The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

They all stood round and laughed at him

MODERN SHORT STORIES

A BOOK FOR HIGH SCHOOLS

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

FREDERICK HOUK LAW, Ph.D.

Lecturer in English in New York University, and Head of

the Department of English in the Stuyvesant

High School, New York City

NEW YORK

THE CENTURY CO.

1921

Copyright, 1918, by

The Century Co.

PREFACE

For many years high school teachers have wished for books of short stories edited for high school use. They have known that most novels, however interesting, are too long to hold attention, and that too few novels can be read to give proper appreciation of form in narration. The essay, as seen in The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers, and in Irving’s Sketch Book, has been a poor substitute for the short story. High school students have longed for action, for quickness, for life, for climax, for something new and modern. Instead, they have had hundreds of pages, long expositions, descriptions, leisurely treatment, and material drawn from the past. They have read such material because they must, and have turned, for relief, to short stories in the cheaper magazines.

The short story is to-day our most common literary product. It is read by everyone. Not every boy or girl will read novels after leaving school, but every boy or girl is certain to read short stories. It is important in the high school to guide taste and appreciation in short story reading, so that the reading of days when school life is over will be healthful and upbuilding. This important duty has been recognized in all the most recent suggestions for high school reading. The short story is just beginning to take its important place in the high school course. To make use of a book of short stories in high school work is to fall in line with the most modern developments in the teaching of literature in the high school.

Most collections of short stories that have been prepared, for school use, up to the present, are more or less alike in drawing much of their material from the past. Authors and content alike are dead. Here is a collection that is entirely modern. The authors represented are among the leading authors of the day, the stories are principally stories of present-day life, the themes are themes of present-day thought. The students who read this book will be more awake to the present, and will be better citizens of to-day.

The great number of stories presented has given opportunity to illustrate different types of short story writing. What could not be done by the class study of many novels may be accomplished by the study of the different stories in this book. The student will gain a knowledge of types, of ways of construction, of style, that he could not gain otherwise except by long-continued study. Class study of the short story leads inevitably to keen appreciation of artistic effects in fiction.

The introductory material, biographies, explanations, and notes, have been made purely for high school students, in order to help those who may have read comparatively little, so that,—instead of being turned aside forever by a dry-as-dust treatment,—they may wish to proceed further in their study.

It is always pure delight to teach the short story to high school classes, but it is even more delightful when the material is especially fitted for high school work. This book, we hope, will aid both teachers and pupils to come upon many happy hours in the class room.

The editor acknowledges, with thanks, the kindly permissions to use copyright material that have been granted by the various authors and publishers. Complete acknowledgments appear in the table of contents.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

I
OUR NATIONAL READING

Is there anyone who has not read a short story? Is there anyone who has not stopped at a news-stand to buy a short-story magazine? Is there anyone who has not drawn a volume of short stories from the library, or bought one at the book-store? Short stories are everywhere. There are bed-time stories and fairy stories for little children; athletic stories, adventure stories, and cheerful good-time stories for boys and girls; humorous stories for those who like to laugh, and serious stories for those who like to think. The World and his Wife still say, “Tell me a story,” just as they did a thousand years ago. Our printing presses have fairly roared an answer, and, at this moment, are busy printing short stories. Even the newspapers, hardly able to find room for news and for advertisements, often give space to re-printing short stories. Our people are so fond of soda water that some one has laughingly called it our national drink. Our people of every class, young and old, are so fond of short stories that, with an equal degree of truth, we may call the short story our national reading.

II
THE DEFINITION

The short story and the railroad are about equally old,—or, rather, equally new, for both were perfected in distinctly recent times. The railroad is the modern development of older ways of moving people and goods from one place to another,—of litters, carts, and wagons. The short story is the modern development of older ways of telling what actually had happened, or might happen, or what might be imagined to happen,—of tales, fables, anecdotes, and character studies. A great number of men led the way to the locomotive, but it remained for the nineteenth century, in the person of George Stephenson, to perfect it. In like manner, many authors led the way to the short story of to-day, but it remained for the nineteenth century, and particularly for Edgar Allan Poe, to perfect it, and give it definition.

Before Poe’s time the short story had sometimes been written well, and sometimes poorly. It had often been of too great length, wandering, and without point. Poe wrote stories that are different from many earlier stories in that they are all comparatively short. Another difference is that Poe’s stories do not wander, producing now one effect, and now another. Like a Roman road, every one goes straight to the point that the maker had in mind at the beginning, and produces one single effect. In the older stories the writers often turned from the principal subject to introduce other matter. Poe excluded everything,—no matter how interesting,—that did not lead directly to the effect he wished to produce. The earlier stories often ended inconclusively. The reader felt that more might be said, or that some other ending might be possible. Poe tried to write so that the story should be absolutely complete, and its ending the one necessary ending, with no other ending even to be thought of. With it all, he tried to write so that,—no matter how improbable the story really might be,—it should, at least, seem entirely probable,—as real as though it had actually happened.

In general, Poe’s definition of the short story still holds true. There are many kinds of stories to-day,—just as there are many kinds of engines,—but the great fundamental principles hold true in both. We may still define the modern short story as:

1. A narrative that is short enough to be read easily at a single sitting;

2. That is written to produce a single impression on the mind of the reader;

3. That excludes everything that does not lead to that single impression;

4. That is complete and final in itself;

5. That has every indication of reality.

III
THE FAMILY TREE OF THE SHORT STORY

Everyone knows his father and mother. Very few, except those of noble descent, know even the names of their great-great grandparents. As if of the noblest, even of royal descent, the short story knows its family tree. Its ancestry, like that of the American people, goes back to Europe; draws strength from many races, and finally loses itself somewhere in the prehistoric East,—in ancient Greece, India, or Egypt.

In the royal galleries kings look at pictures of their great ancestors, and somewhat realize remote the past. Many of the ancestors of the short story still live. They drank of the fountain of youth, and are as strong and full of life as ever. Such immortal ancestors of the short story of to-day are The Story of Polyphemus (ninth century, B.C.), The Story of Pandora and her Box (ninth century, B.C.), The Book of Esther (second century, B.C.), The City Mouse and the Country Mouse (first century, B.C.), and The Fables of Æsop (third century, A. D.). There are still existing many Egyptian short stories, some of which are of the most remote antiquity, the Tales of the Magicians going back to 4000 B.C.

All the stories just named,—and many others equally familiar, drawn from every ancient land,—affected the short story in English.

In the earliest days in England, in the fifth and in a few succeeding centuries, the priests made collections of short stories from which they could select illustrative material for the instruction of their hearers. They drew many such stories from Latin, which, in turn, had drawn them from still more ancient sources. Then, or a little later, came folk stories, romantic stories of adventure, and other stories for mere amusement.

In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the Italians became very skilful in telling short stories, or “novelle.” Their “new” tales had a lasting effect on short story telling in English.

Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in the fourteenth century, although in verse, told in a most delightfully realistic way all kinds of stories from all kinds of sources, particularly from the literatures of Italy and of France. Chaucer told his stories so remarkably well, with such humor and reality, that he is one of the great forces in the history of the short story in English.

In the sixteenth century stories from France, Spain, and other lands, also gave new incentives to the development of the short story in English.

In the eighteenth century Addison’s Spectator published very short realistic narratives that often presented closely drawn character studies. These are hardly to be called short stories, but they influenced the short story form.

About the beginning of the nineteenth century, partly because of German influence, it became the fashion to write stories of mystery and horror, such as many of those by Irving, Hawthorne, and Poe. Irving softened such stories by the touch of realistic humor; Hawthorne gave them artistic form and nobility; Poe developed the full value of the short story as a literary type, and pointed out the five principles named above. The genius of these men led the way to the modern short story.

Since their time the short story has moved on in its development, including every kind of subject, tending to speak more and more realistically of persons and places, but not losing its romantic nature. Popular short stories of to-day are closely localized, and are frequently quick, incisive, and emphatic.

to-day there are all kinds of short stories,—folk-lore tales, local color stories, animal stories, humorous stories, stories of society, of satire, of science, of character, of atmosphere, and scores of other types, all virile, interesting, and profitable.

However well-dressed the modern short story may be in form and style, it is worth little, unless, like its immortal ancestors, it has the soul of goodness, truth, and beauty, and does something to reveal nobility in the life of man.

IV
A GOOD STORY

With houses and stories it is much the same. As any one may build a hut, so any one may compose a short story. In both cases the materials may be common and cheap, and the construction careless. The one may give shelter from the storm, and the other may hold attention for a moment. Neither may be worth much. Somewhat better are the ordinary house, and the ordinary story. Both are good, and fairly well constructed, but the material is frequently commonplace, and the general characteristics ordinary. To lift either a house or a story out of the ordinary there must be fine material, artistic workmanship, close and tender association with life,—something beautiful, or good, or true. For the highest beauty there is need of something other than obedience to rule in construction. Any architect can tell how to build a beautiful house, but there is a fine beauty no mere architect can give, a beauty that comes with years, or the close touch of human joys and sorrows. It is the same with stories. We can not analyze the finer quality, but we can, at least, tell some of the characteristics that make short stories good.

As Poe said, the best short story is short enough to be read at a sitting, so that it produces a single effect. It includes nothing that does not lead to that effect, and it produces the effect as inevitably as an arrow flies to its mark. The ending is necessary, the one solution to which everything has moved from the beginning. In some way the story is close to life, and is so realistically told that the reader is drawn into its magic, and half believes it real.

It has a combination of plot and characters,—the nature of the characters making the action, and the action affecting the persons involved.

Without action of some sort there would, of course, be no story, but the action,—usually built up of two opposing forces,—must be woven into plot, that is, into a combination of events that lead to a definite result, perhaps not known at first by the reader, but known from the beginning by the author. The plot is somewhat simple, for the story is too short to allow of much complexity. The action and the characters are based on some experience, imaginary or otherwise, and are honestly presented. In the best short story there is no pronounced artificiality or posing.

There is always a certain harmony of content, so that plot and characters work together naturally, every detail strictly in keeping with the nature of the story.

The best story has an underlying idea,—not necessarily a moral,—a thought or theme, very often concerned with ideals of conduct, that can be expressed in a sentence.

Closely associated with everything is an indefinable something, that rises from the story somewhat as the odor of sandalwood rises from an oriental box, a sort of fragrance, or charm, a deeply appealing characteristic that we call “atmosphere.”

Some stories may emphasize one point, and others another,—the plot, the characters, the setting, the theme, or the atmosphere. As they vary thus they reveal new lights, colors, and effects.

Still more do they vary in the charm that comes from apt choice of words, and originality or beauty of phrasing.

Altogether, the best short story is truly an artistic product. The old violins made in Cremona by Antonius Stradivarius have such perfect harmony of material and form, and were made with such loving skill, that they are vibrant with tenderly beautiful over-tones. So the best short story is perfectly harmonious in every part, is made from chosen material, is put together with sympathetic care, and is rich with the over-tones of love, and laughter, and sorrow.

V
WHAT SHALL I DO WITH THIS BOOK?

Here is a book of more than twenty excellent short stories, not one of which was written with the slightest thought that any one would ever wish to study it as part of school work. Every story was written (1) because its author had a story to tell, (2) because he had a definite aim in telling the story, (3) because he felt that by certain methods of form and style he could interest and delight his readers. The magician opens his box, and holds the ring of spectators enthralled. Here is no place for study. One must simply stand in the circle, and look, and wonder, enjoy to his utmost, and applaud the entertainer when he makes his final bow. But the spectator is always privileged to look, not only idly but also as sharply as he pleases. So the reader is entitled to notice in every case the three reasons for writing the story.

The best way, then, to study this book is not to “study” it. It is not a geography, nor a book of rules, nor any kind of book to be memorized. It is a book to be read with an appreciative mind and a sympathetic heart. Read the stories one by one in the order in which they are printed. Read with the expectation of having a good time,—that is what every author intended you to have. But keep your eyes open. Make sure you really know the story the author is telling. One way of testing your understanding is to tell the story in a very few words, either orally or in writing, so that some friend, who has not read it, may know the bare story, and know it clearly. If you find yourself confused, or if you lose yourself in details and can not tell the story briefly, you have not found the story the author has to tell.

A second test is to tell in one sentence, or in one very short paragraph, exactly what purpose the writer had in telling the story. This will be more difficult but it will need little thought if you really have understood and appreciated the story. Do not make the mistake of thinking that a purpose must be a moral. A man who makes a chair, a clown in a circus, an artist, a violinist, a boy playing a game,—all have purposes in what they do, but the purpose is not primarily moral. If you are puzzled in finding the purpose of the story you should look the story over until its purpose flashes upon you.

Thirdly, you should see if you can put into four or five unconnected sentences, either oral or written, the methods of form and style by which the author has interested you, and pleased you. These methods will include means of awakening interest, means of presenting the action, preparation for the climax, way of telling the climax, and way of ending the story. They will also include choice of words, use of language effects, and the means of producing atmosphere in the story.

If it happens that there are words that are not familiar, look them up in the dictionary. You can not hope to understand a story until you understand its language.

A good way to test your appreciation of story telling as an art,—and to help you to appreciate even more keenly,—is to write short stories of your own. Try, in every case, to imitate some method employed in a particular story by a well-known author. Do not imitate too much. Be original. Be yourself. If some of our best short story writers had done nothing but imitate they would never have succeeded. Make your short stories different from those by anyone else in your class. Write your story in such a way that no one will draw pictures, or look out of the window, or whisper to his neighbor, when it comes your turn to read. There are three ways to bring that about:

1. Write about something that you, and your class, know about, and like to hear about.

2. Think of a good, emphatic, or surprising climax, and then make a plot that will lead to the climax with absolute certainty.

3. Tell your story in a way that will be different from the way employed by any of your classmates.

In general, the stories in this book are to be read and enjoyed, worked over, and talked about, in a simple manner, as one might discuss stories at a reading club. To treat the stories in any other way would be to make displeasing work out of what should be pure pleasure.

In the back of the book is a small amount of biographical and explanatory material, such as a friendly teacher might tell to his class. There are also a few questions that will help you to appreciate and enjoy the best effects in every story. The notes have been given merely for reference, as if they were contained in a sort of handy encyclopedia. They are not for hard, systematic study.

A class studying this book should forget that it is a class in school, and resolve itself into a reading club, whose object,—written in its constitution, in capital letters,—is pure enjoyment of all that is best in short stories, and in short story telling.

VI
WHERE TO FIND SOME GOOD SHORT STORIES

VII
SOME INTERESTING SHORT STORIES

R. H. Davis: The Bar Sinister; Washington Irving: The Rose of the Alhambra; The Legend of Sleepy Hollow; Rip Van Winkle; The Three Beautiful Princesses; Rudyard Kipling: Garm, A Hostage; The Arabian Nights: Aladdin; Ali Baba; Annie Trumbull Slosson: Butterneggs; Ruth McEnery Stuart: Sonny’s Diploma; Frederick Remington: How Order No. 6 Went Through; Mark Twain: The Jumping Frog; Henry Van Dyke: The First Christmas Tree.

H. C. Andersen: The Ugly Duckling; Grimm Brothers: Little Briar Rose; Rudyard Kipling: Mowgli’s Brothers; Toomai of the Elephants; Her Majesty’s Servants; Æsop: The Country Mouse and the City Mouse; Joel Chandler Harris: The Wonderful Tar Baby Story; How Black Snake Caught the Wolf; Brother Mud Turtle’s Trickery; A French Tar Baby; George Ade: The Preacher Who Flew His Kite.

Henry Van Dyke: The Other Wise Man; Nathaniel Hawthorne: Rapaccini’s Daughter; David Swan; The Snow Image; The Great Stone Face; Lady Eleanor’s Mantle; The Minister’s Black Veil; The Birth Mark; E. A. Poe: William Wilson; Rudyard Kipling: The Ship that Found Herself; Henry James: The Madonna of the Future; R. L. Stevenson: Will o’ the Mill; Joseph Addison: The Vision of Mirza.

Howard Pyle: The Ruby of Kishmore; Rudyard Kipling: The Man Who Would Be King; Drums of the Fore and Aft; Tiger, Tiger; Kaa’s Hunting; R. H. Davis: Gallegher; Van Bibber’s Burglar; R. L. Stevenson: The Sire de Maletroit’s Door; Joseph Conrad: Youth; E. A. Poe: The Pit and the Pendulum; F. R. Stockton: My Terminal Moraine; Jesse Lynch Williams: The Stolen Story.

Henry Van Dyke: Messengers at the Window; M. R. S. Andrews: A Messenger; Bulwer Lytton: The Haunted and the Haunters; FitzJames O’Brien: The Diamond Lens; What Was It?; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: Shadows on the Wall; R. W. Chambers: The Tree of Heaven; Marion Crawford: The Upper Berth; H. W. Jacobs: The Monkey’s Paw; Rudyard Kipling: At the End of the Passage; The Brushwood Boy; They; Prosper Merimee: The Venus of Ille.

E. A. Poe: The Gold Bug; The Purloined Letter; Conan Doyle: The Dancing Men; the Speckled Band; Henry Van Dyke: The Night Call; FitzJames O’Brien: The Golden Ingot; Anton Chekhoff: The Safety Match; R. L. Stevenson: The Pavillion on the Links; Egerton Castle: The Baron’s Quarry; Wilkie Collins: The Dream Woman; Rudyard Kipling: The Sending of Dana Da.

G. B. McCutcheon: The Day of the Dog; H. C. Bunner: The Love Letters of Smith; A Sisterly Scheme; O. Henry: The Ransom of Red Chief; While the Auto Waits; Samuel Minturn Peck: The Trouble at St. James; T. B. Aldrich: Goliath; R. M. S. Andrews: A Good Samaritan; The Grandfathers of Bob; E. P. Butler: Pigs is Pigs; Josephine Dodge Daskam: Edgar, the Choir Boy Uncelestial; T. A. Janvier: The Passing of Thomas; Myra Kelly: A Christmas Present for a Lady; Ruth McEnery Stuart: The Woman’s Exchange of Simpkinsville.

F. Hopkinson Smith: The Veiled Lady of Stamboul; Stuart Edward White: The Life of the Winds of Heaven; T. B. Aldrich: Père Antoine’s Date Palm; Booth Tarkington: Monsieur Beaucaire; R. H. Davis: The Princess Aline; Alice Brown: A Map of the Country; M. R. S. Andrews: The Bishop’s Silence; Honoré de Balzac: A Passion in the Desert; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The White Old Maid.

Irvin Cobb: Up Clay Street; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: The Revolt of Mother; A Humble Romance; Prosper Merimee: Mateo Falcone; Alphonse Daudet: The Last Class; G. W. Cable: Belles Demoiselles Plantation; Bret Harte: The Luck of Roaring Camp; Ruth McEnery Stuart: The Widder Johnsing; Owen Wister: Specimen Jones; T. A. Janvier: The Sage Brush Hen.

T. B. Aldrich: Marjory Daw; Mademoiselle Olimpe Zabriskie; Miss Mehetabel’s Son; O. Henry: The Gift of the Magi; The Cop and the Anthem; The Whirligig of Life; Guy de Maupassant: The Diamond Necklace; F. R. Stockton: The Lady or the Tiger; John Fox, Jr.: The Purple Rhododendron; R. W. Chambers: A Young Man in a Hurry; E. A. Poe: Three Sundays in a Week; Ambrose Bierce: The Man and the Snake; FitzJames O’Brien: The Bohemian; Frank Norris: A Deal in Wheat.

Mark Twain: A Dog’s Tale; W. D. Howells: Editha; E. T. Seton: The Biography of a Grizzly; Brander Matthews: The Story of a Story; Björnstjerne Björnson: The Father; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Ambitious Guest; Jacob A. Riis: The Burgomaster’s Christmas; Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol; Henry Van Dyke: The Mansion; E. E. Hale: The Man Without a Country.

M. R. S. Andrews: The Perfect Tribute; François Coppee: The Substitute; J. B. Connolly: Sonny Boy’s People; S. O. Jewett: The Queen’s Twin; James Lane Allen: King Solomon of Kentucky; Bret Harte: Tennessee’s Partner; Jack London: The God of His Fathers; John Galsworthy: Quality.

Thomas Nelson Page: Marse Chan; Meh Lady; R. L. Stevenson: The Merry Men; E. A. Poe: The Masque of the Red Death; The Fall of the House of Usher; Irvin Cobb: White and Black; F. J. Stimson: Mrs. Knollys; John Fox, Jr.: Christmas Eve on Lonesome; H. G. Dwight: In the Pasha’s Garden; Honoré de Balzac: An Episode Under the Terror; Jack London: Thanksgiving on Slav Creek; Charles Lamb: Dream Children; H. C. Brunner: Our Aromatic Uncle.

Bret Harte: The Outcasts of Poker Flat; R. L. Stevenson: Markheim; Guy de Maupassant: A Piece of String; A Coward; E. A. Poe: The Cask of Amontillado; Edith Wharton: The Bolted Door; A Journey; Henry Van Dyke: A Lover of Music; S. R. Crockett: Elsie’s Dance for Her Life; Jack London: The White Silence.

VIII
WHAT TO READ ABOUT THE SHORT STORY

MODERN SHORT STORIES

THE

MODERN SHORT STORY

THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA[^[1]]
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

[1]. It may be of interest to those who approach Folk-Lore stories from the scientific side, to know that this story was told to one of my little boys three years ago by a negro named John Holder. I have since found a variant (or perhaps the original) in Theal’s “Kaffir Folk-Lore.”

Joel Chandler Harris, 1889.

“I got one tale on my min’,” said Uncle Remus to the little boy one night. “I got one tale on my min’ dat I ain’t ne’er tell you; I dunner how come; I speck it des kaze I git mixt up in my idees. Deze is busy times, mon, en de mo’ you does de mo’ you hatter do, en w’en dat de case, it ain’t ter be ’spected dat one ole broke-down nigger kin ’member ’bout eve’ything.”

“What is the story, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.

“Well, honey,” said the old man, wiping his spectacles, “hit sorter run dis away: One time dey wuz a man w’at had a mighty likely daughter.”

“Was he a white man or a black man?” the little boy asked.

“I ’clar’ ter gracious, honey!” exclaimed the old man, “you er pushin’ me mos’ too close. Fer all I kin tell you, de man mout er bin ez w’ite ez de driven snow, er he mout er bin de blackes’ Affi’kin er de whole kit en bilin’. I’m des tellin’ you de tale, en you kin take en take de man en whitewash ’im, or you kin black ’im up des ez you please. Dat’s de way I looks at it.

“Well, one time dey wuz a man, en dish yer man he had a mighty likely daughter. She wuz so purty dat she had mo’ beaus dan w’at you got fingers en toes. But de gal daddy, he got his spishuns ’bout all un um, en he won’t let um come ’roun’ de house. But dey kep’ on pesterin’ ’im so, dat bimeby he give word out dat de man w’at kin clear up six acres er lan’ en roll up de logs, en pile up de bresh in one day, dat man kin marry his daughter.

“In co’se, dis look like it unpossible, en all de beaus drap off ’ceppin’ one, en he wuz a great big strappin’ chap w’at look like he kin knock a steer down. Dis chap he wuz name Simon, en de gal, she wuz name Susanna. Simon, he love Susanna, en Susanna, she love Simon, en dar it went.

“Well, sir, Simon, he went ter de gal daddy, he did, en he say dat ef anybody kin clear up dat lan’, he de one kin do it, least’ways he say he gwine try mighty hard. De ole man, he grin en rub his han’s terge’er, he did, en tole Simon ter start in in de mornin’. Susanna, she makes out she wuz fixin’ sumpin in de cubberd, but she tuck ’n kiss ’er han’ at Simon, en nod ’er head. Dis all Simon want, en he went out er dar des ez happy ez a jay-bird atter he done robbed a sparrer-nes’.

“Now, den,” Uncle Remus continued, settling himself more comfortably in his chair, “dish yer man wuz a witch.”

“Why, I thought a witch was a woman,” said the little boy.

The old man frowned and looked into the fire.

“Well, sir,” he remarked with some emphasis, “ef you er gwine ter tu’n de man into a ’oman, den dey won’t be no tale, kaze dey’s bleege ter be a man right dar whar I put dis un. Hit’s des like I tole you ’bout de color er de man. Black ’im er whitewash ’im des ez you please, en ef you want ter put a frock on ’im ter boot, hit ain’t none er my business; but I’m gwine ter ’low he wuz a man ef it’s de las’ ac’.”

The little boy remained silent, and Uncle Remus went on:

“Now, den, dish yer man was a witch. He could cunjer folks, mo’ ’speshually dem folks w’at ain’t got no rabbit foot. He bin at his cunjerments so long, dat Susanna done learn mos’ all his tricks. So de nex’ mornin’ w’en Simon come by de house fer ter borry de ax, Susanna she run en got it fer ’im. She got it, she did, en den she sprinkles some black san’ on it, en say, ‘Ax, cut; cut, ax.’ Den she rub ’er ha’r ’cross it, en give it ter Simon. He tuck de ax, he did, en den Susanna say:

“‘Go down by de branch, git sev’n w’ite pebbles, put um in dis little cloth bag, en whenever you want the ax ter cut, shake um up.’

“Simon, he went off in de woods, en started in ter clearin’ up de six acres. Well, sir, dem pebbles en dat ax, dey done de work—dey did dat. Simon could ’a’ bin done by de time de dinner-horn blowed, but he hung back kaze he ain’t want de man fer ter know dat he doin’ it by cunjerments.

“W’en he shuck de pebbles de ax ’ud cut, en de trees ’ud fall, en de lim’s ’ud drap off, en de logs ’ud roll up terge’er, en de bresh ’ud pile itself up. Hit went on dis away twel by de time it wuz two hours b’ sun, de whole six acres wuz done cleaned up.

“’Bout dat time de man come ’roun’, he did, fer ter see how de work gittin’ on, en, mon! he wuz ’stonish’. He ain’t know w’at ter do er say. He ain’t want ter give up his daughter, en yit he ain’t know how ter git out ’n it. He walk ’roun’ en ’roun’, en study, en study, en study how he gwine rue de bargain. At las’ he walk up ter Simon, he did, en he say:

“‘Look like you sort er forehanded wid your work.’

“Simon, he ’low: ‘Yasser, w’en I starts in on a job I’m mighty restless twel I gits it done. Some er dis timber is rough en tough, but I bin had wuss jobs dan dis in my time.’

“De man say ter hisse’f: ‘W’at kind er folks is dis chap?’

Den he say out loud: ‘Well, sence you er so spry, dey’s two mo’ acres ’cross de branch dar. Ef you’ll clear dem up ’fo’ supper you kin come up ter de house en git de gal.’

“Simon sorter scratch his head, kaze he dunner whedder de pebbles gwine ter hol’ out, yit he put on a bol’ front en he tell de man dat he’ll go ’cross dar en clean up de two acres soon ez he res’ a little.

“De man he went off home, en soon’s he git out er sight, Simon went ’cross de branch en shook de pebbles at de two acres er woods, en ’t want no time skacely ’fo’ de trees wuz all cut down en pile up.

“De man, he went home, he did, en call up Susanna, en say:

“‘Daughter, dat man look like he gwine git you, sho’.’

“Susanna, she hang ’er head, en look like she fretted, en den she say she don’t keer nuthin’ fer Simon, nohow.”

“Why, I thought she wanted to marry him,” said the little boy.

“Well, honey, w’en you git growed up, en git whiskers on yo’ chin, en den atter de whiskers git gray like mine, you’ll fin’ out sump’n ’n’er ’bout de wimmin folks. Dey ain’t ne’er say ’zackly w’at dey mean, none er um, mo’ ’speshually w’en dey er gwine on ’bout gittin’ married.

“Now, dar wuz dat gal Susanna what I’m a-tellin’ you ’bout. She mighty nigh ’stracted ’bout Simon, en yit she make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ’spize ’im. I ain’t blamin’ Susanna,” Uncle Remus went on with a judicial air, “kase she know dat ’er daddy wuz a witch en a mighty mean one in de bargain.

“Well, atter Susanna done make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ain’t keerin’ nothin’ ’t all ’bout Simon, he ’gun ter set his traps en fix his tricks. He up ’n tell Susanna dat atter ’er en Simon git married dey mus’ go upsta’rs in de front room, en den he tell ’er dat she mus’ make Simon go ter bed fus’. Den de man went upsta’rs en tuck ’n tuck all de slats out’n de bedstid ceppin one at de head en one at de foot. Atter dat he tuck ’n put some foot-valances ’roun’ de bottom er de bed—des like dem w’at you bin see on yo’ gran’ma bed. Den he tuck ’n sawed out de floor und’ de bed, en dar wuz de trap all ready.

“Well, sir, Simon come up ter de house, en de man make like he mighty glad fer ter see ’im, but Susanna, she look like she mighty shy. No matter ’bout dat; atter supper Simon en Susanna got married. Hit ain’t in de tale wedder dey sont fer a preacher er wedder dey wuz a squire browsin’ ’roun’ in de neighborhoods, but dey had cake wid reezins in it, en some er dish yer silly-bug w’at got mo’ foam in it dan dey is dram, en dey had a mighty happy time.

Simon shakes the pebbles

“W’en bedtime come, Simon en Susanna went upsta’rs, en w’en dey got in de room, Susanna kotch ’im by de han’, en helt up her finger. Den she whisper en tell ’im dat ef dey don’t run away fum dar dey bofe gwine ter be kilt. Simon ax ’er how come, en she say dat ’er daddy want ter kill ’im kase he sech a nice man. Dis make Simon grin; yit he wuz sorter restless ’bout gittin’ ’way fum dar. But Susanna, she say wait. She say:

“‘Pick up yo’ hat en button up yo’ coat. Now, den, take dat stick er wood dar en hol’ it ’bove yo’ head.’

“W’iles he stan’in’ dar, Susanna got a hen egg out’n a basket, den she got a meal-bag, en a skillet. She ’low:

“‘Now, den, drap de wood on de bed.’

“Simon done des like she say, en time de wood struck de bed de tick en de mattruss went a-tumblin’ thoo de floor. Den Susanna tuck Simon by de han’ en dey run out de back way ez hard ez dey kin go.

“De man, he wuz down dar waitin’ fer de bed ter drap. He had a big long knife in he han’, en time de bed drapped, he lit on it, he did, en stobbed it scan’lous. He des natchully ripped de tick up, en w’en he look, bless gracious, dey ain’t no Simon dar. I lay dat man wuz mad den. He snorted ’roun’ dar twel blue smoke come out’n his nose, en his eye look red like varmint eye in de dark. Den he run upsta’rs en dey ain’t no Simon dar, en nudder wuz dey any Susanna.

“Gentermens! den he git madder. He rush out, he did, en look ’roun’, en ’way off yander he see Simon en Susanna des a-runnin’, en a-holdin’ one nudder’s han’.”

“Why, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “I thought you said it was night?”

“Dat w’at I said, honey, en I’ll stan’ by it. Yit, how many times dis blessed night is I got ter tell you dat de man wuz a witch? En bein’ a witch, co’se he kin see in de dark.

“Well, dish yer witch-man, he look off en he see Simon en Susanna runnin’ ez hard ez dey kin. He put out atter um, he did, wid his knife in his han’, an’ he kep’ on a gainin’ on um. Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Fling down yo’ coat.’

“Time de coat tech de groun’, a big thick woods sprung up whar it fell. But de man, he cut his way thoo it wid de knife, en kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de egg on de groun’, en time it fell a big fog riz up fum de groun’, en a little mo’ en de man would a got los’. But atter so long a time fog got blowed away by de win’, en de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de meal-sack, en a great big pon’ er water kivered de groun’ whar it fell. De man wuz in sech a big hurry dat he tried ter drink it dry, but he ain’t kin do dis, so he sot on de bank en blow’d on de water wid he hot breff, en atter so long a time de water made hits disappearance, en den he kep’ on atter um.

“Simon en Susanna wuz des a-runnin’, but run ez dey would, de man kep’ a-gainin’ on um, en he got so close dat Susanna drapped de skillet. Den a big bank er darkness fell down, en de man ain’t know which away ter go. But atter so long a time de darkness lif’ up, en de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um. Mon, he made up fer los’ time, en he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap a pebble.’

“Time Simon do dis a high hill riz up, but de man clum it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap nudder pebble.’

“Time Simon drap de pebble, a high mountain growed up, but de man crawled up it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say:

“‘Drap de bigges’ pebble.’

“No sooner is he drap it dan a big rock wall riz up, en hit wuz so high dat de witch-man can’t git over. He run up en down, but he can’t find no end, en den, atter so long a time, he turn ’roun’ en go home.

“On de yuther side er dis high wall, Susanna tuck Simon by de han’, en say:

“‘Now we kin res’.’

“En I reckon,” said the old man slyly, “dat we all better res’.”

THE CROW-CHILD
By MARY MAPES DODGE

Midway between a certain blue lake and a deep forest there once stood a cottage, called by its owner “The Rookery.”

The forest shut out the sunlight and scowled upon the ground, breaking with shadows every ray that fell, until only a few little pieces lay scattered about. But the broad lake invited all the rays to come and rest upon her, so that sometimes she shone from shore to shore, and the sun winked and blinked above her, as though dazzled by his own reflection. The cottage, which was very small, had sunny windows and dark windows. Only from the roof could you see the mountains beyond, where the light crept up in the morning and down in the evening, turning all the brooks into living silver as it passed.

But something brighter than sunshine used often to look from the cottage into the forest, and something even more gloomy than shadows often glowered from its windows upon the sunny lake. One was the face of little Ruky Lynn; and the other was his sister’s when she felt angry or ill-tempered.

They were orphans, Cora and Ruky, living alone in the cottage with an old uncle. Cora—or “Cor,” as Ruky called her—was nearly sixteen years old, but her brother had seen the forest turn yellow only four times. She was, therefore, almost mother and sister in one. The little fellow was her companion night and day. Together they ate and slept, and—when Cora was not at work in the cottage—together they rambled in the wood, or floated in their little skiff upon the lake.

Ruky had bright, dark eyes, and the glossy blackness of his hair made his cheeks look even rosier than they were. He had funny ways for a boy, Cora thought. The quick, bird-like jerks of his raven-black head, his stately baby gait, and his habit of pecking at his food, as she called it, often made his sister laugh. Young as he was, the little fellow had learned to mount to the top of a low-branching tree near the cottage, though he could not always get down alone. Sometimes when, perched in the thick foliage, he would scream, “Cor! Cor! Come, help me down!” his sister would answer, as she ran out laughing, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming.”

Perhaps it was because he reminded her of a crow that Cora called him her little bird. This was when she was good-natured and willing to let him see how much she loved him. But in her cloudy moments, as the uncle called them, Cora was another girl. Everything seemed ugly to her, or out of tune. Even Ruky was a trial; and, instead of giving him a kind word, she would scold and grumble until he would steal from the cottage door, and, jumping lightly from the door-step, seek the shelter of his tree. Once safely perched among its branches he knew she would finish her work, forget her ill-humor, and be quite ready, when he cried “Cor! Cor!” to come from the cottage with a cheery, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

No one could help loving Ruky, with his quick, affectionate ways; and it seemed that Ruky, in turn, could not help loving every person and thing around him. He loved his silent old uncle, the bright lake, the cool forest, and even his little china cup with red berries painted upon it. But more than all, Ruky loved his golden-haired sister, and the great dog, who would plunge into the lake at the mere pointing of his chubby little finger. In fact, that finger and the commanding baby voice were “law” to Nep at any time.

Nep and Ruky often talked together, and though one used barks and the other words, there was a perfect understanding between them. Woe to the straggler that dared to rouse Nep’s wrath, and woe to the bird or rabbit that ventured too near!—those great teeth snapped at their prey without even the warning of a growl. But Ruky could safely pull Nep’s ears or his tail, or climb his great shaggy back, or even snatch away the untasted bone. Still, as I said before, every one loved the child; so, of course, Nep was no exception.

One day Ruky’s “Cor! Cor!” had sounded oftener than usual. His rosy face had bent saucily to kiss Cora’s upturned forehead, as she raised her arms to lift him from the tree; but the sparkle in his dark eyes had seemed to kindle so much mischief in him that his sister’s patience became fairly exhausted.

“Has Cor nothing to do but to wait upon you?” she cried, “and nothing to listen to but your noise and your racket? You shall go to bed early to-day, and then I shall have some peace.”

“No, no, Cor. Please let Ruky wait till the stars come. Ruky wants to see the stars.”

“Hush! Ruky is bad. He shall have a whipping when Uncle comes back from town.”

Nep growled.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ruky, jerking his head saucily from side to side; “Nep says ‘No!’”

Nep was shut out of the cottage for his pains, and poor Ruky was undressed, with many a hasty jerk and pull.

“You hurt, Cor!” he said, plaintively. “I’m going to take off my shoes my own self.”

“No, you’re not,” cried Cora, almost shaking him; and when he cried she called him naughty, and said if he did not stop he should have no supper. This made him cry all the more, and Cora, feeling in her angry mood that he deserved severe punishment, threw away his supper and put him to bed. Then all that could be heard were Ruky’s low sobs and the snappish clicks of Cora’s needles, as she sat knitting, with her back to him.

He could not sleep, for his eyelids were scalded with tears, and his plaintive “Cor! Cor!” had reached his sister’s ears in vain. She never once looked up from those gleaming knitting-needles, nor even gave him his good-night kiss.

It grew late. The uncle did not return. At last Cora, sulky and weary, locked the cottage door, blew out her candle, and lay down beside her brother.

The poor little fellow tried to win a forgiving word, but she was too ill-natured to grant it. In vain he whispered, “Cor, Cor!” He even touched her hand over and over again with his lips, hoping she would turn toward him, and, with a loving kiss, murmur, as usual, “Good night, little bird.”

Instead of this, she jerked her arm angrily away, saying:

“Oh, stop your pecking and go to sleep! I wish you were a crow in earnest, and then I’d have some peace.”

After this, Ruky was silent. His heart drooped within him as he wondered what this “peace” was that his sister wished for so often, and why he must go away before it could come to her.

Soon, Cora, who had rejoiced in the sudden calm, heard a strange fluttering. In an instant she saw by the starlight a dark object circle once or twice in the air above her, then dart suddenly through the open window.

Astonished that Ruky had not shouted with delight at the strange visitor, or else clung to her neck in fear, she turned to see if he had fallen asleep.

No wonder that she started up, horror-stricken,—Ruky was not there!

His empty place was still warm; perhaps he had slid softly from the bed. With trembling haste she lighted the candle, and peered into every corner. The boy was not to be found!

Then those fearful words rang in her ears:

“I wish you were a crow in earnest!”

Cora rushed to the door, and, with straining gaze, looked out into the still night.

“Ruky! Ruky!” she screamed.

There was a slight stir in the low-growing tree.

“Ruky, darling, come back!”

“Caw, caw!” answered a harsh voice from the tree. Something black seemed to spin out of it, and then, in great sweeping circles, sailed upward, until finally it settled upon one of the loftiest trees in the forest.

“Caw, caw!” it screamed, fiercely.

The girl shuddered, but, with outstretched arms, cried out:

“Oh, Ruky, if it is you, come back to poor Cor!”

“Caw, caw!” mocked hundreds of voices, as a shadow like a thunder-cloud rose in the air. It was an immense flock of crows. She could distinguish them plainly in the starlight, circling higher and higher, then lower and lower, until, with their harsh “Caw, caw!” they sailed far off into the night.

“Oh, Ruky, answer me!” she cried.

Nep growled, the forest trees whispered softly together, and the lake, twinkling with stars, sang a lullaby as it lifted its weary little waves upon the shore: there was no other sound.

It seemed that daylight never would come; but at last the trees turned slowly from black to green, and the lake put out its stars, one by one, and waited for the new day.

Cora, who had been wandering restlessly in every direction, now went weeping into the cottage. “Poor boy!” she sobbed; “he had no supper.” Then she scattered breadcrumbs near the doorway, hoping that Ruky would come for them; but only a few timid little songsters hovered about, and, while Cora wept, picked up the food daintily, as though it burned their bills. When she reached forth her hand, though there were no crows among them, and called “Ruky! Ruky!” they scattered and flew away in an instant.

Next she went to the steep-roofed barn, and, bringing out an apronful of grain, scattered it all around his favorite tree. Before long, to her great joy, a flock of crows came by. They spied the grain, and soon were busily picking it up with their short, feathered bills. One even came near the mound where she sat. Unable to restrain herself longer, she fell upon her knees with an imploring cry:

“Oh, Ruky! is this you?”

Instantly the entire flock set up an angry “caw,” and, surrounding the crow, who was hopping closer and closer to Cora, hurried him off, until they all looked like mere specks against the summer sky.

Every day, rain or shine, she scattered the grain, trembling with dread lest Nep should leap among the hungry crows, and perhaps kill her “little bird” first. But Nep knew better; he never stirred when the noisy crowd settled around the cottage, excepting once, when one of them pounced upon his back. Then he started up, wagging his tail, and barking with uproarious delight. The crow flew off in a flutter, and did not venture near him again.

Poor Cora felt sure that this could be no other than Ruky. Oh, if she only could have caught him then! Perhaps with kisses and prayers she might have won him back to Ruky’s shape; but now the chance was lost.

There was no one to help her; for the nearest neighbor dwelt miles away, and her uncle had not yet returned.

After a-while she remembered the little cup, and, filling it with grain, stood it upon a grassy mound. When the crows came, they fought and struggled for its contents with many an angry cry. One of them made no effort to seize the grain. He was content to peck at the berries painted upon its sides, as he hopped joyfully around it again and again. Nep lay very quiet. Only the tip of his tail twitched with an eager, wistful motion. But Cora sprang joyfully toward the bird.

“It is Ruky!” she cried, striving to catch it.

Alas! the cup lay shattered beneath her hand, as, with a taunting “caw, caw,” the crow joined its fellows and flew away.

Next, gunners came. They were looking for other birds; but they hated the crows, Cora knew, and she trembled for Ruky. She heard the sharp crack of fowling-pieces in the forest, and shuddered whenever Nep, pricking up his ears, darted with an angry howl in the direction of the sound. She knew, too, that her uncle had set traps for the crows, and it seemed to her that the whole world was against the poor birds, plotting their destruction.

Time flew by. The leaves seemed to flash into bright colors and fall off almost in a day. Frost and snow came. Still the uncle had not returned, or, if he had, she did not know it. Her brain was bewildered. She knew not whether she ate or slept. Only the terrible firing reached her ears, or that living black cloud came and went with its ceaseless “caw.”

At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora felt that she must go forth and seek her poor bird.

“Perhaps he is freezing—dying!” she cried, springing frantically from the bed, and casting her long cloak over her night-dress.

In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the snow. It was so deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet was driving into her face; still she kept on, though her numbed feet seemed hardly to belong to her. All the way she was praying in her heart; promising never, never to be passionate again, if she only could find her bird—not Ruky the boy, but whatever he might be. She was willing to accept her punishment. Soon a faint cry reached her ear. With eager haste, she peered into every fold of the drifted snow. A black object caught her eye. It was a poor storm-beaten crow, lying there benumbed and stiff.

For Ruky’s sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and plodded back to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on its glossy wing as she entered, but the poor thing did not stir. Softly stroking and warming it, she wrapped the frozen bird in soft flannel and blew into its open mouth. Soon, to her great relief, it revived, and even swallowed a few grains of wheat.

Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still folding the bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I ask,” she sobbed. “I dare not ask for more.”

Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed to grow larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers pressing lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft and warm wound itself tenderly about her neck, and she heard a sweet voice saying:

“Don’t cry, Cor,—I’ll be good.”

She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The starlight shone into the room. Lighting her candle, she looked at the clock.

It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel words! Sobbing, she asked:

“Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear?”

“I don’t know, Cor. Do people cry when they’re asleep?”

“Sometimes, Ruky,” clasping him very close.

“Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don’t let Uncle whip Ruky.”

“No, no, my little bird—I mean, my brother. Good night, darling!”

“Good night.”

THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL[^[2]]
By LAFCADIO HEARN

She hath spoken, and her words still resound in his ears.

Hao-Khieou-Tchouan: c. ix.

[2]. From Some Chinese Ghosts. Copyright, 1887, by Little, Brown & Company.

The water-clock marks the hour in the Ta-chung sz’,—in the Tower of the Great Bell: now the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster,—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from the sacred Fa-hwa-King, from the chapters of the holy Ling-yen-King! Hear the great bell responding!—how mighty her voice, though tongueless!—KO-NGAI! All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas quiver with desire to speak. KO-NGAI!—all the green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them are writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers through the blue fog of incense! KO-NGAI!—What a thunder tone was that! All the lacquered goblins on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-colored tongues! And after each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden moan and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver,—as though a woman should whisper, “Hiai!” Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh five hundred years,—Ko-Ngai: first with stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with silver murmuring of “Hiai!” And there is not a child in all the many-colored ways of the old Chinese city who does not know the story of the great bell,—who cannot tell you why the great bell says Ko-Ngai and Hiai!

Now, this is the story of the great bell in the Ta-chung sz’, as the same is related in the Pe-Hiao-Tou-Choue, written by the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.

Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the “Illustrious,” or Ming dynasty, commanded the worthy official, Kouan-Yu, that he should have a bell made of such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained that the voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver; and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books, and that it should be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital, to sound through all the many-colored ways of the City of Pe-king.

Therefore the worthy mandarin, Kouan-Yu, assembled the master-moulders and the renowned bellsmiths of the empire, and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the instruments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they labored exceedingly, like giants,—neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.

But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their great labor and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for the metals had rebelled one against the other,—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely repeated. The Son of Heaven heard, and was angry, but spake nothing.

A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse. Still the metals obstinately refused to blend one with the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder; so that all the labor had to be repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon lemon-colored silk, and sealed with the seal of the Dragon, containing these words:—

... “From the Mighty Yong-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the Celestial and August,—whose reign is called ‘Ming,’—to Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have deigned graciously to place in thee; if thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy neck. Tremble, and obey!”

Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness, whose name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in the mouths of poets, and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by her absence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she fainted away with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her jewels, and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac,—the Hwang-tao, or Yellow Road,—and consulted the table of the Five Hin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long silence, he made answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be mixed with the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart; but she kept secret all that she had heard, and told no one what she had done.

At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took their places upon a platform over-looking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was transmuted into a radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.

But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head; and all heard the voice of Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires,—“For thy sake, O my Father!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-colored fires, and subsided quakingly, with lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.

Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her, but that strong men held him back and kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away and they could bear him like one dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and flowers,—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand; and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.

But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and August had to be obeyed, and the work of the moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon, and perfect in form, and wonderful in color above all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the silver and iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower and mightier than the tones of any other bell,—reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred li, like a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name,—the name of Ko-Ngai!

And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning heard; and ever the moaning ends with a sound of sobbing and complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “Hiai!” And still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep silence; but when the sharp, sweet shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of “Hiai!” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all the many-colored ways of Pe-king whisper to their little ones: “Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her shoe! That is Ko-Ngai calling for her shoe!”

THE TEN TRAILS
By ERNEST THOMPSON SETON

Once there were two Indians who went out together to hunt. Hapeda was very strong and swift and a wonderful bowman. Chatun was much weaker and carried a weaker bow; but he was very patient.

As they went through the hills they came on the fresh track of a small Deer. Chatun said: “My brother, I shall follow that.”

But Hapeda said: “You may if you like, but a mighty hunter like me wants bigger game.”

So they parted.

Hapeda went on for an hour or more and found the track of ten large Elk going different ways. He took the trail of the largest and followed for a long way, but not coming up with it, he said: “That one is evidently traveling. I should have taken one of the others.”

So he went back to the place where he first found it, and took up the trail of another. After a hunt of over an hour in which he failed to get a shot, he said: “I have followed another traveler. I’ll go back and take up the trail of one that is feeding.”

But again, after a short pursuit, he gave up that one to go back and try another that seemed more promising. Thus he spent a whole day trying each of the trails for a short time, and at night came back to camp with nothing, to find that Chatun, though his inferior in all other ways, had proved wiser. He had stuck doggedly to the trail of the one little Deer, and now had its carcass safely in camp.

Moral: The Prize is always at the end of the trail.

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO[^[3]]
By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI

[3]. Reprinted from the Everyman Edition of Tolstoi’s Tales and Parables, by special permission of the publishers. Copyright by E. P. Dutton & Company.

In a certain town there lived a shoemaker named Martin Avdeitch. He lived in a basement room which possessed but one window. This window looked onto the street, and through it a glimpse could be caught of the passers-by. It is true that only their legs could be seen, but that did not matter, as Martin could recognize people by their boots alone. He had lived here for a long time, and so had many acquaintances. There were very few pairs of boots in the neighbourhood which had not passed through his hands at least once, if not twice. Some he had resoled, others he had fitted with side-pieces, others, again, he had resewn where they were split, or provided with new toe-caps. Yes, he often saw his handiwork through that window. He was given plenty of custom, for his work lasted well, his materials were good, his prices moderate, and his word to be depended on. If he could do a job by a given time it should be done; but if not, he would warn you beforehand rather than disappoint you. Everyone knew Avdeitch, and no one ever transferred his custom from him. He had always been an upright man, but with the approach of old age he had begun more than ever to think of his soul, and to draw nearer to God.

His wife had died while he was still an apprentice, leaving behind her a little boy of three. This was their only child, indeed, for the two elder ones had died previously. At first Martin thought of placing the little fellow with a sister of his in the country, but changed his mind, thinking: “My Kapitoshka would not like to grow up in a strange family, so I will keep him by me.” Then Avdeitch finished his apprenticeship, and went to live in lodgings with his little boy. But God had not seen fit to give Avdeitch happiness in his children. The little boy was just growing up and beginning to help his father and to be a pleasure to him, when he fell ill, was put to bed, and died after a week’s fever.

Martin buried the little fellow and was inconsolable. Indeed, he was so inconsolable that he began to murmur against God. His life seemed so empty that more than once he prayed for death and reproached the Almighty for taking away his only beloved son instead of himself, the old man. At last he ceased altogether to go to church.

Then one day there came to see him an ancient peasant-pilgrim—one who was now in the eighth year of his pilgrimage. To him Avdeitch talked, and then went on to complain of his great sorrow.

“I no longer wish to be a God-fearing man,” he said. “I only wish to die. That is all I ask of God. I am a lonely, hopeless man.”

“You should not speak like that, Martin,” replied the old pilgrim. “It is not for us to judge the acts of God. We must rely, not upon our own understanding, but upon the Divine wisdom. God saw fit that your son should die and that you should live. Therefore it must be better so. If you despair, it is because you have wished to live too much for your own pleasure.”

“For what, then, should I live?” asked Martin.

“For God alone,” replied the old man. “It is He who gave you life, and therefore it is He for whom you should live. When you come to live for Him you will cease to grieve, and your trials will become easy to bear.”

Martin was silent. Then he spoke again.

“But how am I to live for God?” he asked.

“Christ has shown us the way,” answered the old man. “Can you read? If so, buy a Testament and study it. You will learn there how to live for God. Yes, it is all shown you there.”

These words sank into Avdeitch’s soul. He went out the same day, bought a large-print copy of the New Testament, and set himself to read it.

At the beginning Avdeitch had meant only to read on festival days, but when he once began his reading he found it so comforting to the soul that he came never to let a day pass without doing so. On the second occasion he became so engrossed that all the kerosene was burnt away in the lamp before he could tear himself away from the book.

Thus he came to read it every evening, and, the more he read, the more clearly did he understand what God required of him, and in what way he could live for God; so that his heart grew ever lighter and lighter. Once upon a time, whenever he had lain down to sleep, he had been used to moan and sigh as he thought of his little Kapitoshka; but now he only said—“Glory to Thee, O Lord! Glory to Thee! Thy will be done!”

From that time onwards Avdeitch’s life became completely changed. Once he had been used to go out on festival days and drink tea in a tavern, and had not denied himself even an occasional glass of vodka. This he had done in the company of a boon companion, and, although no drunkard, would frequently leave the tavern in an excited state and talk much nonsense as he shouted and disputed with this friend of his. But now he had turned his back on all this, and his life had become quiet and joyous. Early in the morning he would sit down to his work, and labor through his appointed hours. Then he would take the lamp down from a shelf, light it, and sit down to read. And the more he read, the more he understood, and the clearer and happier he grew at heart.

It happened once that Martin had been reading late. He had been reading those verses in the sixth chapter of the Gospel of St. Luke which run:

“And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.”

Then, further on, he had read those verses where the Lord says:

“And why call ye Me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to Me and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will show you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the storm beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.”

Avdeitch read these words, and felt greatly cheered in soul. He took off his spectacles, laid them on the book, leaned his elbows upon the table, and gave himself up to meditation. He set himself to measure his own life by those words, and thought to himself:

“Is my house founded upon a rock or upon sand? It is well if it be upon a rock. Yet it seems so easy to me as I sit here alone. I may so easily come to think that I have done all that the Lord has commanded me, and grow careless and—sin again. Yet I will keep on striving, for it is goodly so to do. Help Thou me, O Lord.”

Thus he kept on meditating, though conscious that it was time for bed; yet he was loathe to tear himself away from the book. He began to read the seventh chapter of St. Luke, and read on about the centurion, the widow’s son, and the answer given to John’s disciples; until in time he came to the passage where the rich Pharisee invited Jesus to his house, and the woman washed the Lord’s feet with her tears and He justified her. So he came to the forty-fourth verse and read:

“And He turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, and thou gavest Me no water for My feet: but she hath washed My feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest Me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss My feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed My feet with ointment.”

He read these verses and thought:

“‘Thou gavest Me no water for My feet’ ... ‘Thou gavest Me no kiss’ ... ‘My head with oil thou didst not anoint’ ...”—and once again he took off his spectacles, laid them on the book, and became lost in meditation.