"I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton,I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow,I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg,Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"
"I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton,I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow,I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg,Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"
"I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton,
I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow,
I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg,
Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"
By this time the Maestro was ready to go to bed, and long in the torpor of the tropic night there came to him, above the hum of the mosquitoes fighting at the net, the soft, wailing croon of Isidro, back at his "Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies."
These were days of ease and beauty to the Maestro, and he enjoyed them the more when a new problem came to give action to his resourceful brain.
The thing was this: For three days there had not been one funeral in Balangilang.
In other climes, in other towns, this might have been a source of congratulation, perhaps, but not in Balangilang. There were rumors of cholera in the towns to the north, and the Maestro, as president of the Board of Health, was on the watch for it. Five deaths a day, experience had taught him,was the healthy average for the town; and this sudden cessation of public burials—he could not believe that dying had stopped—was something to make him suspicious.
It was over this puzzling situation that he was pondering at the morning recess, when his attention was taken from it by a singular scene.
The "batas" of the school were flocking and pushing and jolting at the door of the basement which served as stable for the municipal caribao. Elbowing his way to the spot, the Maestro found Isidro at the entrance, gravely taking up an admission of five shells from those who would enter. Business seemed to be brisk; Isidro had already a big bandana handkerchief bulging with the receipts which were now overflowing into a great tao hat, obligingly loaned him by one of his admirers, as one by one, those lucky enough to have the price filed in, feverish curiosity upon their faces.
The Maestro thought that it might be well to go in also, which he did without paying admission. The disappointed gate-keeper followed him. The Maestro found himself before a little pink-and-blue tissue-paper box, frilled with paper rosettes.
"What have you in there?" asked the Maestro.
"My brother," answered Isidro sweetly.
He cast his eyes to the ground and watched his big toe drawing vague figures in the earth, then appealing to the First Assistant who was present by this time, he added in the tone of virtue whichwillbe modest:
"Maestro Pablo does not like it when I do not come to school on account of a funeral, so I brought him (pointing to the little box) with me."
"Well, I'll be——" was the only comment the Maestro found adequate at the moment.
"It is my little pickaninny-brother," went on Isidro, becoming alive to the fact that he was a center of interest, "and he died last night of the great sickness."
"The great what?" ejaculated the Maestro who had caught a few words.
"The great sickness," explained the Assistant. "That is the name by which these ignorant people call the cholera."
For the next two hours the Maestro was very busy.
Firstly he gathered the "batas" who had been rich enough to attend Isidro's little show and locked them up—with the impresario himself—in the little town-jail close by. Then, after a vivid exhortation upon the beauties of boiling water and reporting disease, he dismissed the school for an indefinite period. After which, impressing the two town prisoners, now temporarily out of home, he shouldered Isidro's pretty box, tramped to the cemetery and directed the digging of a grave six feet deep. When the earth had been scraped back upon the lonely little object, he returned to town and transferred the awe-stricken playgoers to his own house, where a strenuous performance took place.
Tolio, his boy, built a most tremendous fire outside and set upon it all the pots and pans and caldrons and cans of his kitchen arsenal, filled with water. When these began to gurgle and steam, the Maestro set himself to stripping the horrified bunch in his room; one by one he threw the garments out of the window to Tolio who, catching them, stuffed them into the receptacles, poking down their bulging protest with a big stick. Then the Maestro mixed an awful brew in an old oil-can, and taking the brush which was commonly used to sleek up his little pony, he dipped it generously into the pungent stuff and began an energetic scrubbing of his now absolutely panic-stricken wards. When he had done this to his satisfaction and thoroughly to their discontent, he let them put on their still steaming garments and they slid out of the house, aseptic as hospitals.
Isidro he kept longer. He lingered over him with loving and strenuous care, and after he had him externally clean,proceeded to dose him internally from a little red bottle. Isidro took everything—the terrific scrubbing, the exaggerated dosing, the ruinous treatment of his pantaloons—with wonder-eyed serenity.
When all this was finished the Maestro took the urchin into the dining-room and, seating him on his best bamboo chair, he courteously offered him a fine, dark perfecto.
The next instant he was suffused with the light of a new revelation. For, stretching out his hard little claw to receive the gift, the little man had shot at him a glance so mild, so wistful, so brown-eyed, filled with such mixed admiration, trust, and appeal, that a queer softness had risen in the Maestro from somewhere down in the regions of his heel, up and up, quietly, like the mercury in the thermometer, till it had flowed through his whole body and stood still, its high-water mark a little lump in his throat.
"Why, Lord bless us-ones, Isidro," said the Maestro quietly. "We're only a child after all; mere baby, my man. And don't we like to go to school?"
"Señor Pablo," asked the boy, looking up softly into the Maestro's still perspiring visage, "Señor Pablo, is it true that there will be no school because of the great sickness?"
"Yes, it is true," answered the Maestro. "No school for a long, long time."
Then Isidro's mouth began to twitch queerly, and suddenly throwing himself full-length upon the floor, he hurled out from somewhere within him a long, tremulous wail.
James Merle Hopper was born in Paris, France. His father was American, his mother French; their son James was born July 23, 1876. In 1887 his parents came to America, and settled in California. James Hopper attended the University of California, graduating in 1898. He is still remembered there as one of the grittiest football players who ever played on the 'Varsity team. Then came a course in the law school of that university, and admission to the California bar in 1900. All this reads like the biography of a lawyer: so did the early life of James Russell Lowell, and of Oliver Wendell Holmes: they were all admitted to the bar, but they did not become lawyers. James Hopper had done some newspaper work for San Francisco papers while he was in law school, and the love of writing had taken hold of him. In the meantime he had married Miss Mattie E. Leonard, and as literature did not yet provide a means of support, he became an instructor in French at the University of California.
With the close of the Spanish-American War came the call for thousands of Americans to go to the Philippines as schoolmasters. This appealed to him, and he spent the years 1902-03 in the work that Kipling thus describes in "The White Man's Burden":
To wait in heavy harnessOn fluttered folk and wild—Your new-caught sullen peoples,Half devil and half child.
To wait in heavy harnessOn fluttered folk and wild—Your new-caught sullen peoples,Half devil and half child.
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
His experiences here furnished the material for a group of short stories dealing picturesquely with the Filipinos in their first contact with American civilization. These were publishedinMcClure's, and afterwards collected in book form under the titleCaybigan.
In 1903 James Hopper returned to the United States, and for a time was on the editorial staff ofMcClure's. Later in collaboration with Fred R. Bechdolt he wrote a remarkable book, entitled "9009". This is the number of a convict in an American prison, and the book exposes the system of spying, of treachery, of betrayal, that a convict must identify himself with in order to become a "trusty." His next book was a college story,The Freshman. This was followed by a volume of short stories,What Happened in the Night. These are stories of child life, but intended for older readers; they are very successful in reproducing the imaginative world in which children live. In 1915 and 1916 he acted as a war correspondent forCollier's, first with the American troops in Mexico in pursuit of Villa, and later in France. His home is at Carmel, California.
"No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night." "The Citizen" is a story of a brave man who followed his dream over land and sea, until it brought him to America, a fortunate event for him and for us.
The President of the United States was speaking. His audience comprised two thousand foreign-born men who had just been admitted to citizenship. They listened intently, their faces, aglow with the light of a new-born patriotism, upturned to the calm, intellectual face of the first citizen of the country they now claimed as their own.
Here and there among the newly-made citizens were wives and children. The women were proud of their men. They looked at them from time to time, their faces showing pride and awe.
One little woman, sitting immediately in front of the President, held the hand of a big, muscular man and stroked it softly. The big man was looking at the speaker with great blue eyes that were the eyes of a dreamer.
The President's words came clear and distinct:
You were drawn across the ocean by some beckoning finger of hope, by some belief, by some vision of a new kind of justice, by some expectation of a better kind of life. You dreamed dreams of this country, and I hope you brought the dreams with you. A man enriches the country to which he brings dreams, and you who have brought them have enriched America.
The big man made a curious choking noise and his wife breathed a soft "Hush!" The giant was strangely affected.
The President continued:
No doubt you have been disappointed in some of us, but remember this, if we have grown at all poor in the ideal, youbrought some of it with you. A man does not go out to seek the thing that is not in him. A man does not hope for the thing that he does not believe in, and if some of us have forgotten what America believed in, you at any rate imported in your own hearts a renewal of the belief. Each of you, I am sure, brought a dream, a glorious, shining dream, a dream worth more than gold or silver, and that is the reason that I, for one, make you welcome.
The big man's eyes were fixed. His wife shook him gently, but he did not heed her. He was looking through the presidential rostrum, through the big buildings behind it, looking out over leagues of space to a snow-swept village that huddled on an island in the Beresina, the swift-flowing tributary of the mighty Dnieper, an island that looked like a black bone stuck tight in the maw of the stream.
It was in the little village on the Beresina that the Dream came to Ivan Berloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge.
The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams come in the spring, and the Spring Maiden who brought Big Ivan's Dream was more than ordinarily beautiful. She swept up the Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies of vivid green. Her feet touched the snow-hardened ground, and armies of little white and blue flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezes escorted her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of the far-off places from which they came, places far to the southward, and more distant towns beyond the Black Sea whose people were not under the sway of the Great Czar.
The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under Prince Menshikov at Alma fifty-five years before, hobbled out to see the sunbeams eat up the snow hummocks that hid in the shady places, and he told his son it was the most wonderful spring he had ever seen.
"The little breezes are hot and sweet," he said, sniffing hungrily with his face turned toward the south. "I know them, Ivan! I know them! They have the spice odor that Isniffed on the winds that came to us when we lay in the trenches at Balaklava. Praise God for the warmth!"
And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he plowed. It was a wonder dream. It sprang into his brain as he walked behind the plow, and for a few minutes he quivered as the big bridge quivers when the Beresina sends her ice squadrons to hammer the arches. It made his heart pound mightily, and his lips and throat became very dry.
Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried to discover what had brought the Dream. Where had it come from? Why had it clutched him so suddenly? Was he the only man in the village to whom it had come?
Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. He thrust his great hands into the sunbeams. He reached down and plucked one of a bunch of white flowers that had sprung up overnight. The Dream was born of the breezes and the sunshine and the spring flowers. It came from them and it had sprung into his mind because he was young and strong. He knew! It couldn't come to his father or Donkov, the tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and weak, and Ivan's dream was one that called for youth and strength.
"Ay, for youth and strength," he muttered as he gripped the plow. "And I have it!"
That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his wife, Anna, a little woman, who had a sweet face and a wealth of fair hair.
"Wife, we are going away from here," he said.
"Where are we going, Ivan?" she asked.
"Where do you think, Anna?" he said, looking down at her as she stood by his side.
"To Bobruisk," she murmured.
"No."
"Farther?"
"Ay, a long way farther."
Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther.
"We—we are not going to Minsk?" she cried.
"Aye, and beyond Minsk!"
"Ivan, tell me!" she gasped. "Tell me where we are going!"
"We are going to America."
"To America?"
"Yes, to America!"
Big Ivan of the Bridge lifted up his voice when he cried out the words "To America," and then a sudden fear sprang upon him as those words dashed through the little window out into the darkness of the village street. Was he mad? America was 8,000 versts away! It was far across the ocean, a place that was only a name to him, a place where he knew no one. He wondered in the strange little silence that followed his words if the crippled son of Poborino, the smith, had heard him. The cripple would jeer at him if the night wind had carried the words to his ear.
Anna remained staring at her big husband for a few minutes, then she sat down quietly at his side. There was a strange look in his big blue eyes, the look of a man to whom has come a vision, the look which came into the eyes of those shepherds of Judea long, long ago.
"What is it, Ivan?" she murmured softly, patting his big hand. "Tell me."
And Big Ivan of the Bridge, slow of tongue, told of the Dream. To no one else would he have told it. Anna understood. She had a way of patting his hands and saying soft things when his tongue could not find words to express his thoughts.
Ivan told how the Dream had come to him as he plowed. He told her how it had sprung upon him, a wonderful dream born of the soft breezes, of the sunshine, of the sweet smell of the upturned sod and of his own strength. "It wouldn'tcome to weak men," he said, baring an arm that showed great snaky muscles rippling beneath the clear skin. "It is a dream that comes only to those who are strong and those who want—who want something that they haven't got." Then in a lower voice he said: "What is it that we want, Anna?"
The little wife looked out into the darkness with fear-filled eyes. There were spies even there in that little village on the Beresina, and it was dangerous to say words that might be construed into a reflection on the Government. But she answered Ivan. She stooped and whispered one word into his ear, and he slapped his thigh with his big hand.
"Ay," he cried. "That is what we want! You and I and millions like us want it, and over there, Anna, over there we will get it. It is the country where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"
Anna stood up, took a small earthenware jar from a side shelf, dusted it carefully and placed it upon the mantel. From a knotted cloth about her neck she took a ruble and dropped the coin into the jar. Big Ivan looked at her curiously.
"It is to make legs for your Dream," she explained. "It is many versts to America, and one rides on rubles."
"You are a good wife," he said. "I was afraid that you might laugh at me."
"It is a great dream," she murmured. "Come, we will go to sleep."
The Dream maddened Ivan during the days that followed. It pounded within his brain as he followed the plow. It bred a discontent that made him hate the little village, the swift-flowing Beresina and the gray stretches that ran toward Mogilev. He wanted to be moving, but Anna had said that one rode on rubles, and rubles were hard to find.
And in some mysterious way the village became aware of the secret. Donkov, the tailor, discovered it. Donkov lived in one-half of the cottage occupied by Ivan and Anna, and Donkov had long ears. The tailor spread the news, and Poborino,the smith, and Yanansk, the baker, would jeer at Ivan as he passed.
"When are you going to America?" they would ask.
"Soon," Ivan would answer.
"Take us with you!" they would cry in chorus.
"It is no place for cowards," Ivan would answer. "It is a long way, and only brave men can make the journey."
"Are you brave?" the baker screamed one day as he went by.
"I am brave enough to want liberty!" cried Ivan angrily. "I am brave enough to want——"
"Be careful! Be careful!" interrupted the smith. "A long tongue has given many a man a train journey that he never expected."
That night Ivan and Anna counted the rubles in the earthenware pot. The giant looked down at his wife with a gloomy face, but she smiled and patted his hand.
"It is slow work," he said.
"We must be patient," she answered. "You have the Dream."
"Ay," he said. "I have the Dream."
Through the hot, languorous summertime the Dream grew within the brain of Big Ivan. He saw visions in the smoky haze that hung above the Beresina. At times he would stand, hoe in hand, and look toward the west, the wonderful west into which the sun slipped down each evening like a coin dropped from the fingers of the dying day.
Autumn came, and the fretful whining winds that came down from the north chilled the Dream. The winds whispered of the coming of the Snow King, and the river grumbled as it listened. Big Ivan kept out of the way of Poborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the baker. The Dream was still with him, but autumn is a bad time for dreams.
Winter came, and the Dream weakened. It was only the earthenware pot that kept it alive, the pot into which theindustrious Anna put every coin that could be spared. Often Big Ivan would stare at the pot as he sat beside the stove. The pot was the cord which kept the Dream alive.
"You are a good woman, Anna," Ivan would say again and again. "It was you who thought of saving the rubles."
"But it was you who dreamed," she would answer. "Wait for the spring, husband mine. Wait."
It was strange how the spring came to the Beresina that year. It sprang upon the flanks of winter before the Ice King had given the order to retreat into the fastnesses of the north. It swept up the river escorted by a million little breezes, and housewives opened their windows and peered out with surprise upon their faces. A wonderful guest had come to them and found them unprepared.
Big Ivan of the Bridge was fixing a fence in the meadow on the morning the Spring Maiden reached the village. For a little while he was not aware of her arrival. His mind was upon his work, but suddenly he discovered that he was hot, and he took off his overcoat. He turned to hang the coat upon a bush, then he sniffed the air, and a puzzled look came upon his face. He sniffed again, hurriedly, hungrily. He drew in great breaths of it, and his eyes shone with a strange light. It was wonderful air. It brought life to the Dream. It rose up within him, ten times more lusty than on the day it was born, and his limbs trembled as he drew in the hot, scented breezes that breed theWanderlustand shorten the long trails of the world.
Big Ivan clutched his coat and ran to the little cottage. He burst through the door, startling Anna, who was busy with her housework.
"The Spring!" he cried. "The Spring!"
He took her arm and dragged her to the door. Standing together they sniffed the sweet breezes. In silence they listened to the song of the river. The Beresina had changed from awhining, fretful tune into a lilting, sweet song that would set the legs of lovers dancing. Anna pointed to a green bud on a bush beside the door.
"It came this minute," she murmured.
"Yes," said Ivan. "The little fairies brought it there to show us that spring has come to stay."
Together they turned and walked to the mantel. Big Ivan took up the earthenware pot, carried it to the table, and spilled its contents upon the well-scrubbed boards. He counted while Anna stood beside him, her fingers clutching his coarse blouse. It was a slow business, because Ivan's big blunt fingers were not used to such work, but it was over at last. He stacked the coins into neat piles, then he straightened himself and turned to the woman at his side.
"It is enough," he said quietly. "We will go at once. If it was not enough, we would have to go because the Dream is upon me and I hate this place."
"As you say," murmured Anna. "The wife of Littin, the butcher, will buy our chairs and our bed. I spoke to her yesterday."
Poborino, the smith; his crippled son; Yanansk, the baker; Dankov, the tailor, and a score of others were out upon the village street on the morning that Big Ivan and Anna set out. They were inclined to jeer at Ivan, but something upon the face of the giant made them afraid. Hand in hand the big man and his wife walked down the street, their faces turned toward Bobruisk, Ivan balancing upon his head a heavy trunk that no other man in the village could have lifted.
At the end of the street a stripling with bright eyes and yellow curls clutched the hand of Ivan and looked into his face.
"I know what is sending you," he cried.
"Ay,youknow," said Ivan, looking into the eyes of the other.
"It came to me yesterday," murmured the stripling. "Igot it from the breezes. They are free, so are the birds and the little clouds and the river. I wish I could go."
"Keep your dream," said Ivan softly. "Nurse it, for it is the dream of a man."
Anna, who was crying softly, touched the blouse of the boy. "At the back of our cottage, near the bush that bears the red berries, a pot is buried," she said. "Dig it up and take it home with you and when you have a kopeck drop it in. It is a good pot."
The stripling understood. He stooped and kissed the hand of Anna, and Big Ivan patted him upon the back. They were brother dreamers and they understood each other.
Boris Lugan has sung the song of the versts that eat up one's courage as well as the leather of one's shoes.
"Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them!Versts! Versts! A million or more of them!Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it,Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it."
"Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them!Versts! Versts! A million or more of them!Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it,Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it."
"Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them!
Versts! Versts! A million or more of them!
Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it,
Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it."
Big Ivan and Anna faced the long versts to Bobruisk, but they were not afraid of the dust devils. They had the Dream. It made their hearts light and took the weary feeling from their feet. They were on their way. America was a long, long journey, but they had started, and every verst they covered lessened the number that lay between them and the Promised Land.
"I am glad the boy spoke to us," said Anna.
"And I am glad," said Ivan. "Some day he will come and eat with us in America."
They came to Bobruisk. Holding hands, they walked into it late one afternoon. They were eighty-nine versts from the little village on the Beresina, but they were not afraid. The Dream spoke to Ivan, and his big hand held the hand of Anna. The railway ran through Bobruisk, and that evening they stood and looked at the shining rails that went out inthe moonlight like silver tongs reaching out for a low-hanging star.
And they came face to face with the Terror that evening, the Terror that had helped the spring breezes and the sunshine to plant the Dream in the brain of Big Ivan.
They were walking down a dark side street when they saw a score of men and women creep from the door of a squat, unpainted building. The little group remained on the sidewalk for a minute as if uncertain about the way they should go, then from the corner of the street came a cry of "Police!" and the twenty pedestrians ran in different directions.
It was no false alarm. Mounted police charged down the dark thoroughfare swinging their swords as they rode at the scurrying men and women who raced for shelter. Big Ivan dragged Anna into a doorway, and toward their hiding place ran a young boy who, like themselves, had no connection with the group and who merely desired to get out of harm's way till the storm was over.
The boy was not quick enough to escape the charge. A trooper pursued him, overtook him before he reached the sidewalk, and knocked him down with a quick stroke given with the flat of his blade. His horse struck the boy with one of his hoofs as the lad stumbled on his face.
Big Ivan growled like an angry bear, and sprang from his hiding place. The trooper's horse had carried him on to the sidewalk, and Ivan seized the bridle and flung the animal on its haunches. The policeman leaned forward to strike at the giant, but Ivan of the Bridge gripped the left leg of the horseman and tore him from the saddle.
The horse galloped off, leaving its rider lying beside the moaning boy who was unlucky enough to be in a street where a score of students were holding a meeting.
Anna dragged Ivan back into the passageway. More police were charging down the street, and their position was a dangerous one.
"Ivan!" she cried, "Ivan! Remember the Dream! America, Ivan!America!Come this way! Quick!"
With strong hands she dragged him down the passage. It opened into a narrow lane, and, holding each other's hands, they hurried toward the place where they had taken lodgings. From far off came screams and hoarse orders, curses and the sound of galloping hoofs. The Terror was abroad.
Big Ivan spoke softly as they entered the little room they had taken. "He had a face like the boy to whom you gave the lucky pot," he said. "Did you notice it in the moonlight when the trooper struck him down?"
"Yes," she answered. "I saw."
They left Bobruisk next morning. They rode away on a great, puffing, snorting train that terrified Anna. The engineer turned a stopcock as they were passing the engine, and Anna screamed while Ivan nearly dropped the big trunk. The engineer grinned, but the giant looked up at him and the grin faded. Ivan of the Bridge was startled by the rush of hot steam, but he was afraid of no man.
The train went roaring by little villages and great pasture stretches. The real journey had begun. They began to love the powerful engine. It was eating up the versts at a tremendous rate. They looked at each other from time to time and smiled like two children.
They came to Minsk, the biggest town they had ever seen. They looked out from the car windows at the miles of wooden buildings, at the big church of St. Catharine, and the woolen mills. Minsk would have frightened them if they hadn't had the Dream. The farther they went from the little village on the Beresina the more courage the Dream gave to them.
On and on went the train, the wheels singing the song of the road. Fellow travelers asked them where they were going. "To America," Ivan would answer.
"To America?" they would cry. "May the little saints guide you. It is a long way, and you will be lonely."
"No, we shall not be lonely," Ivan would say.
"Ha! you are going with friends?"
"No, we have no friends, but we have something that keeps us from being lonely." And when Ivan would make that reply Anna would pat his hand and the questioner would wonder if it was a charm or a holy relic that the bright-eyed couple possessed.
They ran through Vilna, on through flat stretches of Courland to Libau, where they saw the sea. They sat and stared at it for a whole day, talking little but watching it with wide, wondering eyes. And they stared at the great ships that came rocking in from distant ports, their sides gray with the salt from the big combers which they had battled with.
No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night.
The harbormaster spoke to Ivan and Anna as they watched the restless waters.
"Where are you going, children?"
"To America," answered Ivan.
"A long way. Three ships bound for America went down last month."
"Our ship will not sink," said Ivan.
"Why?"
"Because I know it will not."
The harbor master looked at the strange blue eyes of the giant, and spoke softly. "You have the eyes of a man who sees things," he said. "There was a Norwegian sailor in theWhite Queen, who had eyes like yours, and he could see death."
"I see life!" said Ivan boldly. "A free life——"
"Hush!" said the harbor master. "Do not speak so loud." He walked swiftly away, but he dropped a ruble into Anna's hand as he passed her by. "For luck," he murmured. "May the little saints look after you on the big waters."
They boarded the ship, and the Dream gave them a courage that surprised them. There were others going aboard, and Ivan and Anna felt that those others were also persons who possessed dreams. She saw the dreams in their eyes. There were Slavs, Poles, Letts, Jews, and Livonians, all bound for the land where dreams come true. They were a little afraid—not two per cent of them had ever seen a ship before—yet their dreams gave them courage.
The emigrant ship was dragged from her pier by a grunting tug and went floundering down the Baltic Sea. Night came down, and the devils who, according to the Esthonian fishermen, live in the bottom of the Baltic, got their shoulders under the stern of the ship and tried to stand her on her head. They whipped up white combers that sprang on her flanks and tried to crush her, and the wind played a devil's lament in her rigging. Anna lay sick in the stuffy women's quarters, and Ivan could not get near her. But he sent her messages. He told her not to mind the sea devils, to think of the Dream, the Great Dream that would become real in the land to which they were bound. Ivan of the Bridge grew to full stature on that first night out from Libau. The battered old craft that carried him slouched before the waves that swept over her decks, but he was not afraid. Down among the million and one smells of the steerage he induced a thin-faced Livonian to play upon a mouth organ, and Big Ivan sang Paleer's "Song of Freedom" in a voice that drowned the creaking of the old vessel's timbers, and made the seasick ones forget their sickness. They sat up in their berths and joined in the chorus, their eyes shining brightly in the half gloom:
"Freedom for serf and for slave,Freedom for all men who craveTheir right to be freeAnd who hate to bend kneeBut to Him who this right to them gave."
"Freedom for serf and for slave,Freedom for all men who craveTheir right to be freeAnd who hate to bend kneeBut to Him who this right to them gave."
"Freedom for serf and for slave,
Freedom for all men who crave
Their right to be free
And who hate to bend knee
But to Him who this right to them gave."
It was well that these emigrants had dreams. They wanted them. The sea devils chased the lumbering steamer. Theyhung to her bows and pulled her for'ard deck under emerald-green rollers. They clung to her stern and hoisted her nose till Big Ivan thought that he could touch the door of heaven by standing on her blunt snout. Miserable, cold, ill, and sleepless, the emigrants crouched in their quarters, and to them Ivan and the thin-faced Livonian sang the "Song of Freedom."
The emigrant ship pounded through the Cattegat, swung southward through the Skagerrack and the bleak North Sea. But the storm pursued her. The big waves snarled and bit at her, and the captain and the chief officer consulted with each other. They decided to run into the Thames, and the harried steamer nosed her way in and anchored off Gravesend.
An examination was made, and the agents decided to transship the emigrants. They were taken to London and thence by train to Liverpool, and Ivan and Anna sat again side by side, holding hands and smiling at each other as the third-class emigrant train from Euston raced down through the green Midland counties to grimy Liverpool.
"You are not afraid?" Ivan would say to her each time she looked at him.
"It is a long way, but the Dream has given me much courage," she said.
"To-day I spoke to a Lett whose brother works in New York City," said the giant. "Do you know how much money he earns each day?"
"How much?" she questioned.
"Three rubles, and he calls the policemen by their first names."
"You will earn five rubles, my Ivan," she murmured. "There is no one as strong as you."
Once again they were herded into the bowels of a big ship that steamed away through the fog banks of the Mersey out into the Irish Sea. There were more dreamers now, nine hundred of them, and Anna and Ivan were more comfortable. And these new emigrants, English, Irish, Scotch, French, andGerman, knew much concerning America. Ivan was certain that he would earn at least three rubles a day. He was very strong.
On the deck he defeated all comers in a tug of war, and the captain of the ship came up to him and felt his muscles.
"The country that lets men like you get away from it is run badly," he said. "Why did you leave it?"
The interpreter translated what the captain said, and through the interpreter Ivan answered.
"I had a Dream," he said, "a Dream of freedom."
"Good," cried the captain. "Why should a man with muscles like yours have his face ground into the dust?"
The soul of Big Ivan grew during those days. He felt himself a man, a man who was born upright to speak his thoughts without fear.
The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, and Ivan and his nine hundred steerage companions crowded the for'ard deck. A boy in a rowboat threw a line to the deck, and after it had been fastened to a stanchion he came up hand over hand. The emigrants watched him curiously. An old woman sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat in a loop of the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on deck.
"Hey, fellers," said the boy, "help me pull me muvver up. She wants to sell a few dozen apples, an' they won't let her up the gangway!"
Big Ivan didn't understand the words, but he guessed what the boy wanted. He made one of a half dozen who gripped the rope and started to pull the ancient apple woman to the deck.
They had her halfway up the side when an undersized third officer discovered what they were doing. He called to a steward, and the steward sprang to obey.
"Turn a hose on her!" cried the officer. "Turn a hose on the old woman!"
The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it to the sideof the ship with the intention of squirting on the old woman, who was swinging in midair and exhorting the six men who were dragging her to the deck.
"Pull!" she cried. "Sure, I'll give every one of ye a rosy red apple an' me blessing with it."
The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big Ivan of the Bridge let go of the rope and sprang at him. The fist of the great Russian went out like a battering ram; it struck the steward between the eyes, and he dropped upon the deck. He lay like one dead, the muzzle of the hose wriggling from his limp hands.
The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big Ivan, who stood erect, his hands clenched.
"Ask the big swine why he did it," roared the officer.
"Because he is a coward!" cried Ivan. "They wouldn't do that in America!"
"What does the big brute know about America?" cried the officer.
"Tell him I have dreamed of it," shouted Ivan. "Tell him it is in my Dream. Tell him I will kill him if he turns the water on this old woman."
The apple seller was on deck then, and with the wisdom of the Celt she understood. She put her lean hand upon the great head of the Russian and blessed him in Gaelic. Ivan bowed before her, then as she offered him a rosy apple he led her toward Anna, a great Viking leading a withered old woman who walked with the grace of a duchess.
"Please don't touch him," she cried, turning to the officer. "We have been waiting for your ship for six hours, and we have only five dozen apples to sell. It's a great man he is. Sure he's as big as Finn MacCool."
Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator and revived him by squirting him with water from the hose which he had tried to turn upon the old woman. The third officer slipped quietly away.
The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan and Anna. Through sunny days they sat up on deck and watched the horizon. They wanted to be among those who would get the first glimpse of the wonderland.
They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft wind. Standing together in the bow, they looked at the smear upon the horizon, and their eyes filled with tears. They forgot the long road to Bobruisk, the rocking journey to Libau, the mad buckjumping boat in whose timbers the sea devils of the Baltic had bored holes. Everything unpleasant was forgotten, because the Dream filled them with a great happiness.
The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in Ivan. They walked around him and prodded his muscles, and he smiled down upon them good-naturedly.
"A fine animal," said one. "Gee, he's a new white hope! Ask him can he fight?"
An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. "I have fought," he said.
"Gee!" cried the inspector. "Ask him was it for purses or what?"
"For freedom," answered Ivan. "For freedom to stretch my legs and straighten my neck!"
Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the Battery. They started to walk uptown, making for the East Side, Ivan carrying the big trunk that no other man could lift.
It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed in warm sunshine, and the well-dressed men and women who crowded the sidewalks made the two immigrants think that it was a festival day. Ivan and Anna stared at each other in amazement. They had never seen such dresses as those worn by the smiling women who passed them by; they had never seen such well-groomed men.
"It is a feast day for certain," said Anna.
"They are dressed like princes and princesses," murmured Ivan. "There are no poor here, Anna. None."
Like two simple children, they walked along the streets of the City of Wonder. What a contrast it was to the gray, stupid towns where the Terror waited to spring upon the cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, Vilna, and Libau the people were sullen and afraid. They walked in dread, but in the City of Wonder beside the glorious Hudson every person seemed happy and contented.
They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at the wonderful shop windows, the roaring elevated trains, and the huge skyscrapers. Hours afterward they found themselves in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-third Street, and there the miracle happened to the two Russian immigrants. It was a big miracle inasmuch as it proved the Dream a truth, a great truth.
Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but they became confused in the snarl of traffic. They dodged backward and forward as the stream of automobiles swept by them. Anna screamed, and, in response to her scream, a traffic policeman, resplendent in a new uniform, rushed to her side. He took the arm of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. The charging autos halted. For five blocks north and south they jammed on the brakes when the unexpected interruption occurred, and Big Ivan gasped.
"Don't be flurried, little woman," said the cop. "Sure I can tame 'em by liftin' me hand."
Anna didn't understand what he said, but she knew it was something nice by the manner in which his Irish eyes smiled down upon her. And in front of the waiting automobiles he led her with the same care that he would give to a duchess, while Ivan, carrying the big trunk, followed them, wondering much. Ivan's mind went back to Bobruisk on the night the Terror was abroad.
The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted Ivan good-naturedly upon the shoulder, and then with a sharp whistle unloosed the waiting stream of cars that had been held up so that two Russian immigrants could cross the avenue.
Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head and put it on the ground. He reached out his arms and folded Anna in a great embrace. His eyes were wet.
"The Dream is true!" he cried. "Did you see, Anna? We are as good as they! This is the land where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"
The President was nearing the close of his address. Anna shook Ivan, and Ivan came out of the trance which the President's words had brought upon him. He sat up and listened intently:
We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter's evening. Some of us let those great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them, nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light which come always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams will come true.
The President finished. For a moment he stood looking down at the faces turned up to him, and Big Ivan of the Bridge thought that the President smiled at him. Ivan seized Anna's hand and held it tight.
"He knew of my Dream!" he cried. "He knew of it. Did you hear what he said about the dreams of a spring day?"
"Of course he knew," said Anna. "He is the wisest man in America, where there are many wise men. Ivan, you are a citizen now."
"And you are a citizen, Anna."
The band started to play "My Country, 'tis of Thee," and Ivan and Anna got to their feet. Standing side by side, holding hands, they joined in with the others who had found after long days of journeying the blessed land where dreams come true.
Mr. Dwyer is an American by adoption, an Australian by birth. He was born in Camden, New South Wales, April 22, 1874; and received his education in the public schools there. He entered newspaper work, and in the capacity of a correspondent for Australian papers traveled extensively in Australia and in the South Seas, from 1898 to 1906. In 1906 he made a tour through South Africa, and at the conclusion of this went to England. He came to America in 1907, and since that time has made his home in New York City. He has been a frequent contributor toCollier's,Harper's Weekly,The American Magazine,The Ladies' Home Journal, and other periodicals. He has published five books, nearly all dealing with the strange life of the far East. His first book,The White Waterfall, published in 1912, has its scene in the South Sea Islands. A California scientist, interested in ancient Polynesian skulls, goes to the South Seas to investigate his favorite subject, accompanied by his two daughters. The amazing adventures they meet there make a very interesting story.The Spotted Pantheris a story of adventure in Borneo. Three white men go there in search of a wonderful sword of great antiquity which is in the possession of a tribe of Dyaks, the head-hunters of Borneo. There are some vivid descriptions in the story and plenty of thrills.The Breath of the Jungleis a collection of short stories, the scenes laid in the Malay Peninsula and nearby islands. They describe the strange life of these regions, and show how it reacts in various ways upon white men who live there.The Green Half Moonis a story of mystery and diplomatic intrigue, the scene partly in the Orient, partly in London.
In his later work Mr. Dwyer has taken up American themes.The Bust of Lincoln, really a short story, deals with a young man whose proudest possession is a bust of Lincoln that had belonged to his grandfather; the story shows how it influences his life. The storyThe Citizenhad an interesting origin. On May 10, 1915, just after the sinking of theLusitania, President Wilson went to Philadelphia to address a meeting of an unusual kind. Four thousand foreign-born men, who had just become naturalized citizens of our country, were to be welcomed to citizenship by the Mayor of the city, a member of the Cabinet, and the President of the United States. The meeting was held in Convention Hall; more than fifteen thousand people were present, and the event, occurring as it did at a time when every one realized that the loyalty of our people was likely to be soon put to the test, was one of historic importance. Moved by the significance of this event, Mr. Dwyer translated it into literature. His story, "The Citizen," was published inCollier'sin November, 1915.
I. THE EAST
New England
A New England Nun;A Humble Romance, Mary Wilkins-Freeman.Meadow-Grass;The Country Road, Alice Brown.A White Heron;The Queen's Twin, Sarah Orne Jewett.Pratt Portraits;Later Pratt Portraits, Anna Fuller.The Village Watch Tower, Kate Douglas Wiggin.The Old Home House, Joseph C. Lincoln.Hillsboro People, Dorothy Canfield.Out of Gloucester;The Crested Seas, James B. Connolly.Under the Crust, Thomas Nelson Page.Dumb Foxglove, Annie T. Slosson.Huckleberries Gathered From New England Hills, Rose Terry Cooke.
New York City
The Four Million;The Voice of the City;The Trimmed Lamp, O. Henry.Van Bibber and Others, Richard Harding Davis.Doctor Rast, James Oppenheim.Toomey and Others, Robert Shackleton.Vignettes of Manhattan, Brander Matthews.The Imported Bridegroom, Abraham Cahan.Little Citizens;Little Aliens, Myra Kelly.The Soul of the Street, Norman Duncan.Wall Street Stories, Edwin Le Fevre.The Optimist, Susan Faber.Every Soul Hath Its Song, Fannie Hurst.
New Jersey
Hulgate of Mogador, Sewell Ford.Edgewater People, Mary Wilkins-Freeman.
Pennsylvania
Old Chester Tales;Doctor Lavender's People, Margaret Deland.Betrothal of Elypholate, Helen R. Martin.The Passing of Thomas, Thomas A. Janvier.The Standard Bearers, Katherine Mayo.Six Stars, Nelson Lloyd.
II. THE SOUTH
Alabama
Alabama Sketches, Samuel Minturn Peck.Polished Ebony, Octavius R. Cohen.
Arkansas
Otto the Knight;Knitters in the Sun, Octave Thanet.
Florida
Rodman the Keeper, Constance F. Woolson.
Georgia
Georgia Scenes, A. B. Longstreet.Free Joe; Tales of the Home-Folks, Joel Chandler Harris.Stories of the Cherokee Hills, Maurice Thompson.Northern Georgia Sketches, Will N. Harben.His Defence, Harry Stilwell Edwards.Mr. Absalom Billingslea;Mr. Billy Downes, Richard Malcolm Johnston.
Kentucky
Flute and Violin;A Kentucky Cardinal, James Lane Allen.In Happy Valley, John Fox, Jr.Back Home;Judge Priest and his People, Irvin S. Cobb.Land of Long Ago;Aunt Jane of Kentucky, Eliza Calvert Hall.
Louisiana
Holly and Pizen;Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding, Ruth McEnery Stuart.Balcony Stories;Tales of Time and Place, Grace King.Old Creole Days;Strange True Stories of Louisiana, George W. Cable.Bayou Folks, Kate Chopin.
Tennessee
In the Tennessee Mountains;Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains, Charles Egbert Craddock. (Mary N. Murfree.)
Virginia
In Ole Virginia, Thomas Nelson Page.Virginia of Virginia, Amelie Rives.Colonel Carter of Cartersville, F. Hopkinson Smith.
North Carolina
North Carolina Sketches, Mary N. Carter.
III. THE MIDDLE WEST
Indiana
Dialect Sketches, James Whitcomb Riley.
Illinois
The Home Builders, K. E. Harriman.
Iowa
Stories of a Western Town;The Missionary Sheriff, Octave Thanet.In a Little Town, Rupert Hughes.
Kansas
In Our Town;Stratagems and Spoils, William Allen White.
Missouri
The Man at the Wheel, John Hanton Carter.Stories of a Country Doctor, Willis King.
Michigan
Blazed Trail Stories, Stewart Edward White.Mackinac and Lake Stories, Mary Hartwell Catherwood.
Ohio
Folks Back Home, Eugene Wood.
Wisconsin
Main-Travelled Roads, Hamlin Garland.Friendship Village;Friendship Village Love Stories, Zona Gale.
IV. THE FAR WEST
Arizona
Lost Borders, Mary Austin.Arizona Nights, Stewart Edward White.
Alaska
Love of Life;Son of the Wolf, Jack London.
California
The Cat and the Cherub, Chester B. Fernald.The Luck of Roaring Camp;Tales of the Argonauts, Bret Harte.The Splendid Idle Forties, Gertrude Atherton.
New Mexico
The King of the Broncos, Charles F. Lummis.Santa Fe's Partner, Thomas A. Janvier.
Wyoming
Red Men and White;The Virginian;Members of the Family, Owen Wister.Teepee Tales, Grace Coolidge.
Philippine Islands
Caybigan, James N. Hopper.
In Greek mythology, the work of creating living things was entrusted to two of the gods, Epimetheus and Prometheus. Epimetheus gave to the different animals various powers, to the lion strength, to the bird swiftness, to the fox sagacity, and so on until all the good gifts had been bestowed, and there was nothing left for man. Then Prometheus ascended to heaven and brought down fire, as his gift to man. With this, man could protect himself, could forge iron to make weapons, and so in time develop the arts of civilization. In this story the "Promethean Fire" of love is the means of giving little Emmy Lou her first lesson in reading.
1. A test that may be applied to any story is, Does it read as if it were true? Would the persons in the story do the things they are represented as doing? Test the acts of Billy Traver in this way, and see if they are probable.2. In writing stories about children, a writer must have the power to present life as a child sees it. Point out places in this story where school life is described as it appears to a new pupil.3. One thing we ought to gain from our reading is a larger vocabulary. In this story there are a number of words worth adding to our stock. Define these exactly: inquisitorial; lachrymose; laconic; surreptitious; contumely.Get the habit of looking up new words and writing down their meanings.4. Can you write a story about a school experience?5. Other books containing stories of school life are:Little Aliens, Myra Kelly;May Iverson Tackles Life, Elizabeth Jordan;Ten to Seventeen, Josephine Daskam Bacon;Closed Doors, Margaret P. Montague. Read a story from one of these books, and compare it with this story.
1. A test that may be applied to any story is, Does it read as if it were true? Would the persons in the story do the things they are represented as doing? Test the acts of Billy Traver in this way, and see if they are probable.
2. In writing stories about children, a writer must have the power to present life as a child sees it. Point out places in this story where school life is described as it appears to a new pupil.
3. One thing we ought to gain from our reading is a larger vocabulary. In this story there are a number of words worth adding to our stock. Define these exactly: inquisitorial; lachrymose; laconic; surreptitious; contumely.
Get the habit of looking up new words and writing down their meanings.
4. Can you write a story about a school experience?
5. Other books containing stories of school life are:
Little Aliens, Myra Kelly;May Iverson Tackles Life, Elizabeth Jordan;Ten to Seventeen, Josephine Daskam Bacon;Closed Doors, Margaret P. Montague. Read a story from one of these books, and compare it with this story.
Central Park, New York, covers an era of more than eight hundred acres, with a zoo and several small lakes. On one of the lakes there are large boats with a huge wooden swan on each side. Richard Harding Davis located one of his stories here: See "VanBibber and the Swan Boats," in the volume calledVan Bibber and Others.
1. How is this story like the preceding one? What difference in the characters? What difference in their homes?2. How does Myra Kelly make you feel sympathy for the little folks? In what ways have their lives been less fortunate than the lives of children in your town?3. What is peculiar about the talk of these children? Do they all speak the same dialect? Many of the children of the East Side never hear English spoken at home.4. What touches of humor are there in this story?5. What new words do you find? Define garrulous, pedagogically, cicerone.6. Where did Miss Kelly get her materials for this story? See the life on page 37.7. What other stories by this author have you read? This is fromLittle Citizens; other books telling about the same characters areLittle Aliens, andWards of Liberty.8. Other books of short stories dealing with children are:Whilomville Stories, by Stephen Crane;The Golden Age, by Kenneth Grahame;The Madness of Philip, by Josephine Daskam Bacon;The King of Boyville, by William Allen White;New Chronicles of Rebecca, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Read one of these, and compare it with Myra Kelly's story.
1. How is this story like the preceding one? What difference in the characters? What difference in their homes?
2. How does Myra Kelly make you feel sympathy for the little folks? In what ways have their lives been less fortunate than the lives of children in your town?
3. What is peculiar about the talk of these children? Do they all speak the same dialect? Many of the children of the East Side never hear English spoken at home.
4. What touches of humor are there in this story?
5. What new words do you find? Define garrulous, pedagogically, cicerone.
6. Where did Miss Kelly get her materials for this story? See the life on page 37.
7. What other stories by this author have you read? This is fromLittle Citizens; other books telling about the same characters areLittle Aliens, andWards of Liberty.
8. Other books of short stories dealing with children are:Whilomville Stories, by Stephen Crane;The Golden Age, by Kenneth Grahame;The Madness of Philip, by Josephine Daskam Bacon;The King of Boyville, by William Allen White;New Chronicles of Rebecca, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Read one of these, and compare it with Myra Kelly's story.
1. Point out the humorous touches in this story.2. Is the story probable? To answer this, consider two points: would Louise have undertaken such a thing as answering the advertisement? and would she have had the spirit to act as she did at the close? Note the touches of description and characterization of Louise, and show how they prepare for the events that follow.3. One of the most effective devices in art is the use of contrast; that is, bringing together two things or persons or ideas that are very different, perhaps the exact opposite of each other. Show that the main effect of this story depends on the use of contrast.4. Read the paragraph on page 43 beginning, "It happened to be a French tenor." Give in your own words the thought of this paragraph. Is it true? Can you give examples of it?5. Compare the length of this story with that of others in the book. Which authors get their effects in a small compass? Could any parts of this story be omitted?6. Other stories by H. C. Bunner that you will enjoy are "The Love Letters of Smith" and "A Sisterly Scheme" inShort Sixes.
1. Point out the humorous touches in this story.
2. Is the story probable? To answer this, consider two points: would Louise have undertaken such a thing as answering the advertisement? and would she have had the spirit to act as she did at the close? Note the touches of description and characterization of Louise, and show how they prepare for the events that follow.
3. One of the most effective devices in art is the use of contrast; that is, bringing together two things or persons or ideas that are very different, perhaps the exact opposite of each other. Show that the main effect of this story depends on the use of contrast.
4. Read the paragraph on page 43 beginning, "It happened to be a French tenor." Give in your own words the thought of this paragraph. Is it true? Can you give examples of it?
5. Compare the length of this story with that of others in the book. Which authors get their effects in a small compass? Could any parts of this story be omitted?
6. Other stories by H. C. Bunner that you will enjoy are "The Love Letters of Smith" and "A Sisterly Scheme" inShort Sixes.
1. Does the title fit the story well? Why?2. Notice the familiar, almost conversational style. Is it suited to the story? Why?3. Show how the opening paragraph introduces the main idea of the story.4. To make a story there must be a conflict of some sort. What is the conflict here?5. How does the account of Julia Neal's career as a teacher (page 64) prepare for the ending of the story?6. Do you have a clear picture in your mind of Mrs. Winthrop? Of Mrs. Worthington? Why did not the author tell about their personal appearance?7. Point out humorous touches in the next to the last paragraph.8. Is this story true to life? Who is the Priscilla Winthrop of your town?9. What impression do you get of the man behind this story? Do you think he knew the people of his town well? Did he like them even while he laughed at them? What else can you say about him?10. Other books of short stories dealing with life in a small town are:Pratt Portraits, by Anna Fuller;Old Chester Tales, by Margaret Deland;Stories of a Western Town, by Octave Thanet;In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes;Folks Back Home, by Eugene Wood;Friendship Village, by Zona Gale;Bodbank, by Richard W. Child. Read one of these books, or a story from one, and compare it with this story.11. In what ways does life in a small town differ from life in a large city?
1. Does the title fit the story well? Why?
2. Notice the familiar, almost conversational style. Is it suited to the story? Why?
3. Show how the opening paragraph introduces the main idea of the story.
4. To make a story there must be a conflict of some sort. What is the conflict here?
5. How does the account of Julia Neal's career as a teacher (page 64) prepare for the ending of the story?
6. Do you have a clear picture in your mind of Mrs. Winthrop? Of Mrs. Worthington? Why did not the author tell about their personal appearance?
7. Point out humorous touches in the next to the last paragraph.
8. Is this story true to life? Who is the Priscilla Winthrop of your town?
9. What impression do you get of the man behind this story? Do you think he knew the people of his town well? Did he like them even while he laughed at them? What else can you say about him?
10. Other books of short stories dealing with life in a small town are:Pratt Portraits, by Anna Fuller;Old Chester Tales, by Margaret Deland;Stories of a Western Town, by Octave Thanet;In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes;Folks Back Home, by Eugene Wood;Friendship Village, by Zona Gale;Bodbank, by Richard W. Child. Read one of these books, or a story from one, and compare it with this story.
11. In what ways does life in a small town differ from life in a large city?
This story, taken from the volume calledThe Four Million, is a good example of O. Henry's method as a short-story writer. It is notable for its brevity. The average length of the modern shortstory is about five thousand words; O. Henry uses a little over one thousand words. This conciseness is gained in several ways. In his descriptions, he has the art of selecting significant detail. When Della looks out of the window, instead of describing fully the view that met her eyes, he says: "She looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard." A paragraph could do no more. Again, the beginning of the story is quick, abrupt. There is no introduction. The style is often elliptical; in the first paragraph half the sentences are not sentences at all. But the main reason for the shortness of the story lies in the fact that the author has included only such incidents and details as are necessary to the unfolding of the plot. There is no superfluous matter.
Another characteristic of O. Henry is found in the unexpected turns of his plots. There is almost always a surprise in his stories, usually at the end. And yet this has been so artfully prepared for that we accept it as probable. Our pleasure in reading his stories is further heightened by the constant flashes of humor that light up his pages. And beyond this, he has the power to touch deeper emotions. When Della heard Jim's step on the stairs, "she turned white just for a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest things, and now she whispered, 'Please God, make him think I am still pretty.'" One reads that with a little catch in the throat.
In his plots, O. Henry is romantic; in his settings he is a realist. Della and Jim are romantic lovers, they are not prudent nor calculating, but act upon impulse. In his descriptions, however, he is a realist. The eight-dollar-a-week flat, the frying pan on the back of the stove, the description of Della "flopping down on the couch for a cry," and afterwards "attending to her cheeks with the powder-rag,"—all these are in the manner of realism.
And finally, the tone of his stories is brave and cheerful. He finds the world a most interesting place, and its people, even its commonplace people, its rogues, its adventurers, are drawn with a broad sympathy that makes us more tolerant of the people we meet outside the books.
1. Compare the beginning of this story with the beginning of "Bitter-Sweet." What difference do you note?2. Select a description of a person that shows the author's power of concise portraiture.3. What is the turn of surprise in this story? What other stories in this book have a similar twist at the end?4. What is the central thought of this story?5. Other stories of O. Henry's that ought not to be missed are "An Unfinished Story" and "The Furnished Room" inThe Four Million; "A Blackjack Bargainer" inWhirligigs; "Best Seller" and "The Rose of Dixie" inOptions; "A Municipal Report" inStrictly Business; "A Retrieved Reformation" inRoads of Destiny; and "Hearts and Crosses" inHearts of the West.
1. Compare the beginning of this story with the beginning of "Bitter-Sweet." What difference do you note?
2. Select a description of a person that shows the author's power of concise portraiture.
3. What is the turn of surprise in this story? What other stories in this book have a similar twist at the end?
4. What is the central thought of this story?
5. Other stories of O. Henry's that ought not to be missed are "An Unfinished Story" and "The Furnished Room" inThe Four Million; "A Blackjack Bargainer" inWhirligigs; "Best Seller" and "The Rose of Dixie" inOptions; "A Municipal Report" inStrictly Business; "A Retrieved Reformation" inRoads of Destiny; and "Hearts and Crosses" inHearts of the West.