;
The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nest
Filled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.

An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;
Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;
And by the garden path a folded rose
Shuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.

_Beth Slater Whitson._

FOREST FALLS

By C. D. Robinson

Nature shows her power in the waterfall, just as in the daisy and violet she shows her grace and beauty.

One of the several objects of curiosity and admiration to those who visit South Georgia is Forest Falls, near Whigham, a town on the Atlantic Coast Line Railway, in the new county of Grady. A stream of clear, sparkling water rushes over a cliff and falls into a huge sink nearly a hundred feet below, where, instead of flowing on in its precipitated direction, it immediately steals away into the earth as if endowed with life and seeking refuge beneath monstrous rocks and in the depths of a bed of sand washed white by the water’s continual dash in shouts of victory.

A few hours at Forest Falls is a midsummer dream whose refreshing delights last indelibly. The walls of the sink are splendid transcendent beauties, robed in richest green, with which nature decks her favorites.

The only way to reach the foot of the falls is adown the walls of this immense lime sink by following artificial foot-paths, clinging to trees and roots until the cool, refreshing spray of the falls defies your approach, which defiance is really a temptation on a warm summer day.

The riotous music of the falls, mingling with enraptured cadence of singing birds, swinging branches and rustling leaves overhead would alone charm and enchant the spectator, but the rocks and cliffs and their delicate draperies of ferns and vines outstrip the imagination.

The most appropriate time to enter the sink is at the noon hour, when old Sol hangs a bow of richest colors in the falls, when the observer stands in a ray of sunlight that floods the deep, verdant well from the bottom of which he peers upward at the swaying branches of trees that lean over the edge of this strange receptacle.

SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS

IRWIN RUSSELL

By Kate Alma Orgain

This poet was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, and was among the first of the Southern writers to recognize the possibilities of negro dialect and character in poetry and fiction, and to picture in poetry the unique relation between the Southern slave and his master.

It is not surprising that there is no general knowledge of this gifted writer, for he passed away after a brief struggle with life, leaving only one collection of poems, which was published after his death by the Century Company, in 1888. Irwin Russell’s grandfather was a Virginian, who moved west to Ohio. Here the father of Irwin was born. He married a New York lady, and going South he settled in Port Gibson, where Irwin and two other children were born. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Irwin’s father cast his lot with the Confederacy, and after the war sent the boy to St. Louis University in St. Louis, conducted by the Jesuit Fathers. Here he became a diligent student, and his young friends called him a “walking encyclopedia.” He also gave evidence of fine mathematical powers. After graduation he returned to Mississippi and began the practice of law. He was in Port Gibson during the yellow fever epidemic in 1878, and he remained through the whole dreadful tragedy of sickness, serving everywhere as needed, a devoted nurse. He never fully rallied from the fearful strain and the harrowing scenes through which he passed, for he was, says W. W. Baskerville, “that rare union of bright mind with frail body through which the keenest appreciation and most exquisite sensibility are developed.”

His father, Dr. William Russell, who had also remained in Port Gibson during the scourge, staying nobly at his post of duty, sank under the strain and died.

This left young Russell entirely dependent upon himself. Joel Chandler Harris says: “Russell always had warm personal friends from whom he could command everything that affection could suggest.” Going to New York, he took some literary matter to Charles Scribner’s Sons, who received him with great personal kindness and encouraged him to adopt the profession of authorship.

The climate, however, was too severe to allow him to work in New York and he fell ill with a low fever. He determined to return to the South and before he was quite recovered, set out to work his passage on a boat bound for New Orleans. He arrived in port very weak and almost penniless, but secured employment on the _Times_, and with characteristic disregard of health or personal comfort, threw himself, heart and soul into his work.

Although young, Russell gave remarkable evidence of training in the best of literature. He gave his work hard, painstaking study, and his insight into the peculiarities and pathos and poetry of the negro character was truly wonderful.

Thomas Nelson Page says: “Personally I owe him much. It was the light of his genius, shining through his dialect poems that led my feet in the direction I have since tried to follow.”

Dr. C. A. Smith says: “The appearance of ‘Christmas Night in the Quarters’ meant that Southern literature was now become a true reproduction of Southern conditions.”

Joel Chandler Harris says: “Irwin Russell’s negro character studies rise to the level of what, in a large way, we term literature. I do not know where there could be a more perfect representation of negro character than his operetta, ‘Christmas Night in the Quarters.’ It is inimitable.”

Beginning with the arrival of the negroes who are coming to “Uncle Johnny Booker’s Ball,” this poem says:

“Some take the path with shoes in hand,
To traverse muddy bottom-land:
Aristocrats their steeds bestride—
Four on a mule, behold them ride.
And ten great oxen draw apace
The wagon from ‘de oder place,’
With forty guests, whose conversation
Betokens glad anticipation.”

Arrived at the scene of merriment the dance is preceded by a prayer by “Brudder Brown,” who takes the middle of the floor to “beg a blessin’ on dis dance.”

“O Mahsr! let dis gath’rin’ fin’ a blessin’ in yo’ sight!
Don’t jedge us hard fur whut we does—you knows it’s Chris’mus night;
An’ all de balunce ob de yeah we does as right’s we kin.
Ef dancin’s wrong, O Mahsr; let de time excuse de sin!

“We labors in de vineyard, wu’kin’ hard an’ wu’kin’ true;
Now, shorely you won’t notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An’ takes a leetle holiday—a leetle restin’ spell,—
Bekase, nex’ week, we’ll start in fresh an’ labor twicet as well.

“Remember, Mahsr,—min’ dis now,—de sinfulness ob sin
Is ’pendin’ ’pon de spirit whut we goes an’ does it in:
An’ in a righchis frame ob min’ we’s gwine to dance an’ sing,
A feelin’ like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.

...

“You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we’s doin’ wrong to-night;
Kase den we’ll need de blessin’ more’n ef we’s doin’ right;
An’ let de blessin’ stay wid us, until we comes to die,
An’ goes to keep our Chris’mus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!”

...

“The rev’rend man is scarcely through,
When all the noise begins anew.
And with such force assaults the ears,
That through the din one hardly hears
Old fiddling ‘Josey’ sound his ‘A’,
Correct the pitch, begin to play.”

Then the dance begins.

“_S’lute yo’ pardners!_—scrape perlitely—
Don’t be bumpin’ ’gin de res’—
_Balance all!_—now, step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo’ lebbel bes’.
_Fo’wa’d foah!_—whoop up, niggers!
_Back ag’in!_—don’t be so slow!—
_Sw-i-i-ing cornahs!_—min’ de figgers!
When I hollers, den yo’ go.
_Top ladies cross ober!_
Hol’ on, till I takes a dram—
_Gemmen solo!_—yes, _I’s_ sober—
Cain’t say how de fiddle am.
_Hands around!_—hol’ up yo’ faces,
Don’t be lookin’ at yo’ feet!
_Swing yo’ pardners to yo’ places!_
Dat’s de way—dat’s hard to beat
_Sides fo’w’d!_—when yo’s ready—
Make a bow as low’s you kin!
_Swing acrosst wid opp’site lady!_
Now we’ll let you swap ag’in:
_Ladies change!_—shet up dat talkin’;
Do yo’ talkin’ arter while!
_Right an’ lef’!_—don’t want no walkin’—
Make yo’ steps, an’ show yo’ style!

“And so the ‘set’ proceeds—its length
Determined by the dancers’ strength;
And all agree to yield the palm
For grace and skill to ‘Georgy Sam,’
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,
‘Des watch him!’ is the wond’ring cry—
‘De nigger mus’ be, for a fac’,
Own cousin to a jumpin’-jack!’
On, on the restless fiddle sounds,
Still chorused by the curs and hounds;
Dance after dance succeeding fast,
Till supper is announced at last.
That scene—but why attempt to show it?
The most inventive modern poet,
In fine new words whose hope and trust is,
Could form no phrase to do it justice!
When supper ends—that is not soon—
The fiddle strikes the same old tune;
The dancers pound the floor again,
With all they have of might and main;
Old gossips, almost turning pale,
Attend Aunt Cassy’s gruesome tale
Of conjurers, and ghosts, and devils,
That in the smoke-house hold their revels;
Each drowsy baby droops his head,
Yet scorns the very thought of bed:—
So wears the night, and wears so fast,
All wonder when they find it past,
And hear the signal sound to go
From what few cocks are left to crow.”

In the wee sma’ hours near daylight Uncle Booker sings the story of the first banjo.

“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn—
Fur Noah tuk de ‘_Herald_,’ and he read de ribber column—
An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.
Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ and a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:
An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot of ebry sort o’ beas’es—
Ob all de shows a-trabelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—
An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

“Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

...

“Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

“He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;
An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’;
He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

“De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’;
De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’;
Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;
An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses.

“He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”—
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;
Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;
An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

“Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’
Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!”

...

The night is spent; and as the day
Throws up the first faint, fresh flash of gray,
The guests pursue their homeward way;
And through the field beyond the gin.
Just as the stars are going in,
See Santa Claus departing—grieving—
His own dear land of cotton leaving.
His work is done; he fain would rest
Where people know and love him best.
He pauses, listens, looks about;
But go he must: “his pass is out.”
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.

Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell’s verses one critic says: “They have all a swinging gait, and you can hear the rythmical pattering of the feet, and see the swaying of the darky figures in the walk round as you read.”

Russell declared the pathos and humor in the character of the real old-fashioned negro of the South afforded an inexhaustible amount of material for both prose and poetry.

Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately fond of music, and became a remarkably skillful performer on the banjo.

He died at the early age of twenty-six: suffering and sorrow and poverty were his till the last. The brief struggle ended in New Orleans, leaving his beautiful contributions to Southern dialect poetry for our heritage.

TWELFTH NIGHT REVELS

By Jane Feild Baskin

Of all the so-called lighter plays of Shakespeare, there is none, perhaps, which has a greater charm of its own than “Twelfth Night; or, What You Will.” There is in its droll humor a spiciness, a piquancy, unsurpassed by any of the great dramatist’s own productions or those of his contemporaries. Open the volume where you will, and mingle for a time with the fantastic revelers of the play—what mirth, what laughter, what drollery is here! The spirit of the “Twelfth Night” is rampant. But we can better appreciate the aptness of the title if we see for ourselves the merry-making which of old universally prevailed at that season. In the modern work-a-day world of the present, but scant time is allotted that highest and holiest joy of the Christmastide, and long before “Twelfth Night,” which falls upon the sixth of the new month, we have soberly resumed the accustomed round of daily duties. From the busy, bustling world of to-day it is refreshing to turn back to the past again, and lose ourselves in the joyous abandon of the old-time festival.

It is “Twelfth Night” in “Merrie England” in the days of the long ago, and the Christmas festivities have lingered on to find their culmination in the revels of this night. Truly we find here none of our modern haste in returning to the prosaic realities of life, and unconsciously we imbibe some of the mirth-prevailing spirit. How gay the shops in their holiday garb, and what a goodly store of frosted cakes the confectioner displays! It fairly makes one’s mouth water to see them, and catch a faint whiff of their spicy fragrance, for these are the “Twelfth Night” cakes of all sorts and sizes that will find their way into every home from the highest to the lowest. That little lad turns away regretfully from the huge frosted creation of the baker’s skill to the wee modest one of which his few jingling pence will soon make him the proud possessor, and then gives way good-naturedly to the bustling dame who makes a judicious selection from the varied assortment; and so the happy throng moves in and out, for “Twelfth Night” would scarce be “Twelfth Night” without the cake, the crowning glory of the feast.

The season brings a strange mingling of mirth and superstition and reverence. The smallest lad is familiar with its origin, and can tell the story of the three wise men who journeyed from afar over plain and mountain, until, led by the wondrous star in the East, they knelt beside the cradle of the infant King and worshiped Him. The wealthier class bring their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to place upon the altar, as did those wise men of old, and the humble rustic invokes a blessing upon his harvest fields.

At dusk the farmer gathers around him his friends and servants, and together the strange little procession makes its way across the freshly turned sod to where the young wheat is beginning to spring up. Here, on the highest part of the ground, twelve small fires and one large one are kindled. Cider circulates freely while they drink to the health of the company and to the success of the future harvest, and a fantastic circle gathers around the larger fire to shout and halloo until the welkin rings, and the answer is borne back on the night wind from all the neighboring hillsides where similar fires glimmer dimly in the distance. This ceremony completed, the merry company return home again, where the housewife and her maids have been busily preparing for the evening’s festivities. The table fairly groans under its weight of meats and puddings, and cakes with caraways, and pitchers of sparkling cider and ale, while a huge frosted cake with a hole through the center occupies the position of honor. After supper a queer ceremony takes place. The company follow the bailiff, or keeper of oxen, to the wain-house, where the master fills a cup with strong ale, and, standing before the finest and largest of the oxen, pledges him a curious toast. He then produces the big cake with the hole in the center, and places it upon the ox’s horn. The ox is tickled to make him toss his head, and if he throw the cake behind him, it is considered the mistress’ perquisite, but if before, the bailiff claims the prize. More sport of the same kind follows amidst the laughter and shouts of the rustics assembled, and then the boisterous crowd returns home once more to find the doors fast-barred; nor can they gain admittance from the fair ones within until they have earned it with rollicking song and jest. Once inside a scene of mirth and jollity ensues, and all too quickly the moments speed, for care is forgotten in the joyous abandon of the present.

In the southern villages a friendly, jovial crowd make their way to the orchard and encircle the best-bearing tree. In sparkling ale they drink a toast, chanting in joyous unison,

“Here’s to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou mayst bud and whence thou mayst blow,
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow.
Hats full! Caps full!
Bushel, bushel, sacks full,
And our pockets full, too. Huzza!”

How lustily the shout rings out on the evening air, and then the merry company return with empty pitchers, only to be greeted by shouts of laughter from behind the fast-closed doors. Just a faint whiff of the goodly store within, and the tantalizing demand to guess what is on the spit. This, of course, is some bit or dainty not likely to be thought of, and when, after many random hits and freely interchanged jests, it is guessed at last, the doors are thrown open, and the lucky clodpole is rewarded with the much-prized tidbit, amid the congratulations of his less fortunate companions. So with mirth and wassail speeds the night away, for truly “care’s an enemy to life.”

The simple-hearted rustic firmly believes that by these timely ceremonies and invocations he has helped to keep the blight from his rye, and to insure a goodly return from the well-laden orchard trees. But “Twelfth Night” festivities are by no means confined to the simple, free-hearted sports of field and farm. In palace and mansion the feast is observed with great splendor, with masque and pageant, with rollicking song and mirth. Thousands of pounds are spent in preparing for the revels of a night. The long table spread for the feast is a wonder of art fresh from the hands of the pastry cook and confectioner. There are pasteboard castles to be blown up in jest, the rarest of old claret flowing like blood from the side of a wounded stag, with all sorts of curious and dainty conceits set forth amid sparkling glass and silver, while the guests playfully pelt one another with eggshells filled with rose-water. The cake, huge and shining in its frosty whiteness, and wrought in elaborate design, seems to tower over the rest of the feast with a sort of proud and smiling benignity, for reposing in its capacious depth lies the fateful prize of the evening, the bean which proclaims the lucky finder king over the evening’s festivities. The guests cut for this amid good-natured laughter and merriment, and when someone more fortunate than the rest has discovered it, they declare him with one accord “king of the bean,” and cheer him right lustily. The newly crowned monarch is raised aloft to the ceiling to mark a white cross upon one of the great oaken beams, for thereby will evil spirits be warded off for the evening and through all the year to come. The others then draw lots and assume their parts of lords or ministers of state, and each sustains his character with mock dignity throughout the revels. This quaint old ceremony is observed in palace and mansion and humbler household as well, and a sort of good-natured fellowship reigns supreme. The story is told of how Mary, Queen of Scots, when her maid was chosen queen, lent her own royal robes, that the part might be sustained with proper dignity.

“Mirth and revel, jest and play,
Quickly wears the night away.”

The candles have sputtered and burnt out, the tawdry tinsel is thrown aside for the soberer garb of the real, and Sir Francis Flatterer and Sir Randle Rackabite have passed into the ranks of everyday life. The laughter and mirth are but a memory, and we come back with a start to the daylight and the present, with its unfinished duties ever pressing for completion.

And Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” lies open before us. From its pages arise, through the master’s art, the living forms of Sir Toby and Malvolio, Viola and the Duke. “Grave and gay, the lovers, the laughers, and the laughed-at, are made to harmonize in one scene and one common purpose.” We can well imagine that Twelfth Night in the Middle Temple in the days of the long ago, when the happy company of barristers and students gathered to hear for the first time, the drama fresh from the master’s hand, when its exquisite poetry charmed with new grace and melody the ear of some secluded scholar, and the antics of its revellers brought a smile even to the lips of that grave and formal dispenser of justice. One commentator tells us that the title was probably suggested by this, the first night of its performance, but do we not find a subtler significance in its embodiment of the spirit of the season? Is not the mirth and jest of those old-time sports and festivities aptly repeated here in this crowd of revelling, laughter-creating personages, in the drollery of Sir Toby Belch and his comrades, and the fantastical vanity of Malvolio? And as, in the midst of those old-time Twelfth Night revels, with their care-free abandon and joy, we catch now and then the sub-tone of the minor, and the richer harmonies of life, a mere glimpse of the simple love and faith of those lives of the long ago, so it is that we look past the boisterous merriment of these jesting revellers of the play to discern the true beauty of the characters who stand in the half-light behind. Then we become conscious of a quiet harmony of color and form, and we feel anew the poet’s close touch with life and nature.

UNCLE ABRAHAM’S SERMON

THE SEANCE

By John Marshall Kelly

Author of “The Resurrection,” “The Tempered Wind,” “The Christmas Tree,” etc.

I’se be’n heahin’ some quare talk erbout yoah doin’s dis pas’ week an’ some yuther times, my heahers. I’se be’n telled erbout some uv dem _sayoncies_ you niggahs hev be’n holdin’, same’s lak dey do up tuh Kunnel Simpson’s house, an’ dat dar triflin’ yalleh house gal uv his’n an’ dat mottled yahd boy be’n lahnin’ you, my belubbed flock, de wiles uv de debbil an’ claimin’ dey’s meejums an’ claihvoyans, an’ hev be’n holpin’ you-alls talk wif spookses an’ hobgoblins an’ onfamiliar sperits.

Now, my chillen, bein’ as I is yoah pasture an’ is set oveh you tuh gyahd yoah morils an’ luk afteh yoah etehnal welfaih, as I hev be’n put heah tuh guide yoah tottehin’ feets in de paf uv de wuhld, I’se boun’ tuh wahn you-alls dat all sich things am onrighteous an’ sinful an’ am tuh be ’voided an’ kep out uv de way uv, an’ dat you am temptin’ fate er de debbil in all sich puhfo’mances.

You-alls ought tuh know, my brudderns an’ sisterns, dat dere ain’ no comin’ back f’om de sperit wuhld, an’ dat any ’tempt tuh prove dat dey is am a vexation uv sperit, an’s gwine bring its own results. I wan’ you-alls tuh ’membeh dis tex’, an’ ’membeh hit well, dat w’en Divehs went tuh hell an’ raised up he eyes in tohment an’ seed Lazarus in ol’ Fatheh Ab’aham’s buzzum, he axed tuh hev him sont foh er speshil wahnin’ tuh he brothehs on yea’th, tuh tell ’em tuh gib all dey money tuh de Chu’ch an’ de poah, an’ tuh git some sores foh de dogs tuh lick an’ go beggin’ an’ eat crum’s wif de pupses so’s dey could be in glory bimeby.

Well, now, you ’membeh dat, an’ you ’membeh lakwise dat he wuz tol’ dere wuz fixed er unpassable gulf ’twixt an’ between an’ dat no one could cross hit, an’ de people would’n’ heed no wahnin’ ef dey did hev one; he say’d hit did’n’ mek no diff’unce ef dey wuz tuh sen’ er dead man tuh come back, dey would’n’ keer, ’cause Lazarus he done riz once, jis’ tuh try ’em, an’ dat afteh he be’n dead foah days.

Now, you-alls ’membehs all dis, my onrighteous travelehs tuh de bah uv Gawd, an’ ’membehs dat ef sperits could er come back dat ol’ money grubbeh Divehs would er come back an’ tol’ de little Divehs, an’ ol’ Mizziz Divehs an’ de whole Divehs fambly, ’bout de trubble he wuz hevin’ down dere an’ tuh wahn dem an’ caution dem ’bout de way dey handled de propehty w’at dey wuz spendin’ so free.

Lazarus he hed no call tuh come back, kaze he’d done shed he sores an’ wuz in good comp’ny at las’, an’ ’sides afteh de sperimen’ he made onc’t dey ain’ neveh gwine let _no_ man come back tuh wahn de people. Lazarus he could’n’ an’ would’n’, an’ Divehs he could’n’ an’ did’n’, an’ dat’s de way wid all de res’.

Now, den, w’at’s all dis I heahs ’bout dem triflin’ niggahs callin’ up ol’ Job Mixon an’ hevin’ him tell de folkses w’at dey done es little chillen, an’ tellin’ dem w’at dey done es grown folkses, an’ doin’ uv hit in sich er foolish way? Who eveh knowed ol’ Job tuh do sich foolishness ez bumpin’ er table, hey?

Jis’ ’magine ol’ Job, w’at wuz hung foh muhdeh an’ w’at hed be’n a thief all he life, gwine erbout dis wuhld es er spook, follehin’ afteh dem puny little house sehvants, rappin’ on tables an’ bumpin’ de floor w’en dey say so!

“_Dat you, Unc’ Job? Ef so, please knock._”

Table raps; he mean yes.

“_Is you happy oveh theah, Unc’ Job? Rap onc’t ef you is, an’ twic’t ef you ain’._”

Den dey git two raps, strong an’ hahd, ’cause nobody’s fool ’nough tuh ’spect ol’ Job bein’ wheah he happy less’n he could steal er kill.

Den some trim’lin’, puny little niggah w’at won’ pass de graveyahd at night, he say: “_Ax him ’bout my mammy; wheah she?_” an’ den dat fool meejum go th’oo some jinnyfluxins, _one rap A, two rap B, three rap C_, an’ spell out er whole lot en passel uv trash w’at nobody kin dispute, an’ den dey say de sperit done answeh!

Yas, I know he tol’ erbout things some uv you-alls done, an’ w’at you thought nobody knowed, an’ you say dat proof ernough. Proof ernough! You need no proof! You guv hit yoah own se’f.

“_Mist’ Job, you knows uv anything we-alls done w’at nobody else knows in dis wuhld?_”

_Do_ he know anything you-alls done? He doan’ need know; you-alls knows yoah-selves, an’ yoah feah meks yoah heaht palpehtate so foh feah dat somebody’ll know, an’ yoah body ’gins tuh quake an’ shake so dat you-all jis’ nachelly meks de little raps in yo’ agertations an’ yoah shivehin’ nervousness jis’ raps “_One rap A, two rap B, three rap C_,” an’ spells out de deeds you’ve done foh dat meejum in yoah feah.

You does hit yoahself, you frazzled idjits! You tells uv yoah own sin! You sits dere quakin’ in yoah shoes or wif yoah bare toes rattlin’ on de boahds, wif de trimble in you answehin’ evehy call uv dat finicky dun gal, “_One rap A, two rap B, three rap C._”

Job, he mighty fine man tuh be ahbitratin’ uv you-alls fate; mighty fine man, an’ one w’at ought tuh mek betteh folkses outen you.

He wa’nt no good man on yearth; he wa’nt good foh nuffin in dis life—but he’s er mighty good wahnin’ dead, an’ I hope he stay a good wahnin’, an’ stay dead. De Lawd knows He need him foh a wahnin’. He ought tuh git some good outer Job, kaze He sho’ got none heah, foh uv all de liverashous coons w’at eveh lived he wuz de liverashousest an’ de leas’ account an’ de hahdest tuh kill.

He wuz a scand’lous niggah, Job wuz, an’ no respecteh uv pussons, an’ no regahdeh uv uthority; he didn’ keer no moah foh er man’s ufficial puhsition ner his sperityil capacity ’n nothin’.

Why, I ’membehs jis es if hit war yistiddy, how he hed de affront’ry tuh offeh me a drink uv whisky onc’t! Me, his pasture, an’ de watcheh oveh his soul. I rebuked him, my heahehs, an’ rebuked him seveahly, an’ he neveh insulted me dat way erg’in. Yas, suh! I gib him a lesson he neveh fohgot, foh I tuk de whole quaht an’ didn’t gib him er drop uv hit an’ he didn’t hev no moah.

Heah, oveh theah! You needn’ snicker! I knows w’at tuh do in er ’mehgency, an’ I won’ tek no levity ner laughin’ at my sperityil methods, an’ I’d do any uv you-alls de same way; yas, I would, ’n you knows hit!

Job hed de ’dacity tuh ’vite me tuh he house tuh er tuhkey dinneh onc’t, too. _Tuhkey_, w’en he neveh raised a tuhkey ’cept offen some w’ite man’s roost, ner hed nothin’ but w’at he stole. Dat sho’ wuz er fine tuhkey, an’ I gib Job er nuther lesson an’ showed him dat stolen goods profiteth little.

Dat tuhkey wuz er big gobbleh, an’ dere wuz nobody but me an’ Job dere, an’ I seasoned dat buhd wif de good wine w’at Job hed stole, an’ admonishuns tuh be good an’ wahnin’s f’om de wrath tuh come. Hit wuz er hahd pull, but I finished dat tuhkey in spite uv Job’s hints dat he ’spected hit tuh las’ him er week. Hit sho’ly would hev tasted good if hit hadn’t b’en stoled an’ I hed tuh drink up de wine w’at he hed ’prop’iated f’om somewhere, but de sauce uv a deed well did an’ a sinneh rebuked, almos’ made hit relish, an’ I held out tuh de end.

Now I’s told you-alls ’bout dis tuh show you how tuh meet de tempteh, an’ if Job wuz er comin’ back heah in de sperit an’ you-alls treated him severe he’d go back tuh de place wheah de Lawd put him, an’ let you-alls alone.

Think uv ol’ Job Mixon as er angel uv light, ol’ thief Job sent back heah tuh talk tuh you folkses an’ tell you w’at you-alls done did an w’at you gwine tuh do! Yas, I sees hit, I sees hit! Ol’ Job, w’at man hed tuh keep in jail mos’ uv de time, an’ w’at wuz a debbil in de flesh. De Lawd tried tuh kill him time Kunnel Simpson shot him in he henhouse; an’ tuk ’nutheh tuhn at him de time he got dat whisky. De Lawd knowed he wuzn’t fit foh dis wuhld w’en He made dat wild mule w’at Job stole fall on him an’ den tromp on him, an’ if hit hed be’n anybody but Job, he’d hev died.

A angel uv light, an’ foh fohty yeahs de Lawd tried tuh git him erway f’om you chillen, tuh gib you-all a chanst foh glohy! An’ he’d ’a be’n alive now if hit hadn’t be’n foh shootin’ at a w’ite man an’ hangin’ three days ’foah anybody foun’ him. Yas suh, no ord’nary hangin’ would hev killed dat niggah, an’ de Lawd knowed w’at He ’bout keepin’ any uv us f’om findin’ him afteh he wuz hung.

Claihvoyins! Meejums! Sayoncies! Sperits an’ table rappin’s, an’ “_One rap A, two rap B, an’ three rap C!_” Sperityilizzum, an’ nex’ thing Christian Science an’ some uv you advanced niggahs will be goin’ ’round heah wid yoah jaw tied up, groanin’ wid de toofache an’ sayin’ dey ain’ no sich thing es pain; some uv you-alls wid razur blades in yoah annatohmmy a-gnawin’ at yoah vitals, sayin’ hit am ’maginary; dat de will rules an you kain’t hurt de flesh!

Listen tuh me, you niggahs! Heah yoah pasture! Keep ’way f’om sich contrapshuns uv de debbil! Sen’ ol’ Job back tuh hell wheah he belong an’ keep ’way f’om de w’ite folkses’ fads! Go on wid yoah conjurin’, if you mus’ hev er rickreation, an’ weah yoah graveyahd rabbit feets, an’ yoah little bags uv niggah wool; but keep ’way f’om sperityilizzum an’ Christian Science an’ all dere attendant evils; eschew, as de poet say, dey alluremen’s, ’less some uv yoah wives an sistehs an’ daughters tuhn out er Mizziz Eddy an’ tries teh lead you in pashtuhs new er indulges in holy ghos’ chillen—dey’s nuff not ’counted foh ’thout that.

Go on, my people an’ be yoahselves, an’ hev pains an’ ha’nts, an’ leave de painless dentistry uv life an’ de ’lightened sperits tuh a w’ite an’ idle an’ moah civilized people; ’membeh dat you hev er neveh-dyin’ soul teh save, an’ beah in min’, night an’ day, de feelin’ uv de song we is now gwine teh sing:

I’se gwine tuh be a angel,
A long, tall angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!
A w’ite-robed angel,
A charcoal angel;
I’se gwine be a angel, bye ’n bye!

THE MISANTHROPE

He supped on sorrow till his soul
Was sated with the noxious fare;
But not one drop of Love’s pure wine
Could his repleted spirit bear.

_Clara Dargan Maclean._

THE STORY OF THE YEAR-GIFTS

TO BE TOLD TO THE CHILDREN ON NEW YEAR’S EVE

By Robert Wilson Neal

There was an old man, and he was very old indeed—so old that he did not know his own age, though he knew the age of every boy and girl, and every man and woman, and every city, and every country, in the world—so old that he had seen the mountains rise out of the land and the continents out of the great oceans. He was very, very old indeed, you see; the oldest man that ever was. He had long, white hair and a long, white beard that fell quite down to his waist.

But though he was so very old, he was very strong and healthy, so that no one ever thought that he would die. And because he was so, he was able to accomplish everything. He was never idle and never had been—no, not for one minute. He worked while people slept and while they played; no one ever knew him to stop. That is why he had done so very, very much. For he had formed great peoples so long ago that nobody but he knows anything about them; and many, many centuries ago had written wonderful stories that we still read; and had built great churches and palaces, and painted beautiful pictures, and carved beautiful statues, and composed wonderful music, and had discovered wonderful new ways of doing things and wonderful elements in earth and air that nobody had thought of, and had done so many things that ought to be done, that I believe a thousand men could not tell all of them if they wrote all their lives.

He was very good, too, for he meant that everything he did should make people happier. But oftentimes he made mistakes, and did things wrong, or seemed to, and then people suffered—sometimes only a few people for a little while, and sometimes many people for years and years. But as soon as he saw that he had done wrong or that things were not going as they should, he set to work to undo his mistake and make things come right; and he never stopped until he did this, so that people came to say that he would bring everything right in the end if only it were left to him. And though he was so busy and so old, he was always glad when he had done good and was always happy with people he had helped.

He had millions of children, too—millions alive and millions dead. All the people in the world were his children. If there were a baby Hottentot born, it was his; and if there were a little Greenlander born, that was his, too. Even the greatest man that ever lived, whom we all love, whether we think or not that he was just a man, like others, was his child, and knew it; for this is what he meant when he said, “The hour is come.”

Now you may be very sure that this kind, strange old man loved his children or he would not have worked so very long and hard for them. So every twelve months he gave each of them a wonderful present; not one kind of present for one and another for another, but just the same thing for everybody. The little beggar-boy, standing on his frost-nipped feet by the king’s road, got just the same as the king who rattled past in his chariot and never gave him even a copper; the poor Indian squaw, with nothing to wear but an old wolf skin, got just the same as the beautiful lady who had wonderful silken dresses and diamond necklaces and shoes with golden buckles. Yet everybody got just what he wanted, and would not even think of trading off his present for anything else in the world.

There never has been and never will be anything worth so much as a single one of these presents. If a boy, or a girl, or a man either, had all the silver mines of Mexico, and all the gold mines of the Yukon, and all the diamond fields of South Africa, they would not be worth as much as just one of these presents, for the presents could be used in any way and for anything. Yet all that this kind old man asked of people was, please to use the gifts the best they knew how. If they did so, they were all happier, but if they did not, they became very miserable, and even the gifts themselves were a sorrow to them.

Now there was a man and his wife who had a son they loved greatly; and they had made good use of their presents and were happy. But one day the boy said, “I want to take my presents now and go to college.” The mother was glad, but the father said, “The way to use them is the way I tell you. Then I’ll put mine with yours, and we will use them both together.”

“I cannot, father,” the boy said. “Mine were not meant to be used that way.”

Then the boy left home so that he could use his presents; and his mother died: and his father was angry towards him. The boy used as well as he knew how the presents he received, but he did not know well at first how to use them (though he learned after awhile), and he was very unhappy and his life was almost ruined. And his father continued angry with him, and misused all his presents after that, and was very miserable until he died; for he saw that what his son had done was right, yet he would not forgive when he was asked, and all the gifts he had received only made him feel the sadder.

Again, there was an old man who used his presents to make money. He had always used them so, and he meant always to use them so. He would not use them to help people who did not know how to use their own, no, not even to help a friend. But he could not do that, for nobody would be friends with such a man. He would not even use any part of them to serve his country when it was at war and needed him. And every twelve months he was more miserable, and swore he would give all the money he had made, just for a little happiness; yet every time he used his gifts in the same selfish way.

At last the old, old man sent word to this old man (who was nothing but an hour-old babe beside the other), that he might take back the next gift at any time. The money-lover trembled and shook; but in a little while he had forgotten all about his warning and was misusing the gift as he had done with all he ever had. Then came the old man one dark night, and snatched back the present from the miser. And the old man who had never used his presents well, screamed in his terror and fell back dead.

This stern, kindly old man gave his gifts to nations, too, for the nations were his children just the same as the boys and girls. Now one time, in midsummer, word was brought him that he had a new nation child.

“I declare,” he exclaimed, “I’ve only a piece of a present left for it. That will be enough, though; the child won’t live.”

But that was once the old man was wrong, for the child did live; and it made such good use of its present that he gave it another, and another, and another. And the nation kept growing, for it used his gifts wisely, and helped him to do away with many things that were not good; and at last it used his gifts to save weaker people from hunger, and sword, and what is worse than either.

And if there be such an old man now (I hope there is, don’t you?), I hope he has already taught us how to use his gifts; and if there be such a nation, the child of Father Time, I pray that God has made it wise enough so that the gifts of years will make certain centuries of existence.

By Thornwell Jacobs]

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS

Commenced in the April number.

Ervin McArthur, bearing the nickname of “Satan” on account of his ungovernable temper, learns printing at the office of the _Dunvegan_ (N. C.) _Democrat_ and loves Colonel Preston’s daughter. The colonel, objecting to a love affair between his aristocratic daughter and a son of “poor whites,” shifts the youth to a place on the _Charleston Chronicle_. Here, the Civil War coming on, he distinguishes himself by his journalistic ability and by his inventions of war-engines. In these last he is ably assisted by Helen Brooks, a Boston girl visiting Charleston relatives. She learns to love the inventor and his cause and he struggles between his allegiance to Helen Preston and his newly awakened love. He returns to Dunvegan on furlough and in an altercation with his old time chum, Henry Bailey, the latter meets his death. Ervin escapes and another friend, Ernest Lavender, is tried and convicted. Ervin confesses and is tried but cleared on proof discovered by Helen Preston that the crime was committed by Mack Lonovan, who, wishing to marry Helen Brooks, destroys the only living witness to his secret marriage with half-witted Nance West.

Ervin returns to Charleston and invents the ironclad torpedo, destined, when copied by the Federals, to destroy the Confederate Navy. He also constructs a submarine torpedo boat and while preparing for his initial trip has an interview with Helen Brooks.

He decides to attack the _Housatonic_ instead of the _New Ironsides_, as Helen has confessed that one whom she loves is on the latter. The _Housatonic_ is sunk, also the torpedo, Ervin alone being rescued and captured. Sent to the stockade on Morris’ Island, he finds Tait Preston, who is about to be exchanged on account of a wound. Ervin determines to escape.