Fagin's Last Day

[F]Copyright, 1899, by Little, Brown & Co. (Reprinted by permission.)

(From Oliver Twist.)

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

[It will be remembered that Fagin was leader of a band of thieves, and that little Oliver Twist had once been held in the Jew's school for educating criminals. Through the influence of Mr. Brownlow and some friends the kidnapped boy was rescued and the Jew brought to justice.]

Hesat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for a seat and bedstead, and casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After a while he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said, though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more; so that in a little time he had the whole almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead—that was the end—to be hanged by the neck till he was dead!

As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, some of them through his means. They rose up in such quick succession that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die—and had joked, too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down, and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!

Some of them might have inhabited that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies—the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. Light, light!

At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared—one bearing acandle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall; the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night, for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.

Then came night—dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear the church clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To the Jew they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound—death! What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning which penetrated even there to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning.

The day passed off. Day? There was no day. It was gone as soon as come; and night came on again—night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed, and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off.

Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this the day broke—Sunday.

It was not until the night of this last awful day that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone, and so the two kept watch together.

He cowed down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; hiseyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight—nine—ten. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other's heels, where would he be, when they came round again? Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven—

Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often and too long, from the thoughts of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hung to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night if they could have seen him.

From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.

The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge.

The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.

"Good boy, Charley—well done," he mumbled; "Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver, too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!"

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

"Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it—Bolter's throat, Bill; never mind the girl—Bolter's throat, as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!"

"Fagin," said the jailer.

"That's me!" cried the Jew, falling instantly into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my lord; a very old, old man!"

"Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down—"here's somebody wants to see you—to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?"

"I shan't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead! what right have they to butcher me?"

As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat he demanded to know what they wanted there.

"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down.

"Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on."

"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands for better security by a man called Monks."

"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one—not one."

"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not say that now, upon the very verge of death, but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?"

"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to you."

"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.

"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear; I want to talk to you."

"Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer—say only one, upon your knees with me, and we will talk till morning."

"Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep—they'll believeyou. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!"

"Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of tears.

"That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!"

"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.

"No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—"

"Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had better leave him."

The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.

"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!"

The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.

What poets feel not, when they makeA pleasure in creating,The world, in its turn, will not takePleasure in contemplating.—Matthew Arnold.

What poets feel not, when they makeA pleasure in creating,The world, in its turn, will not takePleasure in contemplating.

—Matthew Arnold.

A Christmas Episode of the Plantation.

BY RUTH McENERY STUART.

[In the same volume which contains this story there are many others that lend themselves to recitation. "Moriah's Mourning" is one of the best pieces of humor which Mrs. Stuart has written; "Christmas at the Trimbles" has proven itself a never-failing success, and "The Second Mrs. Slimm" is an excellent reading.]

Hewas a little yellow man, with a quizzical face and sloping shoulders, and when he gave his full name, with somewhat of a flourish, as if it might hold compensations for physical shortcomings, one could hardly help smiling. And yet there was a pathos in the caricature that dissipated the smile half-way.

"Yas, I'm named 'Pollo Belvedere, an' my marster gi'e me dat intitlemint on account o' my shape," he would say, with a strut, as if he were bantered. As Apollo would have told you himself, the fact that he had never married was not because he couldn't get anybody to have him, but simply that he hadn't himself been suited.

Lily Washington was a beauty in her own right, and she was the belle of the plantation. She was an emotional creature, with a caustic tongue on occasion, and when it pleased her mood to look over her shoulder at one of her numerous admirers and to wither him with a look or a word, she did not hesitate to do it. For instance, when Apollo first asked her to marry him—it had been his habit to propose to her every day or so for a year or two past—she glanced at him askance from head to foot, and then she said: "Why, yas. Dat is, I s'pose, of co'se, you's de sample. I'd order a full-size by you in a minute." This was cruel, and seeing the patheticlook come into his face, she instantly repented of it, and walked home from church with him, dismissing a handsome black fellow, and saying only kind things to Apollo all the way.

Of course no one took Apollo seriously as Lily's suitor, much less the chocolate maid herself. But there were other lovers. Indeed, there were all the others, for that matter, but in point of eligibility the number to be seriously regarded was reduced to about two. These were Pete Peters, a handsome griff, with just enough Indian blood to give him an air of distinction, and a French-talking mulatto, who had come up from New Orleans to repair the machinery in the sugar-house, and who was buying land in the vicinity, and drove his own sulky. Pete was less prosperous than he, but, although he worked his land on shares, he owned two mules and a saddle horse, and would be allowed to enter on a purchase of land whenever he should choose to do so. Although Pete and the New Orleans fellow, whose name was also Peter, but who was called Pierre, met constantly in a friendly enough way, they did not love each other. They both loved Lily too much for that. But they laughed good-naturedly together at Apollo and his "case," which they inquired after politely, as if it were a member of his family.

"Well, 'Pollo, how's yo' case on Miss Lily comin' on?" either one would say, with a wink at the other, and Apollo would artlessly report the state of the heavens with relation to his particular star, as when he once replied to this identical question:

"Well, Miss Lily was mighty obstropulous 'istiddy, but she is mo' cancelized dis mornin'."

It was Pete who had asked the question, and he laughed aloud at the answer. "Mo' cancelized dis mornin', is she?" he replied. "How do you know she is?"

"'Caze she lemme tote her hoe all de way up f'rom de field," answered the ingenuous Apollo.

"She did, did she? An' who was walkin' by her side all dat time, I like to know?"

Apollo winced a little at this, but he answered, bravely, "I don't kyah ef Pier was walkin' wid her; I was totin' her hoe, all de samee."

The Christmas-eve dance in the sugar-house had been for years an annual function on the plantation. At this, since her debut, at fourteen, three Christmases before, Lily had heldundisputed sway, and all her former belles amiably accepted their places as lesser lights.

Lily was perfectly ravishing in her splendor at the dance this year. The white Swiss frock she wore was high in the neck, but her brown shoulders and arms shone through the thin fabric with fine effect. About her slim waist she tied a narrow ribbon of blue, and she carried a pink feather fan, and the wreath about her forehead was of lilies-of-the-valley. She had done a day's scouring for them, and they had come out of the summer hat of one of the white ladies on the coast. This insured their quality, and no doubt contributed somewhat to the quiet serenity with which she bore herself as, with her little head held like that of the Venus of Milo, she danced down the center of the room, holding her flounces in either hand, and kicking the floor until she kicked both her slippers to pieces, when she finished the figure in her stocking feet.

She had a relay of slippers ready, and there was a scramble as to who should put them on; but she settled that question by making 'Pollo rise, with his fiddle in his arms, and lend her his chair for a minute while she pulled them on herself. Then she let Pete and Pierre each have one of the discarded slippers as a trophy. Lily had always danced out several pairs of slippers at the Christmas dance, but she never achieved her stocking feet in the first round until now, and she was in high glee over it. If she had been admired before, she was looked upon as a raving, tearing, beauty to-night, and so she was. Fortunately 'Pollo had his fiddling to do, and this saved him from any conspicuous folly. But he kept his eyes on her, and when she grew too ravishingly lovely to his fond vision, and he couldn't stand it a minute longer in silence, he turned to the man next him, who played the bones, and remarked, "Ef—ef anybody but Gord A'mighty had a-made anything as purty as Miss Lily, dey'd 'a' stinted it somewhar," and, watching every turn, he lent his bow to her varying moods while she tired out one dancer after another. It was the New Orleans fellow who first lost his head utterly. He had danced with her but three times, but, while she took another's hand and whizzed through the figures, he scarcely took his eyes from her, and when, at about midnight, he succeeded in getting her apart for a promenade, he poured forth his soul to her in the picturesque English of the quadroon quarter of New Orleans. "An' now, to proof to you my lorv,Ma'm'selle Leelee"—he gesticulated vigorously as he spoke—"I am geeving you wan beau-u-tiful Christmas present—I am goin' to geev you—w'at you t'ink? My borgee!" With this he turned dramatically and faced her. They were standing now under the shed outside the door in the moonlight, and, although they did not see him, Apollo stood within hearing, behind a pile of molasses barrels, where he had come "to cool off."

Lily had several times been "buggy-ridin'" with Pierre in this same "borgee," and it was a very magnificent affair in her eyes. When he told her that it was to be hers she gasped. Such presents were unknown on the plantation. But Lily was a "mannerly" member of good society, if her circle was small, and she was not to be taken back by any compliment a man should pay her. She simply fanned herself, a little flurriedly perhaps, with her feather fan, as she said: "You sho' must be jokin', Mr. Pier. You cert'n'y must." But Mr. Pierre was not joking. He was never more in earnest in his life, and he told her so, and there is no telling what else he would have told her but for the fact that Mr. Pete Peters happened to come out to the shed to cool off about this time, and as he almost brushed her shoulder, it was as little as Lily could do to address a remark to him, and then, of course, he stopped and chatted awhile; and, after what appeared a reasonable interval, long enough for it not to seem that she was too much elated over it, she remarked, "An', by-de-way, Mr. Peters, I must tell you what a lovely Christmas gif' I have just received by de hand of Mr. Pier. He has jest presented me with his yaller-wheeled buggy, an' I sho' is proud of it." Then, turning to Pierre, she added, "You sho' is a mighty generous gen'leman, Mr. Pier—you cert'n'y is."

Peters give Lily one startled look, but he instantly realized, from her ingenuous manner, that there was nothing back of the gift of the buggy—that is, it had been, so far as she was concerned, simply a Christmas present. Pierre had not offered himself with the gift. And if this were so, well—he reckoned he could match him.

He reached forward and took Lily's fan from her hand. He hastened to do this to keep Pierre from taking it. Then, while he fanned her, he said, "Is dat so, Miss Lily, dat Mr. Pier is give you a buggy? Dat sholy is a fine Christmas gif'—it sho' is. An' sense you fin' yo'se'f possessed of a buggy, I trust you will allow me de pleasure of presentin' you wid ahorse to drive in de buggy." He made a graceful bow as he spoke, a bow that would have done credit to the man from New Orleans. It was so well done, indeed, that Lily unconsciously bowed in return, as she said, with a look that savored a little of roguishness: "Oh, hursh, Mr. Peters! You des a-guyin' me—dat what you doin'."

"Guyin' nothin'," said Peters, grinning broadly as he noted the expression of Pierre's face. "Ef you'll jes do me de honor to accep' of my horse, Miss Lily, I'll be de proudest gen'leman on dis plantation."

At this she chuckled, and took her fan in her own hand. And then she turned to Pierre.

"You sho' has set de style o' mighty expensive Christmas gif's on dis plantation, Mr. Pier—you cert'n'y has. An' I wants to thank you bofe mos' kindly—I cert'n'y does."

Having heard this much, 'Pollo thought it time to come from his hiding, and he strolled leisurely out in the other direction first, but soon returned this way. And then he stopped, and, reaching over, took the feather fan—and for a few moments he had his innings. Then some one else came along and the conversation became impersonal, and one by one they all dropped off—all except 'Pollo. When the rest had gone, he and Lily found seats on the cane carrier, and they talked a while, and when a little later supper was announced, it was the proud fiddler who took her in, while Pierre and Peters stood off and politely glared at each other; and after a while Pierre must have said something, for Peters suddenly sprang at him and tumbled him out the door and rolled him over in the dirt, and they had to be separated. But presently they laughed and shook hands, and Pierre offered Pete a cigarette, and Pete took it, and gave Pierre a light—and it was all over.

It was next day—Christmas morning—and the young people were standing about in groups under the China-trees in the campus, when Apollo joined them, looking unusually chipper and beaming. He was dressed in his best—Prince Albert, beaver, and all—and he sported a bright silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck.

He was altogether a delightful figure, absolutely content with himself, and apparently at peace with the world. No sooner had he joined the crowd than the fellows began chaffing him, as usual, and presently some one mentioned Lily's name and spoke of her presents. The two men who had brokenthe record for generosity in the history of plantation lovers were looked upon as nabobs by those of lesser means. Of course everybody knew the city fellow had started it, and they were glad that Peters had come to time and saved the dignity of the place; indeed, he was about the only one on the plantation who could have done it.

As they stood talking it over, the two heroes had nothing to say, of course, and 'Pollo began rolling a cigarette—an art he had learned from the man from New Orleans.

Finally, he remarked, "Yas, Miss Lily got sev'al mighty nice presents last night."

At this Pierre turned, laughing, and said, "I s'pose you geeve 'er somet'ing, too, eh?"

"Pity you hadn't a-give her dat silk hank'cher. Hit 'd become her a heap better'n it becomes you," Peters said, laughing.

"Yas, I reckon it would," said 'Pollo; "but de fact is she gi' me dis hank'cher—an' of co'se I accepted it."

"But why ain't you tellin' us what you give her?" insisted Peters.

'Pollo put the cigarette to his lips, deliberately lit it, puffed several times, and then, removing it in a leisurely way, he drawled:

"Well, de fact is, I heerd Mr. Pier here give her a buggy, an'—Mr. Peters, he up an' handed over a horse,—an' so, quick as I got a chance, I des balanced my ekalub'ium an' went an' set down beside her an' ast her ef she wouldn't do me the honor to accep' of a driver, an'—an' she say yas.

"You know I'm a coachman by trade.

"An dat's huccome I to say she got sev'al presents las' night."

And he took another puff of his cigarette.

[G]From "Moriah's Mourning." Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.

From "Moriah's Mourning." Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.

BY J. M. BARRIE.

Untilmy system collapsed, my landlady only spoke of me as her parlor. At intervals I had communicated with her through the medium of Sarah Ann, the servant, and, as her rent was due on Wednesday, could I pay my bill now? Except for these monetary transactions, my landlady and I were total strangers, and, though I sometimes fell over her children in the lobby, that led to no intimacy. Even Sarah Ann never opened her mouth to me. She brought in my tea, and left me to discover that it was there. My first day in lodgings I said "Good-morning" to Sarah Ann, and she replied, "Eh?" "Good-morning," I repeated, to which she answered contemptuously, "Oh, ay." For six months I was simply the parlor; but then I fell ill, and at once became an interesting person.

Sarah Ann found me shivering on the sofa one hot day a week or more ago, beneath my rug, two coats, and some other articles. My landlady sent up some beef-tea, in which she has a faith that is pathetic, and then, to complete the cure, she appeared in person. She has proved a nice, motherly old lady, but not cheerful company.

"Where do you feel it worst, sir?" she asked.

I said it was bad all over, but worst in my head.

"On your brow?"

"No; on the back of my head."

"It feels like a lump of lead?"

"No; like a furnace."

"That's just what I feared," she said. "It began so with him."

"With whom?"

"My husband. He came in one day, five years ago, complaining of his head, and in three days he was a corpse."

"What?"

"Don't be afraid, sir. Maybe it isn't the same thing."

"Of course it isn't. Your husband, according to the story you told me when I took these rooms, died of fever."

"Yes, but the fever began just in this way. It carried him offin no time. You had better see a doctor, sir. Doctor was no use in my husband's case, but it is satisfaction to have him."

Here Sarah Ann, who had been listening with mouth and eyes open, suddenly burst into tears, and was led out of the room, exclaiming, "Him such a quiet gentleman, and he never flung nothing at me."

Though I knew that I had only caught a nasty cold, a conviction in which the doctor confirmed me, my landlady stood out for its being just such another case as her husband's, and regaled me for hours with reminiscences of his rapid decline. If I was a little better one day, alas! he had been a little better the day before he died; and if I answered her peevishly, she told Sarah Ann that my voice was going. She brought the beef-tea up with her own hands, her countenance saying that I might as well have it, though it could not save me. Sometimes I pushed it away untasted (how I loathe beef-tea now!), when she whispered something to Sarah Ann that sent that tender-hearted maid howling once more from the room.

"He's supped it all," Sarah Ann said one day, brightening.

"That's a worse sign," said her mistress, "than if he hadn't took none."

I lay on a sofa, pulled close to the fire, and when the doctor came, my landlady was always at his heels, Sarah Ann's dismal face showing at the door. The doctor is a personal friend of my own, and each day he said I was improving a little.

"Ah, doctor!" my landlady said, reprovingly.

"He does it for the best," she exclaimed to me, "but I don't hold with doctors as deceive their patients. Why don't he speak out the truth like a man? My husband were told the worst, and so he had time to reconcile himself."

On one of these occasions I summoned up sufficient energy to send her out of the room; but that only made matters worse.

"Poor gentleman!" I heard her say to Sarah Ann; "he is very violent to-day. I saw he were worse the moment I clapped eyes on him. Sarah Ann, I shouldn't wonder though we had to hold him down yet."

About an hour afterwards she came in to ask me if I "had come more round to myself," and when I merely turned roundon the sofa for reply, she said, in a loud whisper to Sarah Ann, that I "were as quiet as a lamb now." Then she stroked me and went away.

So attentive was my landlady that she was a ministering angel. Yet I lay on that sofa plotting how to get her out of the room. The plan that seemed the simplest was to pretend sleep, but it was not easily carried out. Not getting any answer from me, she would approach on tiptoe and lean over the sofa, listening to hear me breathe. Convinced that I was still living, she and Sarah Ann began a conversation in whispers, of which I or the deceased husband was the subject. The husband had slept a good deal, too, and it wasn't a healthy sign.

"It isn't a good sign," whispered my landlady, "though them as know no better might think it is. It shows he's getting weaker. When they takes to sleeping in the day-time, it's only because they don't have the strength to keep awake."

"Oh, missus!" Sarah Ann would say.

"Better face facts, Sarah Ann," replied my landlady.

In the end I had generally to sit up and confess that I heard what they were saying. My landlady evidently thought this another bad sign.

I discovered that my landlady held receptions in another room, where visitors came who referred to me as her "trial." When she thought me distinctly worse, she put on her bonnet and went out to disseminate the sad news. It was on one of these occasions that Sarah Ann, who had been left in charge of the children, came to me with a serious request.

"Them children," she said, "want awful to see you, and I sort of promised to bring 'em in, if so you didn't mind."

"But, Sarah Ann, they have seen me often, and, though I'm a good deal better, I don't feel equal to speaking to them."

Sarah Ann smiled pityingly when I said I felt better, but she assured me the children only wanted to look at me. I refused her petition, but, on my ultimatum being announced to them, they set up such a roar that, to quiet them, I called them in.

They came one at a time. Sophia, the eldest, came first. She looked at me very solemnly, and then said bravely that If I liked she would kiss me. As she had a piece of flannel tied round her face, and was swollen in the left cheek, I declined this honor, and she went off much relieved. Next cameTommy, who sent up a shriek as his eyes fell on me, and had to be carried off by Sarah Ann. Johnny was bolder and franker, but addressed all his remarks to Sarah Ann. First, he wanted to know if he could touch me, and, being told he could, he felt my face all over. Then, he wanted to see the "spouter." The "spouter" was a spray through which Sarah Ann blew coolness on my head, and Johnny had heard of it with interest. He refused to leave the room until he had been permitted to saturate me and my cushion.

I am so much better now that even my landlady knows I am not dying. I suppose she is glad that it is so, but at the same time she resents it. There is an impression in the house that I am a fraud. They call me by my name as yet, but soon again I shall be the parlor.

BY SIDNEY LANIER.

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare:Look how compounded, with what care!Time got his wrinkles reaping theeSweet herbs from all antiquity.David to thy distillage went,Keats, and Gotama excellent,Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright,And Shakespeare for a king-delight.Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt;Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt;'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;I'll drink it down right smilingly.

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare:Look how compounded, with what care!Time got his wrinkles reaping theeSweet herbs from all antiquity.

David to thy distillage went,Keats, and Gotama excellent,Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright,And Shakespeare for a king-delight.

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt;Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt;'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me;I'll drink it down right smilingly.

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delightSnapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night;And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"—The old split-bottomed rocker—and was musing all alone.I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door,And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor;But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a streamThat mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar,With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;—And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away,With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air,I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair—A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared,And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth,On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb,I saw the fire place changing to a bright procenium.And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stageAlive with little actors of a very tender age;And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked,And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew,And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through;And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tellOf fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy.Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy;And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee,And bent, with dazzled faces, and with parted lips, to see.'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double chin,And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in;And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds;As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her,That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh;And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the airCame drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:—By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea,And the majesty of silence reigning o'er Galilee,—We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and goneAs the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn,And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn,We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.You have given us a shepherd, you have given us a guide,And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when you sent Him from your side,—But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wideTo welcome His returning when His works are glorified.By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea,And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,—We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain,Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty windowpane;And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinelWho brings the world good tidings,—"It is Christmas—all is well!"

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door,And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor;But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a streamThat mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar,With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;—And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away,With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air,I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair—A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared,And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth,On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb,I saw the fire place changing to a bright procenium.

And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stageAlive with little actors of a very tender age;And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked,And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew,And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through;And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tellOf fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy.Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy;And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee,And bent, with dazzled faces, and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double chin,And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in;And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds;As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her,That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh;And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the airCame drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:—

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea,And the majesty of silence reigning o'er Galilee,—We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and goneAs the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn,And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn,We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd, you have given us a guide,And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when you sent Him from your side,—But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wideTo welcome His returning when His works are glorified.

By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea,And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,—We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the kneeAnd lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain,Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty windowpane;And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinelWho brings the world good tidings,—"It is Christmas—all is well!"

[H]From "Afterwhiles." Copyright, 1898. By special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

From "Afterwhiles." Copyright, 1898. By special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

BY S. E. KISER.

[Of the many poems written when President McKinley was assassinated, none surpassed in sympathy and original conception the verses printed below.]

See that turkey out there, mister? Ain't he big and fat and nice?Well, you couldn't buy that gobbler, not for any kind of price.Now, I'll tell you how it happened: 'Way along last spring, you know,This here turkey's mother hatched some twenty little ones or so—Hatched 'em in the woods down yonder, and come marchin' home one dayWith them stringin' out behind 'er, catchin' bugs along the way.Well, my little grandson named 'em—both his folks are dead, you see,So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and me.He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley,One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but ILiked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow—He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now.How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear,It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air.And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot,And you'd ought to seen the mother—proud of him?—I tell you what!So I says to ma and Charley—oh, three months ago at least—That I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast.Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here,And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this year.Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to me,After all the things that's happened, than I—well, somehow you seeI was in his ridgement—so you'll please excuse me—I dunno—I don't want to show my feelin's—sometimes folks can't help it, though.Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away;Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day?See how all his feathers glisten—ain't he big and plump and nice?No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price.That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name McKinley to,He'll die natural—that's something turkeys mighty seldom do.

Well, my little grandson named 'em—both his folks are dead, you see,So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and me.He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley,One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but ILiked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow—He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now.

How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear,It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air.And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot,And you'd ought to seen the mother—proud of him?—I tell you what!So I says to ma and Charley—oh, three months ago at least—That I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast.

Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here,And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this year.Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to me,After all the things that's happened, than I—well, somehow you seeI was in his ridgement—so you'll please excuse me—I dunno—I don't want to show my feelin's—sometimes folks can't help it, though.

Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away;Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day?See how all his feathers glisten—ain't he big and plump and nice?No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price.That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name McKinley to,He'll die natural—that's something turkeys mighty seldom do.

(From Lorna Doone.)

BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

[The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells the story, while fishing one spring had followed a stream into the Doone estate. When the following scene opens he had just had a desperate struggle to save himself from the swift current of the stream, and had nearly lost his life.]

WhenI came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mold, and a little girl, kneeling at my side, was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she whispered, softly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her; "now you will try to be better, won't you?"

I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between her bright red lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterward; although at that time she was too young to know what made her take to me.

Thereupon I sat upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country brogue, lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as if I were a great play thing.

"What is your name?" she said, as if she had every right toask me; "and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great bag?"

"You had better let them alone," I said; "they are loaches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you like."

"Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they are only fish. But how your feet are bleeding! Oh, I must tie them up for you. And no shoes nor stockings! Is your mother very poor, poor boy?"

"No," I said, being vexed at this; "we are rich enough to buy all this great meadow, if we chose; and here my shoes and stockings be."

"Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot bear to see your feet. Oh, please to let me bandage them; I will do it very softly."

"Oh, I don't think much of that," I replied; "I shall put some goose grease to them. But how you are looking at me! I never saw one like you before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?"

"Lorna Doone," she answered, in a low voice, as if afraid of it, and hanging her head so that I could see only her forehead and eyelashes; "if you please, my name is Lorna Doone, and I thought you must have known it."

Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her. Nevertheless, I could not help looking at her tenderly, and the more when her blushes turned into tears, and her tears to long, low sobs.

"Don't cry," I said, "whatever you do. I am sure you have never done any harm. I will give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch some more for mother; only don't be angry with me."

She flung her soft arms up in the passion of her tears, and looked at me so piteously that what did I do but kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd thing, when I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as all honest boys must do. But she touched my heart with a sudden delight.

She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in her place would have done; nay, she even wiped her lips (which methought was rather rude of her), and drew away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedom.

I, for my part, being vexed at her behavior to me, took up all my things to go, and made a fuss about it, to let her know I was going. But she did not call me back at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover, I knew that to try thedescent was almost certain death to me, and it looked as dark as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned round again, and came back to her, and said, "Lorna."

"Oh, I thought you were gone," she answered; "why did you ever come here? Do you know what they would do to us if they found you here with me?"

"Beat us, I dare say, very hard, or me at least. They could never beat you."

"No. They would kill us both outright, and bury us here by the water; and the water often tells me that I must come to that."

"But what should they kill me for?"

"Because you have found the way up here, and they could never believe it. Now, please to go; oh please go. They will kill us both in a moment. Yes, I like you very much"—for I was teasing her to say it—"very much indeed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only please to go, John. And when your feet are well, you know, you can come and tell me how they are."

"But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very much indeed, nearly as much as Annie, and a great deal more than Lizzie. And I never saw any one like you; and I must come back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me; and I will bring you such lots of things—there are apples still, and a thrush that I caught, with only one leg broken, and our dog has just had puppies—"

"Oh dear! they won't let me have a dog. There is not a dog in the valley. They say that they are such noisy things—"

"Only put your hands in mine—what little things they are, Lorna!—and I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will show you just how long he is."

"Hush!" A shout came down the valley, and all my heart was trembling, like water after sunset, and Lorna's face was altered from pleasant play to terror. She shrunk to me, and looked up at me, with such a power of weakness, that I at once made up my mind to save her or die with her. A tingle went through all my bones, and I only longed for my carbine. The little girl took courage from me, and put her cheek quite close to mine.

"Come with me down the water-fall. I can carry you easily, and mother will take care of you."

"No, no," she cried, as I took her up; "I will tell you what todo. They are only looking for me. You see that hole, that hole there?"

"Yes, I see it; but they will see me crossing the grass to get there."

"Look, look!" She could hardly speak. "There is a way out from the top of it; they would kill me if I told it. Oh, here they come; I can see them." Then she began to sob aloud, being so young and unready. But I drew her behind the withy-bushes, and close down to the water, where it was quiet and shelving deep, ere it came to the lip of the chasm. Here they could not see either of us from the upper valley.

Crouching in that hollow nest, as children get together in ever so little compass, I saw a dozen fierce men come down on the other side of the water, not bearing any fire-arms, but looking lax and jovial, as if they were come from riding and a dinner taken hungrily. "Queen, queen!" they were shouting, here and there, and now and then; "where the pest is our little queen gone?"

"They always call me 'queen,' and I am to be queen by-and-by," Lorna whispered to me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, and her little heart beating against me; "oh, they are crossing by the timber there, and then they are sure to see us."

"Stop," said I; "now I see what to do. I must get into the water, and you must go to sleep."

"To be sure, yes; away in the meadow there. But how bitter cold it will be for you!"

She saw in a moment the way to do it sooner than I could tell her; and there was no time to lose.

"Now, mind you, never come again," she whispered over her shoulder, as she crept away with a childish twist, hiding her white front from me; "only I shall come sometimes—oh, here they are, Madonna!"

Daring scarce to peep, I crept into the water, and lay down bodily in it, with my head between two blocks of stone, and some flood drift combing over me. I knew that for her sake I was bound to be brave and hide myself. She was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty yards from me, feigning to be fast asleep, with her dress spread beautifully, and her hair drawn over her.

Presently one of the great, rough men came round a corner upon her; and there he stopped and gazed a while at her fairnessand her innocence. Then he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard him; and if I had only brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him.

"Here our queen is! Here's the queen; here's the captain's daughter!" he shouted to his comrades; "fast asleep, and hearty! Now I have first claim to her; and no one else shall touch the child. Back to the bottle, all of you!"

He set her dainty little form upon his great, square shoulder, and her narrow feet in one broad hand; and so in triumph marched away.

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