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text: The High School Boy and His Problems/Social Activities


text: The High School Boy and His Problems/Manners and Morals


text: The High School Boy and His Problems/Choosing a Profession


text: The High School Boy and His Problems/Going to College


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The last touches had been put upon the tall Christmas tree standing in the living room. The father and mother had gone upstairs to bed—

But, in the hole in the wall, the Velvet family were all wide awake.

“Ee-ee-ee!” squeaked Squeaky, “why can’t we creep into the big room and see the tall Christmas tree? We have heard the children talking about that tree for days, and we have never seen a Christmas tree, so please,


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 Mother-Mouse, can’t we go out this time and see it?”

“Yes,” said Sniffy, “do let us go, MotherMouse. Everything has been smelling so good lately, and the children and the cook made long strings of popcorn. I nibbled a little piece that they dropped here on the pantry floor, and it tasted so good.”

“Yes,” said Sharpeyes, “and I peered out of our hole and saw some candy on a plate and some gingerbread cakes, all ready for the children. Oh, I do want a bite of those good things! Please let us have a Christmas party, Mother-Mouse!”

“Now, don’t tease, children; I will ask your father, and if he says it is safe, why, then we shall go.”

When the father-mouse heard them, he said, “Well, I will go out first, and look


text: The Return of the Soldier (West)/Chapter 5


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 carefully about, and then I will let you know if you dare to venture out.” So father-mouse crept softly through the pantry. He tiptoed down the long hall and into the living-room, but the old cat was nowhere to be seen.

For you must know, children, the house people were afraid that the cat might brush against the tree and break something, so poor Mrs. Puss had been banished to the coal-bin and was spending her Christmas Eve down in the cellar all alone; and she was howling and yowling because she was so angry.

When the father-mouse could not find the cat, he came back to the pantry and called out the glad tidings, “The coast is clear, come out, children.”

Then all the Velvet family came scrambling down from their hole in the wall, their


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 whiskers fairly trembling in their eagerness. They crept through the pantry and tiptoed along the great hall and into the livingroom where stood the tall Christmas tree; and when they saw the wonderful tree, they were so happy that they squeaked again and again in their joy. Then each mouse took hold of its tail as though it were a long train and, holding it up very carefully, danced and danced in the moonlight. They ran around and around the tree, examining everything.

On the floor they found a wonderful doll’s house. “How lovely it would be to live here,” they squeaked. They ran up and down the stairs, overturned the chairs, pulled off the bedclothes and climbed into the beds. Then they went into the dining-room and sat down in the tiny chairs, but when they


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 found the table was just set with play food, they did not like it, for of course it was not good to eat.

Then Sniffy said, “I smell that good popcorn again; let’s climb up into the Christmas tree and get some.” So they began to climb up into the tree. They nibbled the popcorn chains; they nibbled the candy canes and the candy hanging in the stocking bags. They found the gingerbread cakes, and each one took a bite.

Suddenly Sharpeyes said, “Come here, I see a mouse! I see a mouse! But he doesn’t belong to our furry family at all.”

“I should say not,” sniffed Sniffy; “he smells so good!”

“Why, he is good to eat!” squeaked Squeaky, and they all began to eat the chocolate mouse.


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 told me all about their meeting, he knew nothing of their parting, and that I wished very much to hear what had happened.

In a deep, embarrassed voice she began to tell me about Monkey Island. It was strange how both Chris and she spoke of it as though it were not a place, but a magic state which largely explained the actions performed in it. Strange, too, that both of them should describe meticulously the one white hawthorn that stood among the poplars by the ferry-side. I suppose a thing that one has looked at with some one one loves acquires forever after a special significance. She said that her father had gone there when she was fourteen. After Mrs. Arlington had been taken away by a swift and painful death the cheer of his Windsor hostelry had become intolerable to the man; he regarded the whole world as her grave, and the tipsy sergeants in scarlet, the carter crying for a pint of four-half, and even the


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 Then they found another candy mouse, a nice pink one, and they were so busy eating it that they forgot to watch and listen, until bang! suddenly the door was thrown open and the electric lights were turned on. With a squeak of warning, the Velvet family, scrambling and tumbling down through the branches of the tree, scampered pell-mell across the hall, through the pantry and back to their home and safety.

There was the father-mouse, and the mother-mouse, and Sharpeyes, and Sniffy, but where was Squeaky? What had become of poor Squeaky?

Now, as Squeaky tried to climb down the tree, he fell heels over head down, down, down until he was caught in a funny, square box. An ugly looking man with black hair and a black beard seemed to be hopping


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 right out of the box, and, when Squeaky saw the lights turned on, he thought it best to hide under the skirts of this queer man. He nestled down and lay very still, hardly breathing. He had been taught never to move when danger was near so he did not wiggle even a whisker. He heard voices. The house people were talking.

“Yes,” said the children’s father, “it would have been a shame to forget this train. I want it to come right out from under the tree.” And the father and mother began to arrange tiny tracks and switches. When all was in place, the mother looked once more at the wonderful tree.

“Why, look at that Jack-in-the-box, he’s hanging way out of the box,” she said. “That will never do, it will spoil all the fun. Teddy would love to see it fly out at him


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 and would call it the ‘Scare Box.’ I must fix it back in place.” Then the mother pushed the Jack, with his black beard and black hair, down, down into the box, and she shut and locked the lid.

Poor Squeaky, hidden under the queer man’s skirts, felt the springs close tightly about him and squeaked one shrill “Ee” of fright. The father said: “I never heard such a perfect squeak; it is wonderful the toys they make for children. Now in my day—” And his voice drifted off, as he turned out the lights and followed the mother upstairs to bed.

Poor little Squeaky. On all sides there seemed to be a big spring coiled and coiled about him. “I am in a trap,” he moaned, “and they didn’t even give me a mite of cheese to eat. But, then, nothing seems to


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 hurt me. It is not the way Mother-Mouse said: it does not pinch me or choke me. I wonder what kind of a trap it is—a queer man with springs for a body. Well, I am safe for a while, but I wonder if he will ever let me get out again. I want to go home.” And poor Squeaky cried himself to sleep.

In the morning he heard shouts of “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” and it seemed as though the big tree trembled in all its branches, as the toys were taken down, one by one. Then such a noise was heard—drums beating, horns tooting, children shouting:

“Just see our new doll’s house!”

“Oh, see my new train, how fast it goes over these tracks!”

“Just see this beautiful dolly! She can open and shut her eyes, and she says


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 ‘ma-ma, pa-pa’ whenever I pull the string.”

“Ee-ee-ee!” groaned poor Squeaky, “I can squeak ‘ma-ma, pa-pa’ that way too, if they would only let me out so that I could go home to my ma-ma and pa-pa.”

As if in answer to his wish, Squeaky suddenly felt the box lifted down from the tree. “Come here, Teddy,” said the children’s mother, “here is a new scare box. We will have some fun. Now, carefully watch me and we will open the lid.” Teddy leaned against his mother’s knee, watching closely; “Are you ready? Well, let us count. One, two, three!” the mother opened the lid. Out jumped the man with the black beard and black hair and, with a loud squeak of joy, out jumped Squeaky. “Ee-ee-ee!” said Squeaky. “Ee!” said the Jack-in-the-box. “Whee-ee-ee!” yelled the small boy in delight.


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User talk:Adder of Eden

Beeswaxcandle (talk) 17:01, 18 December 2023 (UTC)

title: User talk:Adder of Eden


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 “Oh, Ee-ee-ee,” shrieked the mother, as she threw the box on the floor and, holding her skirts up high, she jumped on her chair, screaming, “a mouse! a mouse! a mouse!”

“Where? where?” they all shouted in a chorus. But little Squeaky whisked away so fast that they caught only a glimpse of his velvety fur and his long tail, as he dashed across the long hall back to the pantry, and home, and safety.

Squeaky gave queer little squeaky sounds, half sobs and half laughs, as he told father and mother mouse the whole story of his night in the house with the queer man with springs for a body. And there was great rejoicing among the Velvet family over the return of Squeaky.

In the living room they heard the children’s father laughing as he helped their


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 mother climb down from the chair. “Well,” said he, “how did you enjoy Teddy’s scare box?”


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Books and Reading

Collections

 * Books and Reading (1908), a compilation of short essays by various authors

Books

 * Books and Reading (1896), a book by Brother Azarias
 * Books and Reading (1870), a book by Noah Porter
 * Books & Reading (1926), a book by William Edward Simnett

Essays

 * "Books and Reading" (1920), an essay by Thomas Arkle Clark

Other

 * "Books and Reading", an recurring editorial in the periodical St. Nicholas

title: Books and Reading


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NCE upon a time the fairies planned a Christmas surprise for Santa Claus. “I wonder what we can do to make him happy?” asked the Fairy Queen; “he always makes other people happy.”

“I know,” answered the Fairy King, “let us give him a Christmas party and after he returns from his long journey of love all around the world, let us lead him to the Christmas-tree forest and there we will have a tree all trimmed and ready for him.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted all the little


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 brownies, elves, fairies and nymphs. “Hurrah! hurrah! what fun we shall have; a Christmas tree for dear old Father Santa Claus. We will ask Mother Santa Claus to help us plan it and she will tell us just what he needs and would most enjoy,” said the Fairy King.

Now, you must know, children, that all the brownies, elves, fairies and nymphs always call Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus, “Father” and “Mother” because they seem like a Father and Mother to all these little people, and they always help Santa Claus and his good wife make the Christmas gifts; for how would Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus ever get all their work done in time for Christmas without all these good, little fairies to help them?

So, of course, when they planned for a


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 Christmas tree, they asked Mother Santa Claus to help them. “Have everything ready,” said Mother Santa Claus, “and, after Father has gone on his long journey, we will go out to the forest and trim the tree, and have everything in place before he comes home again. We will keep it as a great secret, for if he hears of it all our fun and surprise will be gone.”

“We will never let him hear a whisper from us,” said the fairies. “We will work and will wait patiently until Christmas Eve.”

Then the fairies, true to their promise, worked and worked helping Father and Mother Santa Claus to make the Christmas gifts, and they were all very busy. Some of these dear little fairies helped Mother Santa Claus to make doll clothes and to furnish dolls’ houses, hemming tiny table-cloths,


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 mares dipping their mild noses to the trough in the courtyard seemed to be defiling it by their happy, simple appetites. So they went to Monkey Island, the utter difference of which was a healing, and settled down happily in its green silence. All the summer was lovely; quiet, kind people, schoolmasters who fished, men who wrote books, married couples who still loved solitude, used to come and stay in the bright little inn. And all the winter was lovely, too; her temperament could see an adventure in taking up the carpets because the Thames was coming into the coffee-room. That was the tale of her life for four years. With her head on one side, and the air of judging this question by the light of experience, she pronounced that she had then been happy.

Then one April afternoon Chris landed at the island, and by the first clean, quick movement of tying up his boat made her his slave. I could imagine that it would


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 fringing little napkins, making sheets and blankets and pillows and pillow-cases for the dollies’ beds. They were such happy little fairies that they sang as they worked:

The little carpenter elves liked to help Father Santa Claus in his big work-shop, as he sawed the wood brought in by the forest elves and brownies, and, with plane and hammer, he made houses for the dolls, chairs and tables and sleds and all kinds of wooden toys. The mountain dwarfs and goblins from the mines brought in the iron ore which they heated red-hot, and they helped Santa Claus make the engines, trains of cars, the automobiles, fire-engines and boats


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 and all the toys of iron and steel. They also brought him gold and silver and sparkling stones, while the water nymphs gave him pearls and coral and softly tinted shells which Santa Claus and his skillful helpers soon made into beautiful jewelry to give to some of the big, grown-up children on Christmas.

“Everybody is a child at this time,” said Sarita Claus to his good wife, “and even if people do feel too large to play with dolls and drums, still they must have their trinkets and things to make them happy.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Santa Claus, “but we must have useful presents, too, Father.” So she would knit stockings and mitts and make warm caps, hoods and mufflers, new coats and dresses. Then, when the soft skins of animals were brought in, she would make


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 nice fur collars and muffs for the big Mammas, and little fur sets for the little girlies, and then she would take teeny-weeny scraps of fur that were left over, and make fur sets for the dollies. Oh, Mrs. Santa Claus was a very sensible old lady, you may be sure.

Well, I could not begin to take time to tell you about all the marvelous things that were made in that wonderful work-shop, nor how busily Santa Claus worked at his big desk, writing stories while the artist fairies drew the pictures for him, for I do want to tell you how all these fairy helpers gave Santa Claus his Christmas tree.

When, at last, Christmas Eve came, Mother Santa Claus helped Santa Claus bundle up in his big, red cloak and pack his toys in a magic sleigh. Then she gave


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KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND.

BY MARGARET MEERT.

“THERE can be but one answer, Mr. Stuyvesant—I beg that you will not think it necessary to pursue the subject,” and the speaker, Blanche Courtenaye, turned her pretty head resolutely away with rather too studied disdain upon her features.

“Assuredly not, Miss Courtenaye; it seems that I have already been too long the sport of your caprice.”’

He paused for a moment, and resumed with repressed emotion,

“I had thought, Blanche——”

“Thought,” interrupted Miss Courtenaye, “thought, I suppose, that Mr. Frank Stuyvesant’s irresistible smiles had had their proper effect, so that he had only to make known his wishes to be promptly accepted.”

Now this was so nearly what he had thought, that Mr. Stuyvesant had nothing to do but take up his hat and depart, with outward composure, but extreme inward dejection.

Blanche stood for a moment where he had left her, then walked quickly up and down the room.

“He thought I was to be easily won,” she said, under her breath. “I am thankful for,the strength of mind which enabled me to overcome that foolish fascination. Poor Frank! he loves me, I believe, but he has not the intense and concentrated nature which must win my love. He wanted me to think it over, he said, as if I did not know what I was doing—fancy not knowing one’s own mind!” and her color rose at the bare idea of such imbecility.

She stopped before the mantle, unlocked a tiny gilded casket which stood there, and took from it a little faded bunch of violets. She gazed long and thoughtfully on them, then tossing them abruptly upon the burning coals, left the room.

Truth compels me to state that Miss Courtenaye was much spoiled, but not, by any means, as cross and unreasonable always as we have seen her today. The only daughter of wealthy parents, with not a wish ungratified, she was disposed to underrate those very satisfactory possessions, and imagined that perfect happiness resided only in a diminutive house, kept, however, with that “exquisite taste and simplicity” which we all know is so easily attained, even with the most limited income. Blanche wished for, of course, the necessary accompaniment of a hero, poor, proud, but of an ‘intense and concentrated nature.”

Poor Frank, unfortunately, had none of these desirable endowments, as his misfortune was to be rich, and of an unusually bright and happy temperament, not in the least resembling the sombre individual whom alone Blanche considered worthy of a young girl’s fancy.

“Mr, Stuyvesant paid a long call,” said Mrs. Courtenaye, as her daughter took her seat at the luncheon-table.

“Yes,” replied Blanche, shortly.

“What a universal favorite he seems to be,” continued her mother; “so different from that uninteresting Goddard.”

Mr. Goddard was a man after Blanche’s own heart, melancholy and romantic enough to please any young lady who had seen Booth play Hamlet.

“Mr. Goddard is a man of decision and character, while Frank Stuyvesant thinks of nothing but his ties and his curls,’ replied Blanche.

It was rather an effort to abuse Frank, and ungrateful, to say the least.

Mrs. Courtenaye glanced curiously at her daughter, but said no more; and Blanche went off to prepare for her usual long afternoon walk.

Mr. Stuyvesant and Miss Courtenaye were no recent acquaintances. They had met, during the autumn, at one of those fascinating country houses, which are such well-known snares to unsuspecting youths and maidens; that careless mingling of light-hearted idlers, the informal breakfast, followed by a lounging morning. All the walks, rides, and drives, which fill up the hours, possess fatal allurements.

These country amusements had not failed to work their charm upon our two young people. Among the groups scattered over the lawn, lazily enjoying the midday autumnal sunshine, you would be sure to see two very much absorbed individuals under some spreading evergreen, or frost-touched poplar. Blanche invariably crowned with scarlet maple-leaves, or decked with fantastic garlands, the spoil of the morning’s ramble. Or, if a madcap riding- party scampering over the hills and dales, the two horses which bounded abreast bore the same joyous pair.

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 be so. He was wonderful when he was young; he possessed in great measure the loveliness of young men, which is like the loveliness of the spry foal or the sapling, but in him it was vexed into a serious and moving beauty by the inhabiting soul. When the sunlight lay on him, disclosing the gold hairs on his brown head, or when he was subject to any other physical pleasure, there was always reserve in his response to it. From his eyes, which, though gray, were somehow dark with speculation, one perceived that he was distracted by participation in some spiritual drama. To see him was to desire intimacy with him, so that one might intervene between this body, which was formed for happiness, and this soul, which cherished so deep a faith in tragedy. Well, she gave Chris ducks' eggs for tea. "No one ever had ducks' eggs like father did. It was his way of feeding them. It didn't pay, of course, but they were good." Before the


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 him a big kiss, and he gave her a big hug and a kiss and said: “Good-bye, Mother, Merry Christmas! I will be back when all is done. Good-bye!”

“‘When all is done’” said Mrs. Santa Claus, chuckling to herself, “we shall have it all done when he returns. Come, fairies!” and Mrs. Santa Claus, with all the brownies, elves and fairies, went out to the Christmas-tree forest.

The frost fairies selected a tall fir tree which they hung all over with shining, silvery threads of frost, while icicles, hanging from each branch, glimmered and glistened in the moonlight. “What a beautiful tree, frost fairies!” they all cried in a chorus, “But nothing is too good for our dear Father Santa Claus!” Then each put his present on the tree for Santa Claus.


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 Mrs. Santa Claus had made him a new, beautiful red coat, with a cap to match, and she had trimmed it with soft, white ermine. Some of the tailor fairies had helped her, and they also had made him a new pair of trousers. The little cobbler elves had made him a new pair of tall boots and the glove-makers brought a pair of warm gloves. “We want his fingers to be warm,” they said. Some of the fairies brought some animal skins and made them into a nice fur robe. The water nymphs brought him a new meerschaum pipe with an amber mouth-piece from out the sea, “For,” they said, “he has smoked that old clay one so long that he ought to have a new pipe.”

The forest fairies placed under the tree a wonderful, new magic sleigh, which was much larger than his old one. “He has to carry


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 so much nowadays,” they said. The mountain dwarfs had made for him some new, metal sleigh-bells which jingled out the merriest Christmas music.

Suddenly they heard the old bells tinkling on Santa’s old sleigh and they all rushed back to the house to welcome him home. “What are you doing out here, Mother?” asked Santa Claus, “and all the brownies, elves, fairies, nymphs and mountain dwarfs out here with you? Why, don’t you know this is the time for rest, before we all go to work for another year?”

“No, not to-night, Father Santa Claus. We are so happy we will dance until morning. Come with us to the Christmas-tree forest,’’ and with all the fairy helpers pushing and pulling him, and Mother Santa Claus holding him tightly by the hand, Santa


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 Claus was brought out to his own Christmas tree.

“Merry Christmas! Surprise! Surprise! Merry Christmas!” shouted all the fairies, and poor Santa Claus was certainly so surprised that he did not know what to say nor which way to turn. “A Christmas tree! And for me!” gasped Santa Claus in his bewilderment.

“Yes, yes, for you, for you!” they all shouted. “You are always making other people have a merry Christmas, and now we want you to have a merry Christmas. It is your very own Christmas tree, Father Santa Claus.” And then they brought out his presents and gave them to him.

When they had dressed him in his new suit, his eyes twinkled with pleasure as he said, “Why, I don’t know myself now; my


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 old clothes were quite shabby and were tarnished with ashes and soot, and Dancer and Prancer and Dunder and Blitzen and all the reindeer will hardly know what to make of this beautiful new magic sleigh. And just listen to the merry music of our new sleighbells! How good this warm fur robe will feel over me! Sometimes it is pretty cold and my old one is getting thin and worn. A new pipe! Oh, that is fine! My old one is just a stump of a pipe which I had to hold tightly between my teeth, and now, with this new one, the smoke will encircle my head like a wreath. How good you are to me!” said Father Santa Claus, “and how did you ever plan it?”

“Oh, good Mother Santa Claus helped us; without her help we could not have had any Christmas tree surprise party at all.”


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 “Yes,” said Father Santa Claus, “it always takes the good Mother to plan and make a real Christmas party.”

Then the fairy helpers surprised Mother Santa Claus by bringing out a new dress which they had made for her, with a soft, lacy collar and a white cap, and the mountain dwarfs gave her a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles to help her as she did her sewing, and a new, gold pin set with corals was brought to her by the sea nymphs.

And then Father and Mother Santa Claus, dressed in their new Christmas clothes, stood under the sparkling tree trimmed by the frost fairies. Overhead the rainbow fairies came out and flashed their bright lights high in the northern sky, while all the Christmas fairy helpers, the brownies, elves, fairies, mountain dwarfs and nymphs,


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 danced around and around them in a fairy ring, calling gaily:


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 afternoon was out he had snared them all with the silken net of his fine manners; he had talked to father about his poultry and had walked about the runs and shown an intelligent interest, and then, as on many succeeding days, he had laid his charm at the girl's feet. "But I thought he must be some one royal, and when he kept on coming, I thought it must be for the ducks' eggs." Then her damp, dull skin flushed suddenly to a warm glory, and she began to stammer.

"I know all about that," I said quickly. I was more afraid that I should feel envy or any base passion in the presence of this woman than I have ever been of anything else in my life. "I want to hear how you came to part."

"Oh," she cried, "it was the silliest quarrel! We had known how we felt for just a week. Such a week! Lovely weather we had, and father hadn't noticed anything. I didn't want him to,


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NCE upon a time there lived in Myra a good man named Nicholas. When he was a young man his father and mother died of the plague, and he was left the sole heir of all their vast estate; but he looked upon all this money as belonging to God and felt that he, himself, was merely the steward of God’s mercies. So he went about everywhere doing good and sharing his riches with all those who were in need.

Now there lived in that country a certain nobleman who had three beautiful daugh-


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 ters. He had been very rich, but he lost all his property and became so poor that he did not know what to do to provide for his family. His daughters were anxious to be married, but their father had no money to give them dowries and, in that country, no maiden could marry unless she had her marriage portion, or dowry. They were so very poor that they could scarcely get any food to eat. Their clothes were so worn and ragged that they would not go out of the house and their father was overcome with shame and sorrow.

When the good Nicholas heard of their troubles he longed to help them. He knew that the father was proud and that it would be hard to give him money; so he thought that it would be best to surprise them with a gift. Then Nicholas took some gold and,


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Choosing a Profession

 * Choosing a Profession (1939), a book by the Armenian Scientific Association of America
 * "Choosing a Profession" (1920), an essay by Thomas Arkle Clark

title: Choosing a Profession


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 tying it in a long silken purse, went at once to the home of the poor nobleman. It was night and the beautiful maidens were fast asleep while the brokenhearted father, too wretched to go to bed, sat by the fireside watching and praying.

Nicholas stood outside, wondering how he could bestow his gift without being seen when suddenly the moon came from behind the clouds and he saw that a window in the house was open. Creeping softly to the open window, he threw the purse right into the room where it fell at the feet of the nobleman. The father picked up the purse and was very much surprised to find it full of gold pieces.

Awakening his daughters the father said: “See this purse which came through the window and fell at my feet. It is indeed a


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 gift from Heaven. God has remembered us in our time of need.”

After they had rejoiced together, they agreed to give most of the gold to the eldest daughter, so that she would have her dowry and could wed the young man she loved.

Not long after that, Nicholas filled another silken purse with gold and again he went by night so that no one should see him, and he threw this purse also through the open window. Then when the father saw this golden gift he again gave thanks. The money he gave to the second daughter who, like her sister, at once married the man of her choice.

Meanwhile the father was very curious to find out who was so kind to them, for he wished to thank the person who had come in the night to help them with these golden


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 gifts. So he watched and waited night after night, and after a time the good Nicholas came with another silken purse filled with gold pieces for the youngest daughter.

He was just about to throw it into the room when the nobleman rushed from the house and, seizing him by his long robe, knelt before him, saying: “O good Nicholas, servant of God, why seek to hide thyself?” And he kissed his hands and feet and tried to thank him.

But Nicholas answered: “Do not thank me, my good man, but thank the Heavenly Father who has sent me to you in answer to your prayers. I am but His messenger to help those who trust in Him. Tell no man of these gifts of gold, nor who brought them to you in the night, for my deeds are done in His name.”


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 Thus the youngest daughter of the nobleman was married and she and her father and sisters all lived happily the rest of their lives.

The good Nicholas went about from place to place, and wherever he went he did deeds of kindness, so that all the people loved him. One time he took a long journey to the Holy Land, and when he was upon the sea there came a terrible storm; so that the ship was tossed about and almost wrecked, and all the sailors gave up hope.

But the good Nicholas said: “Fear not, our Heavenly Father will bring us safely into harbor.” Then he knelt and prayed to God and the storm ceased and the boat was brought safely to the land. Whereupon the sailors fell at the feet of Nicholas and thanked him.


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 He answered them humbly: “Thank your Father who is in Heaven, for He is the ruler of us all. He it is who rules the earth and the sky and the sea, and who, in His good mercy, spared our lives that we may serve Him.”

When Nicholas returned from Palestine he went to the city of Myra, where he was appointed a bishop. After that he preached God’s Word and went about doing good all of his life. When he died the people said: “We will not call him Bishop Nicholas, but we will call him Saint Nicholas, for if ever there was a saint upon earth it was our good Nicholas.”

And so to this day he is called “Good Saint Nicholas.” And now in many countries, they tell the story of the good Saint Nicholas, and how he goes about the earth at Christmas-time


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 things with a subject, mossy Tritons or nymphs with an urn, that held the eye. Even so in this unrestful garden one's eyes lay on the figure in the yellow raincoat that was standing still in the middle of the lawn.

How her near presence had been known by Chris I do not understand, but there he was, running across the lawn as night after night I had seen him in my dreams running across No-Man's-Land. I knew that so he would close his eyes as he ran; I knew that so he would pitch on his knees when he reached safety. I assumed naturally that at Margaret's feet lay safety even before I saw her arms brace him under the armpits with a gesture that was not passionate, but rather the movement of one carrying a wounded man from under fire. But even when she had raised his head to the level of her lips, the central issue was not decided. I covered my eyes and said aloud, "In a minute


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 bringing gifts of love to all who deserve them, and because he had put his gifts of gold in the long silken purses, our children to-day hang up their long stockings to hold his gifts; and when the children are very good he fills their stockings with sweetmeats, toys and trinkets, but if they have been naughty, they will find a bunch of switches, showing that they deserve to be punished.

We all know that on Christmas Eve Saint Nicholas will come in the night, for he never likes to be seen; and we know that he will always live,—for is he not the spirit of love? and love can never die.

So, every Christmas, let us give our gifts as he did those silken purses so long ago—without anyone knowing about it—and let our gifts be a surprise. Then we, too,


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 126 KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND.

A month of this unrestrained intercourse had passed, when Miss Courtenaye returned to her city home, and Frank to the delights of -Wall street. All things would, probably, have gone on smoothly and successfully then, had not the evil genius of lovers stepped in, taking the form of Blanche’s mamma, and sundry well-meaning aunts.

These anxious relatives met her with a series of smiles, and nods, and hints, to the effect that dear Blanche was really going to make a sensible choice at last. Not one of those Tennysolic, Byronic, good-for-naught sort of men, for whom she had an unfortunate predilection, but a good, dutiful son—a man of property.

Now if there was one thing more than another that Miss Courtenaye abhorred, it was the idea of making a “sensible choice.”

No one had told her, when they were at Rushbanks together, that Mr. Stuyvesant was “a good match”——indeed, she had never thought of him as a “match” at all; and now, to be told that she was going to act like a prudent girl! it was altogether too much. So she perversely resolved that they should see that she was not the commonplace creature they wished her to be. Therefore, when Mr. Stuyvesant presented himself, sure of a blushing welcome, he was received with an air of indifference which Blanche assured herself was not in the least feigned.

Weeks passed by Blanche spent evening after evening at crowded assemblies, whilst receptions, calls, and the usual routine of a New York girl’s life occupied the days.

No matter where she went, Frank was never seen—insensibly she fell into the habit-of glancing around eagerly at each new festivity in search of his brilliant blue eyes. Mr. Goddard, the earnest and profound, in vain discoursed on narrow souls and contracted aspirations. Blanche thought some topics more lively would, perhaps, suit her taste better, and sighed, though she knew it net, for Frank’s ready wit and laugh. After an entertainment of unusual brilliancy, Miss Courtenaye sat before her toilet-table, removing slowly her pretty ornaments, in which, with her glittering silver gauze shining in billowy waves, she had danced and sparkled to the undoing of many a boastful heart. Blanche was thinking little enough of those hearts now, and resting her soft cheek upon her hand, she fell into a long, and somewhat dangerous reverie, when we consider that its subject was the man whom she had rejected a few weeks before.

Her room was furnished luxuriously, and strewn with various nick-knacks, which her fancy had, from time to time, placed there, Carvings and pictures without number; a wild coast scene, by Kensett, shaded her mantle; two clay statuettes of her favorite Rogers held a distinguished position; and for her peculiar satisfaction and comfort a cuckoo clock of delicate workmanship hung on the wall.

Blanche’s meditation was suddenly broken by her little cuckoo bouncing out of his box, and announcing three o’clock with startling distinctness. Perhaps the little bird thought his mistress dull company, for he darted back without a single unnecessary note.

“Well, there are more things in heaven and earth than falling in love!” ejaculated Miss Courtenaye, and, rising, she completed her preparations for the night, and, alas! that I should record it, was asleep in five minutes.

Broadway, we all know, is enchanting in the brilliant sunshine of a winter’s morning. A trifle muddy under foot, a trifle dangerous from the possible breaking of a derrick on one of the unfinished buildings, and the possible descent of fifty pounds, or so, of stone on your head; buf certainly bright and entertaining from the jostling throng of hurrying business men; younger ones in neat toilets hastening to their similar destinations, but taking time to give considerable attention to the pretty girls, who also had urgent business awaiting them; but within the vain precincts of Stewart's, among these last named was Blanche, sweet and fresh as usual, with just the smallest look of expectation on her face, as she bowed and smiled repeatedly at the acquaintances coming and going.

The little flower-girls in vain held up their violets for her notice—from some reason violets had lost their charm. They had been her favorite flower, and Frank’s offerings had many times garnished her belt. Perhaps the little blue blossoms recalled painful memories.

“Poor Frank!” thought Blanche, “I wonder where he is now; traveling, perhaps, feeling bitter to all the world. I should like to know—”

Just as she reached this point in her reflections, a quick step sounded behind her, and Mr. Stuyvesant himself went by, barely lifting his hat as he passed. In one moment he was gone, but not before Blanche had time, to observe that he never looked handsomer or more untroubled in his life. Half a square below, Miss Courtenaye saw her cousin, Lilian Dashwood, and—— Could it be? Frank, stopping, with an air of interest to join Miss Dashwood's morning sau her.

Could it have been with Lilian that he has

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text:
Going to College

 * Going to College (1897), a book by Waitman Barbe
 * "Going to College" (1920), an essay by Thomas Arkle Clark
 * Going to College (1936), a book published by The United Lutheran Publication House

title: Going to College


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 can have the spirit of love and join in this celebration of Christmas with good Saint Nicholas.


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 she had come to her dead child's nursery although she had not washed her hair. I said sternly, because she had forgotten that we lived in the impregnable fort of a gracious life:

"O Kitty, that poor battered thing outside!"

She stared so grimly out into the garden that my eyes followed her stare.

It was one of those draggled days, common at the end of March when a garden looks at its worst. The wind that was rolling up to check a show of sunshine had taken away the cedar's dignity of solid blue shade, had set the black firs beating their arms together, and had filled the sky with glaring gray clouds that dimmed the brilliance of the crocuses. It was to give gardens a point on days such as these, when the planned climax of this flower-bed and that stately tree goes for nothing, that the old gardeners raised statues in their lawns and walks, large


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 perception of material things. I leaned over the balustrade and looked down at the fineness of the hall: the deliberate figure of the nymph in her circle of black waters, the clear pink-and-white of Kitty's chintz, the limpid surface of the oak, the broken burning of all the gay reflected colors in the paneled walls. I said to myself, "If everything else goes, there is always this to fall back on," and I went on, pleased that I was wearing delicate stuffs and that I had a smooth skin, pleased that the walls of the corridor were so soft a twilight blue, pleased that through a far-off open door there came a stream of light that made the carpet blaze its stronger blue. And when I saw that it was the nursery door that was open, and that Kitty was sitting in Nanny's big chair by the window, I did not care about the peaked face she lifted, its fairness palely gilt by the March sunlight, or the tremendous implications of the fact that


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 down my cup, "may I see Chris?" She had not a doubt of the enterprise.

I took her into the drawing-room and opened one of the French windows.

"Go past the cedars to the pond," I told her. "He is rowing there."

"That is nice," she said. "He always looks so lovely in a boat."

I called after her, trying to hint the possibility of a panic breakdown to their meeting:

"You'll find he's altered—"

She cried gleefully:

"Oh, I shall know him."

As I went up-stairs I became aware that I was near to a bodily collapse; I suppose the truth is that I was physically so jealous of Margaret that it was making me ill. But suddenly, like a tired person dropping a weight that they know to be precious, but cannot carry for another minute, my mind refused to consider the situation any longer and turned to the


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T was a cold night for that part of the world, and the shepherds who were out watching their flocks upon the hillside drew their heavy cloaks about them. They had built a camp-fire to give them warmth and as they sat in a group about the bright blaze they told stories to each other.

“You speak of the coming of the King, Grandsire,” said a young shepherd-boy eagerly as he leaned toward an old man who was talking, “tell us more about the King.”

“Yes, boy,” answered the old man, “I


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 visioned what must happen in the next five minutes. Down there by the pond he would turn at the sound of those heavy boots on the path, and with one glance he would assess the age of her, the rubbed surface of her, the torn fine texture, and he would show to her squalid mask just such a blank face as he had shown to Kitty's piteous mask the night before. Although I had a gift for self-pity, I knew her case would then be worse than mine; for it would be worse to see, as she would see, the ardor in his eyes give place to kindliness than never to have ardor there. He would hesitate; she would make one of her harassed gestures, and trail away with that wet, patient look which was her special line. He would go back to his boyish sport with the skiff; I hoped the brown waters would not seem too kind. She would go back to Mariposa, sit on her bed, and read those letters.

"And now," she said brightly as I put


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 will tell you the tale as my mother told it to me.”

“Long, long ago, there was a shepherd-boy named David who wandered on these very hills near Bethlehem, keeping watch over his father’s sheep. David heard the story of the promised king who was to be sent from God to rule over all of his people, and David was so happy that he played upon his harp, and as he led the sheep through the green pastures and beside the still waters, he sang of God as the Heavenly Shepherd.

“When David grew up to be a man he became a king and wore royal robes and a golden crown upon his head and he ruled over all the people. After David, came King Solomon, and no king could rival the grandeur of his palace and court. Since then many kings have ruled over us, but the


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 promised King has not come upon the earth, and the songs of David have not yet been fulfilled.”

“Oh, how I wish that I might see the King!” said the boy earnestly.

“You are young, boy, and—who knows? maybe you will live to see the time when these prophecies come true. But I am old and weary with waiting and working and I may never live to see the promised King. Yet I know that the word of God will come true and that He will send His only beloved son to rule the earth.”

As the wind whistled over the hillside, the sheep huddled more closely together.

“Our little lambs will suffer with the cold,” said the shepherd-boy.

“No,” answered his father, “look at the way the mother-sheep lie closely about them,


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 but the contemplation of beauty, her opaque skin and her suffering were offensive; beside its air of being the coolly conceived and leisurely executed production of a hand and brain lifted by their rare quality to the service of the not absolutely necessary, her appearance of having only for the moment ceased to cope with a vexed and needy environment struck me as a cancerous blot on the fair world. Perhaps it was absurd to pay attention to this indictment of a noble woman by a potter's toy, but that toy happened to be also a little image of Chris's conception of women. Exquisite we were according to our equipment, unflushed by appetite or passion, even noble passion, our small heads bent intently on the white flowers of luxury floating on the black waters of life, he had known none other than us. With such a mental habit a man could not help but wince at Margaret. I drank my tea very slowly because I pre-


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KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND. 127 passed all those evenings, when she had remarked his absence from houses at which he had been formerly a favorite guest? The thought was entirely new. Lilian was young, but pretty——so pretty.

“A glorious morning, Miss Courtenaye,” said a voice at her elbow; and Mr. Goddard, looking unstylish and uncommonly plain, accommodated his steps to hers.

“Good-morning,” she returned, rather coolly, for Mr. Goddard looked so out of place on that animated promenade, that she did not feel in the mood to talk. solemn sentiment, especially with that merry couple just in sight.

Frank was always clever and entertaining; and there he was, seemingly as much occupied with Miss Dashwood, and forgetful of her as if she had been married a dozen years. It was trying, certainly; but she managed to pass them a few minutes afterward, looking rosy, flattered, and entirely content with her escort.

Mr. Goddard was shaken off with some difficulty by Blanche declaring that she had an important assignation with her milliner. He departed regretfully, but Blanche was not left long alone. As she entered the maze of hats, caps, and bonnets, a young woman with a great deal of pannier, quillings, and rustling silk, accosted her with eagerness,

“Why, Blanche, you are the very person I want to see; do come over here and help me to choose my bonnet for Hortense Bryce’s reception.”

Blanche walked soberly to the-table, where a smiling Frenchwoman was exhibiting bonnet after bonnet to catch the capricious notice of the lively purchaser. Miss Etta regarded the frail structures with discriminating eyes, keeping up an incessant chatter to Blanche.

“Oh! never, madam!” as madam held up a captivating creation of brightest Metternich green, “don’t suggest such a thing for a moment. There is only one complexion in town that could stand that with equanimity—Lilian Dashwood’s; that reminds me, Blanche, they say Frank Stuyvesant has eyes and ears for no one else. I am glad the redoubtable Frank is caught at last—they used to accuse you, didn’t they? There, madam, that pink; I think I like that better than any, only bring those roses a little further forward. Blanche, there is Nina Levering—how she does get herself up! Come, let us hurry out before she sees us.”

They descended the steps. As they reached the side-walk, as fate would have it, Mr. Stuyvesant and Miss Dashwood arrived at that point simultaneously with themselves. Miss Etta instantly had something that she must say to Lilian, so they stepped on in front, leaving Blanche to a ¢ete-a-tete with Frank.

“You are very gay,” he said, turning his eyes fixedly upon her.

“Oh, yes!” she said, with a laugh. “I have been going incessantly for the last month, and I am so excessively fond of going out.”

“Yes,” he replied, with bitterness. “You are only contented with constant adulation from all; the dullness of accepting the homage of but one heart is not much to your taste,”

Blanche turned away her face, whilst her eyes filled with tears; but words, light and mocking, rose to her lips.

“Good-morning, Lilian; good-morning, Mr. Stuyvesant,” and Miss Etta retook Blanche’s arm to cross the street.

“Stop, Etta, there’s mamma; I will call the coachman and make her take usin. One does feel so desperately tired in the morning.”

That evening Blanche could find nothing to interest her. She played one or two of her favorite waltzes of Chopin, but her fingers refused to pay their due attention; her embroidery got into a snarl; her book was stupid beyond measure; and she could find no other occupation than that of listening nervously for the door-bell, which rang, however, only to admit her father. At last came a sharp pull. Blanche looked up eagerly as the drawing-room door opened, but it was only her brother Jack who entered.

“Ho, Blanche!” he cried, patting her shoulder, “you look pale, little girl. Shall I take you to drive tomorrow with my blood-grays?”

“Oh, do, Jack! We will go to Central Park,”

“And call for Lilian Dashwood on the way,” added her brother.

“Violets, Lilian?” cried Blanche, the next morning, suspiciously stopping to bend over a Sevres dish as she followed her brother through the parlor of her cousin’s house.

Her pretty cousin greeted Jack first—Blanche was sure it was to avoid answering her.

During the drive she mused bitterly on the inconstancy of man, and the utter folly of looking for truth, or enduring affection from one of the masculine gender.

“Of course, he gave her the violets, and it was only a month ago that they were all for me, my especial flower, he called them. Not that it makes the least difference to me to whom Mr. Stuyvesant gives his attentions—but one likes to believe in a person’s profession.” Then her conscience asked her if it was not natural and right that Frank should cease to care for her.

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 protecting the lambs with their warm bodies. No, the old sheep may feel the chill wind but they will not let their babies suffer.”

“Just look at my little baby lamb,” said the boy. “See it is curled up snugly by its mother. Oh! I do hope that no harm will come to it, for it is the tiniest lamb of the flock and I love it. Do you know, Father, I call it ‘Snow-white’ for it is like the white snow which we sometimes see on the far-distant mountain-peaks.”

“Come, boy,” said the father, “you have rested all day; so you watch the flock and the fire for a time and I will lie down here by Grandsire and take a nap.”

The boy lay upon the ground looking at the camp-fire smoke curling up toward the sky. Then he looked at the sleeping shepherds stretched out upon the ground, and


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 as his eyes rested upon the old man, he remembered the story and said softly: “How I should like to see that King!”

The cold wind seemed to die down and the clouds went across the sky like a flock of scurrying sheep, leaving the stars twinkling brightly in the dark-blue vault of the heavens.

“How beautiful it is, and how still!” he said.

He looked again at the group of sleeping shepherds, and then he looked at the sleeping sheep. As he watched, he saw his little lamb stir uneasily.

“Poor little baby, poor little Snow-white, I believe that it is lonely—I will hold it under my warm coat and protect it while the mother-sheep sleeps.” And so the boy lifted the baby lamb in his strong arms, and,


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 as to the wisdom of my expedition revived in the little time we had to spend in the hall waiting for the tea which I had ordered in the hope that it might help Margaret to compose her distressed face. She hovered with her back to the oak table, fumbling with her thread gloves, winking her tear-red eyes, tapping with her foot on the carpet, throwing her weight from one leg to the other, and I constantly contrasted her appearance by some clumsiness with the new acquisition of Kitty's decorative genius that stood so close behind her on the table that I was afraid it might be upset by one of her spasmodic movements. This was a shallow black bowl in the center of which crouched on all fours a white, naked nymph, her small head intently drooped to the white flowers that floated on the black waters all around her. Beside the pure black of the bowl her rusty plumes looked horrible; beside that white nymph, eternally innocent of all


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 opening his coat, he held it closely in his bosom, while the mother-sheep slept peacefully by his side. The boy forgot to watch the fire and it soon flickered and went out.

He felt a strange chill over all the land, and it was so still—so very still that he wished the men would awaken, or that one of the sheep would bleat, for he felt lonely and afraid and he knew not why.

Suddenly he saw a bright light flashing through the heavens. Was he asleep or dreaming? He sat up and rubbed his eyes. No, the light was coming nearer and nearer, down, down toward the earth. Then he saw that the sheep were stirring uneasily and he heard them bleating, for they were frightened from their sleep. The shepherds, too, were awakening.

“What is the meaning of this strange light?” said one.


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 “Has a star fallen from the sky?” asked another.

“See this golden cloud of glory resting over us. It is so dazzling bright that I dare not look upon it.”

The shepherds seized their staffs and some of them covered their faces with their cloaks, for they were very frightened. The old man went down upon his knees and looked up reverently while the boy stood motionless gazing spellbound at the radiant vision, for, as they watched they saw in this cloud of golden glory, a beautiful angel who came down, down to the earth and stood upon the hillside among them. When they saw this messenger from God the shepherds trembled with fear, and the angel said:

“Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in


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 the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger.”

And, as the angel ceased speaking, suddenly the heavens opened and there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host who were singing and praising God, saying: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Then the bright light was gone and the startled shepherds looked up long and earnestly toward the sky.

“Truly, it was a message from God,” said the shepherd, as he bowed his white head. “God has sent us this angel to tell us that the promised King has come.”

“But the angel said that the Babe was wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in


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 its way within our gates, that it must be made delicate and decorated into felicity. Surely, she must see that this was no place for beauty that had been not mellowed, but lacerated, by time, that no one accustomed to live here could help wincing at such external dinginess as hers. But instead she said: "It's a big place. Chris must have worked hard to keep all this up." The pity of this woman was like a flaming sword. No one had ever before pitied Chris for the magnificence of Baldry Court. It had been our pretense that by wearing costly clothes and organizing a costly life we had been the servants of his desire. But she revealed the truth that, although he did indeed desire a magnificent house, it was a house not built with hands.

But that she was wise, that the angels would of a certainty be on her side, did not make her any the less physically offensive to our atmosphere. All my doubts


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 a manger,” questioned the boy. “Is it not strange for a prince to come to such a lowly palace?”

“Yes,” said the old man, “it seems strange, but we know that He is truly the gift of love from God—His only Son who has been promised to us for, lo, these many years. I thank God that my old eyes have been permitted to see this heavenly vision. Come, we must go in haste to find Him.”

“What gift of love shall we carry to the King, Grandsire?” whispered the boy.

“The most precious thing we own,” answered the old man, “that which we love the best.”

“But we shepherds have no gold nor silver, nor sparkling gems fit for a king,” said one of the shepherds. “What, then, can we carry to this child?”


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 “I know,” said the boy, as he looked lovingly down upon the little lamb which he was still holding in his strong young arms, “we can give this lamb—Snow-white; it is the purest and whitest little lamb from our flock. I love it and it is the best that we have to offer, and surely the good Father in Heaven knows that we are bringing our gift of love to the King.”

“The boy is right,” said the old man. “This baby lamb—the purest of the flock is truly our gift of love.”

And so the shepherds went in haste down the hillside, the boy holding in his arms the baby lamb. Once it bleated softly, “Ma-Ma-a-a,” as though it called its mother, and the boy seemed to hear the mother-sheep on the hillside calling out, “Ba-ba-a-a,” as though she were calling her baby.


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 got careless.' He said they had found these stuffed into the desk."

"And what was in them?"

"For a long time I did not read them; I thought it was against my duty as a wife. But when I got that telegram saying he was wounded, I went up-stairs and read those letters. Oh, those letters!"

She bowed her head and wept.

As the car swung through the gates of Baldry Court she sat up and dried her eyes. She looked out at the strip of turf, so bright that one would think it wet, and lighted here and there with snowdrops and scillas and crocuses, that runs between the drive and the tangle of silver birch and bramble and fern. There is no esthetic reason for that border; the common outside looks lovelier where it fringes the road with dark gorse and rough amber grasses. Its use is purely philosophic; it proclaims that here we esteem only controlled beauty, that the wild will not have


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 “Poor mother-sheep, she will be grieving for her little one,” said the boy to himself, "but if she could only understand she would be glad to give her lamb to the King.”

At last they reached the little town of Bethlehem, and they came to a low stable built upon the hillside, and there they found their King—a tiny babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, as the angel had said, and lying in a manger.

They saw the cattle standing near and Joseph watching over the Holy Mother Mary and the Heavenly Child.

This was no palace home; these were no royal robes of state, but the shepherds knew that the words of the angel were true and that this Babe was their promised king. The heavenly light was streaming from the face of the Holy Child and the shepherds


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 covered their faces, for they could not look upon its radiance. Then they fell upon their knees and worshipped the Child, and thanked God that the gift of love had been given to all the waiting world.

The boy looked on with wondering eyes, and then he held out the little lamb, and the Babe smiled into the eyes of the boy and stretched out His tiny hands as though He would take the lamb. Then the boy sank slowly down upon his knees by the Babe and placed at His feet the tiniest lamb from the flock— a gift of love for the Christ-Child.


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 them who I was; gave us duck and green peas for lunch and I did think of dad. They were nothing like as good as his ducks, but then I expect they paid. And then Miss Taylor took William out to look at the garden. I knew he didn't like it, for he's always shy with a showy woman, and I was going after them when Mr. Taylor said: 'Here, stop a minute. I've got something here that may interest you. Just come in here.here.' [sic] He took me up to the roller desk in the office, and out of the drawer he took twelve letters addressed to me in Chris's handwriting.." [sic]

"He was a kind man. He put me into a chair and called Miss Taylor in and told her to keep William out in the garden as long as possible. At last I said, 'But Mrs. Hitchcock did say she'd send my letters on.' And he said, 'Mrs. Hitchcock hadn't been here three weeks before she bolted with a bookie from Bray, and after that Hitchcock mixed his drinks and


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128 KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND. When they were at Rushbanks she had certainly showed an undoubted preference for his society above all others; and then, when he told his love, she had refuséd it with scorn. What was there left of the young girl of his imagination? No wonder that he had turned for consolation to the gentle creature now sitting before her. Lilian looked unusually pretty; the cold air enhanced her brilliant bloom, and her golden locks almost sparkled in the sunshine. She was talking animatedly to Jack, and Blanche thought jealously how those blue eyes might have looked into Frank Stuyvesant’s, and charmed him into forgetfulness of her own brown cheeks and chestnut eyes.

They were returning now, just passing the reservoir into Fifth Avenue, when the spirited horses took fright at several eager equestrians, and plunged and reared frantically. In one moment the light dog-cart was overturned, and Blanche thrown violently out, stunned for the moment. When she opened her eyes a well- known arm supported her, a well-known face bent over her, and Frank’s voice called to her in passionate accents.

Coloring deeply, she hastily disengaged herself from his arms, and without giving him a look, hurried toward her cousin.

Jack had taken good care of Lilian, for she was standing by, laughing, and shaking the dust from her profusion of fair hair, which tumbled over her shoulders in defiance of comb and hair-pins. When Blanche turned, Mr. Stuyvesant was looking on, with an indifferent face, at the righting of the dog-cart.

“Let me help you,” he cried, laughing at Lilian’s futile attempts to straighten several sadly bedraggled plumes—and he bent for- ward and whispered something which made Lilian blush and toss her head.

“Come, Frank, jump in old fellow, and let me show you how my grays can step out,” said Jack Courtenaye, helping his cousin to her seat, whilst Blanche sprung in, scarcely touching Mr. Stuyvesant’s assisting hand. Frank glanced at Blanche, but she turned away her head.

“I thank you; no, not today,” and, lifting his hat, walked rapidly away.

They drove quickly home, Lilian thinking it a famous adventire; Blanche, absorbed in the recollection she had seen, of ardent eyes so close to her face, and brown curls almost touch- ing her own darker locks.

The following day was Sunday. In the afternoon Blanche stole off alone to Calvary church. The evening prayers quieted her restless heart, and stilled for awhile her self-reproaches. The service was ended, the echoes of the sweet voices had died away. Blanche made her way down the aisle, feeling at peace with all the world: When she reached the door, she started back dismayed, for there was an ominous patter on the stone-steps, and torrents of pitiless rain struck terror to the hearts of umbrellaless-worshipers. Blanche had hardly time to think of the probable fate of her little pink bonnet, when some one stepped forward and formally offered his escort and umbrella. Her heart bounded; she knew the voice and form, but she merely bowed; and put her hand within the proffered arm.

Together they stepped out of the vestibule and on to the street, and silently the first block was passed. For her life Blanche could think of nothing to say. She stole a glance at her companion, but encountered such sparkling eyes, that she did not dare look again. When they reached her own door, Miss Courtenaye contrived to say,

“I am very much indebted to you.” For which Mr. Stuyvesant bowed and departed.

“I tell you, mother, Lilian Dashwood is turning out a regular beauty,” said Jack Courtenaye, at breakfast, next morning, indolently stretching his arm to reach a round of toast.

Mrs. Courtenaye adjusted her breakfast-cap before she replied.

“Such a complexion and such hair would make any one pretty. Lilian has, besides all that, great good sense. I do not think any foolish notions will interfere with her acceptance of a good offer, if she has one.”

“Frank Stuyvesant seems to be pretty far gone—don’t you think so?” said Jack, turning suddenly to his sister.

Blanche felt in her heart a despairing assent; but she answered quite steadily that they were well suited.

Jack’s remarks were interrupted by the entrance of the servant with a little pink billet, which he laid by Miss Courtenaye’s plate.

“From Lilian,” said Blamehe, answering her mother’s questioning look, “asking Jack and me to pass a quiet evening with her, as no one but herself is at home.”

“Of course, we'll go,” said Jack, quickly; to which his sister made no demur.

“How charmed I am to see you,” cried Miss Dashwood, meeting her cousin that evening at the hall-door; “but where is Jack?”

“Oh! he said he would leave me, and walk to the corner to finish his segar.”

“Come right into the parlor, Blanche, I will take your wraps upstairs. You must do without

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 inn was not being managed as it ought to be, and she could not have borne to see the green home of her youth defiled. But then there had come a time when she had been very much upset,—she glared a little wildly at me as she said this, as if she would faint if I asked her any questions,—and then she had suddenly become obsessed with a desire to see Monkey Island once more.

"Well, when we got to the ferry, Mr. Grey says, 'But mercy, Margaret, there's water all round it!' and I said, 'William, that's just it. They found that the island was clean and decorous again, for it had only recently changed hands. "Father and daughter the new people are, just like me and dad, and Mr. Taylor's something of dad's cut, too, but he comes from the North. But Miss Taylor's much handsomer than I ever was; a really big woman she is, and such lovely golden hair. They were very kind when I told


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 that I suspected of consisting of an incessant whining up at her protective instinct. "Mr. Grey," she said softly, as though stating his chief aim to affection, "has never been very successful." And still no letter ever came.

So, five years after she left Monkey Island, she married Mr. William Grey. Soon after their marriage he lost his job and was for some time out of work; later he developed a weak chest that needed constant attention. "But it all helped to pass the time," she said cheerfully and without irony. So it happened that it was not till two years after that she had the chance of revisiting Monkey Island. At first there was no money, and later there was the necessity of seeking the healthful breezes of Brighton or Bognor or Southend, which were the places in which Mr. Grey's chest oddly elected to thrive. And when these obstacles were removed, she was lethargic; also she had heard that the


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Ariadne's Crown rests about 20 degrees east of Arcturus and may be easily seen in the east just after sunset during the early spring, about the 8th of April, but it is at its best during the early evenings of July when it is almost overhead.

Alphecca, "the bright one," also called "The Pearl," marks the radiant point of a shower of meteors called the Coronids. This shower occurs while the constellation is traveling between the east and the zenith, being visible from April 12th to June 20th.

The Crown remains in view from April until late October, then disappears between the west and northwest. It lies concealed throughout the winter, then rises in the direct northeast in the early spring, its jewels sparkling as if they had been encased in a winter's casket of snow.

This beautiful little constellation is designated on the maps as Corona Borealis. The "Northern Crown" and "Ariadne's Crown" are only popular names.

An astronomical work of Eudoxus, dated about 370, but based upon observations made probably by the Chaldeans fifteen centuries before, was versified in a poem of 732 verses called "Phenomena" by Aratus, the court poet of Macedonia, who wrote about a century after Eudoxus' time. Aratus mentions this constella-

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 stock. She negotiated the transfer of the lease of the inn to a publican, and, after exacting a promise from the new hostess that she would forward all letters that might come, embarked upon an increasingly unfortunate career as a mother's help. First she fell into the hands of a noble Irish family in reduced circumstances, whose conduct in running away and leaving her in a Brighton hotel with her wages and her bill unpaid still distressed and perplexed her. "Why did they do it?" she asked. "I liked them so. The baby was a darling, and Mrs. Murphy had such a nice way of speaking. But it almost makes one think evil of people when they do a thing like that." After two years of less sensational, but still uneasy, adventures, she had come upon a large and needy family called Watson who lived at Chiswick, and almost immediately Mr. William Grey, who was Mrs. Watson's brother, had begun a


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 me at all save in the most cursory fashion. On the eye of his mind, I realized thenceforward, I had hardly impinged. That night he talked till late with his father, and in the morning he had started for Mexico to keep the mines going, to keep the firm's head above water and Baldry Court sleek and hospitable—to keep everything bright and splendid save only his youth, which ever after that was dulled by care.

Something of this I told Margaret, to which she answered, "Oh, I know all that," and went on with her story. On Sunday, three days after their quarrel, Mr. Allington was found dead in his bed. "I wanted Chris so badly; but he never came, he never wrote," and she fell into a lethargic disposition to sit all day and watch the Thames flow by, from which she was hardly roused by finding that her father had left her nothing save an income of twenty pounds a year from unrealizable


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 that that victorious and trumpeting personality was accustomed to exact, and in the course of conversation with them he dropped braggart hints of impending ruin which he would have found it humiliating to address to us directly. At last there came a morning when he said to Mrs. Baldry across the breakfast-table: "I've sent for Chris. If the boy's worth his salt—" It was an appalling admission, like the groan of an old ship as her timbers shiver, from a man who doubted the capacity of his son, as fathers always doubt the capacity of the children born of their old age.

It was that evening, as I went down to see the new baby at the lodge, that I met Chris coming up the drive. Through the blue twilight his white face had had a drowned look. I remembered it well, because my surprise that he passed me without seeing me had made me perceive for the first time that he had never seen


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 I'll go,' and he walked over to the boy, who was chopping wood, and got him to take him over in the punt. As he passed me he turned away his face. Well, that's all."

I had got the key at last. There had been a spring at Baldry Court fifteen years ago that was desolate for all that there was beautiful weather. Chris had lingered with Uncle Ambrose in his Thames-side rectory as he had never lingered before, and old Mr. Baldry was filling the house with a sense of hot, apoplectic misery. All day he was up in town at the office, and without explanation he had discontinued his noontide habit of ringing up his wife. All night he used to sit in the library looking over his papers and ledgers; often in the mornings the housemaids would find him asleep across his desk, very red, yet looking dead. The men he brought home to dinner treated him with a kindness and consideration which were not the tributes


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 straight and black, and not a smile on him. I felt very bad. We picked him up in the dinghy and took him across, and still he didn't smile. He and I got on the island, and Bert, who saw there was something wrong, said, "Well, I'll toddle off." And there I was on the lawn with Chris, and he angry and somewhow miles away. I remember him saying, 'Here am I coming to say good-by, because I must go away to-night, and I find you larking with that bounder.' And I said: 'O Chris, I've known Bert all my life through him coming to his uncle for the holidays, and we weren't larking. It was only that he couldn't row.' And he went on talking, and then it struck me he wasn't trusting me as he would trust a girl of his own class, and I told him so, and he went on being cruel. Oh, don't make me remember the things we said to each other! It doesn't help. At last I said something awful, and he said: 'Very well; I agree.


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ΟΝ THE COAST. 129 me tor a time; you know I am taking care of the house during mamma's absence,” and she disappeared, closing the door after her.

Blanche, without looking around, seated her self by a small buhl-table, laden with heliotropes and tuberoses, and bent over to inhale their sweetness. At a slight noise she glanced up, and Frank stood before her, Startled and confused, she tried to murmur some commonplace words of greeting; but when her eyes met is, the words died upon her lips.

“Blanche,” he cried, impetuously, “scorn me and reject me, but I still dare to love you. Do what I will, your face haunts me at all times; the mere wight of you is enough to overcome all my pride, and set me to dreaming mad, im- possible, heavenly dreams——”

“Frank!” interrupted a beseeching voice, and a little hand was stretched toward him. I do not know what he read in her face, but in a moment he was by her side. Catching her hand, he whispered,

“Blanche, dear Blanche! can it be that my earnest love is not in vain?”

The little hand was not withdrawn; and kneeling by her, be heard the words so sweet and dear to him.

So much there was of explanations, and murmured repetitions of the old, old story, that Lilian's very deliberate opening of the drawing- room door, was a sudden shock.

“Oh, Lilian!” cried Blanche, springing up, what have you been doing this long time?” “Merely entertaining Jack,” replied the young lady, composedly. “Jack thought he heard you and Mr. Stuyvesant quarreling, and was afraid to enter—so I took him into the library, But L see very plainly that I have not been much missed; Mr. Stuyvesant looks as though he might spare me a little longer.”

Blanche laughed shyly, and elrove to keep back the tell-tale color that overspread her cheek.

“Never mind, Blanche, dear!” said Lilian, consolingly; “don't you suppose I am truly glad to be rid of the task of consoling a despairing lover? On the strength of being your cousin, I was supposed to know the secret and hidden motive of every word you spoke; and, after all, my painstaking interpretations were sure not to suit him,”

“Hush, Lilian!” cried Blanche, laughing.

“Yes; you may laugh, but it’s quite true; and one day, when Jack brought moe in a bunch of violets, somebody else fell into euch a gloomy meditation over them——"

“That you were forced to enter into a whispered conversation with your cousin to avoid disturbing it,” interrupted Frank—but Lilian was gone,

What a happy pair walked home beneath the gaslight that evening; so absorbed in one another, that, as Jack afterward remarked, they would not have stopped short of the Battery if he had not been near to suggest more moderate exercise.

ON THE COAST.

BY MRS. ELLEN M. MITCHELL. Hush! Hear yo not the surging seat The Storm King abouteth in mad glee.

The winds roar fierce, then moan and sigh; A lurid glow lights up the sky.

Who is it on you rock-bound coast, Her tangled tresses backward tossed?

Her will eyes peering with strange light, Far out into the awful night?

Unmoved she stands, with dauntless form, And braves alone the wrathful storm.

With fiercer cries the tempest raves, Still higher rise the foam-capped waves.

Strange sounds are borne upon the wind, Awl ruins of spray her vision blind.

White as a snaow-flake is her cheek; Oh, God! what means that fearful shriek?

She rushes forward to the beach: A wreck is drifting out of reach.

Revealed by yon red lightning’s blaze, She watches it with straining gaze.

The billows juor with gusty mirth— What care they for her all on earth?

Ah! see that form against the sky; "L in be! 'Tin be! Oh! must he die?

He stretches forth imploring hands; Transfixed with horror wild she stands.

There, tossed on dangers very brink, She marks his frail barque rise and sink.

Until at last, all struggling o'er, The wreck, engulfed, is seen no more.

The winds a dirge breathe soft and low, As if to soothe her frautle woe.

A pause a shiver; then the sea Has buried all her misery,

And surging floods roll on and hide The forms of bridegroom and of bride. �

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Author:Georgene Faulkner

Works

 * Christmas Stories (1916)

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Christmas Stories

 * Christmas Stories, by Georgene Faulkner (1916)
 * Christmas Stories, by Robert Warren Schaffer (1999)

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1This poem, so distinctly prophetic, was written a year and four months before her death.

2"The Rose" was written for Mr. Porter Garnett on the occasion of his marriage.

3These lines were in response to a long telegram dispatched at night by a distant friend.

4Of this poem, "Just a Dog," a letter says: "My cousin, who used often to play on the piano, died; and after his death his dog, when anyone touched the instrument, used to come from wherever he might be to see if the player were not his master. Then he would slink away again. The dog died after a few grieving months. I loved him, and made these verses."

5"Mirage" is an endeavor to portray the alien attitude of one who had long vainly sought love.

6"My Nook" was written at the age of sixteen.

7"Think Not, O Lilias." These prose lines were recalled out of a dream. They are included here because of their singular beauty.

8"Yesterday," and "The Mourner" which follows it, are the last poems. "Ave atque Vale" was written some two years before.

The responsibility for these notes lies with Mr. Henry Anderson Lafler, who has edited this book. Thanks are due to Mr. George Sterling and Mr. Porter Garnett, who have lightened the labor of its preparation.

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 HOW I BECAME A BENEDICT.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.

Yes, I'm a married man at last! That's my wife sitting over there in the great rocking-chair, that slender, delicate creature, with the soft, creamy face, and lustrous, golden hair; and that queer, little thing in her lap, over which she coos so tenderly, is my son and heir, Chancellor Trowbridge, Jr. Heavens! what a feeling of importance it gives a fellow to know that his name will live after his body is under the sods! I never knew what it was to be a man before; I'm one now, every inch of me, as Lear was every inch a king.

A woman-hater! That's what I've been called all my life, and the cognomen was not misapplied. I did hate women, and excluded myself from their society, and railed and sneered at their frailties until Well, until that little woman yonder glorified the whole feminine gender for me! I'm a changed man. I can't pass a bit of female apparel in a shop window, a water-fall, or a knot of ribbon, without a tender thrill at my heart. I'm an old fool, that's about the amount of it! No matter, fill up your meerschaum, my wife does not object to smoke-sensible women never do!

Twenty years ago! Bless my soul, what a long way to look back! Such a misty, winding road, cut across at every turn by the grassgreen graves of dead friends and blighted hopes! Ah, me! I would not go back and tread it all over again, if I could! Twenty years ago I met with my first disappointment, and it made me a misanthrope, a woman-hater! I was a young stripling, then, just sixteen, the sole idol and comfort of an overfond mother. We lived all alone in a little nest of a cottage, just out from the city; and mother did the housework, and managed the small dairy, from which we derived our support, while I attended the academy. She was bent upon making a great man of me, poor, fond mother! She confidently believed that I possessed any amount of undeveloped talent, and denied herself a thousand little comforts, in order to secure for me the advantages necessary to bring it into action. Looking back upon those days now. it affords me a kind of melancholy satisfaction to know that she went to her eternal rest, happily unconscious that all her unselfish labor had been spent for naught; still fancying, in the egoism of her love, that "her boy," as she called me, would one day cover himself with the lustre of great deeds.

I shared her belief, then ; and when my sixteenth year, and my academical course both culminated at once, and poor mother expended the hoardings of an entire year to purchase me a new cloth suit, I thought my fortune made. As a matter of course, the next step to be taken was matrimony. By way of beginning, I set myself to work to get up a poem, to be dedicated to the fair one of my choice, Miss Jessie Weaver. The composition consumed a round week. Day after day I shut myself in my bedchamber, and racked my brains over rhyming syllables, while poor mother drove the cows to and fro, and even brought the water to cool her milk-pans. At last it was finished, and elaborately copied on scented, rose- colored paper. There were some two dozen verses, I think, containing swashy sentiment, and morbid melancholy, sufficient to stock a regiment of ordinary novels; but sitting on the stone-steps of the dairy, with her butter-paddle in her hand, mother listened while I read them to her in a confident, declamatory style, her loving eyes full of subdued exultation.

“I always thought so! I always thought you'd make a great man, my boy," she said, proudly.

I sent the poem to Jessie, with no doubt whatever in regard to its reception. I held too high an opinion of her good sense to believe, for an instant, that she would fail to appreciate it; and she didn't, as her gay laugh and dancing eyes attested at our next meeting.

“You'll be famous by-and-by, Chancy," she called after me over the garden-gate; “a second Byron."

I stroked my sprouting mustache with serene self-complacency, running my eye over the rich meadow-lands, and alluvial fields, surrounding her father's stately mansion. She was an only child, and would inherit all this wealth. I had made up my mind to propose to her on my next visit; and it would be the proper thing to make her a present on such an occasion.

There was a gay, ruby-brooch on exhibition in one of the shop-windows, and on this I had set my heart; but the price was twenty- tre

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Page:The Music of the Spheres.djvu/119

 tion of Hercules as being of immemorial antiquity and describes it as a figure of a man in sorrow with his hands upraised and stretched "one this way and one that, a fathom's length." In the early days of the world's history it was called "The Kneeler" although even this was not supposed to be its original name. Aratus says—

"On His Knees" was given the name of the hero Hercules when the Greeks placed their heroes and divinities among the stars, but his pictures in the modern maps do not seem to accord with the description of his posture in this ancient poem. His foot now rests upon Draco, the Sky Dragon, which probably is here imagined as old Laden, the sleepless dragon which once coiled around the tree of golden apples.

Hercules, the great grandson of Perseus, was the greatest of all the heroes. He possessed every high quality of mind and character and was endowed with such great physical strength that his life was filled with constant adventure. Armed with a huge club, he performed the most remarkable deeds, the most wonderful of these being his "Twelve Labors." Some of these labors or adventures were so thrilling that the Greeks named constellations in honor of them as well as of the hero, and they have ever since been proverbs among men. There are many allusions to these throughout literature—

Leo, who leads the zenith constellations across the sky, was the same ferocious lion which Hercules encountered and killed in the

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text:
Captain Ward and the Rain-Bow

 * "Captain Ward and the Rainbow", anonymous Scottish ballad
 * Captain Ward and the Rain-Bow (1780), Scottish chapbook

title: Captain Ward and the Rain-Bow


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Page:Signswondersgodw0000wood.djvu/194

While holding a, revival in Fostina, Ohio, in March, 1894, while in my bed, I had a vision of God. I thought I was in a day-meeting, and was standing by the pulpit. Some man in the congregation spoke in a loud voice, saying, “Sister Woodworth, look at the hand above the door.” I looked in that direction, and right above the door, coming from the vestibule, I saw a large hand, wrist and part of the arm. The wrist was bare for several inches. There was a soft, flowing sleeve, that hung down about eight inches. It was white and very soft looking. The fingers were all bent a little, except the little and index fingers. They pointed out each way. The hand and arm were lovely. The sleeves and all were white and shining. The hand and arm moved about and pointed all over the congregation again and again, then pointed the index finger to me and waved the hand and fingers as if beckoning me, or calling me to come. The hand continued to move over the people, then pointed. Every eye saw the wonderful hand sight. I cried out in a loud voice, “Oh! that is the hand of God!”

There was a very large window on the same side of the house. The transom was open and a hand just like the other came through the transom and did just like the other, both warning and pointing the people to me. Both lovely hands pointed over the house, then to me. I cried out again and again, “Oh! that is the hand of God!” They both went away at once.

It seemed the congregation could not move. Then I said, “Oh! I believe it is the Hand of God and it means something wonderful to the people, and especially to me.” Just then I saw through the transom of the same window and clear up to Heaven, a path twenty feet or more wide: It reached from Heaven down and was, full of stars and light. As I looked I saw one of the hands and nearly all of the arm with the flowing, soft sleeve come out of Heaven and come down the shining path. Then it came across to the window, through the transom without stopping, and over the congregation, with the index finger and arm pointing to me. The finger touched me on the forehead. The little finger or thumb, or both, touched my face. The hand and arm waved over me. I felt the Everlasting Arms and the soft sleeves around me. Every one saw it then. It went straight

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Gift of Love

Collections

 * A Gift of Love (1891), a compilation of quotes and lyrics by Rose Porter
 * The Gift of Love (1913), an essay collection compiled by Alfred H. Hyatt, containing essays by various authors
 * Gift of Love (1849), a poetry collection by William Bingham Tappan

Essays

 * "The Gift of Love" (1913), an essay by John Ruskin

Short stories

 * "The Gift of Love" (1916), a short story by Georgene Faulkner

title: Gift of Love


text:
Page:The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy (Volume 7).pdf/88

dear mother, quoth the novice, coming a little to herself,—there are two certain words, which I have been told will force any horse, or ass, or mule, to go up a hill whether he will or no; be he never so obstinate or ill-will'd, the moment he hears them utter'd, he obeys. They are words magic! cried the abbess, in the utmost horrour—No; replied Margarita calmly—but they are words sinful—What are they? quoth the abbess, interrupting her: They are sinful in the first degree, answered Margarita,—they are mortal—and if we are ravish'd and die unabsolved of them, we shall bothbut you may pronounce them