The Recruit's Story
By Frank Luther Mott
Last Sunday afternoon I wandered into Smith Park and sat down on a bench near the fountain. It was a fine day. The sun shone warmly and I was one of many men who lounged on those benches and luxuriated in the grateful warmth of the early spring sunshine.
Men of many kinds were there. There were a few old men, but many were young, or middle-aged. Unless I am a very poor observer, not a few of them were drifters.
As I sat there I watched the play of the water falling in the fountain. I observed the bronze figures of women sitting in the center, musing over who knows what great world problem; and I saw, surmounting all, the towering figure of a soldier of the Civil War. There he stood in his quiet power—apotheosis of the common soldier in the war for the Union. He wore the great-coat and military cape of the old uniform. He stood at ease, his left foot advanced, and the butt of his gun resting on the ground in front of him, while he held the gun-barrel with his left hand and rested his forearm on the muzzle. He gazed a little past me, steadfastly, toward a corner of the park. On his face was the look of the man who is ready—the man undaunted by any emergency—the man unafraid in the quiet strength of soul and body.
"He it was," I reflected, "who leaped to the colors when Father Abraham called, and by the might of his loyalty and sacrifice saved his country in the hour of her greatest need."
Glancing across the park, I saw a poster glaring from the great window of a salesroom. I could make out three words, printed in giant type:
MEN WANTED NOW!
Again I looked about me at the men lounging, as I was lounging, there on the benches in the sunlight, some of them asleep. I too felt the soporific influence of the May sun, and might soon have lapsed into unconsciousness myself had it not been for a strange thing that happened just then.
I saw the Union soldier turn his head a little and look directly at me.
I am not given to illusions, being generally considered a matter-of-fact young man. But, as I live, I saw that Union soldier turn his head! And more than that, I knew just why he did it.
I had read the papers, and knew my country's need. I had read the flaming posters calling for men to enlist in her armies. I had read President Wilson's classic-to-be concerning America's purpose in our greatest war for liberty. I had not meant to be a slacker; but, some way, I had not been strongly moved. I was letting the other fellow fill up the ranks, intending hazily to rally to the colors myself when the need seemed greater. Even now, I was inclined to argue the matter.
I leaned back in my seat and said, in a conversational tone:
"Now look here, Mr. Union Soldier, the need was greater when you joined the colors. The Union was threatened; the very existence of the nation was at hazard. I too will answer the call if worse comes to worst in this war."
"Young man," replied the soldier, his eyes fixed on mine and his voice deep and calm, "young man, your country's call is your country's call. This time it is no question of union; thank God, the states stand indivisible forever. But this time the crisis is even greater, the need of vision and sacrifice even more vital. This time the liberty, not of the black man alone, but of the world, is in the balance. Are you deaf to the call?"
"But listen," I answered. "This is not our war. Nobody has crossed the sea to strike us."
"Have they not?" he countered. "By spies, by intrigue, by a treacherous diplomacy, by an unscrupulous policy of world subjugation, the enemy has invaded our shores. Yet it is not that alone. As I have stood here, I have heard the cries of the people of ravished Belgium; I have heard the despairing screams of men and women sinking in watery graves; the wails of perishing Armenia assail my ears. Do you say it is not our war? It is! Just as the fate of the black man touched the hearts of us Northerners, just as the misfortune of the traveler to Jericho touched the heart of the Samaritan, just as the suffering Christ on the cross has touched the heart of the world—just so must the woeful cry of a world perishing to-day touch the heart of America…. And yet I look about me here! These men drowsing in the sunshine! Are these Americans? From the field I rushed when Lincoln called, scarcely pausing to bid my mother good-bye; and I braved cold, and heat, and sickness, and privation, and terrors by day and night, and rain of shot and shell, and wounds and suffering and death—all because my country called!"
As he spoke his voice rose to a commanding resonance. He raised his right arm from the muzzle of the gun where it had rested—raised it high in impassioned appeal. At last I was moved; tears ran down my cheeks.
I started—awoke. I had been asleep, and the water from the fountain was blowing in my face. But was it the spray from the fountain alone that made my cheeks wet?
I looked up at the bronze figure surmounting the fountain. There the soldier stood at rest, left foot advanced, arm resting on his gun. His eyes looked steadfastly toward the corner of the park. But did I not see a glow of passion on that bronze face—a passion for the Liberty of the World?
I turned to my neighbor on the bench at my left. His eyes were half shut, drowsily.
"Pardon me, brother," I said. "Can you tell me where the nearest recruiting station is located?"
The Happiest Man in I-O-Way
By Rupert Hughes
Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deepIt teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sunSo b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-likeAn' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you …I come to that big locus' by the pike,An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,With breezes like drug-store perfumery.I stood up in my stirrups, with my headSo deep in flowers they almost smothered me.I kind o' liked to think that I was dead …An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?Your pa not 'lowin me around the place …Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em—say,I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,"When this you see remember me"—I knowedAnother poem; but I've lost my headFrom seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin sayIs—"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your maDrive by to town—she didn't speak to me!An' in the farthest field I seen your paAt his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,I hed to come—for now's our livin' chance.Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf—Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mareWill carry double, like we've trained her to.Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hairAn' let's ride straight to heaven—me an' you!I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:"There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."
Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deepIt teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sunSo b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-likeAn' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you …I come to that big locus' by the pike,An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,With breezes like drug-store perfumery.I stood up in my stirrups, with my headSo deep in flowers they almost smothered me.I kind o' liked to think that I was dead …An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.
Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deep
It teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sun
So b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;
Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!
An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-like
An' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you …
I come to that big locus' by the pike,
An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,
With breezes like drug-store perfumery.
I stood up in my stirrups, with my head
So deep in flowers they almost smothered me.
I kind o' liked to think that I was dead …
An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,
I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.
For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?Your pa not 'lowin me around the place …Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em—say,I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!
For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?
Your pa not 'lowin me around the place …
Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;
They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.
I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em—say,
I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!
I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,"When this you see remember me"—I knowedAnother poem; but I've lost my headFrom seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin sayIs—"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."
I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;
'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!
The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,
But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,
"When this you see remember me"—I knowed
Another poem; but I've lost my head
From seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin say
Is—"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."
Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your maDrive by to town—she didn't speak to me!An' in the farthest field I seen your paAt his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,I hed to come—for now's our livin' chance.Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf—Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mareWill carry double, like we've trained her to.Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hairAn' let's ride straight to heaven—me an' you!I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:"There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."
Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your ma
Drive by to town—she didn't speak to me!
An' in the farthest field I seen your pa
At his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.
But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,
I hed to come—for now's our livin' chance.
Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf—
Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."
Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mare
Will carry double, like we've trained her to.
Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hair
An' let's ride straight to heaven—me an' you!
I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:
"There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."
The Captured Dream
By Octave Thanet
Somers rode slowly over the low Iowa hills, fitting an air in his mind to Andrew Lang's dainty verses. Presently, being quite alone on the country road, he began to sing:
"In dreams doth he behold her,Still fair and kind and young."
"In dreams doth he behold her,Still fair and kind and young."
"In dreams doth he behold her,
Still fair and kind and young."
The gentle strain of melancholy and baffled desire faded into silence, but the young man's thoughts pursued it. A memory of his own that sometimes stung him, sometimes plaintively caressed him, stirred in his heart. "I am afraid you hit it, Andy," he muttered, "and I should have found it only a dream had I won."
At thirty Somers imagined himself mighty cynical. He consorted with daring critics, and believed the worst both of art and letters. He was making campaign cartoons for a daily journal instead of painting the picture of the future; the panic of '93 had stripped him of his little fortune, and his sweetheart had refused to marry him. Therefore he said incessantly in the language of Job, "I do well to be angry."
The rubber tires revolved more slowly as his eyes turned from the wayside to the smiling hills. The corn ears were sheathed in silvery yellow, but the afternoon sun jewelled the green pastures, fresh as in May, for rain had fallen in the morning, and maples, oaks and elms blended exquisite gradations of color and shade here and there among the open fields. Long rows of poplars recalled France to Somers and he sighed. "These houses are all comfortable and all ugly," thought the artist. "I never saw anything less picturesque. The life hasn't even the dismal interest of poverty and revolt, for they are all beastly prosperous; and one of the farmers has offered me a hundred dollars and my expenses to come here and make a pastel of his wife. And I have taken the offer because I want to pay my board bill and buy a second-hand bicycle. The chances are he is after something like a colored photograph, something slick and smooth, and every hair painted—Oh, Lord! But I have to have the money; and I won't sign the cursed thing. What does he want it for though? I wonder, did he ever know love's dream? Dream? It's all a dream—a mirage of the senses or the fancy. Confound it, why need I be harking back to it? I must be near his house. House near the corner, they said, where the roads cross. Ugh! How it jumps at the eyes."
The house before him was yellow with pea-green blinds; the great barns were Indian red; the yard a riot of color from blooming flowers.
Somers wheeled up to the gate and asked of the old man who was leaning upon the fence where Mr. Gates lived.
"Here," said the old man, not removing his elbows from the fence bar.
"And, may I ask, are you Mr. Gates?" said Somers.
"Yes, sir. But if you're the young man was round selling 'Mother, Home and Heaven,' and going to call again to see if we liked it, we don't want it. My wife can't read and we're taking a Chicago paper now, and ain't got any time."
Somers smiled. "I'm not selling anything but pictures," said he, "and I believe you want me to make one for you."
"Are you Mr. Somers, F. J. S.?" cried the farmer, his face lighting in a surprising manner. "Well, I'm glad to see you, sir. My wife said you'd come this afternoon and I wouldn't believe her. I'm always caught when I don't believe my wife. Come right in. Oh, did you bring your tools with you?"
He guided Somers into the house and into a room so dark that he stumbled.
"There's the sofy; set down," said Gates, who seemed full of hospitable cheer. "I'll get a blind open. Girl's gone to the fair and Mother's setting out on the back piazza, listening to the noises on the road. She's all ready. Make yourself to home. Pastel like them pictures on the wall's what I want. My daughter done them." His tone changed on the last sentence, but Somers did not notice it; he was drinking in the details of the room to describe them afterwards to his sympathizing friends in Chicago.
"What a chamber of horrors," he thought, "and one can see he is proud of it." The carpet was soft to the foot, covered with a jungle of flowers and green leaves—the pattern of carpet which fashion leaves behind for disappointed salesmen to mark lower and lower until it shall be pushed into the ranks of shopworn bargains. The cheap paper on the wall was delicately tinted, but this boon came plainly from the designers, and not the taste of the buyer, since there was a simply terrible chair that swung by machinery, and had four brilliant hues of plush to vex the eye, besides a paroxysm of embroidery and lace to which was still attached the red ticket of the county fair. More embroidery figured on the cabinet organ and two tables, and another red ticket peeped coyly from under the ornate frame of a pastel landscape displaying every natural beauty—forest, mountain, sunlit lake, and meadow—at their bluest and greenest. There were three other pictures in the room, two very large colored photographs of a lad of twelve and of a pretty girl who might be sixteen, in a white gown with a roll of parchment in her hand tied with a blue ribbon; and the photograph of a cross of flowers.
The girl's dark, wistful, timid eyes seemed to follow the young artist as he walked about the room. They appealed to him. "Poor little girl," he thought, "to have to live here." Then he heard a dragging footfall, and there entered the mistress of the house. She was a tall woman who stooped. Her hair was gray and scanty, and so ill-arranged on the top of her head that the mournful tonsure of age showed under the false gray braid. She was thin with the gaunt thinness of years and toil, not the poetic, appealing slenderness of youth. She had attired herself for the picture in a black silken gown, sparkling with jet that tinkled as she moved; the harsh, black, bristling line at the neck defined her withered throat brutally. Yet Somer's sneer was transient. He was struck by two things—the woman was blind, and she had once worn a face like that of the pretty girl. With a sensation of pity he recalled Andrew Lang's verses; inaudibly, while she greeted him he was repeating:
"Who watches day by dayThe dust of time that stains her,The griefs that leave her gray,The flesh that still enchains her,Whose grace has passed away."
"Who watches day by dayThe dust of time that stains her,The griefs that leave her gray,The flesh that still enchains her,Whose grace has passed away."
"Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
The griefs that leave her gray,
The flesh that still enchains her,
Whose grace has passed away."
Her eyes were closed but she came straight toward him, holding out her hand. It was her left hand that was extended; her right closed over the top of a cane, and this added to the impression of decrepitude conveyed by her whole presence. She spoke in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant voice. "I guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel—we feel very glad to have the honor of meeting you, sir."
No one had ever felt honored to meet Somers before. He thought how much refinement and sadness were in a blind woman's face. In his most deferential manner he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am to paint you, madam?" he said.
She blushed faintly. "Ain't it rediculous?" she apologized. "But Mr. Gates will have it. He has been at me to have somebody paint a picture of me ever since I had my photograph taken. It was a big picture and most folks said it was real good, though not flattering; but he wouldn't hang it. He took it off and I don't know what he did do to it. 'I want a real artist to paint you, Mother,' he said. I guess if Kitty had lived she'd have suited him, though she was all for landscape; never did much figures. You noticed her work in this room, ain't you—on the table and chair and organ—art needlework? Kitty could do anything. She took six prizes at the county fair; two of 'em come in after she was in her last sickness. She was so pleased that she had the picture—that's the picture right above the sofy; it's a pastel—and the tidy, I mean the art needle work—put on her bed, and she looked at them the longest while. Her paw would never let the tickets be took off." She reached forth her hand to the chair near her and felt the ticket, stroking it absently, her chin quivering a little, while her lips smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she said, "that maybe you'd paint a head of me—pastel like that landscape—that's why he likes pastel so. And he was thinking if—if maybe—my eyes was jest like Kitty's when we were married—if you would put in eyes, he would be awful much obliged and be willing to pay extra if necessary. Would it be hard?"
Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Certainly not," said he, rather dryly; and he was ashamed of himself at the sensitive flutter in the old features.
"Of course I know," she said, in a different tone than she had used before, "I understand how comical it must seem to a young man to have to draw an old woman's picture; but it ain't comical to my husband. He wants it very much. He's the kindest man that ever lived, to me, caring for me all the time. He's got me that organ—me that can't play a note, and never could—just because I love to hear music, and sometimes if we have an instrument, the neighbors will come in, especially Hattie Knight, who used to know Kittie, and is a splendid performer; she comes and plays and sings. It is a comfort to me. And though I guess you young folks can't understand it, it will be a comfort to him to have a picture of me. I mistrusted you'd be thinking it comical, and I hurried to come in and speak to you, lest, not meaning anything, you might, just by chance, let fall something might hurt his feelings—like you thought it queer or some sech thing. And he thinks so much of you, and having you here, that I couldn't bear there'd be any mistake."
"Surely it is the most natural thing in the world that he should want a portrait of you," Somers hastily interrupted.
"Yes, it is," she answered in her mild, even tones, "but it mightn't seem so to young folks. Young folks think they know all there is about loving. And it is very sweet and nice to enjoy things together; and you don't hardly seem to be in the world at all when you're courting, your feet and your head and your heart feel so light. But they don't know what it is to need each other? It's when folks suffer together that they find out what loving is. I never knew what I felt towards my husband till I lost my first baby; and I'd wake up in the night and there'd be no cradle there—and he'd comfort me. Do you see that picture under the photograph of the cross?"
"He's a pretty boy," said Somers.
"Yes, sir. He was drownded in the river. A lot of boys in playing, and one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out to help him. And he clumb up on Eddy and the man on shore didn't get there in time. He was a real good boy and liked to play home with me 'most as well as with the boys. Father was proud as he could be of him, though he wouldn't let on. That cross was what his schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried when she told me how hard Eddy was trying to win the prize to please his pa. Father and I went through that together. And we had to change all the things we used to talk of together, because Eddy was always in them; and we had to try not to let each other see how our hearts were breaking, and not shadder Kitty's life by letting her see how we missed him. Only once father broke down; it was when he give Kitty Eddy's colt." She stopped, for she could not go on.
"Don't—don't distress yourself," Somers begged lamely. His cheeks were very hot.
"It don't distress me," she answered, "only for the minnit; I'm always thinking of Eddy and Kitty too. Sometimes I think it was harder for father when his girl went than anything else. And then my blindness and my rheumatism come; and it seemed he was trying to make up to me for the daughter and the son I'd lost, and be all to once to me. He has been, too. And do you think that two old people that have grown old together, like us, and have been through losses like that—do you think they ain't drawed closer and kinder and tenderer to each other, like the Lord to his church? Why, I'm plain, and old and blind and crooked—but he don't know it. Now, do you understand?"
"Yes," said Somers, "I understand."
"And you'll please excuse me for speaking so free; it was only so father's feelings shouldn't get hurt by noticing maybe a look like you wanted to laugh."
"God knows I don't want to laugh," Somers burst in. "But I'm glad you spoke. It—it will be a better picture. Now may I ask you something? I want you to let me dress you—I mean put something about your neck, soft and white; and then I want to make two sketches of you—one, as Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; the other of you sitting in the rustic chair outside."
"But—" she looked troubled—"it will be so expensive; and I know it will be foolish. If you'd just the same——"
"But I shouldn't; I want to do it. And it will not cost you anything. A hundred dollars will repay me well enough. I wish—I truly wish I could afford to do it all for nothing."
She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, it ain't right. That was why he wouldn't buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture of me." But suddenly she flushed like a girl and smiled.
At this instant the old man, immaculate in his heavy black suit and glossy white shirt, appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.
"Father," said the old wife, "do you mean to tell me you are going to pay a hundred dollars jest for a picture of me?"
"Well, Mother, you know there's no fool like an old fool," he replied, jocosely; but when the old wife turned her sightless face toward the old husband's voice and he looked at her, Somers bowed his head.
He spent the afternoon over his sketches. Riding away in the twilight, he knew he had done better work than he had ever done before in his life, slight as its form might be; nevertheless he was not thinking of himself at all. He was trying to shape his own vague perception that the show of dainty thinking and the pomp of refinement are in truth amiable and lovely things, yet are they no more than the husks of life; not only under them, but under ungracious and sordid conditions, may be the human semblance of that "beauty most ancient, beauty most new," that the old saint found too late. He felt the elusive presence of something in love higher than his youthful dream; stronger than passion, fairer than delight. To this commonplace man and woman had come the deepest gift of life.
"A dream?" he murmured. "Yes, perhaps he has captured it."
A man sitting at a desk
"Ding" by Wing
Truth
By Carrie Moss Hawley
The archives of history contain wonderful revelations of the growth and physical development of man. Going back to the beginning of time, when creation donned its immortal robe of life and nature gave utterance to the thought that nothing perishes, we follow down the aisle of centuries until we find ourselves to-day where we realize that thought has become the most powerful factor in advancement. Gradations are everywhere, yet mental processes and volitions take control of the wheel of progress and guide everything with majestic power.
The mind, as we commonly think of it, is not a safe guide unless directed by wisdom. So we appeal for light to give direction to the ideas or conceptions that filter through the brain from the all-holding universal thought. How to distinguish true from false conceptions is the labor of philosophy.
Truth may be tested by one infallible rule: its power to construct. You may see it forming what may terminate in evil, and doing unmistakable harm. Then you say: How can this be truth if it creates disaster? But all that is created does not act one way. There is the gross and the refined, the blemished and the perfect. All is good in the sense that it comes from a perfect law. It is the direction creation takes that determines the outcome.
The next step is how to direct truth that it may produce only the end desired. There are millions of beings on this sphere, each of whom has the same access to truth. Many of these do not even know of their power in production, and, with sensualized vision which has not been renovated, they keep on bringing forth that which another class, further advanced, is endeavoring to exterminate. This will continue indefinitely, for there will always be growing souls that have to learn. Since what appears as evil must exist, when it has become abhorrent to you in all its forms, your privilege and power is to convert all that comes within your radius into what you desire it to be. Minimize your fear of all effects in the negative, and take firm hold of the actual forces and mold them into whateveryou desire.
Were you a sculptor and had a piece of marble before you, you would not feel obliged to chisel out of it a cat, because a cat chanced to be rubbing her head against your leg in a friendly way. While you would be conscious of the cat she would be something outside the realm of your perceptions when you struck your first blow upon the marble. You would build from your perceptions that have been brought to the foreground by your conceptions of the valuable.
Man must reach a certain plane in his development before he realizes there are things worthless and things of worth, and that he may possess which he will. But when the moral milestone is passed he sees the dawn of a new day that will bring him his hopes realized.
Thus, the way to attain truth is first to see it from the vantage-point that comes through illumination; then realize that the cosmic world possesses all the material you need for its development. What surrounds you that does not appeal to you, merely touches and draws attention to its existence, need come into your creation no more than the cat came into the artist's production.
Work
By Irving N. Brant
Let me once more in Druid forest wander,To gain its legacy of ancient lore;Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonderScenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floorOf quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonderOn the opposing hills. Let me traverseThe shadows of man's immemorial mind,The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,God-given wonder and the primal curse.Within the throbbing heart of humankindGive me my work, or let me perish there.
Let me once more in Druid forest wander,To gain its legacy of ancient lore;Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonderScenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floorOf quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonderOn the opposing hills. Let me traverseThe shadows of man's immemorial mind,The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,God-given wonder and the primal curse.Within the throbbing heart of humankindGive me my work, or let me perish there.
Let me once more in Druid forest wander,
To gain its legacy of ancient lore;
Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,
A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.
Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonder
Scenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.
Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floor
Of quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonder
On the opposing hills. Let me traverse
The shadows of man's immemorial mind,
The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,
God-given wonder and the primal curse.
Within the throbbing heart of humankind
Give me my work, or let me perish there.
Some Magic and a Moral
By Virginia H. Reichard
Along in the early nineties as I was traveling in the West, selling shoes, I left the train at the little junction of Skywaw and surveyed the town. I found that the proverbial hotel, blacksmith shop, general store and a handful of houses, beside the depot, comprised the town.
After supper at the hotel, where I was waited upon by the landlord's pretty daughter, I asked about the storekeeper across the way and found to my surprise that he carried about a ten or twelve thousand dollar general stock which included everything from a sheepskin to a paper of needles. The farming country being so good, it was no wonder that this man did almost as big a business as many others in much larger towns, so the daughter told me, while the landlord himself chipped in with a question: "Why, don't you know this is just the richest spot in Wahoo County? In fact the ground is too rich. Just think of it—too rich to grow pumpkins."
"Why," I asked, "can't you grow pumpkins?"
With a smile of confidence that his joke was entirely new he replied: "The vines grow so fast it drags them over the ground and wears them out. Go up and see the storekeeper and if you sell him you get your money for the goods sure thing, for he sells for cash only."
I picked up my grips and started to see my man at once; found him standing in the door chewing a quid and spitting out into the street at any stray chicken or dog that chanced to wander by. As he stood there indifferent, expressionless, he looked the typical Westerner, with an air of "do as you darn please" about him; pants tucked into a pair of boots that were run over and worn off at the toe in a peculiar way that would indicate to a shoeologist that he was a sharp, keen trader, very suspicious of strangers, hard to strike a trade with unless he could see a hundred per cent in it for himself. In early days he had been a horse trader and a dealer in buffalo hides, and had never seen the time when he couldn't tell what o'clock it was better by the sun than by a watch; a hard man to approach on the shoe subject as his mind didn't seem to hover around shoes.
There must have been a depression in his skull where his bump of order was supposed to be, as from the general appearance it looked as if the devil had held an auction there the day before. I began my little "spiel" by telling my business—who I was, where I was from—and asked if my conversation would interest him at all if I talked about shoes for awhile, remarking incidentally: "You'll have some business now sure. Trade will get good right away, as I never opened up my samples in a man's store in my life but what customers came dropping in."
"Well, then, for God's sake open them up. I need the business all right enough," quoth he.
Then strange to say, as if to cinch what I had said, up rode six country boys on horseback, and in a minute the big strapping fellows came tramping in. You know the kind that work on a farm all day, ride to town to buy one pound of sugar for family use and ten pounds of chewing tobacco for their own use, and other articles in like proportion while they are having a good time.
Taking seats on the counter opposite, they began a lot of loud talking.
One picked up a turnip and began peeling it, poising it on the tip of his knife-blade, taking large bites, and never for a minute losing sight of what we were doing in the shoe line.
It took a lot of persuading to get the proprietor to look at my samples, but I soon noticed the shrewd gleam of his eyes that told that he had had hold of good leather before and was a much better judge of my line than I expected to find in such a place. But talk about exhorting! How I worked with that fellow. And after keeping it up for two whole hours—from seven until nine, I finally landed him, selling him a little over five hundred dollars' worth of shoes. As I was getting a straight eight per cent commission at that time, the sale made me a little over forty dollars for two hours' work, and I was feeling mighty good. Even my cold-blooded customer had warmed up some from the effects of the deal on which he saw he was bound to make a good thing.
While I was packing up my samples he said, sort of edging around: "Say, can't you sing us a song or dance us a jig or do something to entertain us all? You travelin' fellers allus know somethin' new, and are up to whatever is goin' on over the country, ain't ye?"
I replied: "I can't sing; I am out of voice; but if you can furnish the music I can dance a jig or clog. Oh, by the way, did you ever see any sleight of hand or legerdemain tricks?"
None of them ever had; didn't even know what they were, and solemnly assured me they were something new in that burg.
As I had been practicing coin tricks and other feats of sleight of hand for the last ten years and could do many of the former, making the coins appear and disappear at will in a mysterious manner, I decided to try this form of amusement, thinking I had an easy bunch to work on. So I showed them a silver dollar, giving it to one of them to examine, passing it on to each one of them in succession, just to show them that it was a genuine, everyday piece. Then taking it in my hand, I proceeded to manipulate the coin by picking it out from underneath one fellow's foot as he sat on the counter dangling his long legs; taking it from another fellow's chin; picking it out from the pocket of the jumper one of them had on; finding it in the next man's ear; and finally, coming to the proprietor, I told him to hold his thumb and finger together, pointing up; then took the coin from between his own thumb and finger without his realizing how it got there or how it got away. I caught his startled look—the fellows jumped down off the counter and crowded close together—wonder and amazement written all over them. This was the first time in their lives they had ever seen a sleight of hand trick, where the motion of the hand is so quick the sight cannot follow it.
But presto, chango, begono, magico, came near being too much for them. They were absolutely horror stricken. Some of them were unable to speak; some were afraid to; others couldn't speak above a whisper; and one of these desired to know when I would be back in that country again. He wanted Brother Bill to see it; in fact he would like to bring the whole family in.
The proprietor's face was a study. Doubt, surprise and suspicion passed over his face in succession, but gave way to fresh curiosity when I asked him to bring me two hats and I would do Hermann's parlor trick with two hats and four balls. The method of doing this is to place the four balls in a square about three feet apart on a counter or a table, then place the hats over two of the balls; the object being to find all four balls under one hat, without, of course, anybody seeing how they got there. This I accomplished successfully, and this performance seemed to bring them close to the limit. They had been craning their necks to see, but when it was over they all straightened up, took a step backward in line and looked at one another. Then one of them said solemnly:
"Folks is gettin' geniuser and geniuser every day, boys. Ain't it so?" And Pete nudged Jim to make sure it was no dream, then spat excitedly on the rusty stove.
The proprietor had been eyeing me with suspicion for a good while. I noticed whenever I would pass in front of him he would step back and plant his hands tight on his pockets where he kept his money, as if he thought I might somehow coax it to jump out unless he held it in by main force. Legerdemain had scared him some and made him both suspicious and wary.
Pretty soon I began to realize I had done a little too much; in fact, I had given them a little more than they had been able to digest. But like many another fool who has overstepped, I tried to make up by giving them something in another line.
The proprietor looked up with a distrustful glance. "Is that all you can do?"
"That's all in the trick line, gentlemen. But I have something that I can do that is out of the line of tricks. It's a gift—mind-reading. Only about one in six millions has it. I do the same as Brown, Johnson or Bishop—those big guns you have heard about—in finding any given object. And if you, sir (to the proprietor), will place your mind on any one of the ten thousand articles in this store, concentrating your mind on it, I will get the object you are thinking about and hand it to you."
"You can't do that; it ain't possible," he said.
One of the boys spoke up: "Aw, let him try, Dan. Gosh! Let him try."
After looking around the store and meditating a little he said: "Durn it all, then, go ahead. I've picked out the thing I want you to get and by jigger I'll keep my mind on it all right."
Taking his hand, placing it upon my forehead, and holding it there with one of mine, I started down the store, the other six rubbering after us with all their might. After going about thirty feet with an occasional kick or bump at a basket or barrel that happened to be in the way, I turned to the left; stopping at the show-case, and sliding back the doors, I reached in, picked up a razor—his own razor—that lay in the case and handed it to him.
"Great Scott," he yelled. "The very razor I shave myself with—when I shave; and that's the very thing I had my mind on too, by thunder." The sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead and for a few minutes his emotion seemed to be too much for him. So I said:
"Well, boys, this concludes the evening's performance; meeting's out, boys."
Dazed with wonder, the six riders looked blankly at each other, turned to me grinning foolishly, then filed out, jumped on their horses and galloped away, whooping like Comanche Indians.
Bidding the proprietor good night I started for the door.
"Hold on a minute!" he cried. "I want to see you, young feller." He strode up to within about two feet of me, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking as if he would like to fight. Then he burst out with:
"Say, you're about the slickest thing I ever saw in my life, ain't you? You're durned slick. You're smooth—a little too smooth; and you hear me, you needn't send them goods I bought to-night. I won't take 'em."
"What!" I cried.
"You hear me; you needn't send 'em. I won't take the goods," he said in a tone there was no mistaking.
I commenced to argue. But no. "You've done killed yourself with me," was all I could get out of him, and nothing I could say or do would make any difference. But I was bound not to lose the forty dollars without a struggle and brought all the arts, arguments and persuasions to bear that I could think of; but without avail. He seemed to be convinced that if I wasn't the devil himself, at least I was a near relation, and he would have none of me.
Then I did what I never had done before: took the dollar and carefully showed him just how I had done the trick, explaining that sight was really slower than motion sometimes and that the whole thing was intended to be harmless and amusing.
"If that's the way you did with the money, how about the four-ball trick?" he asked gruffly.
Still bent upon making the proposition stick, I explained the ball trick too, by going over it and explaining how the eye could be deceived. You see, I was growing more and more anxious all the time to cinch my commission, and felt that my efforts were worth while. When suddenly, dubious and still unconvinced, he turned to me and asked:
"Well, how in time did you find the razor?"
"I was very particular to tell you," I said, "before I went after that razor that it wasn't a trick. It's a gift I can't explain; nobody can; nobody ever did. I can't do it; I don't know how or why. Some call it mind-reading and some people have been kept guessing to give it a name. I am one of the few who can do it, that's all. When I went after the article you had in mind, I didn't know it was a razor; I didn't know what it was; but when I came in contact with what you had in mind I picked it up and handed it to you. This is my explanation—the only one I can give. I call it 'mind-reading,' that's all."
After some more talk I left him mystified and distrustful, in spite of all I had said and done, still refusing to reinstate the order. I left my grips in the store as it was near the station, and went to the hotel to spend a restless night, kicking myself for a fool meanwhile, since my attempts to amuse had lost me the neat little sum of forty dollars.
I slept a couple of hours when I was awakened by the most horrible noise it was ever my fortune to hear: Two car-loads of calves, just a day away from their mothers, were being shipped and their bawling was intolerable. Talk about your quiet country towns for rest and sleep! No more for me that night, I thought. So I dressed, took a smoke, and decided to tackle my man again in the morning and to try to change his mind.
A little after daylight I saw him sweeping the sidewalk in front of the door, handling the broom as a man does a flail on the barn floor. I went over and said: "Good morning." As he looked up I saw that his glance was as surly and suspicious as it had been the night before, but thought I would make a good start by approaching him upon some of his hobbies the landlord had told me about. In his capacity as horse trader he prided himself on his ability to judge a good horse. So I opened up by telling him about a horse I owned, and asked if he had anything to trade for him. This seemed to bring the right twinkle into his eye, and he began to brace up and take notice a little. So I talked on until I saw the smoke of the approaching train away down the valley seven or eight miles along the old Kantopey trail. Then I made a last attempt.
"Now see here, Mister," I said, "I came into your store last night and showed you my samples, showed you the names of some of the best merchants who have bought big bills of me and I sold you a bill of goods in good faith. Then you proposed that I entertain you as you had very little amusement in a place like this. I told you I couldn't sing but would do what I could with such sleight of hand tricks as I knew, and I did exactly what I said I would. It seemed to meet with plenty of approval all around until the mind-reading came up, when you turned me down for no reason whatever. Now, I ask you a question: Is that a square deal to a man on a business proposition?"
He looked at the floor and was silent, though apparently a little uneasy. He shook his head doubtfully, which made me feel that he was perhaps not so unfriendly after all, and might possibly do the right thing yet. Hearing the distant whistle, I said:
"Train's coming; have to go. Wish you good luck, just the same as if you'd treated me square. Wish you good crops and plenty of water for your stock. As long as you live don't turn another fellow down like you have me, just because he's done his best to give you a good time." And I made a rush for the depot to check my baggage.
The train came in; there was the usual hurry and noise. The old fellow stood there, leaning against the weather-boarding of the depot like a picture of Uncle Sam—a queer, awkward figure with his hay-colored whiskers, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and hands still planted firmly in his pockets, his eyes riveted on every move I made.
I boarded the train, said "Howdy" to a friend, and looking back saw old Dan standing where I had left him as if glued to the spot. The engine puffed and snorted; the wheels began to go around. "Good-bye," I shouted from the platform as if answering his steady gaze.
All of a sudden the long, gaunt figure limbered up, like a corpse that had been touched by a galvanic battery. He came chasing down the track after the train, waving his arms like a windmill and yelling like Bedlam let loose: "Hey! Say there, you young feller; hey there! I'll take them goods; send 'em along. I'll take them goods. D'ye hear?"
And I called back to him with great gusto: "All right," as the train rounded a curve.
Moral: When you have sold your goods make your get-away.
Sonny's Wish
By Bertha M. H. Shambaugh
Sometimes before I go to bedI 'member things that Grandpa saidWhen I sat close beside his kneeAnd Grandpa laid his hand on me.I 'member how he'd smile and say,"Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"'Cause Grandpa always liked to know(I s'pose that's why I miss him so).I never had to coax and pleadFor things I really didn't need:I'd 'splain it in an off-hand wayAnd Grandpa brought it home next day.When I grow up I'd like to beA grandpa with a boy like meTo live with and to bring things to:That's what I'd like themostto do.I'd rummage 'round and hunt aboutFor things the boy could do without,Because you see of course I'd knowThat's why the boy would like them so.And when I'd bring some brand new toyAnd someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"I'd only shake my head and say,"Agood boyisn't spoiled that way."When Sonny said he'd like to getA nice wee doggie for a pet,And when the grown-ups one and allSaid, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!He's black and just aboutsohigh."Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to beA grandpa with a boy like meTo live with and to bring things to:That's what I'd like themostto do.
Sometimes before I go to bedI 'member things that Grandpa saidWhen I sat close beside his kneeAnd Grandpa laid his hand on me.
Sometimes before I go to bed
I 'member things that Grandpa said
When I sat close beside his knee
And Grandpa laid his hand on me.
I 'member how he'd smile and say,"Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"'Cause Grandpa always liked to know(I s'pose that's why I miss him so).
I 'member how he'd smile and say,
"Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"
'Cause Grandpa always liked to know
(I s'pose that's why I miss him so).
I never had to coax and pleadFor things I really didn't need:I'd 'splain it in an off-hand wayAnd Grandpa brought it home next day.
I never had to coax and plead
For things I really didn't need:
I'd 'splain it in an off-hand way
And Grandpa brought it home next day.
When I grow up I'd like to beA grandpa with a boy like meTo live with and to bring things to:That's what I'd like themostto do.
When I grow up I'd like to be
A grandpa with a boy like me
To live with and to bring things to:
That's what I'd like themostto do.
I'd rummage 'round and hunt aboutFor things the boy could do without,Because you see of course I'd knowThat's why the boy would like them so.
I'd rummage 'round and hunt about
For things the boy could do without,
Because you see of course I'd know
That's why the boy would like them so.
And when I'd bring some brand new toyAnd someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"I'd only shake my head and say,"Agood boyisn't spoiled that way."
And when I'd bring some brand new toy
And someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"
I'd only shake my head and say,
"Agood boyisn't spoiled that way."
When Sonny said he'd like to getA nice wee doggie for a pet,And when the grown-ups one and allSaid, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"
When Sonny said he'd like to get
A nice wee doggie for a pet,
And when the grown-ups one and all
Said, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"
I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!He's black and just aboutsohigh."
I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue
'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,
A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!
He's black and just aboutsohigh."
Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to beA grandpa with a boy like meTo live with and to bring things to:That's what I'd like themostto do.
Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to be
A grandpa with a boy like me
To live with and to bring things to:
That's what I'd like themostto do.