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 against her breast. She'd never again see the tiny pink mouth open in the tiniest, most absurd of yawns. In a frenzy of horror she would ring the nurse's bell wildly and demand her baby again. She must make him nurse. She would make him understand that he must nurse. But when once again the little warm bundle, that smelled so fragrantly of milk and talcum powder, lay against her breast, she knew that he would not nurse and that she could not make him understand his danger.

Sometimes a baby cried in the nursery. Dot's heart would constrict and the pulse in her throat would flutter fearfully. "Is that my baby?" she would call to the nurse.

"That's my baby," Mrs. Vernon would say, and the nurse would laugh at them both and tell them they had never seen the child who was crying.

The woman on the third bed would dream blankly up at the ceiling during these moments. She had no part in them. Sometimes at night her sobs were heard by the other women, and then Dot would cry too.

The day that Dr. Stewart took the data for the birth certificate, the baby had accepted no food for hours. Dot was in a morbid state. She thought of this formality as an unnecessary pain. Her baby was going to die. What difference did it make where his grandfather had been born? She gave the required information without looking at the doctor.

When Eddie came that night, she asked him if she had been right in assuming that his father had been born in New York.

"Yeh," he answered. "He was born on Ninth Avenue. What do you want to know for?"

"I gave Dr. Stewart the dope for the baby's birth certificate."

"Oh. What else did you have to tell him?"

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 "A lot of junk. Where our parents were born, our names and ages and what we named the kid and the address of our house and—"

"Say, Dot, what did you name the kid?"

"What did I name him? Eddie, of course. What did you think?"

"Eddie!"

"Well, Edward."

"Aw, Dot, you shouldn't have done that. That's an awful name. Say, Dot, I think I'll run down and get a smoke. Why didn't you name him something fancy like Theodore or Calvin?"

He rushed out of the room then. Mrs. Vernon, standing near the window, laughed a little.

"Heavens," she said. "Your husband certainly hates that baby. He drops a tear at even having it for a namesake." She laughed again.

"Huh?" said Dot.

Eddie did not return at once. Dot suspected that he had gone to get her a magazine. While he was away, some one came to see Mrs. Vernon—the first visitor she had had, so far as Dot knew.

He was a tall slim man with gray eyes that fixed themselves reproachfully on the red-haired girl. In the same baseless way that she reminded Dot of the girl in the bright blue slicker, so did her visitor call to Dot's mind the man who had gleaned so much satisfaction from mentioning bootleggers' mistresses. Much as all Martians would look alike to us till we grew accustomed to any strange physical features they might have, so did all members of the tribe who never appear self-conscious and who are careless about the impression they leave seemed to Dot to be cut from two standard models. One for males and one for females.

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 "I had a hard time finding you," said Mrs. Vernon's visitor.

She yawned. "Not so hard as I should have liked," she returned.

"How do you feel?"

"Bored at the moment."

"When was the baby born?"

"I didn't have a baby. I'm here for something else."

"Oh, stop being silly, Ora. How is the baby?"

Mrs. Vernon went and sat down on the edge of her bed. "The baby is fine," she said, seriously. "He weighed seven pounds at birth and is as healthy as could be desired. I'm well, too, but you shouldn't be here. I'm not supposed to have visitors today. My day isn't until Wednesday. Will you come Wednesday?"

"Oh, see here, Ora, couldn't I speak to the nurse and perhaps give her some money?"

"No, they're very strict. She might report you down at the desk, and you might be barred out entirely for having tried to bribe her into disobeying orders."

"I've never been in a maternity hospital before. I don't know about rules—"

"No, I know you don't. Be a good egg and go now. Come back Wednesday."

"You see, they let me by at the desk—"

"Yes, the account of visitors is kept up here. Do go."

"Very well, dear, but I'll be back Wednesday. So glad that you're feeling well and that the baby is healthy. Shall I see him Wednesday?"

"Yes, indeed. Good-by."

"Good-by."

The girl with the red-gold hair looked speculatively at Dot. Had she heard everything?

Dot did not keep her guessing long. "Why, he could

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 have stayed," she said. "There's no rules about visitors on any certain days. But you want to dodge him, don't you? You told me you were leaving here Tuesday."

"Yes, I am. On Tuesday."

"Gee, he gets a tough break," said Dot.

Mrs. Vernon lit a cigarette and stood close to the window so that she could drop it if Miss Parsons' step should be heard in the hall. Dot was not the sort of girl whom one imagines cigarette smoke might annoy, and the other woman was asleep.

Mrs. Vernon took swift, nervous puffs of the cigarette. "Remember what I told you about raising your son without interference?" she asked. "That's what I'm dodging; interference."

"Oh," said Dot, "that was your husband? Holy heavens, you can't keep dodging a husband."

Mrs. Vernon said nothing.

"You can't keep dodging a husband," Dot repeated.

"No," said Mrs. Vernon, "you can't keep dodging a husband."

Eddie returned. Dot's suspicions had been well based. He had a Motion Picture Magazine, a copy of Love Stories, and a Daily News.

"Almost time for the kid to be brought?" he asked.

"I guess so," said Dot.

"Did he eat today?"

Dot shook her head. It was safer that way. She couldn't trust herself to speak of the baby. She couldn't tell Eddie, anyhow, of the hour she had spent whispering pleas and promises into those tiny pink ears that might well have been the rose petals they resembled for all the good it did to implore.

"Gee," said Eddie, "what happens to them if they don't eat?"

"What do you think?" asked Dot, harshly.

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 Eddie laughed. Dot thought his laugh sounded funny. Maybe it was because it was out of place in a sanitarium.

"They don't die," he said. "Surely they can't die. Gee, the doctors know too much nowadays to let a baby die just because it won't eat, don't they, Dot? Can't they think up a way to feed him?"

"Nobody has yet," she answered.

She reached for her lipstick. If he didn't get off the subject of the baby's not nursing, she was going to bawl. Why did he keep harping on it, anyhow? He didn't care about the baby. He just wanted to have something to talk about, that was all.

"He doesn't like the bottle either, huh?" said Eddie.

"No, he doesn't like the bottle, and he won't nurse, and can't you talk about anything else?"

There! That would hold him for a while. What right had he to use for a handy conversational topic the baby's indifference toward life?

Eddie looked at her for a moment and then looked away. He was speechless. Again she had resented his interest in the little fellow. He'd have to be mighty careful how he spoke. Well, he'd try not to irritate her, but he'd be damned if he was going to slight the baby to please her. Once that kid got to be a regular person that wore socks and overalls, he was going to know that his daddy loved him—Dot or no Dot! And then Eddie remembered that perhaps the little fellow would never know anything. Perhaps— He looked at Dot. She was rouging her lips. God, rouging her lips.

She was making a splotchy job of it, too, but that Eddie didn't notice. Her hand trembled with nervousness and rage. That he dared to ask casual questions about the baby as though they were discussing the contents of the movie magazine or the merits of the band at the Poppyland Dance Hall. Hadn't he any feelings at all? Didn't

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 he know that if anything happened to the baby she'd kill herself? What would be left in life without little Edward? Nothing but a man she loved but who had failed her child. A man who had remained cold to the touch of his own kid's fingers upon his hand. But that kid was dependent upon Eddie for the necessities of life. If it gained young Edward anything to have Eddie think that he was the only love in Dot's heart, then she could be as cold as Eddie toward the baby. After all, she would have thousands of blessed hours with him while Eddie was at work.

Miss Parsons brought the baby. "Now eat, youngster," she said as she laid him beside Dot.

The eyes of both Eddie and Dot fixed themselves upon the child as he fastened his mouth to Dot's breast and made a feeble attempt to nurse.

"He's going to take his milk," said Miss Parsons.

But she had spoken too soon. The baby evidently had no desire but to assure his audience that he knew how to get his food should he ever wish for it.

An hour passed, forty minutes of which Miss Parsons spent trying to lure the baby to nurse. It was useless. At last she bundled him off to the nursery, leaving his parents on the verge of hysteria.

Eddie had to go then. He had promised to relieve the counter man at nine o'clock. It wasn't his job to sell radio parts to the public nor to answer their questions, but you had to do a fellow a favor once in a while.

He kissed Dot and left her. He felt that it was just as well that he had to leave early tonight. Perhaps they'd have quarreled, had he stayed.

Miss Parsons came in and leaned over Dot's bed. She whispered to her, "I'm going off duty now. This is Miss Harris' night off, and you'll have Miss Brown up here. She's kind of careless, and I want to tell you something.

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 Your baby is running a little fever, and you want to see that she watches him and calls your doctor if he gets much worse. She sits in one of the empty rooms and reads all the time and forgets. Ring the bell and ask her once or twice if he's all right."

The baby was running a fever! Then she would never even bring him home. He would never lie in the ivory-white crib nor wear the cunning little nighties that could draw together with a string under his tiny pink feet. He'd never squeak the little duck that was made of Turkish toweling. His tiny heart would flutter more slowly every hour, and finally it would flutter no more. Here he would die, here in the cold, hard hospital whiteness, and hia little soul would fly through the terrible chemical odors and out into the starry summer night. Not even in her arms would he die, but alone, with no one near who loved him. Her baby. Her little lamb. And Miss Brown would calmly read while this was going on? Dot's lips shut in a firm, white line. She'd kill her if the baby died before Dr. Stewart had been summoned. She'd brain her.

Miss Brown came on duty. She looked in the ward and shouted a cheery "Hello."

Dot called her over. "My baby's pretty sick, isn't he?" she said.

"I was just looking on the chart," returned Miss Brown. "He's got a little fever, but that's natural from not eating. It's nothing to worry about."

"No?" asked Dot. "Well, we'll worry about it anyhow. That's being on the safe side."

"You'll spoil your milk, worrying."

"You haven't got any milk; so you worry," said Dot.

Miss Brown raised her eyebrows and walked away. She could see Parsons' hand in this.

Dot planned to get some sleep before ten o'clock so that she could lie awake through the night and question

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 Miss Brown about the baby. She knew that at ten o'clock he would be brought to her. She wished that Dr. Stewart hadn't caused the one o'clock feeding to be stopped. He had meant well. He had meant to accustom the baby to sleeping through the night, but now she wished for the assurance that she might see him through the small, wee, dangerous hours.

Dot's plan to get in a nap was frustrated by guests arriving at the bed of the woman beside her. They were quiet people, but their oft-repeated condolences on their friend's misfortune annoyed Dot and kept her awake. Over and over they reminded the woman that she had dreamed for nine months of her baby, had suffered for him, and now she did not have him. And one of them was a man!

When they had gone Dot lay with clenched fists listening to the dry sobs that came from the other bed. She wanted to scream. She wanted to say words that God would hear.

Ten o'clock came and went. Dot's baby took no food. He fretted piteously. His little forehead was hot, and his lips were dust-dry. Once he opened his eyes, and she fancied he looked at her pleadingly.

After he had gone back to the nursery, Miss Brown made the women ready for sleep. The friendly dark closed in on Dot, and she sailed away on a ship of dreams to a beautiful land where the baby romped with healthy eagerness and Eddie rode him on his back and dumped him laughingly into a sand dune. She knew that any more such pleasant fancies would lull her to sleep. She brought her mind back to reality. She must stay awake. She must stay awake. She must. ..

Dot awakened with a start. The moonlight filled the room, making radiant the ugly enamel beds and the stiff white chairs. The two other women lay asleep like chill,

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 marble statues. Dot shuddered. There was an eerie haze over everything. She wished that Mrs. Vernon might awaken. She listened for a sound in the nursery, but there was none to be heard. Miss Brown was probably reading or dozing.

Dot rang the bell. The silence continued for a few seconds more; then the shuffle of Miss Brown's sneakers could be heard in the corridor. She came into the room and looked hastily at Mrs. Vernon and then at the other woman. Dot sat up in bed, and Miss Brown came to her.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

"How's my baby?"

Miss Brown's face presented an expression of utter bewilderment. In the moonlight Dot could see her mouth drop open with amazement.

"Your baby is asleep. He's all right. I never heard of such a thing!"

"Did you take his temperature?"

"He's all right, I told you."

"Did you take his temperature?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

Miss Brown smiled. "You're a very foolish girl, Mrs. Collins, exciting yourself over nothing."

"What was his temperature when you took it?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't mean anything to you."

"How do you know?"

Mrs. Vernon moved in her sleep, and Miss Brown exclaimed, "See! You're waking everybody up. Go to sleep."

"I want to see my baby."

"Well, I'll certainly not bring him in to you at three o'clock in the morning."

"Why not?"

"He'll cry and wake everybody up. Besides, it's against the rules to bring them out for anything but feedings."

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 "I want to see my baby."

"Well, you'll see him in a few hours. Not before."

Miss Brown started away and Dot grabbed her skirt.

"You don't know that my baby ain't dead, do you?"

"What?"

"I'll bet you haven't been near him in hours. Maybe he's dead."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Collins. He's all right. I'm glad every woman doesn't take on like you do. You ought to be made to have a special nurse."

"I don't act like this always. My baby's sick tonight."

"A little fever."

"Yes, a little fever." Dot's voice suddenly shot up to its normal pitch, and she sat bolt upright in bed. "A little fever, and you're too damn lazy to go take a look at him."

"Hush!"

"I'll not hush. I want to see my baby."

Miss Brown walked away.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Vernon. She, too, sat up in bed, and pushed the hair back from her eyes.

"My baby's sick and that big overgrown horse is too damn lazy to look at him."

Miss Brown materialized out of the darkness and came into the room.

"I looked at him," she said. "He feels much cooler and he's sleeping nicely."

"Bring him in here."

"I will not."

"Just carry him in and let me look at him. You don't have to leave him a second," Dot begged.

"Why don't you do that, Miss Brown?" asked Mrs. Vernon.

"Because it's against the rules," said Miss Brown. "Now both of you go to sleep."

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 "He's dead," Dot cried. "I know it. I felt it the minute I woke up."

"Oh, honey, no," Mrs. Vernon soothed.

"You're a foolish woman, working yourself up over nothing. Your baby's well." Miss Brown was very angry.

"Listen, Miss Brown." Mrs. Vernon's voice was sharply authoritative. "You're the foolish woman. You only have to carry the baby in here for one second to make everything right for everybody concerned. Now, why don't you do it?"

"Because for tonight I'm bossing this ward," said Miss Brown. "I'll not give in to a silly woman who can't sleep and thinks it is a good time for some excitement."

"You've lost your professional poise," commented Mrs. Vernon.

"He's dead," Dot said again. "If he was alive she'd bring him in if only so that she could go back to her book in peace. My baby's dead."

"Your baby isn't dead, honey," Mrs. Vernon said. "He isn't dead."

"Oh, he is, he is."

"He is not," said Miss Brown.

"Then let me see him."

"No."

The sheet and blanket which covered Dot were suddenly flung aside as she leaped from the bed. She stood before Miss Brown, her breath coming in rapid gasps.

"I'm going to see my baby."

"You're going to get back in bed."

"After I've seen my baby."

Mrs. Vernon's voice came dimly to Dot's ears. "Honey, you'll kill yourself."

Miss Brown laid hold of Dot with two strong hands and sought to throw her back in bed.

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 "I'll scream," said Dot. "I'll wake everybody in the house." Dot's eyes were weird black and silver pools in the mystic light of the moon. She was stark insane in that moment. Miss Brown knew that Dot would murder her if she could. There was a maniacal strength in Dot's hands, an obsession in her brain. Miss Brown had had plenty. She was ready to resign from the sanitarium. She was ready to see Dot contract any internal disorder that might result from such folly. Quietly she got Dot's slippers and kimono and threw them to her. She stalked out of the room.

"Listen," said Mrs. Vernon, "let me go see your baby. I swear to tell you the truth about him. You mustn't go walking around."

Dot laughed. "I'm a little shaky, but I'm all right. They're going to let me sit up today anyhow."

She staggered weakly down the hall. She knew where the nursery was. She remembered from that long-ago day when she had come to reserve a room.

There was no sign of Miss Brown. Dot felt that she had been walking for eternities down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor with the angel of death beckoning her on. She remembered the day that the world had reeled and everything had gone black before her eyes. She must reach the nursery. She must see the baby.

The nursery at last! The chain that lit the lone bulb dangled against her forehead as she entered the darkness. She pulled it. Suppose the light did awaken the other babies? She was past caring for other people. Her baby was all that mattered in the world.

Quickly she looked around the room. It was a small room aired by a skylight. Two shelves were crowded with baskets wherein slept the babies. There were also two bassinets in the room. The baskets had little cards pasted on the front of them. Dot read the cards swiftly,

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 "Baby Lefkowitz," "Baby O'Hara," "Baby Thompson," "Baby Cohn." She read on, down the shelf. She read all the cards. She knew that he was not there. She was consciously saving the bassinets for the last to keep alive a faint glow of hope. If he were not in one of the bassinets, then she had to find Miss Brown. Yes, then she'd have to find Miss Brown.

She turned away from the shelves. Her heart beat fiercely. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes stung. He had to be here. Oh, Lord, how could she stand it if he weren't?

The card on the first bassinet announced that Baby Vernon was asleep therein. Quickly Dot's eyes turned to the second card. It read, "Baby Collins." She plucked the baby from its bed and looked at him. Yes, it was her baby, but was he alive? Roughly, she ran her hand over his face. He was certainly cooler than he had been at ten o'clock. What did that mean? Was he going to be cold soon? Cold!

She pressed him to her breast in an agony of terror. She wanted to awaken him. She must see him move. She whispered to him, "Honey lamb, Mommie's baby." But the little pink eyelids remained closed. To pinch, ever so slightly, his little arm, might awaken him; but Dot grew sick at the thought of hurting him.

She sat down on the nurse's chair and rocked him back and forth, talking to him. "Baby, wake up. Mommie's alone and scared. Baby, baby, darling, wake up. They say you can't see or hear much at first, but you must hear me now. Baby, wake up."

The baby did not move. Silence surrounded and closed in on Dot. There was no one to help her, no one to care that she couldn't awaken her baby. Scalding tears ran down her cheeks and dropped on the baby's tiny hands. His little fingers moved resentfully.

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 Dot laughed. His fingers had moved. He was alive. His fingers couldn't move if he were dead. She laughed, and the tears poured down her face.

"Baby, baby!"

She squeezed him to her body and laughed hysterically, with her face buried in his blanket.

The baby's eyes opened. His mouth made itself ready for a series of strong arguments against getting crushed.

"No, no cry, sweetheart." Dot loosened her grip upon the infant. "What can Mommie give you to make you happy?"

It seemed important to give him something to reward him for keeping alive the little body that was so dear to her. Still laughing and crying, she offered him in turn the pink tassels on her kimono, her wedding ring, the rhinestone barrette from her hair. None of these things interested him.

Dot offered her breast. His little mouth groped for it and fastened itself. She felt the blessed suction of his little mouth. For more than fifteen minutes he suckled gleefully, making happy little crooning noises.

Dot uttered a glad cry when at length, satisfied and exhausted, the infant fell back upon her arm and slept.

She kissed him and giggled. She knew she was laughing. It seemed foolish, but she couldn't stop. She was crying, too. He was alive, and he had taken food. The warm bundle nestled in her arms, and she cried and laughed and talked aloud.

It was Mrs. Vernon who, after thirty minutes had passed, came to the nursery. She found Dot brilliant-eyed and feverish, telling her baby about the dresses she had made for him.

It was Mrs. Vernon who put the baby in his bassinet and who led Dot back to the ward and tucked her into bed.

It was Mrs. Vernon who late that afternoon wrote to

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 a friend in Paris and said, "This morning I saw Mother Eve with her first-born. A Mother Eve in an embroidered kimono and with a gorgeous N'York accent. Still, nevertheless Mother Eve, thick-skulled, childish, and more than a little wild. Watch the poetry magazines for proof that I saw her. . . ."

When Eddie came, he kissed Dot and asked, "How's the kid today?"

Dot shrugged. "All right, I guess. Haven't noticed anything unusual. Why?"

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was over now—the months of waiting, the pain, the fear that the baby would die, the two weeks at the sanitarium. It was all over, or practically so. This was Dot's last night away from home.

She had spent most of the day in the nursery receiving instructions from Miss Parsons on how to bathe, diaper, and dress the infant. It was all very simple. You just went ahead and did it, praying to God all the while that the baby wouldn't slip, drop, or cry.

Now she sat in a chair at the window, with the baby in her arms, looking at the house across the yard where tonight there was another party wrell under way.

It was very pleasant sitting there with Edna and Eddie beside her and young Edward lustily partaking of his supper. It was ten o'clock. Soon they must all desert her for the night, but they would leave a cozy contentment behind them. Dot's eyes wandered over Edna's familiar, homely face and on to Eddie. Lastly they rested on the baby. Her heart swelled till it seemed that it must leave her body and soar above the clouds. The two loves of her life, and her friend. Her eyes wandered to the bed where Mrs. Vernon had lain. She regretted the loss of the strange, red-haired woman. She wished that she were here now, even if she were only reading and scowling into her book in the manner that Dot had come to know. Dot had asked for her address, but she had laughed and said, "Dottie, you're a darling, but you're not one to keep a secret. I'll take your address instead." But she had gone without asking for it, and Dot had not pressed it upon her.

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 "What I'm trying to find out," said Edna, "is what the devil you want for supper tomorrow night."

"Oh, anything," said Dot. "Ham sandwiches will do. I'll be so glad to get home I won't care what I eat."

"In that case, I guess there's no use of me fussing for you. I like a good meal at six o'clock, and Eddie hasn't had anything but sandwiches for two weeks; so I guess the best thing we can do is to leave two hunks of ham and a loaf of bread for you, and Eddie and I'll go to a restaurant to celebrate. How about it?"

Dot laughed. The idea of Edna and Eddie entertaining each other was good.

"No kidding, Dot." Eddie's voice was coaxing. "Edna says she don't mind cooking supper tomorrow night; so as long as she's game, why don't you pick out something you like and have a swell feed?"

Dot looked down at the baby's face and spoke with her eyes fixed hard on his little busy mouth. "What I want would cost about four dollars," she said.

"Well, speak up," Edna said.

"Sure," Eddie added, "Mr. Williams broke his heart and gave me a five-spot."

Dot looked up quickly. "And you'd buy supper things with it?" she asked. "That's for the baby. When people give you money, it's because they don't know what you need for him." She dropped her eyes again and added, "It's not fair to Mr. Williams, Eddie, not to spend the money on something for the kid."

"Is that so?" Eddie demanded, hotly. "You know what Williams told me to do with it? He told me to get some whiskey and get cockeyed drunk and recover from the wait I had downstairs. What do you think of that?"

"I think that's darn mean of Mr. Williams," said Dot. "Me with a new-born baby and you cockeyed drunk."

"Well, what are you mad about? I didn't get drunk,

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 did I? What is it you want for supper tomorrow night?"

"I'd like an extra special steak. A real thick, tender one, you know. And mashed potatoes and corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes with plenty of mayonnaise, and rolls from the Hanscom Bakery, and bananas and cream."

"Order received and noted," said Edna. "Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee."

"Soft or hard rolls?"

"Soft."

"Will you take it at the table or in bed?"

"At the table."

"Fine. What time would you like it served, M'lady?"

Eddie turned to Edna and said, "I wanted to bring her home in the morning, but I can't get off till one o'clock, and it's so hot then that I thought we'd better wait till around five. I hate to drag her out of here when it's so hot. The nurse says she can wait."

"That's the best way," said Edna. "You leave here at five o'clock and come right home and sit down and eat your extra special steak."

"First I'll have to change the baby's diaper," said Dot.

Miss Harris came to get the baby, and Edna and Eddie got up to leave. Dot smiled again. It was funny and kind of sweet to think of them walking down the street together. What would they talk about?

They both kissed her. Edna bent over the baby and kissed his fingers and murmured silly, soft things in his ear.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she said suddenly. "Here I am hogging the baby and not giving Eddie a chance to kiss him good night."

The smile froze on Dot's face. Eddie had never kissed the baby. He didn't want to. What would he do now that Edna had practically forced him into it? Just as he and

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 Edna were getting more friendly and he was becoming kina of used to the baby, she had to pull a bone like this. What would he do?

Eddie bent over the baby and kissed his cheek. He had a soft little cheek, and the smell of his healthy, clean young skin filled Eddie with happiness. His kid was like that. Sweet and normal and fresh like a young flower on its stem.

"Come on, Edna," he said. "It's after ten o'clock, and I got to take you home first."

"Why, that's silly, Eddie. I can perfectly well—"

"I'll take you home. Good night, Dot. Sleep well."

Dot heard them descending the stairs. Funny the stairs weren't carpeted. You'd think in a place like this where there were so many sick people that they'd have carpet. . . . Hm, Eddie took that pretty well after all. He'd made a good job of kissing the baby. Kissed him just as though he'd always wanted to kiss him and as though something had held him back before. Nice of him to try so hard to be decent about it. Perhaps if he tried real hard to love the baby he might get so after a while that he wouldn't mind holding the kid in his arms. Gee, imagine what it would be like if Eddie ever got to care about the baby! How wonderful it would be to know he was there suffering with her when the baby was ill, laughing with her at the antics of the child Edward, and rejoicing with her when the child had become a man. No, that could never be. The best she could hope for was a placid toleration of the little fellow. Eddie wasn't the sort to be soft over a kid. Maybe because his own father had been so rough and hard. Dot sighed. No use dreaming about the way things ought to be; it only made what really was, much more awful to bear.

It was Dot's duty now to prepare herself for bed. The days of being waited on were over, too. She was a patient

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 ready to be discharged. Dot wondered if ever in her life again she would be waited upon. Probably not. There would very likely be no serious illness which would send her to the hospital, and she would try not to have any more children. No, never again would a tray be brought to her bedside. Hospitals were the only places where that was done, and she never expected to enter another.

Dot went to the bathroom and washed her face and hands. She brushed her teeth and combed her hair. Tomorrow night she would be doing this in her own bathroom!

The ward was dark when she returned to her bed. Dot lay very still and tried to sleep. The party across the way was rapidly rising to a glorious peak. The husky, deep voice of a dusky woman reached Dot's ears.

Dot smiled. The woman who sang would be a creamy shade of tan with black bobbed hair and gold circlets in her ears. She would have flashing white teeth, and perhaps she'd wear a red dress. Once a girl like that had come to the Poppyland Dance Hall. It was only by her escort's looks that the manager had been sure she was colored. They had been put out, of course. It had ruined Sue Cudahy's whole evening. Sue had felt sort of contaminated; so they had all gone over to Maude McLaughlin's to forget the unpleasant episode.

Dot fell asleep, but her thoughts continued unbroken. She fancied that the colored girl with the golden circlets was lying in the bed next to her. They talked about childbirth.

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 It was only by Miss Parsons' voice calling to her that Dot knew that the night was over. She was going home today. She and her baby were going home. It seemed wrong that everything in the ward was the same and that she should eat her breakfast with slow indifference. There should be bustle and rush, excitement. Heavens, she and her baby were going home!

She found her clothes in the closet, the clothes she had worn to the sanitarium, the dress which had enough material in it to make her two dresses now, the cape which she would have to wear to conceal the dress. She had wanted Eddie to bring some other things to her, but he would not know which dress she wanted, no matter how carefully she explained. After all, it didn't matter. There wouldn't be many people to see her. Eddie had seemed less dense on the subject of baby clothes. He had understood that he must bring a dress, two petticoats, a shirtie, a diaper, a bonnet, a sacque, a bellyband, a pair of bootees, two blankets, and stockings. Funny, how bewildered and frightened he would have looked had she asked him to get her pink dress off the hook and bring it along.

Dot got into her clothes. She made up her face very carefully. She wanted to look nice despite the terrible dress which hung so disgracefully upon her.

Miss Parsons came into the ward. She looked at Dot and laughed. "Hurry up," she said. "Get your hat. You're going home at five o'clock, and it's a quarter of ten already."

"Never mind. Don't razz me," said Dot. "Wait till some day you're in a hurry to get home."

Dot picked up a magazine and tried to read, but she couldn't get interested in the stories. A baby cried in the nursery. She went to see if it was young Edward, and it was. Gleefully, Dot lifted him from the bassinet and

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 reached for a dry diaper. She was going to change her baby's diaper. She was going to make him all nice and comfy again.

But Miss Parsons was too fast for her. She came hurrying into the nursery just as Dot had opened the baby's blanket. "Get out of here," she said. "You are a fool if ever one breathed. Here's almost your last chance to get your kid diapered for you, and you want to do it. Many a time, in the months to come, you'll wish you had Parsons to change him."

Dot laughed. "I'll love doing it," she said.

"Yeh, you and the other inmates of the nut house."

Dot went back to her magazine. Despite the friendly tone of Miss Parsons' jeers, it was evident that Dot was not supposed to minister to her baby until she got him home. She wished they'd let her bathe him. The time was dragging so terribly.

Just before luncheon, Sue Cudahy came in. Dot did not expect any more visitors until she got home, but she was glad to see Sue.

Sue had something on her mind. She fairly glittered with the importance of it. The shiny, shellacked wings on her hat and the rhinestones on her slippers seemed to express her excitement as plainly as her gleaming eyes and her torrent of words.

"Oh, I couldn't wait till tonight when you were home to see you," she cried. "Besides, Edna will be there and all. This is a funny thing to tell you just as you're leaving the hospital, but I just went to the doctor's, and he says yes I am, and I just had to come here to tell you. What do you think? I'm going to have a baby!"

Dot's eyes grew large with surprise. She was sitting on the bed, facing the window, and Sue looked well at her for signs of the ordeal through which she had passed. She found no such signs, and with so concrete a reassurance

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 before her, she squeezed Dot's hand and repeated, "I'm going to have a baby, Dot!"

"Are you actually going to have it, Sue?"

"Sure. When a woman intends to give birth she says, 'I'm going to have a baby,' and when she is not going through with it she says, 'I'm pregnant.' That's how you can tell, Dot."

"Not always," said Dot. "See, Sue, I' in getting smart. I never used to be able to argue with you. Now I know a lot more things than I used to know."

"I want to ask you about some of them. Tell me, honest to God, Dot, without trying to save me from being scared or without laying it on like one little louse, whose name I won't mention but who is a mutual friend, would do—tell me, does it pain terrible?"

Dot's gaze locked with Sue's. Sue's eyes were honest seekers after truth. You couldn't turn her question aside with a stall about cramps or with a light reply. A woman had a right to have her questions answered when she took the cheap cynicism which she loved so dearly and traded it in for a straight answer on what concerned her so terribly.

"Sue, listen, if all the women in the world were sitting right where you are and asked me that question I'd tell them this: yes, it pains like bloody hell. Nobody who hasn't been through it can know what it's like. No man doctor can have more than the smallest idea what it feels like. It pains like hell. Maybe a lot of women like Edna Driggs who would hear me say that would laugh at me and say that it was nothing bad at all. And that's the best part of it, Sue. When it's over, you forget. It depends on how good your forgetery is, how fast you get over it. And it's worth it. Oh, Sue, you don't know how well worth it it is to have a baby that's all your own. If you have good care, you're all right. That's what I'd tell all

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 the women in the world if they came and asked me, Sue. It pains like hell, but it's over fast and you forget it."

"Have you forgotten?"

"Almost. If you'd have come tomorrow, I'd have probably told you that it wasn't as bad as a headache."

"How about our mutual friend? She hasn't forgotten."

"I don't know what to think about her, Sue. I'm kind of afraid that she's just a mean woman who feels important when she's scaring people. She's too mean to even say that the pain was worth it, and it is, Sue, it is."

"My mother says it's nothing," Sue offered.

Dot's lips parted in a smile of reminiscence. "Your mother has done a good job of forgetting, Sue. And so will I, and so will you. You have a couple of hours of pain, and then it's all over forever and you have your baby. Why shouldn't it hurt? Gee, Sue, everything that's worth having hurts in some way or other."

"I guess you're right, Dot. It didn't hurt at all to get Pat."

Dot looked at Sue a moment more and then turned away. Why was it that other people were always finished with a serious subject long before she was? Other people were always quick to turn back to wisecracks. Maybe that was why she didn't have many friends. Too serious, perhaps. She'd have to snap out of it. Be more flip. She laughed a little at her thoughts. She'd start to be flip as soon as she had her son raised. A mere matter of eighteen or twenty years.

The luncheon tray came in, and Sue got up from her perch on the window sill. "I'll be going, Dot," she said. "I only dropped in to tell you my news. Should I come up to your house tonight?"

"If you want to. To tell the truth, Sue, I'll be going to bed very early."

"Well, I'll come in for fifteen or twenty minutes."

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 "All right, Sue." Dot knew that she could depend on Edna to see that Sue didn't make a night of it.

She had no appetite at all for lunch. She wanted to go home. She longed for the sight of her delft-blue living-room and for a cup of coffee such as came only from her own little percolator. She thought of the dinner which Edna would have ready for her and was horrified to find that it awakened not the slightest desire. Well, she'd have to make a bluff at enjoying it if her appetite was not aroused by the cheering sight of her own home.

Bill came and took the tray away. Dot rouged and powdered again. She started another story in the magazine and laid it aside without finishing it. She strolled past the nursery, trying to get a peep at her baby. She failed in her effort. She tried to hold a conversation with the woman whose child had died. This effort also failed. There was absolutely nothing she could do.

"Why don't you lie down and take a nap?" Miss Parsons suggested.

Dot thanked her and curled up on the bed. She lay there for forty minutes and then got up. It was useless. She could not sleep, but anyhow forty minutes had passed.

She was going home, and nobody seemed to realize the importance of it. Miss Parsons advised a nap, and Eddie seemed to think that he was going to keep her cooped up in the sanitarium till five o'clock. Even the baby thought this was the same as other days.

It was a quarter of three when Eddie came in. He had had to go home first and gather up the baby's clothes and get into his new blue suit. He had shaved and had washed his hands with Gre-solvent. Dot untied the very neat bundle which Eddie had made of the baby's things and counted them over carefully. He hadn't forgotten anything. Everything was all right, except that he had brought Mrs. Cudahy's bootees instead of Miss Eiden's.

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 Miss Parsons gathered up the things and departed with them to the nursery.

"Oh, can I watch you dress him?" asked Dot.

"I'm not going to dress him yet," Miss Parsons said. "You're not going for another two hours."

Dot looked at Eddie pleadingly. "Please, can't we go right away?" she asked.

"It's awfully hot out, Kid."

"But look, Eddie, it'll be a half hour or so by the time the baby's ready, and it'll be another half hour by the time we get home, and I figured that maybe I'd feel better if I could lay down a while home before supper. Can't we tell her to fix the baby right away?"

"All right. It's up to you."

Dot ran to the nursery. "We're leaving right away, Miss Parsons," she cried. "Could you fix the baby now?"

"Sure."

Miss Parsons plucked the baby from his crib. She took off the sanitarium clothes and began to dress him in his own little things. Dot thrilled. The diaper she had hemmed, the petticoat she had embroidered, were at last on the baby. Her eyes filled with tears of excitement when the little dress was buttoned on him. She laughed with delight when she saw the little bonnet on his head and the great white bow tied in a fascinating knot under his chin. He was wearing the sacque that Eddie had brought home. He looked kind of funny. Like a little pink monkey. Dot grabbed him away from Miss Parsons and kissed him again and again.

She waltzed with him into the room where Eddie was waiting so uneasily. He was pretending to read a magazine, but he couldn't concentrate on the words. He was bringing Dot and the kid home today. Home. Dot and the kid. Today.

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 He looked up at her as she came into the room. "Why don't you take it easy?" he asked. "What's the idea, capering around?"

"Oh, I'm so happy to be going home!"

"Well, take it easy."

He got up and reached for his hat. It was last year's straw. He put it on, and Dot felt a little sorry for it, it looked so wilted and weather-beaten in comparison with the new blue suit.

He walked toward the door, and Dot said, "Say, would you mind holding the kid a minute while I get my hat and cape?"

"Lay him on the bed," said Eddie.

"Maybe he'll roll off. Here, he won't bite you."

Dot put the baby in Eddie's arms and went to get her things. Eddie walked out of the room. He stood in the hall for a minute looking down at the baby. Then he kissed him. Could you squeeze them while they were so young? Well, maybe a little bit. Eddie squeezed him a little bit, and the baby fixed an inquisitive blue gaze upon him.

"That was squeezin', old fellow," Eddie whispered to the baby. "Should we do it again?"

Miss Parsons came out of a room, and Eddie handed her the baby and ran down the stairs. Dot found young Edward dozing in the nurse's arms. A wave of anger broke over Dot. He couldn't even hold the kid for a second. Who the hell did he think he was, that he was too good to hold his own kid? She grabbed the baby from Miss Parsons and started down the stairs.

"Need some help? Aren't you a bit wobbly?"

"No, thanks, Miss Parsons. I can make it. Good-by."

There was no sign of Eddie on the first floor. She sat down and waited. Where had he gone? She straightened

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 the bow on the baby's cap and brushed a smear of powder off his neck. Eddie came into the sanitarium, banging the screen door behind him. "Come on, Dot," he said. "I got a taxi waiting."

Her anger dissolved. That's what he had gone away for. "Oh, Eddie, you shouldn't have done that. I could have gone home on the 'bus."

"Come on." He put his hand under her arm and piloted her down the stone steps to the street. He helped her into the cab and seated himself beside her. "Go slow, Buddie," he said to the driver.

The driver turned around and smiled at the little family. He'd been in Eddie's boots three times.

Eddie held out his hands for the baby. "Want me to take him?"

"Yes, if you don't mind, Eddie." It really was hot, and she did wish that she hadn't been on her feet so much all day. The baby felt like a ton of heat in her arms. It wouldn't hurt Eddie to hold him.

The transfer made, she stretched her legs joyfully and turned to look at St. Nicholas Avenue. The sky bending blue and dependable above the world made her very happy, the sun glowing goldenly, brilliantly, beautiful again now that her travail was over. The world was right. Some day, somehow, Eddie would come to love the little pink monkey who lay so trustingly, so unaware of antagonism, in his daddy's arms.

She turned again to feast her eyes upon the tiny mortal. He was so sweet, so adorable, so— Suddenly the blood in Dot's veins turned to ice water. A sharp prickling sensation ran up her back. The baby was dribbling. On the sleeve of Eddie's new blue suit the baby was dribbling. On the sleeve of Eddie's new blue suit! What would happen now? Would Eddie slap the baby? Would he perhaps make her slap the poor little thing?

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 He had to be told. Soon he might find out for himself, and then it would be worse.

"Eddie, let me take the baby. He's—he's dribbling on the sleeve of your new blue suit!"

Eddie looked at her with the narrowed gaze that she knew so well. "Dribbling, huh?" he said. "Do you think that's anything? Say, I'm wet clear through, and I ain't kicking, am I? Shut up!"

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text: Bad Girl (Delmar)

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 1

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 1


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 2

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 2


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 3

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 3


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 4

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 4


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 5

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 5


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 6

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 6


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 7

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 7


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 8

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 8


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 9

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 9


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 10

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 10


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 11

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 11


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 12

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 12


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 13

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 13


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 14

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 14


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 15

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 15


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 16

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 16


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 17

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 17


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 18

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 18


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 19

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 19


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 20

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 20


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 21

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 21


text: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 22

title: Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 22


text: User:SnowyCinema/P/The Benson Murder Case


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 in the mouthes of great Kings and Captains, which it is certaine they neuer pronounced. So that truly neither Philosopher, nor Historiographer, could at the first haue entered into the gates of populer iudgements, if they had not taken a great pasport of Poetrie, which in all nations at this day where learning flourisheth not, is plaine to be seene: in all which, they haue some feeling of Poetry. In Turkey, besides their law giuing Diuines, they haue no other writers but Poets. In our neighbour Countrey Ireland, where truly learning goes verie bare, yet are their Poets held in a deuout reuerence. Euen among the most barbarous and simple Indians, where no writing is, yet haue they their Poets who make & sing songs which they call Arentos, both of their Auncestors deeds, and praises of their Gods. A sufficient probability, that if euer learning come among them, it must be by hauing their hard dull wittes softened and sharpened with the sweete delights of Poetrie, for vntill they finde a pleasure in the exercise of the minde, great promises of much knowledge, wil little persuade them that know not the frutes of knowledge. In Wales, the true remnant of the auncient Brittons, as there are good authorities to shew, the long time they had Poets which they called Bardes: so thorow all the cōquests of Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans', some of whom, did seeke to ruine all memory of learning from among them, yet do their Poets euen to this day last: so as it is not more notable in the soone beginning, then in long continuing. But since the Authors of most of our Sciences, were the Romanes, and before them the Greekes, let vs


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 a litle stand vpon their authorities, but euen so farre as to see what names they haue giuē vnto this now scorned skill. Among the Romanes a Poet was called Vates, which is as much as a diuiner, foreseer, or Prophet, as by his conioyned words Vaticinium, and Vaticinari, is manifest, so heauenly a title did that excellent people bestowe vppon this hart-rauishing knowledge, and so farre were they carried into the admiration thereof, that they though in the chanceable hitting vppon any of such verses, great foretokens of their following fortunes, were placed. Whereupon grew the word of Sortes Vergilianæ, when by suddaine opening Virgils booke, they lighted vppon some verse of his, as it is reported by many, whereof the Histories of the Emperours liues are full. As of Albinus the Gouernour of our Iland, who in his childhood met with this verse Arma amens capio, nec sat rationis in armis: and in his age performed it, although it were a verie vaine and godlesse superstition, as also it was, to thinke spirits were commaunded by such verses, whereupon this word Charmes deriued of Carmina, commeth: so yet serueth it to shew the great reuerence those wittes were held in, and altogither not without ground, since both by the Oracles of Delphos and Sybillas prophesies, were wholly deliuered in verses, for that same exquisite obseruing of number and measure in the words, and that high flying libertie of conceit propper to the Poet, did seeme to haue some diuine force in it. And may not I presume a little farther, to shewe the reasonablenesse of this word Vatis, and say that the


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 holy Dauids Psalms are a diuine Poeme? If I do, I shal not do it without the testimony of great learned mē both auncient and moderne. But euen the name of Psalmes wil speak for me, which being interpreted, is nothing but Songs: then that it is fully written in meeter as all learned Hebritians agree, although the rules be not yet fully found. Lastly and principally, his handling his prophecie, which is meerly Poeticall. For what else is the awaking his musical Instruments, the often and free chaunging of persons, his notable Prosopopeias, whē he maketh you as it were see God comming in his maiestie, his telling of the beasts ioyfulnesse, and hils leaping, but a heauenly poesie, wherin almost he sheweth himselfe a passionate louer of that vnspeakable and euerlasting bewtie, to be seene by the eyes of the mind, onely cleared by faith? But truly now hauing named him, I feare I seeme to prophane that holy name, applying it to Poetry, which is among vs throwne downe to so ridiculous an estimation. But they that with quiet iudgements wil looke a litle deeper into it, shal find the end & working of it such, as being rightly applied, deserueth not to be scourged out of the Church of God. But now let vs see how the Greekes haue named it, and how they deemed of it. The Greekes named him, which name, hath as the most excellent, gone through other languages, it commeth of this word which is to make: wherin I know not whether by luck or wisedome, we Englishmen haue met with the Greekes in calling him a Maker. Which name, how high and incomparable a title it is, I had rather were knowne by marking the scope


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 of other sciences, thē by any partial allegatiō. There is no Art deliuered vnto mankind that hath not the workes of nature for his principall obiect, without which they could not consist, and on which they so depend, as they become Actors & Plaiers, as it were of what nature will haue set forth. So doth the Astronomer looke vpon the starres, and by that he seeth set downe what order nature hath taken therein. So doth the Geometritian & Arithmititian, in their diuers sorts of quantities. So doth the Musitians in times tel you, which by nature agree, which not. The natural Philosopher thereon hath his name, and the (morall Philosopher standeth vppon the naturall vertues, vices, or passions of man: and follow nature saith he therein, and thou shalt not erre. The Lawier saith, what men haue determined. The Historian, what men haue done. The Gramarian, speaketh onely of the rules of speech, and the Rhetoritian and Logitian, considering what in nature wil soonest prooue, and perswade thereon, giue artificiall rules, which still are compassed within the circle of a question, according to the proposed matter. The Phisitian wayeth the nature of mans bodie, & the nature of things helpfull, or hurtfull vnto it. And the Metaphisicke though it be in the second & abstract Notions, and therefore be counted supernaturall, yet doth hee indeed build vpon the depth of nature. Only the Poet disdeining to be tied to any such subiectiō, lifted vp with the vigor of his own inuention, doth grow in effect into an other nature: in making things either better then nature bringeth foorth, or quite a new, formes such as neuer were in nature: as the Heroes,


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a moment Sammy's two chums looked curiously at him, and Frank seemed about to laugh. Then Bob said:

"You're crazy, Sammy!"

"I am not," answered the other, quickly. "Look there!"

All looked, and did indeed see a man using a spade to dig up the earth in a secluded spot not far from the path that led to the lighthouse. The man, who was elderly, had a lantern on the ground beside him, and as he sunk the spade into the earth, and brought it up, he would look closely at the soil in the rays of the light.

"Now what do you think?" demanded Sammy, in a triumphant whisper. "Isn't he digging all right?"

"Oh, he's digging," agreed Bob. "I admit that."

"And for gold!" added Sammy.

"Gold nothing!" exclaimed Frank with a quiet laugh. "Do you want to know what I think, Sammy Brown?"

"Yes; what is it?"

"I think that man—whoever he is—is after fish worms. See, he has a tin can there, ready to put the worms in. That's all he's doing, Sammy. He's after bait, getting ready for a fishing trip late to-night or early to-morrow morning."

"That's right," said Bob.

"Oh, is it?" asked Sammy, and he did not seem at all disturbed by what his chums said. Then he quietly asked them:

"Did you fellows ever hear of catching salt-water fish on


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32 angle worms? I guess not—not around here, anyhow. Wasn't that what old Hamp Salina told us, when we asked him about bait the other day?"

"That's so," agreed Frank. "They don't use angle worms around here."

"No, but they use blood worms," declared Bob, "and you have to dig for them."

"Yes, down on the beach, but not up as far as this from the water," spoke Sammy earnestly, and the boys knew that he was right. Still the man with the lantern was digging for something, and he seemed very much in earnest about it, too.

The boys watched him for a minute or so in silence. They had spoken in whispers so far, and the digger had evidently not heard or seen them. He was too busy using his shovel.

Presently Frank spoke.

"Say, fellows!" he exclaimed, "maybe he isn't digging for anything after all."

"Pooh! Can't we see?" asked Sammy.

"No, I mean he may be burying something, instead of digging it up. He's making quite a hole."

That was something new to think about, and for a few seconds the boys watched to see if Frank's idea was right.

"Do you think he's one of the pirates?" asked Bob.

"Maybe—if there are any—but I don't believe so," answered Frank.

"Perhaps he found some of the pirate gold, and he's burying it again until he has a good chance to get rid of it. I wish we knew who he was."

At that moment the old man straightened up his bent back, and gave a sigh of relief, and also disappointment.

"Well," the boys heard him murmur, "I'll have to dig farther on. It isn't here, that's sure. I wonder if I will ever find it?"


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Rh The words seemed to strike a thrill through the Fairview boys. They looked at each other in the darkness, illuminated by the flashes of light from the lighthouse beacon, and then, as the old man picked up his lantern, and turned in their direction, they crouched down in the bushes in order to remain hidden.

But the night-digger, whoever he was, looked neither to left nor right. He turned sharply and walked away from the boys. Then they breathed more easily.

"I thought sure he'd see us," said Frank.

"So did I," added Bob.

"Let's take a look and see what he was after," suggested Sammy. "Maybe we can get another clue."

He was quite excited, and so were his two chums. Usually the others did not pay much attention to some of the queer things Sammy said and thought, but this time it seemed as though he had stumbled on a mystery. Still Frank was not going to give in too easily. He had not forgotten how Sammy's "counterfeiters" had turned out.

"I believe, after all," said Frank, "that this man will prove to be only someone looking for a place to bury a dead cat, or something like that."

"Oh, you get out!" exclaimed Sammy. "You're always making fun of my ideas. Didn't you hear him say that he couldn't find it? It means the pirate gold, I'm sure. Then he said he'd have to look farther. Does that look like he was burying a dead cat?"

"No, it doesn't," admitted Bob. "But let's go on to the lighthouse, and maybe the keeper there may know something about this old man. We'll ask him, and if he doesn't, perhaps Mr. Salina will."

"I say—hold on!" cried Sammy, as his two chums set off down the path again.


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34 "What's the matter now?" asked Frank.

"Do you see the old man digging again?" inquired Bob.

"No," replied Sammy, "but don't let's tell the light-keeper nor Mr. Salina what we saw. Let's work this thing out ourselves. If there's any money in it we don't want to have to share it among too many people."

"Oh, you're always thinking of that!" laughed Bob.

"And another thing," said Frank. "Suppose that old man finds the pirate gold, Sammy, we couldn't ask him for a share in it, just because we spied on him, and saw him dig it, could we?"

"No," answered Sammy slowly, as he scratched his nose, which he always did when he was thinking deeply. "No, I s'pose not. But if we saw the old man digging, and he didn't find anything, there's nothing to prevent our going and digging near the same spots. He probably knows about where the gold is hid.

"But if we talk about this, and tell everybody, they'll all dig too, and they may find the treasure ahead of us."

"Say, you're as bad as when we went to Eagle Mountain," laughed Bob. "But go ahead. Have your way. We won't say anything until we've done a little more watching."

"That's all I ask," said Sammy.

"Then come on to the lighthouse," suggested Bob. "I'd like to see how the machinery works."

A little later they were knocking on the door of the small cottage built at the side of the big tower, in the top of which flashed the warning beacon.

"Come in," called a girl's voice, and the boys entered. They found themselves in a pleasant room, where sat John Floyd, the keeper of the light, and his wife and daughter. It was evidently the daughter, a girl of about twelve years,


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Rh who had invited the boys to enter, for she rose to welcome them, saying:

"I think I know you—Mr. Salina told me about you, and said you might come over to see us. Father, these are the boys from Barnacle Cottage. This is my mother and father," she went on, with a smile.

"I hope you don't mind us calling," spoke Bob. "Mr. Salina said visitors were allowed, and we wanted to see how the light worked."

"Glad to have you!" exclaimed Mr. Floyd, who was proud of his light. "And night is the best time to come to see the machinery working. Now let me get the straight of you—what are your names?"

The boys introduced themselves, and learned that the daughter's name was Lucy. She offered to take them through the tower, and led the way to the spiral stairs.

"Our light isn't a very big one," she said, "but it shows the ships where the dangerous rocks are, and I suppose that's all that is needed."

"Does it work by electricity?" asked Frank.

"No, it's an oil light," answered Lucy. "And father has to work all night to keep it trimmed and bright, and to see that the oil does not give out."

"It must be hard work," ventured Sammy.

"It is, but father is used to it now, and likes it. He sleeps most of the day, and stays up all night. Sometimes mother and I take the early watches of the night to give him a rest."

"Do you have bad storms here?" asked Bob.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sometimes. And then father always worries for fear the light may go out. If it did, even for a few minutes, some ship might take the wrong course and get on the rocks. Of course the big ships don't come up in our cove, but small ones do."


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36 "Has that ever happened that the light went out?" Frank asked.

"Not since father has been in charge," said Lucy proudly, "and that is over fourteen years, now. He came here when he was first married, and has been here ever since."

"What is this for?" asked Bob, as they passed a curious bit of machinery in the tower, on their way up to the lamp itself.

"That is what turns the lenses," the girl explained. "You see this is a revolving light. It flashes around once every two seconds, and it is regulated by clock-work. This big weight that hangs down is used instead of a spring or an engine, to turn the lenses."

"I see!" exclaimed Sammy. "It's like a cuckoo clock."

"Yes," answered Lucy. "Father winds the weight up every day, by a crank and windlass, as in an old-fashioned well. Then it is caught by a sort of trigger. At night when the lantern is lighted, the weight is allowed to slide slowly down. That pulls the wheels around and the light flashes.

"You see each lighthouse in this section has a different sort of lantern. That is, some are fixed lights, some are revolving lights, some are red and some are white. Sailors can tell, by the difference in the lights, just where they are, even on the darkest night."

"A lighthouse is quite important," murmured Frank.

"We think so," laughed Lucy.

Then the girl took them up into the light chamber itself, a small room, with glass sides. The glass was really in the shape of lenses, as in an automobile lamp, only it was cut in another form, called a prism, in order to better cast out the direct rays, and magnify them.

The lantern was an oil one, and it burned brightly, for it was kept clean, and the wicks were often trimmed. The boys


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Rh were rather surprised to find that it was the glass windows, or prisms, that revolved by means of the clockwork, and not the lantern itself. If the lantern went around it could not be trimmed without being stopped, and this would make a difference in the flashes, Lucy explained, and so confuse the sailors.

At certain places in the glass sides of the lantern room, there were blank spaces where no light could flash out, and this gave the proper signal for that part of the coast.

If you will take a pasteboard tube, such as calenders are mailed in, cut two or three holes near the top, making the holes the same distance apart, with blank spaces in between, and set this tube over a candle, you will have a good idea of a lighthouse. Then if you will turn the tube around, with the lighted candle still inside, you will get the effect of a flashing light, such as Bob and his chums were shown.

They were much interested, and stayed in the tower some time, watching Mr. Floyd trim and fill the lamp, to keep it bright.

"This is certainly great!" exclaimed Frank, when they were ready to leave."

"It sure is," agreed Sammy. Then he was unable to restrain his curiosity in spite of what he had agreed with his chums. "Say," he asked earnestly, when they were down in the living-room again, "did you ever hear anything of the pirate gold buried around here, Mr. Floyd?"

The light-keeper laughed.

"Oh, yes, I've heard," he said, "but I don't take any stock in it."

Sammy was not discouraged by this answer.

"Did you ever dig for it?" he persisted.

"Oh, yes, when I first came here, and heard the story, I was young and foolish, and I had my try at it," answered the


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 Demigods, Cyclops, Chymeras, Furies, and such like; so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely raunging within the Zodiack of his owne wit. Nature neuer set foorth the earth in so rich Tapistry as diuerse Poets haue done, neither with so pleasaunt riuers, fruitfull trees, sweete smelling flowers, nor whatsoeuer els may make the too much loued earth more lonely: her world is brasen, the Poets only deliuer a golden. But let those things alone and goe to man, for whom as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her vttermost comming is imploied: & know whether she haue brought foorth so true a louer as Theagenes, so constant a friend as Pylades, so valiant a man as Orlando, so right a Prince as Xenophons Cyrus, so excellent a man euery way as Virgils Aeneas. Neither let this be iestingly cōceiued, bicause the works of the one be essenciall, the other in imitation or fiction: for euerie vnderstanding, knoweth the skill of ech Artificer standeth in that Idea, or fore conceit of the worke, and not in the worke it selfe. And that the Poet hath that Idea, is manifest, by deliuering them foorth in such excellencie as he had imagined them: which deliuering foorth, also is not wholly imaginatiue, as we are wont to say by thē that build Castles in the aire: but so farre substancially it worketh, not onely to make a Cyrus, which had bene but a particular excellency as nature might haue done, but to bestow a Cyrus vpon the world to make many Cyrusses, if they will learne aright, why and how that maker made him. Neither let it be deemed too sawcy a comparison, to ballance the highest point of


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40 light-keeper, with a chuckle. "But I soon gave it up. I could make more money, and be sure of it, by tending the light."

"Does anybody ever dig for it now?" asked Frank, giving Sammy a meaning look.

"Oh, yes, now and then someone has a try at it," went on Mr. Floyd. "They think they can discover some new clues, I suppose. But I don't take any stock in 'em. Well, boys, come again—always glad to see you," he added, as they went out.


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 mans wit, with the efficacie of nature: but rather giue right honor to the heauenly maker of that maker, who hauing made man to his owne likenes, set him beyond and ouer all the workes of that second nature, which in nothing he sheweth so much as in Poetry; when with the force of a diuine breath, he bringeth things foorth surpassing her doings: with no small arguments to the incredulous of that first accursed fall of Adam, since our erected wit maketh vs know what perfectiō is, and yet our infected wil keepeth vs frō reaching vnto it. But these argumēts will by few be vnderstood, and by fewer graunted: thus much I hope wil be giuen me, that the Greeks with some probability of reason, gaue him the name aboue all names of learning. Now let vs goe to a more ordinarie opening of him, that the truth may be the more palpable: and so I hope though we get not so vnmatched a praise as the Etimologie of his names will graunt, yet his verie description which no man will denie, shall not iustly be barred from a principall commendation. Poesie therefore, is an Art of Imitation: for so Aristotle termeth it in the word, that is to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth to speake Metaphorically. A speaking Picture, with this end to teach and delight. Of this haue bene three generall kindes, the chiefe both in antiquitie and excellencie, were they that did imitate the vncōceiueable excellencies of God. Such were Dauid in his Psalmes, Salomon in his song of songs, in his Ecclesiastes and Prouerbes. Moses and Debora, in their Hymnes, and the wryter of Iobe: Which beside other, the learned Emanuell,


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 Tremelius, and F. Iunius, doo entitle the Poeticall part of the scripture: against these none will speake that hath the holie Ghost in due holie reuerence. In this kinde, though in a full wrong diuinitie, were Orpheus, Amphion, Homer in his himnes, and manie other both Greeke and Romanes. And this Poesie must be vsed by whosoeuer will follow S. Paules counsaile, in singing Psalmes when they are mery, and I knowe is vsed with the frute of comfort by some, when in sorrowfull panges of their death bringing sinnes, they finde the consolation of the neuer leauing goodnes. The second kinde, is of them that deale with matters Philosophicall, either morall as Tirteus, Phocilides, Cato; or naturall, as Lucretius, and Virgils Georgikes; or Astronomicall as Manilius and Pontanus; or Historicall as Lucan: which who mislike the fault, is in their iudgement quite out of tast, & not in the sweet food of sweetly vttered knowledge. But bicause this second sort is wrapped within the folde of the proposed subiect, and takes not the free course of his own inuentiō, whether they properly bee Poets or no, let Gramarians dispute; and goe to the third indeed right Poets, of whom chiefly this question ariseth: betwixt whom and these second, is such a kinde of difference, as betwixt the meaner sort of Painters, who counterfeyt onely such faces as are set before them, and the more excelent, who hauing no law but wit, bestow that in colours vpon you, which is fittest for the eye to see, as the constant, though lamenting looke of Lucretia, when shee punished in her selfe anothers faulte: wherein hee painteth not


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 Lucretia whom he neuer saw, but painteth the outward bewty of such a vertue. For these third be they which most properly do imitate to teach & delight: and to imitate, borrow nothing of what is, hath bin, or shall be, but range onely reined with learned discretion, into the diuine consideration of what may be and should be. These be they that as the first and most noble sort, may iustly be termed Vates: so these are waited on in the excellentest languages and best vnderstādings, with the fore described name of Poets. For these indeed do meerly make to imitate, and imitate both to delight & teach, and delight to moue men to take that goodnesse in hand, which without delight they would flie as from a stranger; and teach to make them know that goodnesse wherunto they are moued: which being the noblest scope to which euer any learning was directed, yet want there not idle tongues to barke at them. These be subdiuided into sundry more speciall denominations. The most notable be the Heroick, Lyrick, Tragick, Comick, Satyrick, Iambick, Elegiack, Pastorall, and certaine others: some of these being tearmed according to the matter they deale with, some by the sort of verse they liked best to write in, for indeed the greatest part of Poets, haue apparelled their poeticall inuentions, in that numbrous kind of writing which is called vers. Indeed but apparelled verse: being but an ornament and no cause to Poetrie, since there haue bene many most excellent Poets that neuer versefied, and now swarme many versefiers that need neuer answere to the name of Poets. For Xenophon who did imitate so excellently as to giue vs effigiem iusti imperii, the


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" what do you think now, Sammy?" asked Bob, as they walked toward Barnacle Cottage in the evening darkness.

"What about?" asked Sammy, sharply.

"About your treasure."

"I think just the same as I did before," answered Sammy, promptly, "and that is that it's around here. Didn't we see that man digging for it?"

"Say, you'd believe the moon was made of green cheese if someone told you," said Frank.

"Oh, I would; eh?" returned Sammy. "Well, you just wait and see."

The days that followed were happy ones for the Fairview boys. They went in swimming so often that Mrs. Bouncer said they might as well live in their bathing suits, and save their other clothes. They often went clamming, bringing home big baskets filled with the soft kind.

These clams were steamed, or made into toothsome chowder, which the boys enjoyed very much.

At other times the lads would take their own safe boat, and go to the distant sand flats, where they learned to tread for hard clams.

Crabbing was one of their chief delights, and many a basketfull of the clashing, clawing creatures they pulled out


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 pourtraiture of a iust Empyre vnder the name of Cyrus, as Cicero saith of him, made therein an absolute heroicall Poeme. So did Heliodorus, in his sugred inuention of that picture of loue in Theagenes & Chariclea, and yet both these wrote in prose, which I speake to shew, that it is not ryming and versing that maketh a Poet, (no more then a long gown maketh an Aduocate, who though he pleaded in Armour, should be an Aduocat and no souldier) but it is that faining notable images of vertues, vices, or what els, with that delightfull teaching, which must be the right describing note to know a Poet by. Although indeed the Senate of Poets hath chosen verse as their fittest raiment: meaning as in matter, they passed all in all, so in maner, to go beyond them: not speaking table talke fashion, or like men in a dreame, words as they chanceably fall from the mouth, but peasing each sillable of eache word by iust proportion, according to the dignitie of the subiect. Now therfore it shal not be amisse, first to way this latter sort of poetrie by his workes, and then by his parts, and if in neither of these Anatomies hee be condemnable, I hope we shall obteine a more fauourable sentence. This purifying of wit, this enriching of memorie, enabling of iudgement, and enlarging of conceit, which commōly we cal learning, vnder what name so euer it come forth, or to what immediate end soeuer it be directed, the finall end is, to lead and draw vs to as high a perfection, as our degenerate soules made worse by their clay-lodgings, can be capable of. This according to the inclination of man, bred many formed impressions. For some that thought


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 this felicity principally to be gotten by knowledge, and no knowledge to be so high or heauenly, as acquaintance with the stars; gaue thēselues to Astronomie: others perswading thēselues to be Demygods, if they knew the causes of things, became naturall and supernaturall Philosophers. Some an admirable delight drew to Musicke; and some the certaintie of demonstration to the Mathematicks: but all one and other hauing this scope to know, & by knowledge to lift vp the minde from the dungeon of the bodie, to the enioying his owne diuine essence. But when by the ballance of experience it was found, that the Astronomer looking to the stars might fall in a ditch, that the inquiring Philosopher might be blind in him self, & the Mathematician, might draw forth a straight line with a crooked hart. Then lo did proofe, the ouerruler of opinions make manifest, that all these are but seruing sciences; which as they haue a priuate end in themselues, so yet are they all directed to the highest end of the mistresse knowledge by ye Greeks, which stands as I thinke, in the knowledge of a mans selfe, in the Ethike and Politique consideration, with the end of well doing, and not of well knowing onely. Euen as the Sadlers next ende is to make a good Saddle, but his further ende, to serue a nobler facultie, which is horsmanship, so the horsemans to souldiery: and the souldier not only to haue the skill, but to performe the practise of a souldier. So that the ending end of all earthly learning, being verteous action, those skils that most serue to bring forth that, haue a most iust title to be Princes ouer al the rest: wherin if we cā shew, the Poet is worthy to


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42 of the waters of Lighthouse Cove. Sometimes they would get soft crabs, by hauling the seine, or straight net, along shore.

But, though they made many inquiries, or, rather, though Sammy did, he could not find out who the old man was whom they had seen digging by lantern-light. They had had a fairly good view of him, but in the Cove settlement were many old fishermen and sailors, who looked much the same as that elderly man did, so they were not sure which of the many villagers he might have been; and they did not like to ask.

One day, after the three chums had been rowing for some distance around the Cove, Sammy Brown suddenly exclaimed:

"I say, fellows, I've got an idea!"

"What, another one?" laughed Bob. "You're full of them lately."

"Let's hear it, anyhow," suggested Frank. "Can we have any fun by it, Sammy?"

"Sure. What do you say to rowing ashore, and digging a pirate cave."

"You mean dig a cave and look for the pirate gold?" asked Bob.

"No, I mean let's play we're pirates ourselves. We can go over to one of those sand dunes, and hollow out a hole in the side of it. We can make believe that's where we live, and we can make a fire of driftwood."

"Say, that'll be great!" cried Bob. "And we can bring some grub there and cook it! Sammy, you're all right!"

"Even if he can't find the pirate gold!" added Frank, gaily.

Filled with the new idea, the boys hastily rowed up on shore, and soon were digging into the side of the hill of sand, making a place where they could go in and imagine all sorts of delightful things.


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 haue it before any other competitors: among whō principally to challenge it, step forth the moral Philosophers, whom me thinkes I see comming towards me, with a sullain grauitie, as though they could not abide vice by day-light, rudely cloathed, for to witnesse outwardly their contempt of outward things, with bookes in their hands against glorie, whereto they set their names: sophistically speaking against subtiltie, and angry with any man in whom they see the foule fault of anger. These men casting larges as they go of definitions, diuitions, and distinctions, with a scornful interrogatiue, do soberly aske, whether it be possible to find any path so ready to lead a man to vertue, as that which teacheth what vertue is, & teacheth it not only by deliuering forth his very being, his causes and effects, but also by making knowne his enemie vice, which must be destroyed, and his combersome seruant passion, which must be mastred: by shewing the generalities that contains it, and the specialities that are deriued from it. Lastly by plaine setting downe, how it extends it selfe out of the limits of a mans owne little world, to the gouernment of families, and mainteining of publike societies. The Historian scarsely giues leisure to the Moralist to say so much, but that he loaden with old Mouse-eaten Records, authorising himselfe for the most part vpon other Histories, whose greatest authorities are built vppon the notable foundation Heresay, hauing much ado to accord differing writers, & to pick truth out of partiality: better acquainted with a 1000. yeres ago, thē with the present age, and yet better knowing how this world goes, then


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Rh The sand dune was one of many along the shore, and on top grew some rank grass that held the sand together. Working with broad pieces of driftwood for shovels, the boys soon had quite a hole in the sand pile. It was large enough to hold all three of them, and they were eagerly talking of the fun they would have.

"We can come over here and stay all night!" said Bob.

"Sure, it will be plenty warm enough, with a blanket or two," added Sammy.

"And we can cook our meals right on the beach, in front of the cave," added Frank. "That's the way the pirates used to do."

"Then we'd better get some driftwood for the fire," suggested Sammy. "We've got the hole almost large enough."

They collected quite a pile of the wood that was strewn along the beach, and then, after sitting in the "pirate cave" for a while, they rowed back to Barnacle Cottage, to get some food which they intended to cook over their campfire that evening.

After some objection, Mrs. Bouncer said the boys might cook a meal there, but she would not let them sleep all night in the sand cave.

"It's sure to be damp," she said, "and, though you boys might not think so, I can't have you catching colds. Play there in the daytime as much as you like, but you can't sleep there."

With this they had to be content. They had lots of fun building the fire, and toasting frankforters over the coals. Sometimes the sausages would drop off the pointed sticks, and fall into the ashes, but Bob and his chums brushed the dirt off and went on eating as if nothing had happened.

They played in the cave for several days, and some of the


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44 other boys from nearby cottages joined with them, so the three chums became the leaders of a regular "pirate band."

One afternoon, however, something happened that put a stop to this fun. Sammy and his two chums had gone alone to the cave, and they had taken with them shovels to enlarge it, as it was getting too crowded on account of so many boys wanting to enter it.

"We'll make a dandy big cave, while we're at it!" boasted Sammy.

The three chums dug away for some time, and finally Bob said:

"That's enough, fellows. If we go too far back, and the sand should cave in, we'd never get out."

"That's right," chimed in Frank.

"Pooh! You fellows are scared!" exclaimed Sammy. "I'm going to dig it farther back. You two get some driftwood, and pile it out in front. We'll have a roaring big fire to-night."

Frank and Bob went up and down the beach, gathering sticks, and bits of broken boards, while Sammy continued to dig away inside the cave. Frank and Bob made several trips to and fro, and the pile of wood was growing.

Finally, as they neared the cave, on what they said would be their last trip, as they were tired, Frank cried:

"Look! The sand has caved in!"

"So it has!" exclaimed Bob.

They looked toward where the mouth of the cave had been, It was closed, and the sand was still sliding somewhat, showing that the accident must have happened only a little while before.

"And Sam—Sammy!" gasped Bob.

"He's in there!" faltered Frank.

"And we've got to get him out—quick!" cried Bob.


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The work has been transcribed as-is with the following exceptions:—(i) The long 's' has not been replicated(ii) The two or three instances where 'W' was represented by 'VV' have been transcribed as 'W'. Chrisguise (talk) 08:05, 13 March 2024 (UTC)


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Rh They both glanced up and down the beach. No one was in sight. Fortunately they had brought their shovels out of the cave.

With these they began digging at what had been the entrance to the "pirate" cavern. Shovelful after shovelful of sand they tossed aside, until their arms ached, but they would not stop.

"We must get him out!" gasped Bob.

"Before he smothers!" added Frank.

They worked with a will. Luckily for Sammy, he had been coming out of the cave when the accident happened. Otherwise he would have been so far back that he might never have been gotten out alive.

As it was Frank and Bob had dug for only a few seconds before they saw a hand moving about in the sand. Then another hand appeared beside it, and they stopped digging.

"There he is!" cried Bob, joyfully.

"And he's alive!" said Frank. "Use your fingers—not your shovel—we might hurt him."

With their hands they now scooped away the sand, and in a few seconds Sammy's face appeared. He was gasping for breath, and looked quite pale and frightened, but with the help of his chums he was soon completely uncovered.

"Are you all right?" asked Bob.

"I—I guess so," answered Sammy, shaking the sand from his clothes, and feeling all over himself to make sure. "Yes," he went on. "Nothing's busted."

"How did it happen?" asked Frank.

"I don't know. All of a sudden the sand began to slide. I got scared and ran for the front of the cave. Then the front door went shut, you might say, and I was caught. I held my breath, made a little place for my mouth and nose, and


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46 waited. I knew you fellows would get me out, and you did."

"We were scared, though," confessed Bob.

"I guess we won't go in any more sand caves," said Frank. And they did not. It was a lucky escape for Sammy, and Mrs. Bouncer, when she heard about it, made strong objections to the boys playing pirates in that fashion.

But there were plenty of other chances for the chums of Barnacle Cottage to have good times, and they enjoyed their stay at Lighthouse Cove to the utmost.

Sammy still persisted in believing that pirate gold was buried somewhere about, and he dug in many places, when he could slip away from his chums, but without success. He kept a lookout for the man with the lantern, but could not meet him, as far as he could tell, though he saw many whom he thought was the person he sought. Nor did he make any inquiries for fear of being laughed at.

One evening, about a week after Sammy had been caught in the "pirate cave," he proposed, after supper, that he and his chums pay another visit to the lighthouse. He had taken some pictures of it with his camera, and wanted to show them to Lucy and her parents.

"All right, I'm with you," said Frank, and Bob nodded to show that he would go, too.

They saw the light flashing, as they started from the cottage, and struck across the now lonely beach. The rays of light came every so often, flashing over their heads, and out toward the inlet, where the sea and cove met.

Suddenly, as they walked along. Bob glanced up and exclaimed:

"See! The light has gone out!"

They all looked up.

"So it has!" faltered Frank.

"The lighthouse is dark!" said Sammy slowly. "Fellows,


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Rh it must be wreckers at work! They've overpowered the light-keeper, and put out the light to draw some ship in toward shore so she'll be wrecked! That's what it is—wreckers! Come on!"


text: Fairview Boys at Lighthouse Cove/Chapter 5


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 the religion of the missionary be what it may, his aim is according to it to secure the salvation of the human race. What does it matter to him whether the section of the human race he strives to save be black, white, or yellow? Nothing; as the noble records of missions will show you. Therefore I repeat that West Africa matters to no party in the English State so much as it matters to the mercantile. With no other party are true English interests so closely bound up.

West Africa probably will never be a pleasant place wherein to spend the winter months, a holiday ground that will serve to recuperate the jaded energies of our poets and painters, like the Alps or Italy; probably, likewise, it will never be a place where we can ship our overflow population; and for the same reason—its unhealthiness—it will be of no use to us as a military academy, for troops are none the better for soaking in malaria and operating against ill-armed antagonists. But West Africa is of immense use to us as a feeding-ground for our manufacturing classes. It could be of equal value to England as a healthy colony, but in a reverse way, for it could supply the wealth which would enable them to remain in England in place of leaving it, if it were properly managed with this definite end in view. It is idle to imagine that it can be properly managed unless commercial experts are represented in the Government which controls its administration, as is not the case at present. It is no case of abusing the men who at present strive to do their best with it. They do not set themselves up as knowing much about trade, and they constantly demonstrate that they do not. Armed with absolutely no definite policy, subsisting on official and non-

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 expert trade opinion, they drift along, with some nebulous sort of notion in their heads about "elevating the African in the plane of civilisation."

Now, of course, there exists a passable reason for things being as they are in our administration of West Africa. England is never malign in intention, and never rushes headlong into a line of policy. Therefore, in order to comprehend how it has come about that she should have a system so unsuited to the regions to which it is applied, as the Crown Colony system is unsuited to West Africa, we must calmly investigate the reason that underlies this affair. This reason, which is the cause of all the trouble, is a misconception of the nature of West Africa, and it must be considered under two heads.

The thing behind the resolution of 1865 is the undoubted fact that West Africa is no good for a Colony from its unhealthiness. There is no one who knows the Coast but will grant this; but surely there is no one who knows, not only the West Coast of Africa but also the necessities of our working classes in England, who can fail to recognise that this is only half an argument against England holding West Africa; because we want something besides regions whereto we can send away from England men and women, namely, we want regions that will enable us to keep the very backbone of England, our manufacturing classes, in a state of healthy comfort and prosperity at home in England, in other words, we want markets.

Alas! in England the necessity for things grows up in a dumb way, though providentially it is irresistibly powerful; once aroused it forces our statesmen to find the required thing, which they with but bad grace and grievous groans proceed leisurely to do.

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 how his owne wit runnes, curious for Antiquities, and inquisitiue of Nouelties, a wonder to yoong folkes, and a Tyrant in table talke; denieth in a great chafe, that any man for teaching of vertue, and vertues actions, is comparable to him. I am Testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriæ, magistra vitæ, nuncia vetustatis. The Philosopher saith he, teacheth a disputatiue vertue, but I do an actiue. His vertue is excellent in the dangerlesse Academy of Plato: but mine sheweth forth her honourable face in the battailes of Marathon, Pharsalia, Poietiers, and Agincourt. Hee teacheth vertue by certaine abstract considerations: but I onely bid you follow the footing of them that haue gone before you. Old aged experience, goeth beyond the fine witted Philosopher: but I giue the experience of many ages. Lastly, if he make the song Booke, I put the learners hand to the Lute, and if he be the guide, I am the light. Then would he alleage you innumerable examples, confirming storie by stories, how much the wisest Senators and Princes, haue bene directed by the credit of Historie, as Brutus, Alphonsus of Aragon, (and who not if need be.) At length, the long line of their disputation makes a point in this, that the one giueth the precept, & the other the example. Now whom shall we find, since the question standeth for the highest forme in the schoole of learning to be moderator? Truly as mee seemeth, the Poet, and if not a moderator, euen the man that ought to carry the title from them both: & much more from all other seruing sciences. Therfore compare we the Poet with the Historian, & with the morall Philosopher: and if hee goe beyond them


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 both, no other humaine skill can match him. For as for the diuine, with all reuerence it is euer to be excepted, not onely for hauing his scope as far beyond any of these, as Eternitie exceedeth a moment: but euen for passing ech of these in themselues. And for the Lawier, though Ius be the daughter of Iustice, the chiefe of vertues, yet because he seeks to make men good, rather formidine panæ, then virtutis amore: or to say righter, doth not endeuor to make men good, but that their euill hurt not others, hauing no care so he be a good citizen, how bad a man he be. Therfore as our wickednes maketh him necessarie, and necessitie maketh him honorable, so is he not in the deepest truth to stand in ranck with these, who al endeuour to take naughtinesse away, and plant goodnesse euen in the secretest cabinet of our soules: and these foure are all that any way deale in the consideration of mens manners, which being the supreme knowledge, they that best breed it, deserue the best commendation. The Philosopher therefore, and the Historian, are they which would win the goale, the one by precept, the other by example: but both, not hauing both, doo both halt. For the Philosopher setting downe with thornie arguments, the bare rule, is so hard of vtterance, and so mistie to be conceiued, that one that hath no other guide but him, shall wade in him till he be old, before he shall finde sufficient cause to be honest. For his knowledge standeth so vpon the abstract and generall, that happie is that man who may vnderstand him, and more happie, that can apply what he doth vnderstand. On the other side, the Historian wanting the precept, is so


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 This is pretty much the same as saying that the English are deficient in statesmanship, and this is what I mean, and I am convinced that no other nation but our own could have prospered with so much of this imperfection; but remember it is an imperfection, and is not a thing to be proud of any more than a stammer. External conditions have enabled England so far barely to feel her drawback, but now external conditions are in a different phase, and she must choose between acquiring statesmanship competent to cope with this phase, or drift on in her present way until the force of her necessities projects her into an European war. A perfectly unnecessary conclusion to the pressure of commercial competition she is beginning to feel, but none the less inevitable with her present lack of statecraft.

The second part of the reason of England's trouble in West Africa is that other fallacious half reason which our statesmen have for years been using to soothe the minds of those who urged on her in good time the necessity for acquiring the hinterlands of West Africa, namely, "After all, England holds the key of them in holding the outlets of the rivers." And while our statesmen have been saying this, France has been industriously changing the lock on the door by diverting trade routes from the hinterland she has so gallantly acquired, down into those seaboard districts which she possesses.

"Well, well, well," you will say, "we have woke up at last, we can be trusted now." I own I do not see why you should expect to be suddenly trusted by the men with whose interests you have played so long. I remember hearing about a missionary gentleman who was told a long story by the father of a bad son, who for years went gallivanting about West Africa, bringing the family into

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