MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE.

(‡ decoration)MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE.(MARION HARLAND.)Popular Novelist and Domestic Economist.MARION HARLAND combines a wide variety of talent. She is probably the first writer to excel in the line of fiction and also to be a leader in the direction of domestic economy. She is one of the most welcomed contributors to the periodicals, and her books on practical housekeeping, common sense in the household, and several practical cookery books have smoothed the way for many a young housekeeper and probably promoted the cause of peace in numerous households.Mary Virginia Hawes was the daughter of a native of Massachusetts who was engaged in business in Richmond, Virginia. She was born in 1831, and received a good education. She began in early childhood to display her literary powers. She wrote for the magazines in her sixteenth year and her first contribution, “Marrying Through Prudential Motives,” was so widely read that it was published in nearly every journal in England, was translated and published throughout France, found its way back to England through a retranslation, and finally appeared in a new form in the United States.In 1856 she became the wife ofRev.Edward P. Terhune, afterwards pastor of the Puritan Congregational Church in Brooklyn, where in recent years they have lived.Mrs.Terhune has always been active in charitable and church work, and has done an amount of writing equal to that of the most prolific authors. She has been editor or conducted departments of two or three different magazines and established and successfully edited the “Home Maker.” Some of her most noted stories are “The Hidden Path;” “True as Steel;” “Husbands and Homes;” “Phemie’s Temptation;” “Ruby’s Husband;” “Handicap;” “Judith;” “A Gallant Fight;” and “His Great Self.” Besides these books and a number of others, she has written almost countless essays on household and other topics. Her book, “Eve’s Daughters,” is a standard work of counsel to girls and young women. She takes an active part in the literary and philanthropic organizations of New York City, and has been prominent in the Woman’s Councils held under the auspices of a Chautauquan association. She was the first to call attention to the dilapidated condition of the grave of Mary Washington and started a movement to put the monument in proper condition. For the benefit of this movement, she wrote and published “The Story of♦Mary Washington.”♦Title truncated in text.A MANLYHERO.¹(FROM “A GALLANT FIGHT.”)¹Copyright, Dodd, Mead &Co.AFTER donning velvet jacket and slippers he sat down, and, lighting his cigar, leaned back to watch the fire and dream of Salome and their real home.Not until the weed was half consumed did he observe an envelope on the table at his elbow. It was sealed and addressed to him in a “back-hand” he did not recognize:“In the Library. Nine O’clock, P. M.“My Own Love—You say in your letter (burned as soon as I had committed the contents to memory) that I must never call you that again. There is a higher law than that of man’s appointment, binding our hearts together, stronger even than that of your sweet, wise lips. Until you are actually married to the man whom you confess you do not love, you will, according to that divine law, be my own Marion—”With a violent start, the young man shook the sheet from his fingers as he would a serpent.This was what he had promised not to read, or so much as to touch! The veins stood out high and dark on his forehead; he drew in the air hissingly. Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a forked tongue in his face the shock would not have been greater. This was “the letter written to Marion!” He had thrown away six of the best years of his life upon the woman whom another man called his “own love;” the man to whom she had confessed that she did not love her betrothed husband! Who was he?“If they are genuine, respect for the dead and mercy to the living require that they should be suppressed and destroyed,”Mrs.Phelps had said of “papers writtena little whilebefore Marion’s death.” His word was pledged. But what name would he see if he reversed the sheet before destroying it? With a bound of the heart that would have assured him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living girl-love was to him, he put away all tender memories of the dead, false betrothed. He had worshipped and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He might owe respect—abstractly—to the dead, but no reverence to a wild dream from which he had been awakened. Who was the “living” to whom he was entreated to show mercy? Where was the man who had first robbed him, then let him play the sad-visaged dupe and fool, while the heyday of youth slipped forever beyond his reach?To learn that—to remember the name with execration—to despise with the full force of a wronged and honest soul—perhaps to brand him as a cur and blackguard, should he ever cross his path—would not break his word. Was it not his right—the poor rag of compensation he might claim for the incalculable, the damnable evil the traitor had wrought? He would confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow—but this one thing he would do.He stooped for the letter.“Peace! let him rest! God knoweth best!And the flowing tide comes in!And the flowing tide comes in!”It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly round of nursery and Gerald’s chamber, singing to her guileless self in passing her stepson’s door to prove her serenity of spirit; but Rex staggered back into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.He smelled the balsam-boughs slanting to the water, the trailing arbutus Salome wore in her belt; heard the waves lapping the prow and sides of the bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven was over them, and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, in his heart. The fresh, tender young voice told the tale of love and loss and patient submission....Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaven’s best blessings, loving and beloved by the noble, true daughter of the Christian heroine who expected her “son” to stand fast by his plighted word—the almost husband of a pure, high-souled woman—afford to spare the miserable wretch whose own mind and memory must be a continual hell?He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up the sheets from the floor, the scrap of paper from the table, and, averting his eyes lest the signature might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid them under the forestick and did not look that way again until nothing was left of them but cinder and ashes.

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(MARION HARLAND.)

Popular Novelist and Domestic Economist.

MARION HARLAND combines a wide variety of talent. She is probably the first writer to excel in the line of fiction and also to be a leader in the direction of domestic economy. She is one of the most welcomed contributors to the periodicals, and her books on practical housekeeping, common sense in the household, and several practical cookery books have smoothed the way for many a young housekeeper and probably promoted the cause of peace in numerous households.

Mary Virginia Hawes was the daughter of a native of Massachusetts who was engaged in business in Richmond, Virginia. She was born in 1831, and received a good education. She began in early childhood to display her literary powers. She wrote for the magazines in her sixteenth year and her first contribution, “Marrying Through Prudential Motives,” was so widely read that it was published in nearly every journal in England, was translated and published throughout France, found its way back to England through a retranslation, and finally appeared in a new form in the United States.

In 1856 she became the wife ofRev.Edward P. Terhune, afterwards pastor of the Puritan Congregational Church in Brooklyn, where in recent years they have lived.Mrs.Terhune has always been active in charitable and church work, and has done an amount of writing equal to that of the most prolific authors. She has been editor or conducted departments of two or three different magazines and established and successfully edited the “Home Maker.” Some of her most noted stories are “The Hidden Path;” “True as Steel;” “Husbands and Homes;” “Phemie’s Temptation;” “Ruby’s Husband;” “Handicap;” “Judith;” “A Gallant Fight;” and “His Great Self.” Besides these books and a number of others, she has written almost countless essays on household and other topics. Her book, “Eve’s Daughters,” is a standard work of counsel to girls and young women. She takes an active part in the literary and philanthropic organizations of New York City, and has been prominent in the Woman’s Councils held under the auspices of a Chautauquan association. She was the first to call attention to the dilapidated condition of the grave of Mary Washington and started a movement to put the monument in proper condition. For the benefit of this movement, she wrote and published “The Story of♦Mary Washington.”

♦Title truncated in text.

A MANLYHERO.¹

(FROM “A GALLANT FIGHT.”)

¹Copyright, Dodd, Mead &Co.

AFTER donning velvet jacket and slippers he sat down, and, lighting his cigar, leaned back to watch the fire and dream of Salome and their real home.Not until the weed was half consumed did he observe an envelope on the table at his elbow. It was sealed and addressed to him in a “back-hand” he did not recognize:“In the Library. Nine O’clock, P. M.“My Own Love—You say in your letter (burned as soon as I had committed the contents to memory) that I must never call you that again. There is a higher law than that of man’s appointment, binding our hearts together, stronger even than that of your sweet, wise lips. Until you are actually married to the man whom you confess you do not love, you will, according to that divine law, be my own Marion—”With a violent start, the young man shook the sheet from his fingers as he would a serpent.This was what he had promised not to read, or so much as to touch! The veins stood out high and dark on his forehead; he drew in the air hissingly. Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a forked tongue in his face the shock would not have been greater. This was “the letter written to Marion!” He had thrown away six of the best years of his life upon the woman whom another man called his “own love;” the man to whom she had confessed that she did not love her betrothed husband! Who was he?“If they are genuine, respect for the dead and mercy to the living require that they should be suppressed and destroyed,”Mrs.Phelps had said of “papers writtena little whilebefore Marion’s death.” His word was pledged. But what name would he see if he reversed the sheet before destroying it? With a bound of the heart that would have assured him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living girl-love was to him, he put away all tender memories of the dead, false betrothed. He had worshipped and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He might owe respect—abstractly—to the dead, but no reverence to a wild dream from which he had been awakened. Who was the “living” to whom he was entreated to show mercy? Where was the man who had first robbed him, then let him play the sad-visaged dupe and fool, while the heyday of youth slipped forever beyond his reach?To learn that—to remember the name with execration—to despise with the full force of a wronged and honest soul—perhaps to brand him as a cur and blackguard, should he ever cross his path—would not break his word. Was it not his right—the poor rag of compensation he might claim for the incalculable, the damnable evil the traitor had wrought? He would confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow—but this one thing he would do.He stooped for the letter.“Peace! let him rest! God knoweth best!And the flowing tide comes in!And the flowing tide comes in!”It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly round of nursery and Gerald’s chamber, singing to her guileless self in passing her stepson’s door to prove her serenity of spirit; but Rex staggered back into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.He smelled the balsam-boughs slanting to the water, the trailing arbutus Salome wore in her belt; heard the waves lapping the prow and sides of the bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven was over them, and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, in his heart. The fresh, tender young voice told the tale of love and loss and patient submission....Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaven’s best blessings, loving and beloved by the noble, true daughter of the Christian heroine who expected her “son” to stand fast by his plighted word—the almost husband of a pure, high-souled woman—afford to spare the miserable wretch whose own mind and memory must be a continual hell?He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up the sheets from the floor, the scrap of paper from the table, and, averting his eyes lest the signature might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid them under the forestick and did not look that way again until nothing was left of them but cinder and ashes.

AFTER donning velvet jacket and slippers he sat down, and, lighting his cigar, leaned back to watch the fire and dream of Salome and their real home.

Not until the weed was half consumed did he observe an envelope on the table at his elbow. It was sealed and addressed to him in a “back-hand” he did not recognize:

“In the Library. Nine O’clock, P. M.

“My Own Love—You say in your letter (burned as soon as I had committed the contents to memory) that I must never call you that again. There is a higher law than that of man’s appointment, binding our hearts together, stronger even than that of your sweet, wise lips. Until you are actually married to the man whom you confess you do not love, you will, according to that divine law, be my own Marion—”

With a violent start, the young man shook the sheet from his fingers as he would a serpent.

This was what he had promised not to read, or so much as to touch! The veins stood out high and dark on his forehead; he drew in the air hissingly. Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a forked tongue in his face the shock would not have been greater. This was “the letter written to Marion!” He had thrown away six of the best years of his life upon the woman whom another man called his “own love;” the man to whom she had confessed that she did not love her betrothed husband! Who was he?

“If they are genuine, respect for the dead and mercy to the living require that they should be suppressed and destroyed,”Mrs.Phelps had said of “papers writtena little whilebefore Marion’s death.” His word was pledged. But what name would he see if he reversed the sheet before destroying it? With a bound of the heart that would have assured him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living girl-love was to him, he put away all tender memories of the dead, false betrothed. He had worshipped and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He might owe respect—abstractly—to the dead, but no reverence to a wild dream from which he had been awakened. Who was the “living” to whom he was entreated to show mercy? Where was the man who had first robbed him, then let him play the sad-visaged dupe and fool, while the heyday of youth slipped forever beyond his reach?

To learn that—to remember the name with execration—to despise with the full force of a wronged and honest soul—perhaps to brand him as a cur and blackguard, should he ever cross his path—would not break his word. Was it not his right—the poor rag of compensation he might claim for the incalculable, the damnable evil the traitor had wrought? He would confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow—but this one thing he would do.

He stooped for the letter.

“Peace! let him rest! God knoweth best!And the flowing tide comes in!And the flowing tide comes in!”

“Peace! let him rest! God knoweth best!

And the flowing tide comes in!

And the flowing tide comes in!”

It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly round of nursery and Gerald’s chamber, singing to her guileless self in passing her stepson’s door to prove her serenity of spirit; but Rex staggered back into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

He smelled the balsam-boughs slanting to the water, the trailing arbutus Salome wore in her belt; heard the waves lapping the prow and sides of the bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven was over them, and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, in his heart. The fresh, tender young voice told the tale of love and loss and patient submission....

Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaven’s best blessings, loving and beloved by the noble, true daughter of the Christian heroine who expected her “son” to stand fast by his plighted word—the almost husband of a pure, high-souled woman—afford to spare the miserable wretch whose own mind and memory must be a continual hell?

He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up the sheets from the floor, the scrap of paper from the table, and, averting his eyes lest the signature might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid them under the forestick and did not look that way again until nothing was left of them but cinder and ashes.

(‡ decoration)MARY ABIGAIL DODGE.THE FAMOUS ESSAYIST, CRITIC, AND NOVELIST, “GAIL HAMILTON.”AMONG the female writers of America, perhaps there is no one who has covered a more diversified field and done her work more thoroughly, in the several capacities of essayist, philosopher, political writer, child-writer and novelist, than has Miss Mary Abigail Dodge, widely known by her pen-name, “Gail Hamilton.” Miss Dodge commanded a terse, vigorous and direct style; and with a courage manifested by few contemporaneous authors, she cut right through shams and deceits with an easy and convincing blow that left no room for doubt.Mary Abigail Dodge was born in Hamilton, Massachusetts, in the year 1830. Her pen-name is composed of the last syllable of the word “Abigail” and her native city, “Hamilton.” Her education was thorough, and in 1857 she was made instructor of physical science in the High School of Hartford, Connecticut. Some years after she became a governess in the family of Doctor Bailey the editor of the “National Era,” in Washington,D. C., and begun her career as a writer by contributing to his journal. For two years, from 1865 to 1867, she was one of the editors of “Our Young Folks,” and from that time to the close of her life she was a constant contributor to prominent magazines and newspapers—the name “Gail Hamilton” attached to an essay was always a guarantee that it was full of wit and aggressiveness.The published volumes of this author in order of their publication are as follows: “Country Living and Country Thinking” (1862); “Gala-Days” (1863); “Stumbling Blocks” and “A New Atmosphere” (1864); “Skirmishes and Sketches” (1865); “Summer Rest” and “Red-letter Days in Applethorpe” (1866); “Wool Gathering,” (1867); “Woman’s Wrongs, a Counter-Irritant” (1868); “Battle of the Books” (1870); “Woman’s Worth and Worthlessness” (1871). For a period of three years Miss Dodge devoted herself to the little folks, producing in 1872 “Little Folk Life,” and the next year two other volumes, entitled “Child World.” In the same year, 1873, came her humorous book, entitled “Twelve Miles from a Lemon,” and in 1874 “Nursery Noonings,” another book for and about children. In 1875 appeared two volumes very unlike, but both of which attracted considerable attention. The first was entitled “Sermons to the Clergy,” in which she gave some wholesome advice and pointed out many of the shortcomings of ministers. The other book was entitled “First Love Is Best.” In 1876 Miss Dodge’s mind seemed to take on a more religious, moral and still more practical turn as evinced by thetitle of the following books: “What Think Ye of Christ?” (1876); “Our Common School System” (1880); “Divine Guidance” (1881); “The Insuppressible Book” (1885); and “The Washington Bible Class” (1891).Miss Dodge was a cousin to the distinguished statesman, James G. Blaine, of whom she was very fond. Much of her time during the last few years of his life was spent with his family at Washington, and whenMr.Blaine died in January, 1893, she undertook, in the interest of the family, to write his life, which work she finished and the book was published in 1894. It is the only authoritative life of the statesman endorsed by the family. This was Miss Hamilton’s last book. It was a congenial theme to which she devoted perhaps the most painstaking and best work of her life. The last years of the busy author were marked by failing health. She died at Washington in 1896.FISHING.(FROM “GALA DAYS.”)SOME people have conscientious scruples about fishing. I respect them. I had them myself. Wantonly to destroy, for mere sport, the innocent life in lake or river, seemed to me a cruelty and a shame. But people must fish. Now, then, how shall your theory and practice be harmonized? Practice can’t yield. Plainly, theory must. A year ago I went out on a rock in the Atlantic Ocean, held a line—just to see how it seemed—and caught eight fishes; and every time a fish came up, a scruple went down. * * * * Which facts will partially account for the eagerness with which I, one morning, seconded a proposal to go a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles away.They go to the woods, I hang my prospective trout on my retrospective♣rod and march riverward. Halicarnassus, according to the old saw, “leaves this world and climbs a tree,” and, with♦jackknife, cord and perseverance, manufactures a fishing-rod, which he courteously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in no ambiguous phrase that I consider nothing beneath the best as good enough for me. Halicarnassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric, and meekly yields up the best rod, though the natural man rebels. The bank of the river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent or descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing awaiting the result of investigation. Halicarnassus picks his way over rocks, sideways and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the river in search of fish. I grow tired of playing leasa-bianca and steal behind the bridge, and pick my way over the rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank and up the river, in search of “fun;” practice irregular and indescribable gymnastics with variable success for half an hour or so. Shout from the bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and evidently laboring under great excitement. Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will permit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking trumpet of his hands and roars, “I’ve found—a fish! Left—him for—you—to catch! come quick!”—and plunging headlong down the bank disappears. I am touched to the heart by this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up to the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets entangled in hem of dress every third step—fishing-line in tree-top every second; progress therefore not so rapid as could be desired. Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to rock to the middle of the stream—balance on a pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, and just firm enough to make it worth while to run the risk—drop my line into the spot designated—a quiet, black little pool in the rushing river—see no fish, but have faith in♠Halicarnassus.♣‘cod’ replaced with ‘rod’♦‘jacknife’ replaced with ‘jackknife’♠‘Harlicarnassus’ replaced with ‘Halicarnassus’“Bite?” asks Halicarnassus eagerly.“Not yet,” I answer sweetly. Breathless expectation.Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five minutes gone.“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from down the river.“Not yet,” hopefully.“Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a minute.” Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old stick. Splash it off contemptuously.“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from afar.“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a bend in the river.“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream, * * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.“Hullo! how many?”I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,” reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”(‡ decoration)

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THE FAMOUS ESSAYIST, CRITIC, AND NOVELIST, “GAIL HAMILTON.”

AMONG the female writers of America, perhaps there is no one who has covered a more diversified field and done her work more thoroughly, in the several capacities of essayist, philosopher, political writer, child-writer and novelist, than has Miss Mary Abigail Dodge, widely known by her pen-name, “Gail Hamilton.” Miss Dodge commanded a terse, vigorous and direct style; and with a courage manifested by few contemporaneous authors, she cut right through shams and deceits with an easy and convincing blow that left no room for doubt.

Mary Abigail Dodge was born in Hamilton, Massachusetts, in the year 1830. Her pen-name is composed of the last syllable of the word “Abigail” and her native city, “Hamilton.” Her education was thorough, and in 1857 she was made instructor of physical science in the High School of Hartford, Connecticut. Some years after she became a governess in the family of Doctor Bailey the editor of the “National Era,” in Washington,D. C., and begun her career as a writer by contributing to his journal. For two years, from 1865 to 1867, she was one of the editors of “Our Young Folks,” and from that time to the close of her life she was a constant contributor to prominent magazines and newspapers—the name “Gail Hamilton” attached to an essay was always a guarantee that it was full of wit and aggressiveness.

The published volumes of this author in order of their publication are as follows: “Country Living and Country Thinking” (1862); “Gala-Days” (1863); “Stumbling Blocks” and “A New Atmosphere” (1864); “Skirmishes and Sketches” (1865); “Summer Rest” and “Red-letter Days in Applethorpe” (1866); “Wool Gathering,” (1867); “Woman’s Wrongs, a Counter-Irritant” (1868); “Battle of the Books” (1870); “Woman’s Worth and Worthlessness” (1871). For a period of three years Miss Dodge devoted herself to the little folks, producing in 1872 “Little Folk Life,” and the next year two other volumes, entitled “Child World.” In the same year, 1873, came her humorous book, entitled “Twelve Miles from a Lemon,” and in 1874 “Nursery Noonings,” another book for and about children. In 1875 appeared two volumes very unlike, but both of which attracted considerable attention. The first was entitled “Sermons to the Clergy,” in which she gave some wholesome advice and pointed out many of the shortcomings of ministers. The other book was entitled “First Love Is Best.” In 1876 Miss Dodge’s mind seemed to take on a more religious, moral and still more practical turn as evinced by thetitle of the following books: “What Think Ye of Christ?” (1876); “Our Common School System” (1880); “Divine Guidance” (1881); “The Insuppressible Book” (1885); and “The Washington Bible Class” (1891).

Miss Dodge was a cousin to the distinguished statesman, James G. Blaine, of whom she was very fond. Much of her time during the last few years of his life was spent with his family at Washington, and whenMr.Blaine died in January, 1893, she undertook, in the interest of the family, to write his life, which work she finished and the book was published in 1894. It is the only authoritative life of the statesman endorsed by the family. This was Miss Hamilton’s last book. It was a congenial theme to which she devoted perhaps the most painstaking and best work of her life. The last years of the busy author were marked by failing health. She died at Washington in 1896.

FISHING.

(FROM “GALA DAYS.”)

SOME people have conscientious scruples about fishing. I respect them. I had them myself. Wantonly to destroy, for mere sport, the innocent life in lake or river, seemed to me a cruelty and a shame. But people must fish. Now, then, how shall your theory and practice be harmonized? Practice can’t yield. Plainly, theory must. A year ago I went out on a rock in the Atlantic Ocean, held a line—just to see how it seemed—and caught eight fishes; and every time a fish came up, a scruple went down. * * * * Which facts will partially account for the eagerness with which I, one morning, seconded a proposal to go a-fishing in a river about fourteen miles away.They go to the woods, I hang my prospective trout on my retrospective♣rod and march riverward. Halicarnassus, according to the old saw, “leaves this world and climbs a tree,” and, with♦jackknife, cord and perseverance, manufactures a fishing-rod, which he courteously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in no ambiguous phrase that I consider nothing beneath the best as good enough for me. Halicarnassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric, and meekly yields up the best rod, though the natural man rebels. The bank of the river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent or descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing awaiting the result of investigation. Halicarnassus picks his way over rocks, sideways and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the river in search of fish. I grow tired of playing leasa-bianca and steal behind the bridge, and pick my way over the rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank and up the river, in search of “fun;” practice irregular and indescribable gymnastics with variable success for half an hour or so. Shout from the bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and evidently laboring under great excitement. Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will permit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking trumpet of his hands and roars, “I’ve found—a fish! Left—him for—you—to catch! come quick!”—and plunging headlong down the bank disappears. I am touched to the heart by this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up to the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets entangled in hem of dress every third step—fishing-line in tree-top every second; progress therefore not so rapid as could be desired. Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to rock to the middle of the stream—balance on a pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, and just firm enough to make it worth while to run the risk—drop my line into the spot designated—a quiet, black little pool in the rushing river—see no fish, but have faith in♠Halicarnassus.♣‘cod’ replaced with ‘rod’♦‘jacknife’ replaced with ‘jackknife’♠‘Harlicarnassus’ replaced with ‘Halicarnassus’“Bite?” asks Halicarnassus eagerly.“Not yet,” I answer sweetly. Breathless expectation.Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five minutes gone.“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from down the river.“Not yet,” hopefully.“Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a minute.” Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old stick. Splash it off contemptuously.“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from afar.“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a bend in the river.“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream, * * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.“Hullo! how many?”I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,” reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”

They go to the woods, I hang my prospective trout on my retrospective♣rod and march riverward. Halicarnassus, according to the old saw, “leaves this world and climbs a tree,” and, with♦jackknife, cord and perseverance, manufactures a fishing-rod, which he courteously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in no ambiguous phrase that I consider nothing beneath the best as good enough for me. Halicarnassus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric, and meekly yields up the best rod, though the natural man rebels. The bank of the river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent or descent. Halicarnassus bids me tarry on the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing awaiting the result of investigation. Halicarnassus picks his way over rocks, sideways and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the river in search of fish. I grow tired of playing leasa-bianca and steal behind the bridge, and pick my way over the rocks sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank and up the river, in search of “fun;” practice irregular and indescribable gymnastics with variable success for half an hour or so. Shout from the bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but see Halicarnassus gesticulating furiously, and evidently laboring under great excitement. Retrograde as rapidly as circumstances will permit. Halicarnassus makes a speaking trumpet of his hands and roars, “I’ve found—a fish! Left—him for—you—to catch! come quick!”—and plunging headlong down the bank disappears. I am touched to the heart by this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up to the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets entangled in hem of dress every third step—fishing-line in tree-top every second; progress therefore not so rapid as could be desired. Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to rock to the middle of the stream—balance on a pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, and just firm enough to make it worth while to run the risk—drop my line into the spot designated—a quiet, black little pool in the rushing river—see no fish, but have faith in♠Halicarnassus.

♣‘cod’ replaced with ‘rod’♦‘jacknife’ replaced with ‘jackknife’♠‘Harlicarnassus’ replaced with ‘Halicarnassus’

♣‘cod’ replaced with ‘rod’

♦‘jacknife’ replaced with ‘jackknife’

♠‘Harlicarnassus’ replaced with ‘Halicarnassus’

“Bite?” asks Halicarnassus eagerly.

“Not yet,” I answer sweetly. Breathless expectation.Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five minutes gone.

“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from down the river.

“Not yet,” hopefully.

“Lower your line a little. I’ll come in a minute.” Line is lowered. Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. Snatch it up. Only an old stick. Splash it off contemptuously.

“Bite?” calls Halicarnassus from afar.

“No,” faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.

“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly. Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.

“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a bend in the river.

“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream, * * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.

“Hullo! how many?”

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.

“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.

“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,” reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.

“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”

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(‡ decoration)HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON.“THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.”ONE of the sights pointed out to a traveler in the West is Cheyenne Canyon, a wild and weird pass in the Rocky Mountains a short distance from Colorado Springs. Some years ago the writer, in company with a party of tourists, drove as far as a vehicle could pass up the mountain-road that wound along a little stream which came tumbling down the narrow ravine splitting the mountain in twain. Soon we were compelled to abandon the wagon, and on foot we climbed the rugged way, first on one side and then on the other of the rushing rivulet where the narrow path could find space enough to lay its crooked length along. Suddenly a little log-cabin in a clump of trees burst on our view. A boy with a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder met us a few rods from the door and requested a fee of twenty-five cents each before permitting us to pass.“What is it?” inquired one of the party pointing at the cabin. “This is the house Helen Hunt lived in and away above there is where she is buried,” answered the boy. We paid the fee, inspected the house, and then, over more rocky steeps, we climbed to the spot indicated near a falling cataract and stood beside a pile of stones thrown together by hundreds of tourists who had preceded us. It was the lonely grave of one of the great literary women of our age. We gathered some stones and added them to the pile and left her alone by the singing cataract, beneath the sighing branches of the firs and pines which stood like towering sentinels around her on Mount Jackson—for this peak was named in her honor. “What a monument!” said one, “more lasting than hammered bronze!” “But not moreso,” said another, “than the good she has done. Her influence will live while this mountain shall stand, unless another dark age should sweep literature out of existence.” “I wonder the Indians don’t convert this place into a shrine and come here to worship,” ventured a third person. “Her ‘Romona,’ written in their behalf, must have been produced under a divine inspiration. She was among all American writers their greatest benefactor.”Helen Maria Fiske was born in Amherst,Mass., October 18, 1831. She was the daughter of Professor Nathan Fiske of Amherst College, and was educated at♦Ipswich (Mass.) Female Seminary. In 1852 she married Captain Edward B. Hunt of the U. S. Navy, and lived with him at various posts until 1863, when he died. After this she removed to Newport,R. I., with her children, but one by one they died, until 1872 she was left alone and desolate. In her girlhood she had contributedsome verses to a Boston paper which were printed. She wrote nothing more until two years after the death of her husband, when she sent a number of poems to New York papers which were signed H. H. and they attracted wide and favorable criticism. These poems were collected and published under the title of “Verses from H. H.” (1870). After the death of her children she decided to devote herself to literature, and from that time to the close of her life—twelve years later—her books came in rapid succession and she gained wide distinction as a writer of prose and verse. Both her poetry and prose works are characterized by deep thoughtfulness and a rare grace and beauty of diction.♦‘Ipswick’ replaced with ‘Ipswich’In 1873Mrs.Hunt removed to Colorado for the benefit of her health, and in 1875 became the wife ofWm.S. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado Springs; and it was in this beautiful little city, nestling at the foot of Pike’s Peak, with the perpetual snow on its summit always in sight, that she made her home for the remainder of her life, though she spent considerable time in traveling in New Mexico, California and the Eastern States gathering material for her books.Briefly catalogued, the works of Helen Hunt Jackson are: “Verses by H. H.” (1870); “Bits of Travel” (1873); “Bits of Talk About Home Matters” (1873); “Sonnets and Lyrics” (1876); “Mercy Philbrick’s Choice” (1876); “Hettie’s Strange History” (1877); “A Century of Dishonor” (1881); “Romona” (1884).Besides the above,Mrs.Jackson wrote several juvenile books and two novels in the “No Name” series; and that powerful series of stories, published under the pen-name of “Saxe Holme,” has also been attributed to her, although there is no absolute proof that she wrote them. “A Century of Dishonor” made its author more famous than anything she produced up to that time, but critics now generally agree that “Romona,” her last book, is her most powerful work, both as a novel and in its beneficent influence. It was the result of a most profound and exhaustive study of the Indian problem, to which she devoted the last and best years of her life. It was her most conscientious and sympathetic work. It was through Helen Hunt Jackson’s influence that the government instituted important reforms in the treatment of the red men.In June, 1884,Mrs.Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving a bad fracture of her leg. She was taken to California while convalescing and there contracted malaria, and at the same time developed cancer. The complication of her ailments resulted in death, which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back to Colorado, and, in accordance with her expressed wish, buried on the peak looking down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her. The cabin below had been built for her as a quiet retreat, where, when she so desired, she could retire with one or two friends, and write undisturbed, alone with the primeval forest and the voices which whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountain-air.CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER’S.LOW on the marble floor I lie:I am alone:Though friendly voices whisper nigh,And foreign crowds are passing by,I am alone.Great hymns float throughThe shadowed aisles. I hear a slow Refrain,“Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”With tender joy all others thrill;I have but tears:The false priest’s voices, high and shrill,Reiterate the “Peace, good will;”I have but tears.I hear anewThe nails and scourge; then come the lowSad words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”Close by my side the poor souls kneel;I turn away;Half-pitying looks at me they steal;They think, because I do not feel,I turn away;Ah! if they knew,How following them, where’er they go,I hear, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”Above the organ’s sweetest strainsI hear the groansOf prisoners, who lie in chains,So near and in such mortal pains,I hear the groans.But Christ walks throughThe dungeon ofSt.Angelo,And says, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”And now the music sinks to sighs;The lights grow dim:The Pastorella’s melodiesIn lingering echoes float and rise;The lights grow dim;More clear and true,In this sweet silence, seem to flowThe words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”The dawn swings incense, silver gray;The night is past;Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day;No priest, no church can bar its way:The night is past:How on this blueOf God’s great banner, blaze and glowThe words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”CHOICE OF COLORS.THE other day, as I was walking on one of the oldest and most picturesque streets of the old and picturesque town of Newport,R. I., I saw a little girl standing before the window of a milliner’s shop.It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the sidewalks on this street is so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with very great care, he steps continually into small wells of water. Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite warm enough even so. The child was but thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled down over it from her hair. She seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in the window, and talking to some one inside. I watched her for several moments, and then crossed the street to see what it all meant. I stole noiselessly up behind her, and she did not hear me. The window was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, but of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against the window-pane; and with every tap the unconscious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, half-singing voice, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”I stood motionless. I could not see her face; but there was in her whole attitude and tone the heartiest content and delight. I moved a little to the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing me; but the slight movement caught her ear, and in a second she had sprung aside and turned toward me. The spell was broken. She was no longer the queen of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow hues which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar child, out in the rain, and a little frightened at the approach of a stranger. She did not move away, however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her face which is so often seen in the prematurely developedfaces of poverty-stricken children. “Aren’t the colors pretty?” I said. She brightened instantly.“Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.”“But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said I. “Won’t you come under my umbrella?”She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if it had not occurred to her before that it was raining. Then she drew first one little foot and then the other out of the muddy puddle in which she had been standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, said, “I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to stop here a bit.”So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, the impulse seized me to return by a cross street, and see if she were still there. Tears sprang to my eyes as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, standing in the same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic finger to the blues and reds and yellows, and half chanting under her breath, as before, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her again. But I said in my heart, “Little Messenger, Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you all my life.”Why should days ever be dark, life ever be colorless? There is always sun; there are always blue and scarlet and yellow and purple. We cannot reach them, perhaps, but we can see them, if it is only “through a glass,” and “darkly,”—still we can see them. We can “choose” our colors. It rains, perhaps; and we are standing in the cold. Never mind. If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the wet and not feel the cold. And now and then a passer-by, who has rolled himself up in furs to keep out the cold, but shivers nevertheless,—who has money in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, but, nevertheless, goes grumbling because some colors are too dear for him,—such a passer-by, chancing to hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content, may learn a wondrous secret,—that pennilessness is not poverty, and ownership is not possession; that to be without is not always to lack, and to reach is not to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look up, and color for those who “choose.”(‡ decoration)

(‡ decoration)

“THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.”

ONE of the sights pointed out to a traveler in the West is Cheyenne Canyon, a wild and weird pass in the Rocky Mountains a short distance from Colorado Springs. Some years ago the writer, in company with a party of tourists, drove as far as a vehicle could pass up the mountain-road that wound along a little stream which came tumbling down the narrow ravine splitting the mountain in twain. Soon we were compelled to abandon the wagon, and on foot we climbed the rugged way, first on one side and then on the other of the rushing rivulet where the narrow path could find space enough to lay its crooked length along. Suddenly a little log-cabin in a clump of trees burst on our view. A boy with a Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder met us a few rods from the door and requested a fee of twenty-five cents each before permitting us to pass.

“What is it?” inquired one of the party pointing at the cabin. “This is the house Helen Hunt lived in and away above there is where she is buried,” answered the boy. We paid the fee, inspected the house, and then, over more rocky steeps, we climbed to the spot indicated near a falling cataract and stood beside a pile of stones thrown together by hundreds of tourists who had preceded us. It was the lonely grave of one of the great literary women of our age. We gathered some stones and added them to the pile and left her alone by the singing cataract, beneath the sighing branches of the firs and pines which stood like towering sentinels around her on Mount Jackson—for this peak was named in her honor. “What a monument!” said one, “more lasting than hammered bronze!” “But not moreso,” said another, “than the good she has done. Her influence will live while this mountain shall stand, unless another dark age should sweep literature out of existence.” “I wonder the Indians don’t convert this place into a shrine and come here to worship,” ventured a third person. “Her ‘Romona,’ written in their behalf, must have been produced under a divine inspiration. She was among all American writers their greatest benefactor.”

Helen Maria Fiske was born in Amherst,Mass., October 18, 1831. She was the daughter of Professor Nathan Fiske of Amherst College, and was educated at♦Ipswich (Mass.) Female Seminary. In 1852 she married Captain Edward B. Hunt of the U. S. Navy, and lived with him at various posts until 1863, when he died. After this she removed to Newport,R. I., with her children, but one by one they died, until 1872 she was left alone and desolate. In her girlhood she had contributedsome verses to a Boston paper which were printed. She wrote nothing more until two years after the death of her husband, when she sent a number of poems to New York papers which were signed H. H. and they attracted wide and favorable criticism. These poems were collected and published under the title of “Verses from H. H.” (1870). After the death of her children she decided to devote herself to literature, and from that time to the close of her life—twelve years later—her books came in rapid succession and she gained wide distinction as a writer of prose and verse. Both her poetry and prose works are characterized by deep thoughtfulness and a rare grace and beauty of diction.

♦‘Ipswick’ replaced with ‘Ipswich’

In 1873Mrs.Hunt removed to Colorado for the benefit of her health, and in 1875 became the wife ofWm.S. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado Springs; and it was in this beautiful little city, nestling at the foot of Pike’s Peak, with the perpetual snow on its summit always in sight, that she made her home for the remainder of her life, though she spent considerable time in traveling in New Mexico, California and the Eastern States gathering material for her books.

Briefly catalogued, the works of Helen Hunt Jackson are: “Verses by H. H.” (1870); “Bits of Travel” (1873); “Bits of Talk About Home Matters” (1873); “Sonnets and Lyrics” (1876); “Mercy Philbrick’s Choice” (1876); “Hettie’s Strange History” (1877); “A Century of Dishonor” (1881); “Romona” (1884).

Besides the above,Mrs.Jackson wrote several juvenile books and two novels in the “No Name” series; and that powerful series of stories, published under the pen-name of “Saxe Holme,” has also been attributed to her, although there is no absolute proof that she wrote them. “A Century of Dishonor” made its author more famous than anything she produced up to that time, but critics now generally agree that “Romona,” her last book, is her most powerful work, both as a novel and in its beneficent influence. It was the result of a most profound and exhaustive study of the Indian problem, to which she devoted the last and best years of her life. It was her most conscientious and sympathetic work. It was through Helen Hunt Jackson’s influence that the government instituted important reforms in the treatment of the red men.

In June, 1884,Mrs.Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving a bad fracture of her leg. She was taken to California while convalescing and there contracted malaria, and at the same time developed cancer. The complication of her ailments resulted in death, which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back to Colorado, and, in accordance with her expressed wish, buried on the peak looking down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her. The cabin below had been built for her as a quiet retreat, where, when she so desired, she could retire with one or two friends, and write undisturbed, alone with the primeval forest and the voices which whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountain-air.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER’S.

LOW on the marble floor I lie:I am alone:Though friendly voices whisper nigh,And foreign crowds are passing by,I am alone.Great hymns float throughThe shadowed aisles. I hear a slow Refrain,“Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”With tender joy all others thrill;I have but tears:The false priest’s voices, high and shrill,Reiterate the “Peace, good will;”I have but tears.I hear anewThe nails and scourge; then come the lowSad words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”Close by my side the poor souls kneel;I turn away;Half-pitying looks at me they steal;They think, because I do not feel,I turn away;Ah! if they knew,How following them, where’er they go,I hear, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”Above the organ’s sweetest strainsI hear the groansOf prisoners, who lie in chains,So near and in such mortal pains,I hear the groans.But Christ walks throughThe dungeon ofSt.Angelo,And says, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”And now the music sinks to sighs;The lights grow dim:The Pastorella’s melodiesIn lingering echoes float and rise;The lights grow dim;More clear and true,In this sweet silence, seem to flowThe words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”The dawn swings incense, silver gray;The night is past;Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day;No priest, no church can bar its way:The night is past:How on this blueOf God’s great banner, blaze and glowThe words, “Forgive them, for they knowNot what they do!”

OW on the marble floor I lie:

I am alone:

Though friendly voices whisper nigh,

And foreign crowds are passing by,

I am alone.

Great hymns float through

The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow Refrain,

“Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

With tender joy all others thrill;

I have but tears:

The false priest’s voices, high and shrill,

Reiterate the “Peace, good will;”

I have but tears.

I hear anew

The nails and scourge; then come the low

Sad words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

Close by my side the poor souls kneel;

I turn away;

Half-pitying looks at me they steal;

They think, because I do not feel,

I turn away;

Ah! if they knew,

How following them, where’er they go,

I hear, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

Above the organ’s sweetest strains

I hear the groans

Of prisoners, who lie in chains,

So near and in such mortal pains,

I hear the groans.

But Christ walks through

The dungeon ofSt.Angelo,

And says, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

And now the music sinks to sighs;

The lights grow dim:

The Pastorella’s melodies

In lingering echoes float and rise;

The lights grow dim;

More clear and true,

In this sweet silence, seem to flow

The words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

The dawn swings incense, silver gray;

The night is past;

Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day;

No priest, no church can bar its way:

The night is past:

How on this blue

Of God’s great banner, blaze and glow

The words, “Forgive them, for they know

Not what they do!”

CHOICE OF COLORS.

THE other day, as I was walking on one of the oldest and most picturesque streets of the old and picturesque town of Newport,R. I., I saw a little girl standing before the window of a milliner’s shop.It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the sidewalks on this street is so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with very great care, he steps continually into small wells of water. Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite warm enough even so. The child was but thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled down over it from her hair. She seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in the window, and talking to some one inside. I watched her for several moments, and then crossed the street to see what it all meant. I stole noiselessly up behind her, and she did not hear me. The window was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, but of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against the window-pane; and with every tap the unconscious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, half-singing voice, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”I stood motionless. I could not see her face; but there was in her whole attitude and tone the heartiest content and delight. I moved a little to the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing me; but the slight movement caught her ear, and in a second she had sprung aside and turned toward me. The spell was broken. She was no longer the queen of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow hues which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar child, out in the rain, and a little frightened at the approach of a stranger. She did not move away, however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her face which is so often seen in the prematurely developedfaces of poverty-stricken children. “Aren’t the colors pretty?” I said. She brightened instantly.“Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.”“But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said I. “Won’t you come under my umbrella?”She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if it had not occurred to her before that it was raining. Then she drew first one little foot and then the other out of the muddy puddle in which she had been standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, said, “I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to stop here a bit.”So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, the impulse seized me to return by a cross street, and see if she were still there. Tears sprang to my eyes as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, standing in the same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic finger to the blues and reds and yellows, and half chanting under her breath, as before, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her again. But I said in my heart, “Little Messenger, Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you all my life.”Why should days ever be dark, life ever be colorless? There is always sun; there are always blue and scarlet and yellow and purple. We cannot reach them, perhaps, but we can see them, if it is only “through a glass,” and “darkly,”—still we can see them. We can “choose” our colors. It rains, perhaps; and we are standing in the cold. Never mind. If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the wet and not feel the cold. And now and then a passer-by, who has rolled himself up in furs to keep out the cold, but shivers nevertheless,—who has money in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, but, nevertheless, goes grumbling because some colors are too dear for him,—such a passer-by, chancing to hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content, may learn a wondrous secret,—that pennilessness is not poverty, and ownership is not possession; that to be without is not always to lack, and to reach is not to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look up, and color for those who “choose.”

It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the sidewalks on this street is so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with very great care, he steps continually into small wells of water. Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite warm enough even so. The child was but thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled down over it from her hair. She seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in the window, and talking to some one inside. I watched her for several moments, and then crossed the street to see what it all meant. I stole noiselessly up behind her, and she did not hear me. The window was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, but of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against the window-pane; and with every tap the unconscious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, half-singing voice, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”

I stood motionless. I could not see her face; but there was in her whole attitude and tone the heartiest content and delight. I moved a little to the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing me; but the slight movement caught her ear, and in a second she had sprung aside and turned toward me. The spell was broken. She was no longer the queen of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow hues which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar child, out in the rain, and a little frightened at the approach of a stranger. She did not move away, however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her face which is so often seen in the prematurely developedfaces of poverty-stricken children. “Aren’t the colors pretty?” I said. She brightened instantly.

“Yes’m. I’d like a goon av thit blue.”

“But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said I. “Won’t you come under my umbrella?”

She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if it had not occurred to her before that it was raining. Then she drew first one little foot and then the other out of the muddy puddle in which she had been standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, said, “I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to stop here a bit.”

So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, the impulse seized me to return by a cross street, and see if she were still there. Tears sprang to my eyes as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, standing in the same spot, still pointing with the rhythmic finger to the blues and reds and yellows, and half chanting under her breath, as before, “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.” “I choosethatcolor.”

I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her again. But I said in my heart, “Little Messenger, Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you all my life.”

Why should days ever be dark, life ever be colorless? There is always sun; there are always blue and scarlet and yellow and purple. We cannot reach them, perhaps, but we can see them, if it is only “through a glass,” and “darkly,”—still we can see them. We can “choose” our colors. It rains, perhaps; and we are standing in the cold. Never mind. If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the wet and not feel the cold. And now and then a passer-by, who has rolled himself up in furs to keep out the cold, but shivers nevertheless,—who has money in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, but, nevertheless, goes grumbling because some colors are too dear for him,—such a passer-by, chancing to hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content, may learn a wondrous secret,—that pennilessness is not poverty, and ownership is not possession; that to be without is not always to lack, and to reach is not to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look up, and color for those who “choose.”

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(‡ decoration)FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.FAMOUS AUTHOR OF “LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.”IFMrs.Burnett were not a native of England, she might be called a typical American woman. As all Americans, however, are descended at very few removes from foreign ancestors, it may, nevertheless, be said of the young English girl, who crossed the ocean with her widowed mother at the age of sixteen, that she has shown all the pluck, energy and perseverance usually thought of as belonging to Americans. She settled with her mother and sisters on a Tennessee farm; but soon began to write short stories, the first of which was published in a Philadelphia magazine in 1867. Her first story to achieve popularity was “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s,” published in “Scribner’s Magazine” in 1877. It is a story of a daughter of a miner, the father a vicious character, whose neglect and abuse render all the more remarkable the virtue and real refinement of the daughter.Mrs.Burnett delights in heroes and heroines whose characters contrast strongly with their circumstances, and in some of her stories, especially in “A Lady of Quality,” published in 1895, she even verges on the sensational.In 1873 Miss Hodgson was married to Doctor Burnett, of Knoxville, Tennessee. After a two years’ tour in Europe, they took up their residence in the city of Washington, where they have since lived.Mrs.Burnett’s longest novel, “Through One Administration,” is a story of the political and social life of the Capital. “Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “Esmeralda,” “Louisiana,” “A Fair Barbarian,” and “Haworth’s” are, after those already mentioned, her most popular stories. “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s” has been dramatized.Mrs.Hodgson is most widely known, however, by her Children Stories, the most famous of which, “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” appeared as a serial in “St.Nicholas” in 1886, and has since been dramatized and played in both England and America.Since 1885 her health has not permitted her to write so voluminously as she had previously done, but she has, nevertheless, been a frequent contributor to periodicals. Some of her articles have been of an auto-biographical nature, and her story “The One I Knew Best of All” is an account of her life. She is very fond of society and holds a high place in the social world. Her alert imagination and her gift of expression have enabled her to use her somewhat limited opportunity of observation to the greatest advantage, as is shown in her successful interpretation of the Lancashire dialect and the founding of the story of Joan Lowrie on a casual glimpse, during a visit to a mining village, of a beautiful young woman followed by a cursing and abusive father.PRETTY POLLYP.¹FROM “PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON.”¹Copyright, T. B. Peterson &Bros.FRAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, “you haven’t spoken for half an hour, by Jupiter!”Framleigh—Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the Guards—did not move. He had been sitting for some time before the window, in a position more noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded upon the back of his chair; and he did not disturb himself, when he condescended to reply to his youthful admirer and ally.“Half an hour?” he said, with a tranquil half-drawl, which had a touch of affectation in its coolness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough to be disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “Haven’t I?”“No, you have not,” returned Popham, encouraged by the negative amiability of his manner. “I am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?”“Up?” still half-abstractedly. “Nothing! Fact is, I believe I have been watching a girl!”Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting on the table, and advanced toward the window, hurriedly, holding his cigar in his hand.“A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort of a girl?”“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.”“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house opposite?”“Yes.”“By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and—”“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with—”“Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.”He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself.“Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t it? Who is pretty Polly P.?”Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, actually colored.“Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “I dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who don’t know her; but I can assure you, Framleigh, though it is the name all our fellows seem to give her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of them who means it to appear disrespectful, or—or even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation, to slang. “She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl—so jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.”Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of the window again, in the direction of the house opposite.“Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “And very laudably, too. But you have not told me what the letter P. is intended to signify. ‘Pretty Polly P.’ is agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might mean Pretty Polly Popham.”“I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with more color; “but it does not. It means Pemberton?”“Pemberton!” echoed Framleigh, with an intonation almost savoring of disgust. “You don’t mean to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?”“She is his niece,” was the answer, “and that amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she was his daughter; but he couldn’t help that. Every one is fond of her.”“Ah!” said Framleigh. “I see. As you say, ‘She is the sort of girl.’”“There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, suddenly.And there she was, surely enough, and they had a full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were by no means an inartistic one. And as she came down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her hands—a little earthen-pot, with some fresh gloss-leaved little plant in it—she was pleasant to look at, pretty Polly P.—very pleasant; and Gaston Framleigh was conscious of the fact.It was only a small place, the house opposite and the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. Indeed, it might have presented anything but an attractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very different place from what it might have been, under different circumstances.And down the graveled path, in the midst of all this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her work almost like an artist, flourishing her little trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham colored and♦laughed half-apologetically.♦‘langhed’ replaced with ‘laughed’“It is a habit of hers,” he said. “She hardly knows when she does it. She often does things other girls would think strange. But she is not like other girls.”Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most communicative of moods, this morning; he was feeling gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent little Popham, “Lambkin Popham,” as one of his fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, almost insignificant problems as “Lambkin” Popham clearly.So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words in her favor.“She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Framleigh,” he said. “You would be sure to like her. The company fairly idolize her.”“Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What company?”“Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The theatrical lot at the Prince’s, you know, where she acts.”Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over her flower-bed; but he drew back at this, conscious of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to feel.“An actress!” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone.“Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely.“The worse for her,” with impatience. “And the greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.”It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion, and she recognized him at once. She did not blush at all herself, however; she just gave him an arch little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her pretty white teeth.

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FAMOUS AUTHOR OF “LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.”

IFMrs.Burnett were not a native of England, she might be called a typical American woman. As all Americans, however, are descended at very few removes from foreign ancestors, it may, nevertheless, be said of the young English girl, who crossed the ocean with her widowed mother at the age of sixteen, that she has shown all the pluck, energy and perseverance usually thought of as belonging to Americans. She settled with her mother and sisters on a Tennessee farm; but soon began to write short stories, the first of which was published in a Philadelphia magazine in 1867. Her first story to achieve popularity was “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s,” published in “Scribner’s Magazine” in 1877. It is a story of a daughter of a miner, the father a vicious character, whose neglect and abuse render all the more remarkable the virtue and real refinement of the daughter.Mrs.Burnett delights in heroes and heroines whose characters contrast strongly with their circumstances, and in some of her stories, especially in “A Lady of Quality,” published in 1895, she even verges on the sensational.

In 1873 Miss Hodgson was married to Doctor Burnett, of Knoxville, Tennessee. After a two years’ tour in Europe, they took up their residence in the city of Washington, where they have since lived.

Mrs.Burnett’s longest novel, “Through One Administration,” is a story of the political and social life of the Capital. “Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “Esmeralda,” “Louisiana,” “A Fair Barbarian,” and “Haworth’s” are, after those already mentioned, her most popular stories. “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s” has been dramatized.Mrs.Hodgson is most widely known, however, by her Children Stories, the most famous of which, “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” appeared as a serial in “St.Nicholas” in 1886, and has since been dramatized and played in both England and America.

Since 1885 her health has not permitted her to write so voluminously as she had previously done, but she has, nevertheless, been a frequent contributor to periodicals. Some of her articles have been of an auto-biographical nature, and her story “The One I Knew Best of All” is an account of her life. She is very fond of society and holds a high place in the social world. Her alert imagination and her gift of expression have enabled her to use her somewhat limited opportunity of observation to the greatest advantage, as is shown in her successful interpretation of the Lancashire dialect and the founding of the story of Joan Lowrie on a casual glimpse, during a visit to a mining village, of a beautiful young woman followed by a cursing and abusive father.

PRETTY POLLYP.¹

FROM “PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON.”

¹Copyright, T. B. Peterson &Bros.

FRAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, “you haven’t spoken for half an hour, by Jupiter!”Framleigh—Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the Guards—did not move. He had been sitting for some time before the window, in a position more noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded upon the back of his chair; and he did not disturb himself, when he condescended to reply to his youthful admirer and ally.“Half an hour?” he said, with a tranquil half-drawl, which had a touch of affectation in its coolness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough to be disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “Haven’t I?”“No, you have not,” returned Popham, encouraged by the negative amiability of his manner. “I am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?”“Up?” still half-abstractedly. “Nothing! Fact is, I believe I have been watching a girl!”Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting on the table, and advanced toward the window, hurriedly, holding his cigar in his hand.“A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort of a girl?”“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.”“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house opposite?”“Yes.”“By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and—”“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with—”“Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.”He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself.“Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t it? Who is pretty Polly P.?”Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, actually colored.“Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “I dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who don’t know her; but I can assure you, Framleigh, though it is the name all our fellows seem to give her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of them who means it to appear disrespectful, or—or even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation, to slang. “She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl—so jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.”Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of the window again, in the direction of the house opposite.“Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “And very laudably, too. But you have not told me what the letter P. is intended to signify. ‘Pretty Polly P.’ is agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might mean Pretty Polly Popham.”“I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with more color; “but it does not. It means Pemberton?”“Pemberton!” echoed Framleigh, with an intonation almost savoring of disgust. “You don’t mean to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?”“She is his niece,” was the answer, “and that amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she was his daughter; but he couldn’t help that. Every one is fond of her.”“Ah!” said Framleigh. “I see. As you say, ‘She is the sort of girl.’”“There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, suddenly.And there she was, surely enough, and they had a full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were by no means an inartistic one. And as she came down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her hands—a little earthen-pot, with some fresh gloss-leaved little plant in it—she was pleasant to look at, pretty Polly P.—very pleasant; and Gaston Framleigh was conscious of the fact.It was only a small place, the house opposite and the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. Indeed, it might have presented anything but an attractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very different place from what it might have been, under different circumstances.And down the graveled path, in the midst of all this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her work almost like an artist, flourishing her little trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham colored and♦laughed half-apologetically.♦‘langhed’ replaced with ‘laughed’“It is a habit of hers,” he said. “She hardly knows when she does it. She often does things other girls would think strange. But she is not like other girls.”Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most communicative of moods, this morning; he was feeling gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent little Popham, “Lambkin Popham,” as one of his fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, almost insignificant problems as “Lambkin” Popham clearly.So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words in her favor.“She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Framleigh,” he said. “You would be sure to like her. The company fairly idolize her.”“Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What company?”“Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The theatrical lot at the Prince’s, you know, where she acts.”Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over her flower-bed; but he drew back at this, conscious of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to feel.“An actress!” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone.“Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely.“The worse for her,” with impatience. “And the greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.”It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion, and she recognized him at once. She did not blush at all herself, however; she just gave him an arch little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her pretty white teeth.

FRAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, “you haven’t spoken for half an hour, by Jupiter!”

Framleigh—Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the Guards—did not move. He had been sitting for some time before the window, in a position more noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded upon the back of his chair; and he did not disturb himself, when he condescended to reply to his youthful admirer and ally.

“Half an hour?” he said, with a tranquil half-drawl, which had a touch of affectation in its coolness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough to be disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “Haven’t I?”

“No, you have not,” returned Popham, encouraged by the negative amiability of his manner. “I am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?”

“Up?” still half-abstractedly. “Nothing! Fact is, I believe I have been watching a girl!”

Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting on the table, and advanced toward the window, hurriedly, holding his cigar in his hand.

“A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort of a girl?”

“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.”

“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house opposite?”

“Yes.”

“By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and—”

“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with—”

“Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.”

He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself.

“Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t it? Who is pretty Polly P.?”

Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, actually colored.

“Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “I dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who don’t know her; but I can assure you, Framleigh, though it is the name all our fellows seem to give her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of them who means it to appear disrespectful, or—or even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation, to slang. “She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl—so jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.”

Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of the window again, in the direction of the house opposite.

“Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “And very laudably, too. But you have not told me what the letter P. is intended to signify. ‘Pretty Polly P.’ is agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might mean Pretty Polly Popham.”

“I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with more color; “but it does not. It means Pemberton?”

“Pemberton!” echoed Framleigh, with an intonation almost savoring of disgust. “You don’t mean to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?”

“She is his niece,” was the answer, “and that amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she was his daughter; but he couldn’t help that. Every one is fond of her.”

“Ah!” said Framleigh. “I see. As you say, ‘She is the sort of girl.’”

“There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, suddenly.

And there she was, surely enough, and they had a full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were by no means an inartistic one. And as she came down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her hands—a little earthen-pot, with some fresh gloss-leaved little plant in it—she was pleasant to look at, pretty Polly P.—very pleasant; and Gaston Framleigh was conscious of the fact.

It was only a small place, the house opposite and the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. Indeed, it might have presented anything but an attractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very different place from what it might have been, under different circumstances.

And down the graveled path, in the midst of all this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her work almost like an artist, flourishing her little trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham colored and♦laughed half-apologetically.

♦‘langhed’ replaced with ‘laughed’

“It is a habit of hers,” he said. “She hardly knows when she does it. She often does things other girls would think strange. But she is not like other girls.”

Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most communicative of moods, this morning; he was feeling gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent little Popham, “Lambkin Popham,” as one of his fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, almost insignificant problems as “Lambkin” Popham clearly.

So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words in her favor.

“She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Framleigh,” he said. “You would be sure to like her. The company fairly idolize her.”

“Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What company?”

“Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The theatrical lot at the Prince’s, you know, where she acts.”

Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over her flower-bed; but he drew back at this, conscious of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to feel.

“An actress!” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone.

“Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely.

“The worse for her,” with impatience. “And the greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.”

It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion, and she recognized him at once. She did not blush at all herself, however; she just gave him an arch little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her pretty white teeth.

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