Her girlish romance about Walter seemed to her now almost as empty as her affair with Harry Klein. She had at first given herself to Isadore on a rather intellectual basis. She knew him profoundly before she had married him. She had been quite sure of a life of loving comradeship and mutual understanding. From a matter of fact, work-a-day point of view the marriage was to be as satisfactory as she could imagine. And to all this had been added an unexpected element—thismystic, unexpressible joy of sex. Yetta had the sense to know that she was fortunate above most women. She looked up at the dear face above her, hoping to find some gesture to express the overflowing happiness for which she could find no words. She was struck by the look of intense thought on his face.
"What are you thinking about, Ib?"
He started, as he came back from his revery.
"I've been thinking," he said, "that we'll have to be awfully tactful when we get back to the office. Smith and Levine have been running things so long by themselves that it's only human for them to be a bit jealous about our coming back."
These words caused a very complicated mix-up in Yetta's mind.
The hereditary woman in her, the part of her which was formed by the myriad wives who had been her ancestors, shuddered as though under the lash at the idea that on this very last day his thoughts had gone so far away. Every cell in her brain had been intent on him. She had just decided that no one had ever loved any one as much as she loved him—and he had been thinking of the office. A tidal wave of tears started instinctively towards her eyes.
But all that was modern about Yetta, all that part of her which had learned to reason, was suffused with tenderness, as the other part of her would have been by a caress. She was proud of the single-minded devotion of her man. She was not surprised at the tangent along which his thoughts had flown. She had the immense advantage over most brides, that she knew her husband. She knew the depth of sincerity which was sometimes obscured by his pedantic phrases. Shehad learned to lovehim. She had been spared the pain of discovering a reality back of a dream of love. The only new thing she had learned about him since their marriage was the wealth of tenderness back of his rather rough exterior,—the gentle consideration that lay under his rugged manners,—the undreamed-of sweetness which was hidden to most eyes by his evident force. She was not disillusioned by intimacy.
For a few minutes she let him talk about the work that was awaiting them. She was as much interested in it as he. But at last the hereditary woman within her reminded her that after all this was their last day of solitude. She stopped listening to him and considered the matter from this point of view for a moment. Then she shamelessly interrupted him in the midst of a ponderous sentence.
"Ib," she said, "I love you."
They had been back in the city many months before their faces lost the mark of the sun. In due course of time Comrade Yetta Braun qualified to edit the "Mother's Column."
Four years after their marriage Yetta and Isadore received a tangible token of the respect in which they were held by their Comrades. They were chosen among the delegates to the International Socialist Congress which was to meet in London. No one who is not an active worker in the Socialist party can appreciate how much this election means to the Comrades. Every three years the party has to choose half a dozen of its members as most worthy to represent them in the international councils. It is a real honor.
They were, after their four years of unremitting work onThe Clarion, in need of a vacation. They had not had one since their honeymoon in the woods. But, except for the eight lazy days in the second cabin of a slow steamer, they found very little rest at the Congress. Besides the regular sessions, so much time went to getting acquainted with the European Comrades, whose names they had long revered, whose books they had read. It took a big effort to escape long enough to have a look at the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey. That was all the sight-seeing they did in London.
The next to the last day, when Yetta reached herseat in the convention hall, she found a letter on her desk. She did not at first recognize the handwriting.
"Dear Yetta.I suppose you've quite forgotten me. But try to remember.Can't you and Isadore come down to Oxford for a few days after the Congress? Walter noticed your name in the paper among the delegates. We are both anxious to renew the old friendships. When can we expect you?Sincerely,Beatrice Longman."
"Dear Yetta.
I suppose you've quite forgotten me. But try to remember.
Can't you and Isadore come down to Oxford for a few days after the Congress? Walter noticed your name in the paper among the delegates. We are both anxious to renew the old friendships. When can we expect you?
Sincerely,
Beatrice Longman."
Yetta was glad that Isadore had been detained in the corridor. She put the letter in her pocket before he joined her. All day long this invitation was flitting back and forth from the back of her brain to the front. In every moment of half leisure she thought about it, and more and more she wanted to go. It was partly curiosity to see what sort of a life Walter had made for himself, partly a desire to exhibit her own happiness. She did not want him to think she was still broken-hearted. And it was partly a very real tenderness for these old friends who very long ago had meant so much to her. But it was not until they were alone together in their modest hotel room at night that she spoke to Isadore about it.
"Oh, I forgot. Here's a letter that came from Mrs. Longman.—You remember she used to be Mrs. Karner."
"Well," he said, when he had read it, "that's simple. We're too busy."
"But I'd like to see them again."
"You would?" he asked in surprise—and a little hurt. "All right; of course, if you want to. I've got to rush back. But there's no reason why you shouldn't stay."
"Don't be foolish, dear," she said. "You know I won't stay a minute longer than you. I wouldn't think of going alone. We could leave here after lunch Thursday and stay in Oxford for dinner and catch our boat all right. You see, dearest, it's sort of like dying never to see people who meant so much once. You don't know how much I grieve about Mabel. She was my first friend—the first real friend I ever had. It was my fault that we quarrelled. I wouldn't like to feel that it was my fault if I lost all touch with Walter and Mrs. Karner—I mean Mrs. Longman. They've asked us to come in a friendly spirit. I think we ought to go."
"Very well," he said. "Wire that we'll come. But it sounded to me like a sort of duty note—not exactly cordial."
As a matter of fact it had not been in an entirely cordial spirit that Beatrice had written.
One morning Walter, who very rarely disturbed his wife when she was writing, knocked at the door of her work-room.
"May I interrupt a minute," he asked apologetically.
"What is it?" she asked.
He came over and laid a newspaper on her table, pointing halfway down a column which was headed, "International Socialist Congress." Among the names of the delegates from the United States were those of Isadore and Yetta Braun.
"You'd like to have me invite them out here?" she asked.
"Yes, if it isn't inconvenient. I'd like to see them again."
For the next few days Beatrice's work went wrong. More often than not she found herself looking up from her paper, staring out through the window, across the lawn to the grape arbor. She would catch herself at it and turn again to her work. Finally she decided that she had best fight it out. So—forgetting to put the cap on her fountain-pen—she walked out into the garden.
There was no possible doubt of it. She was afraid of Yetta—jealous! She tried to laugh at herself, but it hurt too much. Yetta was years younger than she.
Isadore she had scarcely known, was not quite sure whether she had the name attached to the right vague memory, but she held an impression that he was an unattractive person. Yetta had probably married him in discouragement. Undoubtedly she still loved Walter. In these last four years Beatrice had been constantly discovering that he was more lovable than she had realized before. Yes; Yetta was probably still in love with him. Would she accept the invitation?
A telegraph boy turned into their gate. She had not opened a despatch with such unsteady nervousness in a long time.
"Arrive Oxford thursday afternoon four o'clock leave ten for Liverpool Yetta"
"Arrive Oxford thursday afternoon four o'clock leave ten for Liverpool Yetta"
Beatrice walked slowly back to the house and into Walter's study. It was as dissimilar from her very orderly work-room as well might be. There were threelarge tables, but each was too small for the litter of books and charts and drawings and closely written notes it carried.
"They're coming to-morrow at four," she said, handing him the telegram.
"Good."
"I suppose we'd best have tea and then sight-see them around the colleges till dinner."
"I guess the tour is obligatory," he said with a grimace. "Has the Muse been refractory this morning? I saw you rambling round in the garden."
"Yes," her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Had to fight out a new idea. It's provoking. You get things nicely planned out, everything marching placidly to a happy ending—then something unexpected turns up, some eleventh-hour disturbance. Something you've got to take time off to think out."
"Fine," he said. "You're growing into a more realistic vision of life all the time, B. And that means constantly improving novels."
He got up and walked about the room, developing into quite a speech his ideas on the Unexpected Element in Life and how it deserved more recognition in literature. But all the time, while she was appearing to listen in rapture to his wisdom, she was telling herself bitter things about the literal-minded, uncomprehending male.
Thursday afternoon as Yetta and Isadore found their places in the train for Oxford they both had an unusual feeling of tongue-tiedness. They were quite tired and it was a relief to have sleepiness as an excuse for not talking. Yetta was not conscious of any stress between them. She believed that Isadore was as sleepy as hepretended to be. It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world to renew old friendships.
She opened her eyes now and then for a glimpse at the unfamiliar countryside. But most of the time she dreamily lived over again "the old days." She was generally too busy to think these things out leisurely—as you must if you are to think of them at all. She found it hard to recognize the picture of herself which she drew out of her memory. The few years, which had passed since her marriage, seemed to her much longer and fuller than all her life before. She, a mother of two children, found it very hard to sympathize with thejeune fille, who had been so very much in love with this man she had scarcely seen a dozen times. She was half sorry she had accepted the invitation. She was no longer the same person whom Walter and Beatrice had known. Instead of renewing an old acquaintance, her visit to Oxford would be that of a stranger. It would be embarrassing if Walter treated her like the girl he had known. But it never occurred to her that Isadore was suffering from jealous apprehension.
"Oxford's the next station," Isadore said.
It jerked her out of her revery. As they got off the train there was a kaleidoscopic moment, an impression of many people rushing hither and thither in a senseless chaos. Then suddenly the vagueness dissolved, and there were Walter and Beatrice, the blank look on their faces just melting into a smile of recognition. Everybody shook hands, the women kissed each other, and Walter and Isadore rushed off to check the bags.
Yetta's motherhood had changed her subtly. She could not have been called matronly. In fact, Beatrice,who was childless, was poignantly conscious that she looked the more like a regulation matron. The contrast hurt her.
The thing which Yetta saw was that Beatrice had come to reflect the gracious refinement of her surroundings. There was a sudden longing that life might have thrown her into an environment where she too could have given time and thought to being beautiful. It was rare indeed that she could devote ten minutes to "doing her hair." It took all the time she could spare to keep herself clean and neat. Beatrice's appearance suggested that the selecting of even her underwear was a matter of careful thought. Yetta, also, was poignantly conscious of the contrast.
When the men rejoined them, they all—still under the constraint of stock-taking—climbed into the dogcart and drove through the quaint Oxford streets to the house.
Yetta talked busily—a bit raggedly—about her two children. Walter pointed out the towers of some of the colleges. Neither Beatrice nor Isadore added much to the conversation. The tea-table was set on the lawn, but the constraint was still on them. Yetta told with slightly forced enthusiasm of the little house and lot they had taken in a Building and Loan Association on Long Island. Isadore at last rallied in reply to Walter's questions and talked about the International Congress. The thing which had impressed him most was the widespread growth of revolutionary, nonpolitical labor organizations. The growth of industrial unionism in America was closely paralleled by theSyndicalistemovement in Europe.
"I never gave you sufficient credit as a prophet,Walter," he said. "I'm an orthodox party member still, but this 'direct actionism' doesn't seem so much like heresy to me as it did. It's too universal to be all wrong."
When they got up from the table to wander about in the University, he and Walter walked ahead, still in the heat of this discussion. The women brought up the rear. Yetta found that the easiest things to talk about were the babies and Beatrice's novels. She had read and liked them very much.
They sat down together in the grounds of Christ Church, and Isadore began to tell aboutThe Clarion. Yetta joined in the men's talk, and Beatrice felt herself decidedly out of it. She was glad when the time came to go back for dinner. But that was no better, for still the talk clung toThe Clarion. It interested them so much that she could not find heart to change the subject.
The moon came up royally as they took their coffee on the terrace. Without any one suggesting it, they strolled down the lawn and along the river. Great trees stretched their branches overhead across the stream. It was a warm night, and many boats were out. Their gay lanterns glistened over the water. Here and there a song floated through the dusk. The predominant note of the scene was laughter.
But the riverside did not seem beautiful to Isadore; Beatrice had never cared less for it. Walter and Yetta were walking on ahead.
Beatrice found a sort of whimsical sympathy for her companion—realizing that he also was troubled by the turn things had taken. The unrest of each infected the other. It required all the social tact she could command to keep up the semblance of a conversation.
Yetta had taken Walter's arm, and for a while they walked in silence. But somehow the constraint suddenly fell away, and she felt in him the old friend to whom it had always been so easy to talk.
"It's strange," she said, "how very often I have taken your advice and found it good. More and more I realize what a big factor you've been in my life. A dozen times I've been on the point of writing to you. But it's so hard to put on paper the deeper sort of thanks."
Walter tried to protest.
"Oh, yes," she insisted. "I've lots of things to thank you for. It's hard to put it into words. But now that it's ancient history, now that the wounds have healed, I want to talk about it. When you told me to marry Isadore, it seemed like the cruelest words that could be spoken. You were right in smashing up my romance. But of all the lessons you ever set me, that was the hardest to learn, the bitterest. I could not take your word for it. I had to learn it for myself. But if you had not driven me to it, I would have been a romanticist still—always weaving dreams. I would never have found the wonder and beauty of life as it is.
"I guess any suffering is worth while that teaches a real lesson. I can be philosophic about those tear-stained months now. But they were dreary enough—and sometimes worse. I don't believe there was anything that Job said about the day he was born that I did not echo.
"Isadore was wonderful those days. He didn't give me any advice nor try to comfort me. He just called me up in the morning and gave me enough work for six people. I did have a little sense left. I could see thatwork was my only hope of pulling through.The Clarionoffice was the busiest place I could find—so I cut loose from the League and went down there.
"But Mabel has never forgiven me for leaving her. I've hardly seen her since."
They walked on for a moment in silence, and then she took up her story again.
"My real ignorance used to be that I thought there could be no love without romance. I thought they were the same thing. And that's the wonder of reality, it calls out something so immensely deeper than dream-love. I see Isadore's crooked shoulder as clearly as any one. I know the words he insists on mispronouncing. I know the little, uncontrolled hooks of his temper that things are always catching on. I don't for a moment think he's a god. Perhaps it is just the fact that I know him so very much better than other people do that would make me laugh at any one who said I didn't truly love him! And then the babies! Think of it, Walter. I've got two of them. My very own! You said something like this once—that flesh and blood were more wonderful than any dream. It was a hard, painful lesson to learn, but I guess it's the one I want to thank you for most."
"It's a truth," Walter replied, "which Beatrice has helped me to rediscover very often these last years. We love each other with a big E. It certainly didn't start with the romantic capital L. It's just the opposite of that proposition—of the flaming beginning that gradually peters out. It's something with us that's alive—growing every day."
Her hand on his arm gave him a friendly, understanding squeeze.
"It's so wonderful a world," she said, "it almost hurts! There's so very, very much to do. The minutes are so amazingly full. And somehow it all seems to centre around the babies. They've given Socialism a new meaning to me, have brought it all nearer, made it more intimate and personal, more closely woven into myself. Isadore and I were used to the tenements, they'd ceased to impress us—till the babies came. I'm glad my little brood can grow up in the sunlight and fresh air, with a little grass to play on. But the thought of all the millions of babies in the slums has become the very corner-stone of my thinking. It's for them. We've just got to win Socialism for the babies! I wish you could see mine. I'll send you a photograph."
Her mind switched off to more concrete problems; she talked of immediate plans and hopes. Meanwhile, Isadore kept looking at his watch, and each time he pulled it out, Beatrice asked him what time it was. At last it was necessary to turn back to catch the train.
* * * * *
Conversation lagged as the Longmans walked home from the station. Walter was wrapped up in some line of thought and Beatrice's first efforts fell flat. The silence became oppressive to her as they entered their house.
"Walter," she said, "I'd bid as high as three shillings for your thoughts."
"Keep your money. These are jewels beyond price." He tumbled himself lazily into a big leather chair. "What they tell about that paper of theirs is amazing. I'm beginning to see some reason for the hostility which the working-class has for the 'intellectuals.' If Isadore had asked my advice,—or anyof the college-bred Socialists in New York,—he'd have been told that it was absolutely impossible to pull through with a daily. Well, the working-class knew what they wanted and darned if they didn't get it! It's amazing!"
"Walter, if I really believed that was what you'd been thinking about, I'd kiss you."
"I don't see why you shouldn't do both," he said, making room for her in the chair beside him. But seeing a suspicious glitter in her eyes, he sprang up. "Why, B.! You're crying! What's the matter?"
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly in his face.
"Honest? Cross your heart to die? Weren't you thinking about Yetta?"
"You little idiot," he said, with the glow which comes to a man who is being indirectly flattered. "Been jealous, have you?"
He picked her up in his arms.
"Let's go out on the porch. I'll tell you everything she said to me—and then we'll look up at the moon."
* * * * *
"Well," Yetta said, settling herself in the compartment of the train, as the lights of Oxford slipped past the windows, "I'm glad we visited them."
Isadore moved uneasily.
"It wasn't unpleasant?" he asked in Yiddish—so that the other passengers might not understand. "I don't feel as if I showed up very well in comparison to Walter."
She leaned forward so she could look him squarely in the face.
"Isadore!" she said in an aggrieved tone, "can't men ever understand women—not even the very simplest things? Three years I wasted dreaming—no; I won't say 'wasted.' I haven't any quarrel with my girlhood. Three years I dreamed about him. But it's four years now—four years—that I've lived with you. Can't you understand how immense that difference seems to a woman? There are some of my ideas, perhaps, some of my intellect that he's father of. But, Isadore, you're the father of my children."
"Yes," he said, somewhat comforted. "I think I can understand a little of that—but—well, I never wished I had money so much before. I wish I could give you the things Walter would have."
"Don't you do any mourning about that," she said brazenly, "till I begin it."
She slipped her hand into his, indifferent to the other passengers. Her conscience hurt a little on this score, for after all she had envied Beatrice's opportunity to be beautiful. They sat silent for quite a long interval.
"I'm glad we visited them," she went on. "But I'm gladder that we're started home again. I'm crazy to get back."
"Worrying about the kids?"
"Oh, yes! Of course, I worry about them all the time. Aunt Martha's as good to them as she knows how, but she's so old-fashioned. But I'm glad for another reason. I never realized before the real difference between Walter and me. It's a wonderfully beautiful life, that cottage of theirs, the books, the old colleges, and the river. You can't deny that there's a graciousness about it. But it would kill me.He's happy thinking about things. But I'd die if I wasn't doing things! Love isn't enough by itself. I'd starve. I'm hungry to get back to work. That's the Real Thing, we got, Isadore. It makes our Love worth while. Our Work."
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
A Man's World
By ALBERT EDWARDS
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Mr. Churchill is acknowledged to be America's leading novelist. No other author has ever gained and held so large a following as Mr. Churchill. This new book is the most mature and vital of all his work and the one in which Mr. Churchill has achieved greatest originality. It is a powerful study of the modern tendencies in religion and their new relations to the modern life. It sets forth in most masterly delineation the personal history of a young clergyman, and the transformation of his views and attitudes toward life. It is a book that will provoke much discussion and admiration, dealing, as it does, with the more delicate phases of life to-day and of conditions vital to the national welfare.
Mr. Churchill is acknowledged to be America's leading novelist. No other author has ever gained and held so large a following as Mr. Churchill. This new book is the most mature and vital of all his work and the one in which Mr. Churchill has achieved greatest originality. It is a powerful study of the modern tendencies in religion and their new relations to the modern life. It sets forth in most masterly delineation the personal history of a young clergyman, and the transformation of his views and attitudes toward life. It is a book that will provoke much discussion and admiration, dealing, as it does, with the more delicate phases of life to-day and of conditions vital to the national welfare.
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The women characters of Robert Herrick's books have always been peculiarly significant. Sometimes storms of protest have centred around them and the ideas of womankind which the author has advanced through them. But the penetration and keenness of the analyses and, sentiment aside, the truth of the pictures, and the skill with which they have been drawn, have never been denied. The fact that in this new book Mr. Herrick gives his whole attention to the story of a woman is, therefore, an unusually interesting announcement. Milly Ridge is as striking and convincing a creation as has ever come from his pen, and in her struggle for social supremacy Mr. Herrick has a theme distinctly modern and admirably well suited to his powers.
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In "Concert Pitch" Frank Danby has again written a love story of unflagging interest, full of thrilling passages and rich in the romance of real life. The book is crowded with types etched in with masterly fidelity of vision and sureness of touch, with feminine subtlety as well as virile audacity. Frank Danby's skill in making vividly real the people and conditions of London has never been shown to a better advantage than in her new novel.
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It is to be doubted whether there is a more popular animal writer to-day than Charles G. D. Roberts, whose stories of the inhabitants of forests and streams are read with pleasure by young and old alike. In this book are brought together some of his most interesting tales. The bear, the bat, the seal, the moose, the rabbit, and other animals are here made vivid in their life and habits. Mr. Roberts has true imaginative touches in his way of writing about the woods and their denizens. But he is not open to the charge of misrepresenting the facts in order to make a good story. As one well-known critic said, "He does not, in giving animals life, turn them into half humans; but he takes their pathos, their tragedy, their drama, on the animal level and writes for them as though they had their own interpreter whispering in his ear."
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Though Kathleen Norris has become most widely known through her two novels, it was, as is frequently the case, through the short story field that she entered the ranks of fictionists. Her success in demonstrating that the creation of the short story is an art of itself makes the publication of this collection of tales from her pen most interesting. There are probably many people in this country who, if asked to name their favorite magazine writer, would name Mrs. Norris. Here is gathered together the best of the work upon which this reputation rests. Stories of sentiment, of purpose, humorous stories, stories reflecting the more serious phases of life, and stories which were evidently written just because they afforded their author pleasure, all find a place in this versatile volume.
PATSY
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A lively, saucy person is Patsy, one of the best girl characters Mr. Crockett has ever depicted. She is the central figure in this new Galloway romance in which smuggling and Patsy's abduction and recapture by a royal prince and all the other good things synonymous with Mr. Crockett's name have a part. While the book is one of historical adventure, the love interest is paramount throughout. The time of the story is just one hundred years ago, when the country in which the scene is laid was in universal revolt against the brutal system of compulsory enlistment and bands were being formed to fight the manhunters, and smuggling was in full blast along the shores of Solway.
A lively, saucy person is Patsy, one of the best girl characters Mr. Crockett has ever depicted. She is the central figure in this new Galloway romance in which smuggling and Patsy's abduction and recapture by a royal prince and all the other good things synonymous with Mr. Crockett's name have a part. While the book is one of historical adventure, the love interest is paramount throughout. The time of the story is just one hundred years ago, when the country in which the scene is laid was in universal revolt against the brutal system of compulsory enlistment and bands were being formed to fight the manhunters, and smuggling was in full blast along the shores of Solway.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
THE IMPEACHMENT OF PRESIDENT ISRAELS
By FRANK B. COPLEY
Illustrated, Cloth, 12mo, $1.00 net
This is the story of the impeachment of David Israels, President of the United States, as told by his private secretary. Instead of preparing for war to avenge the killing of four American sailors, President Israels persisted in proposals for peace, finally sending a fleet to Constantinople to celebrate some Turkish anniversary, which act brought upon him the terrible stigma. All this, it might be explained, has yet to take place, for Israels is a future president. The effect of reality is well kept up by Mr. Copley, who incidentally introduces some very wholesome truths, notably that the way to realize universal peace is to refuse even to consider the possibility of war, that moral suasion is more forceful than physical threats, and that a war resulting from mob panic and hate is only folly and wickedness.
This is the story of the impeachment of David Israels, President of the United States, as told by his private secretary. Instead of preparing for war to avenge the killing of four American sailors, President Israels persisted in proposals for peace, finally sending a fleet to Constantinople to celebrate some Turkish anniversary, which act brought upon him the terrible stigma. All this, it might be explained, has yet to take place, for Israels is a future president. The effect of reality is well kept up by Mr. Copley, who incidentally introduces some very wholesome truths, notably that the way to realize universal peace is to refuse even to consider the possibility of war, that moral suasion is more forceful than physical threats, and that a war resulting from mob panic and hate is only folly and wickedness.
VANISHING POINTS
By ALICE BROWN
Author of "The Secret of the Clan"
Decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.30 net
As a writer of delicately turned short stories, fine in their execution, Alice Brown has few equals. She is best known, perhaps, for her New England tales, and there are a number in the present collection which present the true and ever pleasing atmosphere of that part of this country. The book is not, however, composed solely of this kind of fiction. Not a few of the most interesting of the stories make their appeal because they rest on feelings, beliefs, and characteristics that are universal in human nature. One feels, as one reads of the man who thought that as so many people in this broad land must suffer from poverty and cold and hunger, he, too, should share their lot, or of the writer who, though his success did not appear to be great, was, nevertheless, influencing the work of others, or of the editor who took a stand against the unfair policy of his magazine, or of the mother who saved her son from the wiles of an adventuress, or of any, in fact, of Miss Brown's delightful characters, that the art of short fiction is at last coming into its own.
As a writer of delicately turned short stories, fine in their execution, Alice Brown has few equals. She is best known, perhaps, for her New England tales, and there are a number in the present collection which present the true and ever pleasing atmosphere of that part of this country. The book is not, however, composed solely of this kind of fiction. Not a few of the most interesting of the stories make their appeal because they rest on feelings, beliefs, and characteristics that are universal in human nature. One feels, as one reads of the man who thought that as so many people in this broad land must suffer from poverty and cold and hunger, he, too, should share their lot, or of the writer who, though his success did not appear to be great, was, nevertheless, influencing the work of others, or of the editor who took a stand against the unfair policy of his magazine, or of the mother who saved her son from the wiles of an adventuress, or of any, in fact, of Miss Brown's delightful characters, that the art of short fiction is at last coming into its own.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
"There is not another book like this 'Crock of Gold' in English literature. There are many books like pieces of it, but the humor and the style—these things are Mr. Stephens's own peculiar gift"—The London Standard.
"There is not another book like this 'Crock of Gold' in English literature. There are many books like pieces of it, but the humor and the style—these things are Mr. Stephens's own peculiar gift"—The London Standard.
THE CROCK OF GOLD
By JAMES STEPHENS
Author of "The Hill of Vision"
Decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net
A story of the open air, of deep forests, of rock-strewn pastures and mountain tops, and though the human element is not absent, of the fairy folk of old Ireland with the God Pan and the great Angus Og, this is what the author of "The Charwoman's Daughter," who is, perhaps, better known for his verse, "The Hill of Vision" and "Insurrections," tells. While the book should, perhaps, be regarded more as a fantasy with a beautiful moral than an ordinary novel, the discriminating reader will, nevertheless, find interwoven with it many a wise, witty, and penetrating reflection on human life and destiny.
A story of the open air, of deep forests, of rock-strewn pastures and mountain tops, and though the human element is not absent, of the fairy folk of old Ireland with the God Pan and the great Angus Og, this is what the author of "The Charwoman's Daughter," who is, perhaps, better known for his verse, "The Hill of Vision" and "Insurrections," tells. While the book should, perhaps, be regarded more as a fantasy with a beautiful moral than an ordinary novel, the discriminating reader will, nevertheless, find interwoven with it many a wise, witty, and penetrating reflection on human life and destiny.
Press Opinions
The Times.—"It is crammed full of life and beauty ... this delicious, fantastical, amorphous, inspired medley of topsy-turvydom."The Athenæum.—"In 'The Crock of Gold' Mr. Stephens gives the measure of a larger and more individual talent than could have been absolutely foretold.... There has been nothing hitherto quite like it, but it is safe to prophesy that by and by there will be plenty of imitators to take it for their pattern.... Mr. Stephens has produced a remarkably fine and attractive work of art."The Globe.—"We have read nothing quite like 'The Crock of Gold.' It has a charm and humor peculiar to itself, and places its author high in the ranks of imaginative poetic writers."The Nation.—"The final state (in the case of the reviewer) was one of complete surrender to the author—'go on, go on, fiddle on your theme what harmonics you will; this is delightful.'... Mr. Stephens's novel, 'The Charwoman's Daughter,' was a remarkable book, and, in this one, he shows he can succeed as well in quite other directions."
The Times.—"It is crammed full of life and beauty ... this delicious, fantastical, amorphous, inspired medley of topsy-turvydom."
The Athenæum.—"In 'The Crock of Gold' Mr. Stephens gives the measure of a larger and more individual talent than could have been absolutely foretold.... There has been nothing hitherto quite like it, but it is safe to prophesy that by and by there will be plenty of imitators to take it for their pattern.... Mr. Stephens has produced a remarkably fine and attractive work of art."
The Globe.—"We have read nothing quite like 'The Crock of Gold.' It has a charm and humor peculiar to itself, and places its author high in the ranks of imaginative poetic writers."
The Nation.—"The final state (in the case of the reviewer) was one of complete surrender to the author—'go on, go on, fiddle on your theme what harmonics you will; this is delightful.'... Mr. Stephens's novel, 'The Charwoman's Daughter,' was a remarkable book, and, in this one, he shows he can succeed as well in quite other directions."
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York