THE PESSIMIST[76]

FOOTNOTE:[75]Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson Smith.

[75]Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson Smith.

Nothing to do but work,Nothing to eat but food,Nothing to wear but clothesTo keep one from going nude.Nothing to breathe but air,Quick as a flash 'tis gone;Nowhere to fall but off,Nowhere to stand but on.Nothing to comb but hair,Nowhere to sleep but in bed,Nothing to weep but tears,Nothing to bury but dead.Nothing to sing but songs,Ah, well, alas! alack!Nowhere to go but out,Nowhere to come but back.Nothing to see but sights,Nothing to quench but thirst,Nothing to have but what we've got,Thus thro' life we are cursed.Nothing to strike but a gait;Everything moves that goes.Nothing at all but common senseCan ever withstand these woes.

Nothing to do but work,Nothing to eat but food,Nothing to wear but clothesTo keep one from going nude.

Nothing to do but work,

Nothing to eat but food,

Nothing to wear but clothes

To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,Quick as a flash 'tis gone;Nowhere to fall but off,Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to breathe but air,

Quick as a flash 'tis gone;

Nowhere to fall but off,

Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,Nowhere to sleep but in bed,Nothing to weep but tears,Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to comb but hair,

Nowhere to sleep but in bed,

Nothing to weep but tears,

Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,Ah, well, alas! alack!Nowhere to go but out,Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to sing but songs,

Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out,

Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,Nothing to quench but thirst,Nothing to have but what we've got,Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to see but sights,

Nothing to quench but thirst,

Nothing to have but what we've got,

Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;Everything moves that goes.Nothing at all but common senseCan ever withstand these woes.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense

Can ever withstand these woes.

FOOTNOTE:[76]By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.

[76]By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.

I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies, und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;" "Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her, de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you don'd come und seeabout me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot.

Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster (dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now, Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd. Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says, "Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but dotpluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says, "Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und she goes oud.

Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah, who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry, chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime. He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold. Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says, "Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him, und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child. Putty soon Leahcomes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here, leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully.

Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard, und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster, dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, youfeel so bad, und so goot, dot you must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it?

I long have been puzzled to guess,And so I have frequently said,What the reason could really beThat I never have happened to wed;But now it is perfectly clearI am under a natural ban;The girls are already assigned—And I'm a superfluous man!Those clever statistical chapsDeclare the numerical runOf women and men in the worldIs Twenty to Twenty-and-one:And hence in the pairing, you see,Since wooing and wedding began,For every connubial scoreThey've got a superfluous man!By twenties and twenties they go,And giddily rush to their fate,For none of the number, of course,Can fail of the conjugal mate;But while they are yielding in scoresTo nature's inflexible plan,There's never a woman for me—For I'm a superfluous man!It isn't that I am a churl,To solitude over-inclined,It isn't that I am at faultIn morals or manners or mind;Then what is the reason, you ask,I'm still with the bachelor clan?I merely was numbered amiss—And I'm a superfluous man!It isn't that I am in wantOf personal beauty or grace,For many a man with a wifeIs uglier far in the face.Indeed, among elegant menI fancy myself in the van;But what is the value of that,When I'm a superfluous man?Although I am fond of the girls,For aught I could ever discern,The tender emotion I feelIs one that they never return;'Tis idle to quarrel with fate,For, struggle as hard as I can,They're mated already, you know,And I'm a superfluous man!No wonder I grumble at times,With women so pretty and plenty,To know that I never was bornTo figure as one of the Twenty;But yet, when the average lotWith critical vision I scan,I think it may be for the bestThat I'm a superfluous man!

I long have been puzzled to guess,

And so I have frequently said,

What the reason could really be

That I never have happened to wed;

But now it is perfectly clear

I am under a natural ban;

The girls are already assigned—

And I'm a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chapsDeclare the numerical runOf women and men in the worldIs Twenty to Twenty-and-one:And hence in the pairing, you see,Since wooing and wedding began,For every connubial scoreThey've got a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chaps

Declare the numerical run

Of women and men in the world

Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one:

And hence in the pairing, you see,

Since wooing and wedding began,

For every connubial score

They've got a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go,And giddily rush to their fate,For none of the number, of course,Can fail of the conjugal mate;But while they are yielding in scoresTo nature's inflexible plan,There's never a woman for me—For I'm a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go,

And giddily rush to their fate,

For none of the number, of course,

Can fail of the conjugal mate;

But while they are yielding in scores

To nature's inflexible plan,

There's never a woman for me—

For I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am a churl,To solitude over-inclined,It isn't that I am at faultIn morals or manners or mind;Then what is the reason, you ask,I'm still with the bachelor clan?I merely was numbered amiss—And I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am a churl,

To solitude over-inclined,

It isn't that I am at fault

In morals or manners or mind;

Then what is the reason, you ask,

I'm still with the bachelor clan?

I merely was numbered amiss—

And I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am in wantOf personal beauty or grace,For many a man with a wifeIs uglier far in the face.Indeed, among elegant menI fancy myself in the van;But what is the value of that,When I'm a superfluous man?

It isn't that I am in want

Of personal beauty or grace,

For many a man with a wife

Is uglier far in the face.

Indeed, among elegant men

I fancy myself in the van;

But what is the value of that,

When I'm a superfluous man?

Although I am fond of the girls,For aught I could ever discern,The tender emotion I feelIs one that they never return;'Tis idle to quarrel with fate,For, struggle as hard as I can,They're mated already, you know,And I'm a superfluous man!

Although I am fond of the girls,

For aught I could ever discern,

The tender emotion I feel

Is one that they never return;

'Tis idle to quarrel with fate,

For, struggle as hard as I can,

They're mated already, you know,

And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,With women so pretty and plenty,To know that I never was bornTo figure as one of the Twenty;But yet, when the average lotWith critical vision I scan,I think it may be for the bestThat I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,

With women so pretty and plenty,

To know that I never was born

To figure as one of the Twenty;

But yet, when the average lot

With critical vision I scan,

I think it may be for the best

That I'm a superfluous man!

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,And they met—in the usual way.Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"And he was—in the usual way.So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out;And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay,But she did—in the usual way.Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sighAs they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by;"We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray,And they did—in the usual way.And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,Very much—in the usual way.And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do?Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey?Well, they do—in the usual way.

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,

For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."

And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,

And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"And he was—in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,

But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;

"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"

And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out;And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay,But she did—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,

But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out;

And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay,

But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sighAs they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by;"We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray,And they did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh

As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by;

"We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray,

And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,Very much—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,

And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,

Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,

Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do?Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey?Well, they do—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?

Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do?

Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey?

Well, they do—in the usual way.

One morning, fifty years ago,—When apple trees were white with snowOf fragrant blossoms, and the airWas spellbound with the perfume rare,—Upon a farm horse, large and lean,And lazy with its double load,A sun-browned youth and maid were seenJogging along the winding road.Blue were the arches of the skies;But bluer were that maiden's eyes.The dewdrops on the grass were bright;But brighter was the loving lightThat sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;Adown the shoulders brown and bareRolled the soft waves of golden hair,Where, almost strangled with the spray,The sun, a willing sufferer, lay.It was the fairest sight, I ween,That the young man had ever seen;And with his features all aglow,The happy fellow told her so!And she without the least surpriseLooked on him with those heavenly eyes;Saw underneath that shade of tanThe handsome features of a man;And with a joy but rarely knownShe drew that dear face to her own,And by her bridal bonnet hid—I cannot tell you what she did!So, on they ride until amongThe new-born leaves with dewdrops hung,The parsonage, arrayed in white,Peers out,—a more than welcome sight.Then, with a cloud upon his face,"What shall we do," he turned to say,"Should he refuse to take his payFrom what is in the pillow-case?"And glancing down his eye surveyedThe pillow-case before him laid,Whose contents reaching to its hem,Might purchase endless joy for them.The maiden answers, "Let us wait,To borrow trouble where's the need?"Then, at the parson's squeaking gateHalted the more than willing steed.Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;The latchless gate behind him swung.The knocker of that startled door,Struck as it never was before,Brought the whole household pale with fright;And there, with blushes on his cheek,So bashful he could hardly speak,The farmer met their wondering sight.The groom goes in, his errand tells,And, as the parson nods, he leansFar o'er the window-sill and yells,"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound,She and the bean-bag reached the ground.Then, clasping with each dimpled armThe precious product of the farm,She bears it through the open door;And, down upon the parlor floor,Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.Ah! happy were their songs that day,When man and wife they rode away.But happier this chorus stillWhich echoed through those woodland scenes:"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!God bless the man who took the beans!"

One morning, fifty years ago,—

When apple trees were white with snow

Of fragrant blossoms, and the air

Was spellbound with the perfume rare,—

Upon a farm horse, large and lean,

And lazy with its double load,

A sun-browned youth and maid were seen

Jogging along the winding road.

Blue were the arches of the skies;But bluer were that maiden's eyes.The dewdrops on the grass were bright;But brighter was the loving lightThat sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;Adown the shoulders brown and bareRolled the soft waves of golden hair,Where, almost strangled with the spray,The sun, a willing sufferer, lay.

Blue were the arches of the skies;

But bluer were that maiden's eyes.

The dewdrops on the grass were bright;

But brighter was the loving light

That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid,

Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;

Adown the shoulders brown and bare

Rolled the soft waves of golden hair,

Where, almost strangled with the spray,

The sun, a willing sufferer, lay.

It was the fairest sight, I ween,That the young man had ever seen;And with his features all aglow,The happy fellow told her so!And she without the least surpriseLooked on him with those heavenly eyes;Saw underneath that shade of tanThe handsome features of a man;And with a joy but rarely knownShe drew that dear face to her own,And by her bridal bonnet hid—I cannot tell you what she did!

It was the fairest sight, I ween,

That the young man had ever seen;

And with his features all aglow,

The happy fellow told her so!

And she without the least surprise

Looked on him with those heavenly eyes;

Saw underneath that shade of tan

The handsome features of a man;

And with a joy but rarely known

She drew that dear face to her own,

And by her bridal bonnet hid—

I cannot tell you what she did!

So, on they ride until amongThe new-born leaves with dewdrops hung,The parsonage, arrayed in white,Peers out,—a more than welcome sight.Then, with a cloud upon his face,"What shall we do," he turned to say,"Should he refuse to take his payFrom what is in the pillow-case?"And glancing down his eye surveyedThe pillow-case before him laid,Whose contents reaching to its hem,Might purchase endless joy for them.The maiden answers, "Let us wait,To borrow trouble where's the need?"Then, at the parson's squeaking gateHalted the more than willing steed.

So, on they ride until among

The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung,

The parsonage, arrayed in white,

Peers out,—a more than welcome sight.

Then, with a cloud upon his face,

"What shall we do," he turned to say,

"Should he refuse to take his pay

From what is in the pillow-case?"

And glancing down his eye surveyed

The pillow-case before him laid,

Whose contents reaching to its hem,

Might purchase endless joy for them.

The maiden answers, "Let us wait,

To borrow trouble where's the need?"

Then, at the parson's squeaking gate

Halted the more than willing steed.

Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;The latchless gate behind him swung.The knocker of that startled door,Struck as it never was before,Brought the whole household pale with fright;And there, with blushes on his cheek,So bashful he could hardly speak,The farmer met their wondering sight.

Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;

The latchless gate behind him swung.

The knocker of that startled door,

Struck as it never was before,

Brought the whole household pale with fright;

And there, with blushes on his cheek,

So bashful he could hardly speak,

The farmer met their wondering sight.

The groom goes in, his errand tells,And, as the parson nods, he leansFar o'er the window-sill and yells,"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"

The groom goes in, his errand tells,

And, as the parson nods, he leans

Far o'er the window-sill and yells,

"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"

Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound,She and the bean-bag reached the ground.Then, clasping with each dimpled armThe precious product of the farm,She bears it through the open door;And, down upon the parlor floor,Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.

Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound,

She and the bean-bag reached the ground.

Then, clasping with each dimpled arm

The precious product of the farm,

She bears it through the open door;

And, down upon the parlor floor,

Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.

Ah! happy were their songs that day,When man and wife they rode away.But happier this chorus stillWhich echoed through those woodland scenes:"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!God bless the man who took the beans!"

Ah! happy were their songs that day,

When man and wife they rode away.

But happier this chorus still

Which echoed through those woodland scenes:

"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!

God bless the man who took the beans!"

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy—Put dat music book away;What's de use to keep on tryin'?Ef you practice twell you're gray,You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'Lak de ones dat rants and ringsF'om de kitchen to de big woodsWhen Malindy sings.You ain't got de nachel o'gansFu' to make de soun' come right,You ain't got de tunes an' twistin'sFu' to make it sweet an' light.Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,When hit comes to raal right singin''Tain't no easy thing to do.Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,Lookin' at de lines an' dots,When dey ain't no one kin sense it,An' de chune comes in, in spots;But fu' real melojous music,Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,Jes' you stan' an' listen wif meWhen Malindy sings.Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?Blessed soul, tek up de cross!Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?Well, you don't know what you los'.Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,Hush dey moufs an' hides dey facesWhen Malindy sings.Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',Lay his fiddle on de she'f;Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle,'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.Folks a-playin' on de banjoDraps dey fingahs on de strings—Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move 'em,When Malindy sings.She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,"Come to Jesus," twell you hyeahSinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices,Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah;Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"Simply to de cross she clings,An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'When Malindy sings.Who dat says dat humble praisesWif de Master nevah counts?Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,Ez hit rises up an' mounts—Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,Way above dis buryin' sod,Ez hit makes its way to gloryTo de very gates of God!Oh, hit's sweetah dan de musicOf an edicated band;An' it's dearah dan de battle'sSong o' triumph in de lan'.It seems holier dan evenin'When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings,Ez I sit an' calmly listenWhile Malindy sings.Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;Don't you hyeah de echoes callin',F'om de valley to de hill?Let me listen, I can hyeah it,Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"Ez Malindy sings.

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy—

Put dat music book away;

What's de use to keep on tryin'?

Ef you practice twell you're gray,

You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'

Lak de ones dat rants and rings

F'om de kitchen to de big woods

When Malindy sings.

You ain't got de nachel o'gansFu' to make de soun' come right,You ain't got de tunes an' twistin'sFu' to make it sweet an' light.Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,When hit comes to raal right singin''Tain't no easy thing to do.

You ain't got de nachel o'gans

Fu' to make de soun' come right,

You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's

Fu' to make it sweet an' light.

Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,

An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,

When hit comes to raal right singin'

'Tain't no easy thing to do.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,Lookin' at de lines an' dots,When dey ain't no one kin sense it,An' de chune comes in, in spots;But fu' real melojous music,Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,Jes' you stan' an' listen wif meWhen Malindy sings.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,

Lookin' at de lines an' dots,

When dey ain't no one kin sense it,

An' de chune comes in, in spots;

But fu' real melojous music,

Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings,

Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me

When Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?Blessed soul, tek up de cross!Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?Well, you don't know what you los'.Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,Hush dey moufs an' hides dey facesWhen Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy?

Blessed soul, tek up de cross!

Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey?

Well, you don't know what you los'.

Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin',

Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,

Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces

When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',Lay his fiddle on de she'f;Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle,'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.Folks a-playin' on de banjoDraps dey fingahs on de strings—Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move 'em,When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin',

Lay his fiddle on de she'f;

Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle,

'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.

Folks a-playin' on de banjo

Draps dey fingahs on de strings—

Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move 'em,

When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,"Come to Jesus," twell you hyeahSinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices,Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah;Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"Simply to de cross she clings,An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,

"Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah

Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices,

Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah;

Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"

Simply to de cross she clings,

An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin'

When Malindy sings.

Who dat says dat humble praisesWif de Master nevah counts?Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,Ez hit rises up an' mounts—Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,Way above dis buryin' sod,Ez hit makes its way to gloryTo de very gates of God!

Who dat says dat humble praises

Wif de Master nevah counts?

Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music,

Ez hit rises up an' mounts—

Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,

Way above dis buryin' sod,

Ez hit makes its way to glory

To de very gates of God!

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de musicOf an edicated band;An' it's dearah dan de battle'sSong o' triumph in de lan'.It seems holier dan evenin'When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings,Ez I sit an' calmly listenWhile Malindy sings.

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music

Of an edicated band;

An' it's dearah dan de battle's

Song o' triumph in de lan'.

It seems holier dan evenin'

When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings,

Ez I sit an' calmly listen

While Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;Don't you hyeah de echoes callin',F'om de valley to de hill?Let me listen, I can hyeah it,Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"Ez Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me!

Mandy, mek dat chile keep still;

Don't you hyeah de echoes callin',

F'om de valley to de hill?

Let me listen, I can hyeah it,

Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,

Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"

Ez Malindy sings.

FOOTNOTE:[77]By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899.

[77]By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,Way down the dusty dingle,The cows are coming home;Now sweet and clear and faint and low,The airy tinklings come and go,Like chimings from some far off tower,Or patterings of some April showerThat makes the daisies grow;Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,'Way down the darkening dingleThe cows come slowly home;And old-time friends and twilight plays,And starry nights and sunny days,Come trooping up the misty waysWhen the cows come home.With jingle, jangle, jingle,Soft tunes that sweetly mingle,The cows are coming home.Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell,Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue—Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"And clang her silver bell;Goling, golang, golinglelingle,With faint far sounds that mingle,The cows come slowly home;And mother-songs of long-gone years,And baby joys and childish tears,And youthful hopes and youthful fears,When the cows come home.With ringle, rangle, ringle,By twos and threes and singleThe cows are coming home.Through violet air we see the townAnd the summer sun a slipping down,And the maple in the hazel gladeThrows down the path a longer shade,And the hills are growing brown;To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle,By threes and fours and singleThe cows are coming home;The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,The same sweet June-day rest and calm,The same sweet scent of bud and balm,When the cows come home.With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,Through fern and periwinkleThe cows are coming home;A-loitering in the checkered streamWhere the sun-rays glance and gleam,Clarine, Peachbloom and Phœbe PhillisStand knee-deep in the creamy liliesIn a drowsy dream;To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle,O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle,The cows come slowly home;And up through memory's deep ravineCome the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,And the crescent of the silver queen,When the cows come home.With klingle, klangle, klingle,With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingleThe cows are coming home;And over there in Merlin hill,Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will;The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,And over the poplars Venus shines,And over the silent mill;Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingleWith ting-a-ling and jingleThe cows come slowly home;Let down the bars, let in the trainOf long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,For dear old times come back again,When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,

Way down the dusty dingle,

The cows are coming home;

Now sweet and clear and faint and low,

The airy tinklings come and go,

Like chimings from some far off tower,

Or patterings of some April shower

That makes the daisies grow;

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,

'Way down the darkening dingle

The cows come slowly home;

And old-time friends and twilight plays,

And starry nights and sunny days,

Come trooping up the misty ways

When the cows come home.

With jingle, jangle, jingle,Soft tunes that sweetly mingle,The cows are coming home.Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell,Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue—Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"And clang her silver bell;Goling, golang, golinglelingle,With faint far sounds that mingle,The cows come slowly home;And mother-songs of long-gone years,And baby joys and childish tears,And youthful hopes and youthful fears,When the cows come home.

With jingle, jangle, jingle,

Soft tunes that sweetly mingle,

The cows are coming home.

Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,

Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell,

Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue—

Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo"

And clang her silver bell;

Goling, golang, golinglelingle,

With faint far sounds that mingle,

The cows come slowly home;

And mother-songs of long-gone years,

And baby joys and childish tears,

And youthful hopes and youthful fears,

When the cows come home.

With ringle, rangle, ringle,By twos and threes and singleThe cows are coming home.Through violet air we see the townAnd the summer sun a slipping down,And the maple in the hazel gladeThrows down the path a longer shade,And the hills are growing brown;To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle,By threes and fours and singleThe cows are coming home;The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,The same sweet June-day rest and calm,The same sweet scent of bud and balm,When the cows come home.

With ringle, rangle, ringle,

By twos and threes and single

The cows are coming home.

Through violet air we see the town

And the summer sun a slipping down,

And the maple in the hazel glade

Throws down the path a longer shade,

And the hills are growing brown;

To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle,

By threes and fours and single

The cows are coming home;

The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,

The same sweet June-day rest and calm,

The same sweet scent of bud and balm,

When the cows come home.

With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,Through fern and periwinkleThe cows are coming home;A-loitering in the checkered streamWhere the sun-rays glance and gleam,Clarine, Peachbloom and Phœbe PhillisStand knee-deep in the creamy liliesIn a drowsy dream;To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle,O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle,The cows come slowly home;And up through memory's deep ravineCome the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,And the crescent of the silver queen,When the cows come home.

With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,

Through fern and periwinkle

The cows are coming home;

A-loitering in the checkered stream

Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,

Clarine, Peachbloom and Phœbe Phillis

Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies

In a drowsy dream;

To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle,

O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle,

The cows come slowly home;

And up through memory's deep ravine

Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,

And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingleThe cows are coming home;And over there in Merlin hill,Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will;The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,And over the poplars Venus shines,And over the silent mill;Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingleWith ting-a-ling and jingleThe cows come slowly home;Let down the bars, let in the trainOf long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,For dear old times come back again,When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,

With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle

The cows are coming home;

And over there in Merlin hill,

Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will;

The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,

And over the poplars Venus shines,

And over the silent mill;

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle

With ting-a-ling and jingle

The cows come slowly home;

Let down the bars, let in the train

Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,

For dear old times come back again,

When the cows come home.

'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lampsWere flickering down into the Arno's tideWhile yet the daylight lingered in the skies,Silvering and paling, when I saw him first.I was returning from my work, and pausedUpon the bridge of Santa TrinitaTo rest, and think how fair our Florence is.And I remember, o'er the hazy hills,Far, far away, how exquisitely fairThe twilight seemed that night. My heart was softWith tender longings, misted with a dim,Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath.Ah, never will those feelings come again!I was in a mood to take a stampFrom any passing chance, even like those cloudsThat caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,When, by some inward sense, I know not what,I felt that I was gazed at, drawn awayBy eyes that had a strange magnetic will.And so I turned from those far hills to see—A stranger? No; even then he did not seemA stranger, but as one I once had known,Not here in Florence, not in any place,But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.I felt his eyes were fixed upon me,And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips:Nor could I help but look and smile again.I know not what it was went to and froBetween us in that swift smile and glance.We neither spoke;But something went that thrilled me through and through.And that quick clash of soulsHad struck a spark that set my soul on fire.And I was happy, oh, so happy then!It seemed as if this earth could never addOne little drop more to the joy I owned,For all that passionate torrent pent withinMy heart had found its utterance and response.He was Venetian, and that radiant hairWe black-haired girls so covet haloed roundHis sunny northern face and soft blue eyes.I know not why he loved me—me, so black,With this black skin that every Roman has,With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate.Why loved he not Beata? she is fair,But yet he often swore to me Beata's bodyWas not worth one half my finger,And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath;Ah! glorious seal—I feel those lips there now!And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glowsLike a great star.Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no!They are not gone; I love him madly now.I love him madly as I loved him then.Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by!You could not fill a golden cup more fullOf rubied wine than was my heart with joy.Long mornings in his studio, there I satAnd heard his voice; or, when he did not speak,I felt his presence like a rich perfume,Fill all my thoughts.I was his model. Hours and hours I posedFor him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce,With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips;A great gold serpent on her rounded arm,And a broad band of gold around her head.At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn.Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand.I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask.At last few words made all things plain;"Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must.""Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no.Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and thenI shall return to Florence, and to you."Vain were my words. He went, alas! he wentWith all the sunshine, and I wore aloneThe weary weeks out of that hateful month.Another month I waited, nervous, fierceWith love's impatience. When that month was goneMy heart was all afire; I could not stay.Consumed with jealous fears that wore me downInto a fever, necklace, earrings—allI sold, and on to Venice rushed. How longThat dreary, never-ending journey seemed!I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged,The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed,That kept me back from Venice.But at last in a black gondola I swam alongThe sea-built city, and my heart was bigWith the glad thought that I was near to him.Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night,And jealousy was hushed, and hope led onMy dancing heart. In vain I strove to curbMy glad impatience—I must see him then,At once, that very night; I could not waitThe tardy morning—'twas a year away.I only gave the gondolier his name,And said, "You know him?" "Yes.""Then row me quick to where he is."He bowed and on he went,And as we swept along, I leaned me outAnd dragged my burning fingers in the wave,My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting,What he'd say and think,How I should hang upon his neck and say:"I could not longer live without you, dear."At last we paused. The gondolier said,"This is the palace." I was struck aghast.It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamedAnd trickled down into the black canal."Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake.Why are these lights? This palace is not his.He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he,"I fancied the signora wished to seeThe marriage festa—and all Venice knowsThe bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?"I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride,Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart,From its glad, singing height, dropped like a larkShot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled,And for a moment I was crushed and stunned.Then came the wild revulsion of despair;Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain."Row me to the steps," I said. I leapedOn their wet edge, and stared in at the doorWhere all was hurry, rush, and flare of light.My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowdIn search of him—he was not there. Ah, God!I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursedMy unbelief, and turned me round to go.There was a sudden murmur near the door,And I beheld him—walking at her side.Oh! cursèd be the hour I saw that sight,And cursèd be the place! I saw those eyesThat used to look such passion into mineTurned with the selfsame look to other eyes,Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him.I could not bear their bliss.I scarcely knew what happened then; I knewI felt for the stiletto in my vestWith purpose that was half mechanical,As if a demon used my hand for his.I felt the red blood singing through my brain,I struck—before me, at my feet, she fell.Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth,Your pearls and splendors—what did they availAgainst the sharp stiletto's little point?You should have thought of that before you dared—You had all the world beside—to stealThe only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had.You will not smile again as then you smiled.Thank God, you'll never smile again for him!I was avenged, avenged, until I sawThe dreadful look he gave me as he turnedFrom her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God!It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.When will he come and tell me he forgivesAnd loves me still? Oh, bid him come,Come quickly, come and let me die in peace.I could not help it; I was mad;But I repent, I suffer; he at leastShould pity and forgive. Oh, make him comeAnd say he loves me, and then let me die.I shall be ready then to die; but nowI cannot think of God; my heart is hell,Until I know he loves me still.

'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps

Were flickering down into the Arno's tide

While yet the daylight lingered in the skies,

Silvering and paling, when I saw him first.

I was returning from my work, and paused

Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita

To rest, and think how fair our Florence is.

And I remember, o'er the hazy hills,

Far, far away, how exquisitely fair

The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft

With tender longings, misted with a dim,

Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath.

Ah, never will those feelings come again!

I was in a mood to take a stampFrom any passing chance, even like those cloudsThat caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,When, by some inward sense, I know not what,I felt that I was gazed at, drawn awayBy eyes that had a strange magnetic will.And so I turned from those far hills to see—A stranger? No; even then he did not seemA stranger, but as one I once had known,Not here in Florence, not in any place,But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.I felt his eyes were fixed upon me,And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips:Nor could I help but look and smile again.

I was in a mood to take a stamp

From any passing chance, even like those clouds

That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day,

When, by some inward sense, I know not what,

I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away

By eyes that had a strange magnetic will.

And so I turned from those far hills to see—

A stranger? No; even then he did not seem

A stranger, but as one I once had known,

Not here in Florence, not in any place,

But somewhere in my spirit known and seen.

I felt his eyes were fixed upon me,

And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips:

Nor could I help but look and smile again.

I know not what it was went to and froBetween us in that swift smile and glance.We neither spoke;But something went that thrilled me through and through.And that quick clash of soulsHad struck a spark that set my soul on fire.

I know not what it was went to and fro

Between us in that swift smile and glance.

We neither spoke;

But something went that thrilled me through and through.

And that quick clash of souls

Had struck a spark that set my soul on fire.

And I was happy, oh, so happy then!It seemed as if this earth could never addOne little drop more to the joy I owned,For all that passionate torrent pent withinMy heart had found its utterance and response.

And I was happy, oh, so happy then!

It seemed as if this earth could never add

One little drop more to the joy I owned,

For all that passionate torrent pent within

My heart had found its utterance and response.

He was Venetian, and that radiant hairWe black-haired girls so covet haloed roundHis sunny northern face and soft blue eyes.I know not why he loved me—me, so black,With this black skin that every Roman has,With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate.

He was Venetian, and that radiant hair

We black-haired girls so covet haloed round

His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes.

I know not why he loved me—me, so black,

With this black skin that every Roman has,

With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate.

Why loved he not Beata? she is fair,But yet he often swore to me Beata's bodyWas not worth one half my finger,And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath;Ah! glorious seal—I feel those lips there now!And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glowsLike a great star.Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no!They are not gone; I love him madly now.I love him madly as I loved him then.

Why loved he not Beata? she is fair,

But yet he often swore to me Beata's body

Was not worth one half my finger,

And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath;

Ah! glorious seal—I feel those lips there now!

And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows

Like a great star.

Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no!

They are not gone; I love him madly now.

I love him madly as I loved him then.

Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by!You could not fill a golden cup more fullOf rubied wine than was my heart with joy.Long mornings in his studio, there I satAnd heard his voice; or, when he did not speak,I felt his presence like a rich perfume,Fill all my thoughts.I was his model. Hours and hours I posedFor him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce,With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips;A great gold serpent on her rounded arm,And a broad band of gold around her head.

Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by!

You could not fill a golden cup more full

Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy.

Long mornings in his studio, there I sat

And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak,

I felt his presence like a rich perfume,

Fill all my thoughts.

I was his model. Hours and hours I posed

For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce,

With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips;

A great gold serpent on her rounded arm,

And a broad band of gold around her head.

At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn.Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand.I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask.At last few words made all things plain;"Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must.""Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no.Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and thenI shall return to Florence, and to you."

At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn.

Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand.

I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask.

At last few words made all things plain;

"Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must."

"Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no.

Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then

I shall return to Florence, and to you."

Vain were my words. He went, alas! he wentWith all the sunshine, and I wore aloneThe weary weeks out of that hateful month.Another month I waited, nervous, fierceWith love's impatience. When that month was goneMy heart was all afire; I could not stay.Consumed with jealous fears that wore me downInto a fever, necklace, earrings—allI sold, and on to Venice rushed. How longThat dreary, never-ending journey seemed!I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged,The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed,That kept me back from Venice.

Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went

With all the sunshine, and I wore alone

The weary weeks out of that hateful month.

Another month I waited, nervous, fierce

With love's impatience. When that month was gone

My heart was all afire; I could not stay.

Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down

Into a fever, necklace, earrings—all

I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long

That dreary, never-ending journey seemed!

I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged,

The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed,

That kept me back from Venice.

But at last in a black gondola I swam alongThe sea-built city, and my heart was bigWith the glad thought that I was near to him.Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night,And jealousy was hushed, and hope led onMy dancing heart. In vain I strove to curbMy glad impatience—I must see him then,At once, that very night; I could not waitThe tardy morning—'twas a year away.I only gave the gondolier his name,And said, "You know him?" "Yes.""Then row me quick to where he is."

But at last in a black gondola I swam along

The sea-built city, and my heart was big

With the glad thought that I was near to him.

Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night,

And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on

My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb

My glad impatience—I must see him then,

At once, that very night; I could not wait

The tardy morning—'twas a year away.

I only gave the gondolier his name,

And said, "You know him?" "Yes."

"Then row me quick to where he is."

He bowed and on he went,And as we swept along, I leaned me outAnd dragged my burning fingers in the wave,My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting,What he'd say and think,How I should hang upon his neck and say:"I could not longer live without you, dear."

He bowed and on he went,

And as we swept along, I leaned me out

And dragged my burning fingers in the wave,

My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting,

What he'd say and think,

How I should hang upon his neck and say:

"I could not longer live without you, dear."

At last we paused. The gondolier said,"This is the palace." I was struck aghast.It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamedAnd trickled down into the black canal."Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake.Why are these lights? This palace is not his.He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he,"I fancied the signora wished to seeThe marriage festa—and all Venice knowsThe bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?"I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride,Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart,From its glad, singing height, dropped like a larkShot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled,And for a moment I was crushed and stunned.Then came the wild revulsion of despair;Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain."Row me to the steps," I said. I leapedOn their wet edge, and stared in at the doorWhere all was hurry, rush, and flare of light.

At last we paused. The gondolier said,

"This is the palace." I was struck aghast.

It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed

And trickled down into the black canal.

"Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake.

Why are these lights? This palace is not his.

He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he,

"I fancied the signora wished to see

The marriage festa—and all Venice knows

The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?"

I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride,

Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart,

From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark

Shot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled,

And for a moment I was crushed and stunned.

Then came the wild revulsion of despair;

Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain.

"Row me to the steps," I said. I leaped

On their wet edge, and stared in at the door

Where all was hurry, rush, and flare of light.

My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowdIn search of him—he was not there. Ah, God!I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursedMy unbelief, and turned me round to go.There was a sudden murmur near the door,And I beheld him—walking at her side.Oh! cursèd be the hour I saw that sight,And cursèd be the place! I saw those eyesThat used to look such passion into mineTurned with the selfsame look to other eyes,Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him.I could not bear their bliss.I scarcely knew what happened then; I knewI felt for the stiletto in my vestWith purpose that was half mechanical,As if a demon used my hand for his.I felt the red blood singing through my brain,I struck—before me, at my feet, she fell.

My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowd

In search of him—he was not there. Ah, God!

I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursed

My unbelief, and turned me round to go.

There was a sudden murmur near the door,

And I beheld him—walking at her side.

Oh! cursèd be the hour I saw that sight,

And cursèd be the place! I saw those eyes

That used to look such passion into mine

Turned with the selfsame look to other eyes,

Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him.

I could not bear their bliss.

I scarcely knew what happened then; I knew

I felt for the stiletto in my vest

With purpose that was half mechanical,

As if a demon used my hand for his.

I felt the red blood singing through my brain,

I struck—before me, at my feet, she fell.

Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth,Your pearls and splendors—what did they availAgainst the sharp stiletto's little point?You should have thought of that before you dared—You had all the world beside—to stealThe only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had.You will not smile again as then you smiled.Thank God, you'll never smile again for him!I was avenged, avenged, until I sawThe dreadful look he gave me as he turnedFrom her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God!It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.

Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth,

Your pearls and splendors—what did they avail

Against the sharp stiletto's little point?

You should have thought of that before you dared—

You had all the world beside—to steal

The only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had.

You will not smile again as then you smiled.

Thank God, you'll never smile again for him!

I was avenged, avenged, until I saw

The dreadful look he gave me as he turned

From her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God!

It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.

When will he come and tell me he forgivesAnd loves me still? Oh, bid him come,Come quickly, come and let me die in peace.I could not help it; I was mad;But I repent, I suffer; he at leastShould pity and forgive. Oh, make him comeAnd say he loves me, and then let me die.I shall be ready then to die; but nowI cannot think of God; my heart is hell,Until I know he loves me still.

When will he come and tell me he forgives

And loves me still? Oh, bid him come,

Come quickly, come and let me die in peace.

I could not help it; I was mad;

But I repent, I suffer; he at least

Should pity and forgive. Oh, make him come

And say he loves me, and then let me die.

I shall be ready then to die; but now

I cannot think of God; my heart is hell,

Until I know he loves me still.

Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France.

It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face,which, burned and tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped his stockingless feet.

No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove.

"What is it this morning?"

"Food and lodging."

"Nothing easier—by paying for it."

"I have money, I can pay."

"In that case we are at your service."

"When will dinner be ready?"

"Immediately."

While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the direction of the traveler.

"I cannot receive you, sir!"

"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money—I can pay."

"You have money, but I have no room."

"Well, put me in the stable."

"The horses occupy all the space there."

"In the loft then—But come, we can settle that after dinner."

"I cannot give you your dinner."

"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat."

"Well, I have nothing."

"Nothing—and all that?"

"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,—twelve of them."

"There's enough food there for twenty."

"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance."

"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain."

"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are—you are Jean Valjean—Go!"

The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door.

"Come in—"

The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he cried out—"See here—My name is Jean Valjean. I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said "Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should remain?"

"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place."

"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave—a convict—Here's my yellow passport, read that, but no—I can read, I learned in the galleys. [Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He—is—a very—dangerous—man'—There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?"

"Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove—Now sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your bed will be prepared while we are supping."

"What, you call me sir—You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,—what is your name?"

"I am only an old priest who lives here."

"Then you will not demand my money of me?"

"No—keep your money. How much have you?"

"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."

"How long did it take you to earn that?"

"Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."

"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am."

"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this housebelongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me."

"What! You knew what I was called?"

"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"

"Oh—stop! I—was very hungry when I came in here, but now—my—my hunger is all gone. Oh—you are—so—good—to me."

"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place—but listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us you must drink a cup of warm milk."

"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do you know that I am not a murderer?"

"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night."

FOOTNOTE:[78]An adaptation from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.

[78]An adaptation from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.

I want free life, and I want fresh air;And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,The mellay of horns and hoofs and headsThat wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;The green beneath and the blue above,And dash and danger, and life and love.And Lasca!Lasca used to rideOn a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,With blueserapeand bright-belled spur;I laughed with joy as I looked at her.Little knew she of books or of creeds;AnAve Mariasufficed her needs;Little she cared, save to be by my side,To ride with me, and ever to ride,From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.She was as bold as the billows that beat,She was as wild as the breezes that blow;From her little head to her little feetShe was swayed in her suppleness to and froBy each gust of passion; a sapling pine,That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,And wars with the wind when the weather is roughIs like this Lasca, this love of mine.She would hunger that I might eat,Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;But once, when I made her jealous for fun,At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,One Sunday in San Antonio,To a glorious girl on the Alamo,She drew from her belt a dear little dagger,And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger!An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly boundHer tornrebosaabout the wound,That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't countIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande.Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown—Her hair was darker than her eye;And something in her smile and frown,Curled crimson lip and instep high,Showed that there ran in each blue vein,Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,The vigorous vintage of old Spain.She was alive in every limbWith feeling, to the finger tips;And when the sun is like a fire,And sky one shining, soft sapphire,One does not drink in little sips.The air was heavy, the night was hot,I sat by her side, and forgot—forgotThe herd that were taking their rest,Forgot that the air was close opprest,That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon—That once let the herd at its breath take fright,Nothing on earth can stop the flight;And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,Who falls in front of their mad stampede!Was that thunder? I grasped the cordOf my swift mustang without a word.I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.Away! on a hot chase down the wind!But never was fox-hunt half so hardAnd never was steed so little spared;For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.The mustang flew, and we urged him on;There was one chance left, and you have but one,Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance,And if the steers in their frantic courseDon't batter you both to pieces at once,You may thank your star; if not, good-byTo the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,And the open air and the open sky,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!The cattle gained on us, and, just as I feltFor my old six-shooter behind in my belt,Down came the mustang, and down came we,Clinging together, and—what was the rest?A body that spread itself on my breast.Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;Then came thunder in my ears,As over us surged the sea of steers,Blows that beat blood into my eyes,And when I could rise—Lasca was dead!I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;And there she is lying, and no one knows;And the summer shines and the winter snows;For many a day the flowers have spreadA pall of petals over her head;And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,And the sly coyote trots here and there,And the black snake glides and glitters and slidesInto a rift in a cotton-wood tree;And the buzzard sails on,And comes and is gone,Stately and still like a ship at sea;And I wonder why I do not careFor the things that are like the things that were.Does half my heart lie buried thereIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

I want free life, and I want fresh air;

And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,

The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,

The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads

That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;

The green beneath and the blue above,

And dash and danger, and life and love.

And Lasca!

Lasca used to rideOn a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,With blueserapeand bright-belled spur;I laughed with joy as I looked at her.Little knew she of books or of creeds;AnAve Mariasufficed her needs;Little she cared, save to be by my side,To ride with me, and ever to ride,From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.She was as bold as the billows that beat,She was as wild as the breezes that blow;From her little head to her little feetShe was swayed in her suppleness to and froBy each gust of passion; a sapling pine,That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,And wars with the wind when the weather is roughIs like this Lasca, this love of mine.She would hunger that I might eat,Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;But once, when I made her jealous for fun,At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,One Sunday in San Antonio,To a glorious girl on the Alamo,She drew from her belt a dear little dagger,And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger!An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly boundHer tornrebosaabout the wound,That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't countIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Lasca used to ride

On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,

With blueserapeand bright-belled spur;

I laughed with joy as I looked at her.

Little knew she of books or of creeds;

AnAve Mariasufficed her needs;

Little she cared, save to be by my side,

To ride with me, and ever to ride,

From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.

She was as bold as the billows that beat,

She was as wild as the breezes that blow;

From her little head to her little feet

She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro

By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,

That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,

And wars with the wind when the weather is rough

Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.

She would hunger that I might eat,

Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;

But once, when I made her jealous for fun,

At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,

One Sunday in San Antonio,

To a glorious girl on the Alamo,

She drew from her belt a dear little dagger,

And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger!

An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,

And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;

But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound

Her tornrebosaabout the wound,

That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown—Her hair was darker than her eye;And something in her smile and frown,Curled crimson lip and instep high,Showed that there ran in each blue vein,Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,The vigorous vintage of old Spain.She was alive in every limbWith feeling, to the finger tips;And when the sun is like a fire,And sky one shining, soft sapphire,One does not drink in little sips.The air was heavy, the night was hot,I sat by her side, and forgot—forgotThe herd that were taking their rest,Forgot that the air was close opprest,That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon—That once let the herd at its breath take fright,Nothing on earth can stop the flight;And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,Who falls in front of their mad stampede!Was that thunder? I grasped the cordOf my swift mustang without a word.I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.Away! on a hot chase down the wind!But never was fox-hunt half so hardAnd never was steed so little spared;For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown—

Her hair was darker than her eye;

And something in her smile and frown,

Curled crimson lip and instep high,

Showed that there ran in each blue vein,

Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,

The vigorous vintage of old Spain.

She was alive in every limb

With feeling, to the finger tips;

And when the sun is like a fire,

And sky one shining, soft sapphire,

One does not drink in little sips.

The air was heavy, the night was hot,

I sat by her side, and forgot—forgot

The herd that were taking their rest,

Forgot that the air was close opprest,

That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,

In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon—

That once let the herd at its breath take fright,

Nothing on earth can stop the flight;

And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,

Who falls in front of their mad stampede!

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord

Of my swift mustang without a word.

I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.

Away! on a hot chase down the wind!

But never was fox-hunt half so hard

And never was steed so little spared;

For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;There was one chance left, and you have but one,Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance,And if the steers in their frantic courseDon't batter you both to pieces at once,You may thank your star; if not, good-byTo the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,And the open air and the open sky,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;

There was one chance left, and you have but one,

Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;

Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance,

And if the steers in their frantic course

Don't batter you both to pieces at once,

You may thank your star; if not, good-by

To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,

And the open air and the open sky,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande!

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I feltFor my old six-shooter behind in my belt,Down came the mustang, and down came we,Clinging together, and—what was the rest?A body that spread itself on my breast.Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;Then came thunder in my ears,As over us surged the sea of steers,Blows that beat blood into my eyes,And when I could rise—Lasca was dead!I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;And there she is lying, and no one knows;And the summer shines and the winter snows;For many a day the flowers have spreadA pall of petals over her head;And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,And the sly coyote trots here and there,And the black snake glides and glitters and slidesInto a rift in a cotton-wood tree;And the buzzard sails on,And comes and is gone,Stately and still like a ship at sea;And I wonder why I do not careFor the things that are like the things that were.Does half my heart lie buried thereIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt

For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,

Down came the mustang, and down came we,

Clinging together, and—what was the rest?

A body that spread itself on my breast.

Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,

Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;

Then came thunder in my ears,

As over us surged the sea of steers,

Blows that beat blood into my eyes,

And when I could rise—

Lasca was dead!

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,

And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;

And there she is lying, and no one knows;

And the summer shines and the winter snows;

For many a day the flowers have spread

A pall of petals over her head;

And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,

And the sly coyote trots here and there,

And the black snake glides and glitters and slides

Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree;

And the buzzard sails on,

And comes and is gone,

Stately and still like a ship at sea;

And I wonder why I do not care

For the things that are like the things that were.

Does half my heart lie buried there

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk. Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: "Thy name?"

"Michael Strogoff, sire."

"Thy rank?"

"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar."

"Thou dost know Siberia?"

"I am a Siberian."

"A native of—?"

"Omsk, sire."

"Hast thou relations there?"

"Yes, sire, my aged mother."

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him."

"I will deliver it, sire."

"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter."

"I will traverse it."

"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way."

"I will beware of him."

"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him letter.)

"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke."

"Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land."

That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two words rushed into his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move.

"Michael!" cried his mother.

"Who are you, my good woman?"

"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"

"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely masterof himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."

"Michael!"

"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears.

"My son! My son!"

Michael Strogoff remembered—"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not, because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him?

"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere."

This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message, which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited.

"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff.

"Yes."

"Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?"

"No."

"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?"

"I do not know."

"And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your son?"

"He was not my son."

"And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?"

"No."

"If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?"

"No."

"Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me."

"No."

"All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you."

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited.

"Begin," said Ogareff.

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

"Michael Strogoff!"

"Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face.

"Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.

"This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him."

The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff.

"Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff.

"No!"

Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael's fist.

"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir.

"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff.

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of this earth."

"Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may!"

Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff, having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on towards Irkutsk, only hopinghe might reach the place before Ogareff should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days' journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!" he cries.

On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known, all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not, could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!"

"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offeryou! My knife against your sword!" The tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, "Who killed this man."

"I," answered Michael.

"Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier."

"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!"

"Ivan, the traitor?"

"Yes."

"But who are you, then?"

"Michael Strogoff."

"And you come?"

"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!"

Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, shehad her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.

"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree—he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time.

"'I ain't no notion,' says he.

"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.

"'Just what I say,' says he.

"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here.

"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.'

"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."

Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called:

"Direxia!"

"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something."

"Direxia Hawkes!"

"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't want to let him stay there alone."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!"

"Show him in here!"

"What say?"

"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as I do."

"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree—he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest looking"—

"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?"

"Well! of all the cantankerous,—here! come in, you! She wants to see you," and a man appeared in the doorway—he was shabbily dressed, but it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked at him and then looked again.

"What do you want here?"

"I ask for food, I'm hungry."

"Are you a tramp?"

"Yes, Madam!"

"Anything else?"

Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough—you come out in the kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can take it away with you."

"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a place for this gentleman."

"I—cannot, Madam!—I thank you, but you must excuse me."

"Why can't you?"

"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."

"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"

"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health."

"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"

"That begins it, but after a while,—I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go."

"Cat's foot!"

The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"

The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream—half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair—then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite—he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.

"Old friends!"

The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.

"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good Jocko! Speak up, boy!"

"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"

"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, hey?"

"Yes, I am—faint. I must get out into the air."

"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down."

"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!"

"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!"

And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog,Mis' Tree, and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."

"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's room—he died here—what's the matter—feel faint—hey?"

"Yes!—I do—"

"Come, Willie—come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed—you are tired, boy."

"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard—I came—to—rob—you."

"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that—there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe he did."

"God knows! When—how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?"

"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you are the same boy."

"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, and worse—but—you won't—do that—you won't do that."

"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door—it's 'Malviny Weight.' Now you lie down and rest—yes, you will—that press there is full of Arthur's clothes—then you come down and talk to me—You do as I tell you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he bityou for stealing his apple,—there's the scar still on your cheek. Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you right if he had, too—Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!"

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