JANUARY 1899 10 CENTS

DIXIE. A MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE DIXIE BALTIMORE PUBLISHING CO.

Terms: $1.00 a Year in Advance. 10 Cents a Number.

DIXIE

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1899.

CONTENTS.

Copyright, 1899, by Dixie Publishing Company.

DIXIE.

Vol. I. January, 1899. No. 1.

FROST.

In lofty Nepal in the sheer, refined

Air of some frigid Himalayan vale,

Frost-charmed in ancient ice a sorcerer pale

Shrinks stars and frondes to things of faery-kind.

Now in the night when cold has stilled the wind,

When the snow shines like moonlight in the dale,

His crystals clothe the pane with magic mail,

Or build a legend hoar with rime outlined;

The spoils of dreamland dwarfed to atomies:

Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne

With lids of sleep plucked from the moth’s bright eyes,

And forests dense of ferns blanched and forlorn,

Where Oberon of unimagined size

Might in the silver silence wind his horn.

—Duncan Campbell Scott.

DAN RICE’S NEW YEAR FROLIC

by M.G. McClelland.

Among the mountain fastnesses the snow lay fifteen inches deep in the open, a thing without precedent in the memory of the oldest hunter in the Humpback region. The cowled peaks uplifted themselves, wanly, and lay against a hard distance in mysterious, alien solitude.

In the midst rose Humpback, his indented crest losing outline for days together by reason of the snow clouds that coifed it. In the hollows, where many of the mountaineers lived, the snow was much deeper, wind-drifted in swaths, fit to bury a man to the middle. Many of the trails were blocked and, when the wind changed and a slight thaw set in, followed by a freeze, the snow packed and crusted, which made travel bad for people who had never even heard of snow-shoes. The wild creatures suffered most, and whole covies of game birds perished in the drifts from cold or starvation. On the other hand, minks, otters, foxes, and nature’s other carnivorous children fattened apace, slipping about the white frozen world, like demons of the inner circle, and feasting upon the bodies of the dead.

As the cold increased, big game was driven from inaccessible haunts and wandered afield in search of food, even venturing, by night, close to the cabins and fodder-stacks of the people. Deer trails grew plentiful, and the big cushioned track of bear could be seen in many of the hollows.

When the cold first swooped upon them, the people curled up like touched caterpillars, and devoted every energy not frost-bitten to keeping themselves warm. Their cabins were built on hygienic principles, and the very earth beneath them was unaccustomed to the rigor of a hard chill. After a week of it, finding themselves still living, the men began to take interest and a hunting epidemic broke out and spread.

Dan Rice, the owner of good hunting dogs, became the most popular man in the neighborhood and had his vanity so tickled that he decided to give a party, just to show the folks what a fellow he was and what a figure he could make when he set his mind to it. He had a big buck swung up by its heels in his smoke-house, and nearly two flour barrels full of small game, besides the intimate friendship of a distiller of “moonshine,” so that he felt himself in a position to invite his friends to make merry with him and “damn the expense.”

“’Twill thaw we-all up, an’ start the sap runnin’,” he explained to his wife. “Thar’s plenty to do with, so you an’ the gals buckle on an’ don’t have no sparin’ an’ pinchin’. This here shindig have got to make a record.”

Word of the extent and elegance of the preparations went around with the invitations, and also that Mrs. Rice and her daughters would appear in new calicos made specially for the occasion. Immediately every female invited felt life unendurable without similar decoration, and domestic atmosphere grew fevered with discussions of patterns and styles.

Tom Westley’s pretty little near-sighted wife secured the sweetest thing in rosebuds on a dark red ground, and stitched away at it energetically. Her baby was nearly three months old now and her interest in the outside world was returning. The grooves of her life were well defined and narrow, so that any extraneous happening became an event charged with unbalancing excitement.

There was to be a big deer hunt with Rice’s hounds, as a preliminary to the ball, and every able-bodied man about the district expected to take part in it. Westley proposed to his wife to go over to the Rice’s early in the day and let him join her there after the hunt, but got flouted. Mrs. Rice would be run off her legs with the preparations, her considerate little neighbor declared, and would be justified in regarding premature arrivals with disgust. She—Susan Westley—was a housekeeper herself and knew about these things. Besides, her own dress was unfinished, and she had a making of soap in the lye which must be attended to. Then it was arranged that Tom should meet her at a specified fence corner, a quarter of a mile from their house, just before, or on the edge of dark. The way to the fence was through a cleared field and perfectly open. She knew it as well as she did her own door yard.

“Don’t git so fired up huntin’ that you forgit me,” she admonished, as she gave her husband his breakfast on the important morning. “It’s a mile over to Rice’s an’ woods nigh all the way. The moon won’t be up, time I want to start n’other, so I’d be feared. Aim to be at the fence fust, will you?”

“All right,” Tom acquiesced easily. “I’ll be thar sure as shootin’, so thar aint no call to fluster. Don’t keep me waitin’ no longer ’n you can help for it’s tarnation cold loafin’. Wrop the youngster up tight, or he’ll freeze. He ain’t none too fleshy.”

He had the child on his knee and was feeding it with scraps of his own breakfast, calmly confident that as the boy is father to the man that which is good for him at one point of his development must be beneficial all along the line. The baby was chipper and healthy, but exceedingly small, a fact used to shame his parents by the possessors of more stalwart off-spring.

Breakfast despatched, Westley handed the child to his wife, and invested himself with a shaggy overcoat and coon-skin cap, made with ear-tabs and a droll peak in front which stuck out keenly.

“You want to keep out ’n the bushes,” laughed his wife, as she opened the door for him, “or somebody ’ll be shootin’ you for a b’ar. That thar peak an’ your nose, comin’ together, makes a mighty good snout an’ all the balance looks shaggy. Folks can’t hardly tell no dif’ence, fust look.”

Westley tweaked his cap further forward. “Ev’rybody aint short-ranged like you,” he responded. “Thar’s a chance o’ ’em down out’n the mountains folks say but I aint seed none. Wish I could. ’Twould be somethin’ to brag about to kill a bustin’ big b’ar. Far’well, honey, take keer o’ yo’se’f, an’ don’t keep me loafin’ out yonder ’till ’tother fellows git the fust shot off Dan’s vittles.”

Left alone, the little woman worked busily, trying to crowd into the short daylight hours as much as they would hold. Her soap making required more time than she had allowed for so that twilight had deepened to night-fall before she had everything arranged to her mind and herself and the child made ready for the expedition.

The snow clouds had disappeared, leaving a thin, keen atmosphere through which the starlight could penetrate. This, with the snow-shimmer, made a pallid, mysterious lustre, exciting to the imagination, but insufficient for guidance, except in places where the way was open and familiar. The path across the field was a foot under cover, but a big sycamore grew near the trysting place by which it could be identified. The accustomed aspect of the earth had vanished and in its place was illusion and mystery.

Sue Westley hurried forward, hugging the cocoon which contained her baby close to her breast. She crossed the field hap-hazard, straining her near-sighted eyes for a glimpse of the sycamore, which was her objective point. Ice-coated weeds uplifted themselves above the snow crust on every side, and, when her skirts brushed against them, the ice broke and fell off with a faint metallic tinkle. The crunching of the snow under foot made her nervous, giving her the feeling of being followed, and involuntarily she began to work herself into a panic of fear that Tom would not meet her.

Her relief was proportionately great when, nearing the fence, she dimly discerned something tall and bulky leaning against it. She quickened her pace and became explanatory.

“I’m awful sorry I ke’p you waitin’, Tom, but I couldn’t git through no quicker,” she said eagerly. “That thar soap done meaner ’en any truck ever biled. Look, to me, like jedgment day’d git here afore it thimbled. That threw me late milkin’ an’ feedin’, an’ thar was baby to dress an’ me too. You’re nigh frozen I reckon, but we-all can walk rapid the balance o’ the way. Here, take the baby whilst I unhook my dress. It’s caught on a scrop o’ bresh.”

Scarcely noticing, she rested the child on the top-rail, steadying it there with one hand, while she bent down and freed her skirt. The figure beside the fence made no answer, but reached forward and drew the bundle from under her hand.

Sue turned to the next panel, which was unincumbered by brush, and climbed it with the agility of a monkey. Tom had remembered, and been before her at the tryst. A warm glow of satisfaction was generated in her heart and sent her spirits up to mischief heat. She sped forward, with a laugh, and then turned and began jumping backwards, chattering like a black bird. Tom must carry the baby awhile, she declared, her arms were tired, and besides she wanted to frolic. Then she swooped sideways and tried to grab up a handful of snow, but the hard crust defied her. No matter; snow balling Tom might be fun, but there was the danger of hitting the baby. She steadied herself and called out to him to hurry up and join her. She wanted to hear about the hunt.

In the pause in her own volubility, made for reply, she suddenly became conscious of an absolute silence, as of a vast void wherein nothing moved, or breathed, except herself. She shivered, and her spirits began to fall as rapidly as they had risen. Two explanations of this singular silence, both equally obnoxious, swept into her mind. Tom was trying to play a foolish practical joke; or else he had been drinking too much and leaned on the fence drowsing and unable to move.

She started back at a keen run when the sound of a man’s whistle cleft the stillness, arresting her steps and causing her to face about uncertainly. Tom was crunching over the snow towards her, swinging a lighted lantern and trilling like a mocking-bird.

Whatever shame he may have felt for his tardiness was effectually routed by his wife’s wild demand for her child, and the sight of her excitement when he, in his turn, inquired “what in thunder she meant?”

She threw up her hands with a cry that cut through him.

“You were thar!” she wailed. “Thar by the fence, just now, waitin’ for me. I seed you. An’ you took the baby whilst I turned myse’f loose from the bresh. Whar is he? If you’ve hid him in the snow he’ll catch his death. Quit foolin’, Tom, an’ git him for me! I’m skeered all to pieces anyhow, an’ can’t stan’ no such as that. Git him for me!”

Bewildered to the verge of idiocy, Tom protested his innocence. He had not seen the child since he left home that morning, and had no thought of joking. He had only just gotten there. Luck had been good, which made him late. Then he drew from her as connected an account of the occurrence as her excitement would allow, and suggested that, owing to the imperfect light and her own defective vision, she might have mistaken a brush heap against the fence for a man and laid the baby in it. They went back at once, Tom talking volubly to conceal unreasoning anxiety, and Sue frankly terrified and moaning just above her breath.

At the place where Sue had crossed, the snow-crust was shattered in a large circle; they scarcely looked at it, one swing of the lantern, low to the ground, being sufficient to identify the spot. Midway of the adjoining panel the crust was broken also, but less heavily, and Tom went on his knees and examined the marks with the experienced eye of a hunter. There were faint but plainly perceptible scratches on the snow, as though claws had scraped downward as the crust sagged under weight. Tom examined the fence, holding the lantern close and scanning the rails intently. On several he found hairs, caught under splinters, and collected them until he had quite a number between his forefinger and thumb. They were something over an inch long, brown in color, and very fine and glossy—the hairs of an animal. He laid them together in his palm, and held the light so that his wife could see and realize the significance of the discovery. No sound escaped either; they simply stared at each other, the face of the father stiffening like stone, while that of the mother blanched to the pallor of snow with the draining of blood from her heart.

The horrible truth seemed everywhere, in the earth, in the air, and to shout itself through the spaces of the infinite.

Mistaking it for her husband, the woman had unwittingly given her baby to a bear.

The man was the first to recover himself. His hunting experiences had trained him to be prompt in emergency and ready in resource at all times, but now, under this emotional stress, his brain worked with astonishing quickness. Much time had already been wasted, and every second was precious. The bear might still be at hand, in one of the adjacent hollows. His lair was probably up among the heights, but he might stop somewhere. Tom’s mind shied away from thought of that which might cause delay, and harnessed itself to action. He must follow the trail on the instant, going swiftly, with crest lowered and light to the ground. He was unarmed except for a hunting knife in his belt, but, in his then mood would not have hesitated to attack a grizzly with naked hands.

The first step of course was to rid himself of his wife. She stood as one dazed, her eyes fixed upon him, but unseeingly. She seemed to be taking no notice, but he knew well enough that if he should move she would follow him. What he wanted was to prevent her from seeing, unprepared, that which he might find: to get her away to some sheltered place where there were other women. Knowing instinctively the value of domination to one in her condition he laid his hand on her shoulder and ordered her as if she were a child.

“Listen, Sue,” he said peremptorily; “I’ve got to have help, an’ have it damned quick. You must run like a wild turkey over to Rice’s an’ rouse up men an’ dogs an’ start ’em arter me. They kin ketch up my trail from here. I’ve got to shove on at once. It’s the boy’s best chance.”

Hope and life sprang like a flame to Sue’s face. “Air thar any chance?” she demanded.

“Yes, if you’ll help me,” Tom answered, feeling drearily confident that he was lying, but keeping on all the same. “B’ars have been knowed to play with babies, like cubs, an’ never hurt a ha’r o’ ’em. Now, travel like lightenin’!”

Sue pressed herself close to him and held his lips with a brief kiss. “If the child’s dead ye must kill me,” she muttered, and, before he could answer, fled away from him through the night.

How she got over to Rice’s Sue Westley could never describe. In her mind was a confused jumble of forest and hillside which seemed to cut her off from everywhere, and of a sinuous trail to which she held by instinct, catching her garments on the bushes as she ran, stumbling, falling, cutting her hands and bruising her body against broken ice and unexpected up-juttings of granite. Her sun-bonnet caught on a low-hanging bough and was jerked from her head, but she sped on unheeding; her abundant blond hair shook from its coil and lay along her back like a half-twisted rope. At last she won free of the woods and tumbled, rather than climbed, over the rail fence surrounding Rice’s clearing, and raced in among the revellers with her face white as chalk and her breath coming and going in gasps.

They could make nothing of her story, at first, until Rice, a man gifted with common sense, got her into a chair and made her swallow half a tumbler of hot whiskey toddy. As the liquor got in its work her nerves steadied and she was able to make them understand the situation and the necessity there was for haste. Comment and question circulated like lightning and excitement rose to fever heat. Bears, hunger-driven from the heights, were known to be rambling about, so that the situation held grim possibilities. It seemed probable that this very animal had had the Westley pig-pen for his objective point and that he had just up-reared himself to climb the fence when the woman appeared and thrust her baby under his nose. All thought of jollification vanished like mist and every able-bodied man in the crowd grabbed for his gun and whooped up the hounds.

Tom, meanwhile, followed the dents in the snow-crust, thankful for his own forethought in providing himself with a lantern. The moon would be up after a little, but in the urgent present the necessity for light was overwhelming. The trail led him through a jungly hollow and across a long ridge into another hollow. Here some clearing for firewood had been made and the trees were scattered at long intervals, with stumps and brush heaps between, transformed by a mantling of snow into strange similitudes.

As he entered the place, Tom was conscious of a soft increase of light and glancing backward beheld a three-quarter moon disengaging herself from the tree-tops. In a few moments she had won clear and was sailing upward into unobstructed space, from whence she cast earthward rays which were refracted from millions of snow crystals.

Tom held to the trail like a blood-hound, but near the centre of the clearing he was brought up all standing by the most singular spectacle his eyes ever beheld. Not fifty yards ahead was the bear, erect upon his hind legs and gyrating slowly in a circle as though keeping time to imaginary music. As Tom looked, the beast bent downward and cautiously executed a somersault, grunting with joy in his own performance. Then he moved backward in a straight line, as though to give himself headway, and suddenly bounced toward the pivotal point of the circle, like a trap-ball, landing close beside a small dark object plainly discernible upon the snow. This he caught in his paws and rolled about softly, playing with it as a cat plays with a kitten.

The wind, so far, had been in Tom’s favor, but, as the animal frolicked, he veered about a bit and caught it full-tainted from the hunter’s direction. He threw up his head uneasily and drew the scent into his nostrils. Tom dashed forward at once, conscious that the smallest delay would enable the bear to grab the baby and make off with it. He whipped out his knife as he leapt and howled like a Comanche, hoping to strike terror to the ursine soul. When he got to close quarters he dealt the beast a crashing blow over the muzzle with his lantern, and, in the momentary advantage so gained, contrived, with a strong shove of his foot to send the baby skating along the snow-crust to a considerable distance.

Then the enraged animal rose on his hind legs and gripped him.

Tom lunged with his knife, but failed to strike a vital part and before he could draw out and strike a second time, the bear had a good body grip and was squeezing. Fortunately for Tom the bear was only medium sized, while he, himself, was a big man and a fine wrestler. The breath was being hugged out of him, but his right arm was free so that he was able to match science against brute strength. Thrusting his forearm under his adversary’s chin nearly to the elbow he made a lever of his own body and forced the head up and backward until, to save his neck from dislocation, the bear was compelled to loosen his grip and threw himself on his back, with Tom uppermost. In the fall, Tom freed his other arm and got hold of the hilt of his knife, which he began to saw about in the wound furiously.

How the battle would have ended, had the combatants been left to themselves, is an open question. It was still undecided when the baying of hounds came over the ridge and Dan Rice’s pack swept into the hollow in full cry and threw themselves, en masse, upon the quarry.

After them came the hunters, traveling impetuously and in bunches. They found Tom sitting on the bear’s carcass, with a small bundle hugged to his breast and all the dogs squatting on their haunches about him in a sympathetic semi-circle.

They bore home the bear and the baby in triumph and Sue Westley had to stand some rough joking anent her mistake, which she minded no more than the whistling of the wind. Why should she? Was not the baby alive and crowing in her arms, and Tom the hero of the hour because of his prowess? The fiddlers tuned up their instruments and the women set about restoring to toothsomeness the belated supper, so that, despite the interruption, the frolic came off hilariously and fulfilled Dan’s ambition by making a record.

Two things alone blunted the edge of Tom’s satisfaction. One was that a small iron ring was discovered in the bear’s muzzle, showing that at one portion of his career it must have been accustomed to human dominance. This probably accounted for its gentleness and antics with the baby, but it also took the bloom off of boasting.

The other trouble was the publicity given the affair by the county newspaper, which published the story in detail. This last, Tom regarded narrow-mindedly, and denounced as an outrage.

“Its dog-goned impidence an’ meddlesomeness,” he fumed. “An’ if ’twarn’t for makin’ bad wuss, by givin’ him another tale to yelp over, I’d b’ar-bait that thar outdacious varmint in his own hollow. What sort o’ trick is it to play on a fellow, to set all the state o’ Virginny grinning like a ’possum at him bekase his own wife didn’t have enough gumption to know him from a b’ar?”

At which protest his neighbors howled with derision and unfeelingly reminded him that when certain adventures of theirs had been made public through the same medium he, Tom, had considered the matter vastly amusing.

Drawn by Clinton Peters.

TO ——

Thus I had dreamed in loving thee:

That beauty had not fitter place.

Nor any higher destiny,

Than in the oval of thy face.

That faith thy eager hand had sought

And led thy steps in open ways—

The love-light in thine eyes I thought

A light as honest as the day’s.

And in my dream no other lip

Had pressed thy forehead save mine own,

And thou hadst held in fellowship

No other heart, but mine alone.

How vain a dream in waking lost!

That leaves the dreamer in despair

To reckon up the bitter cost

And face the future if he dare!

Thy love is but a love of things:

A bit of lace, a clasp of gold,

A silken purse with liberal strings—

Thy heart is cast in shallow mold!

When hast thou thought to look within

And teach thine errant heart the way,

With conscience shriven of its sin,

Thine angel’s feet might tread some day?

Hadst thou to love no faith to give?

And knew’st thou not love’s wondrous gift—

The things for which ’twere best to live

To win, to weigh, to sort and sift?

Whatever act of thine did raise

A love-thought thou allow’d’st to die

Will wither in thine own dispraise

With every word that held a lie!

If ever I have caused thee pain,

My love has seen where danger stirr’d—

But thou hast deem’d my care in vain

Tho’ warning struggled in my word.

My hand was holy in thy hand,

My love, as far as love may be,

Was guiltless at my soul’s command—

God keep thy woman’s purity!

Did I in aught so fail thee, dear.

That thou hast turned thy love aside?

If thou would’st swell it with a tear

I’d bend my life to bridge the tide.

But this is weakness—born of pain!

How soon the heart forgets its wrong

And pleads for life and love again

With love as patient and as strong!

No longer will I humbly sue,

Or ask thy languid love to bless—

The years shall yield the good and true

Unknown in thy unworthiness.

—Henry Clayton Hopkins.

THE MAN HE KNEW

[Until he becomes an artistic star of the first magnitude (when he is apt to be as rich and as arrogant as the fabled Indian Rajah,) the world is often exceedingly ungenerous to the struggling young painter, however talented he may be. Even Paris—usually so kind to budding genius—is sometimes guilty of this offense. The following little narrative will prove the truth of my statement.]

Little Barlow was very poor indeed and, what was much more serious, had stretched his limited credit just as far as it would go. He didn’t like to do this at all, but there was no help for it and it grieved him sorely. Therefore he became daily more despairing and sick at heart as one by one his most promising schemes for money making came to naught and the trades-people presented their bills with a machine-like promptness and inevitability.

He possessed only one living relative in America, a millionaire uncle—who was addicted to the pernicious habit of endowing memorial hospitals and colleges in total oblivion of his duty towards his only nephew. Little Barlow had timidly approached this uncle for help the year before—when he was suffering almost as badly from a similarly acute period of ill-chance—and had received three hundred dollars by cable in return, but, when the American mail arrived a week afterward, it brought with it such an unnecessarily brutal letter that he heartily regretted that by paying his creditors nearly all the money he had rendered himself powerless to send it flying back across the ocean, accompanied by the very choicest anathemas in his vocabulary.

The most exasperating feature of the letter was the offensive position his uncle took in regard to his chosen work. He advised him to give it up “as he did not seem to be a great success at it.” Success meaning to him—as it does to so many other business men—solely and uniquely the possession of the special faculty for making money.

“Yet,” said Little Barlow to his patient little wife, “I don’t think I have been a total failure, and won’t admit yet awhile that—even from his point of view—I am not a success.” “No dearest,” she joined in indignantly, “we won’t admit that at all;” and then she added proudly, “we will show him some day that you will be rich as well as famous, and will prove to him that he might have acquired far more lasting honor, at very much less expense, by giving you a few well-paid orders now—and so helping you over some rough places in your career—than he can ever gain with all his vain-glorious memorials put together.”

Little Barlow kissed his thanks on the lips of his loyal little wife and resumed: “I imagine sometimes that the old gentleman means well but doesn’t understand our case. He went into business as a boy, made all his money himself, and considers struggling was good for him and formed his character, so I suppose he honestly thinks that that is the very best training for an artist also. He doesn’t comprehend that we depend for our actual livelihood on the caprice of the public (and are often undeservedly worried thereby) or that we cannot paint directly for money, or that if we do so our work is tolerably certain not to sell. You can add up a column of figures, or measure calico, or weigh out sugar, or sweep a room, or do a lot of other useful things with the idea of remuneration for your pains in view, but you cannot write a great poem, or compose a great piece of music, or paint a great picture—which must be poetic and musical as well—with an eye solely bent on the acquisition of the almighty dollar. I never in all my life painted but one of those horrid affairs that we so suggestively call ‘pot boilers’ and that—heaven help me!—has been knocking around my studio as a lesson ever since. There seems to be something in it that proclaims it a monster to the least intelligent, something mean about it which says money was the sole object of its being born at all.

“On the contrary, if you paint a subject because you find it beautiful, or interesting, or because you love to do it, it is astonishing indeed if you do not find somebody else who would ‘love’ to have it and be glad to pay what he can afford for its possession.”

Little Barlow had followed this theory consistently and had very little left in his studio to sell. He had found that a great many people “loved” his pictures; the only trouble was that the ones who “loved” and wanted them the most had very little to give in exchange for them; and that after the expenses for frames, canvases, paints, rents, taxes, models and commissions had been deducted, there was scarcely anything remaining for the sweet young wife, the two wee children, and little Barlow himself. Still he hoped for better things in the future and worked on, as he had always done, with a great joy in his heart.

Little Barlow had had a hard life of it and had practically “made” himself, but in spite of all the sordid shocks his artistic nature had received in that process it still remained intact and valiant. He had also had his share of successes as well, although they did not exactly come within his uncle’s definition of the word. He had had two drawings and a prize painting hung on the walls of Julian’s, the title of “Premier” in the admission examination at the Ecole des Beaux Arts and an Honorable Mention and a Third Class Medal at the old Salon. When he received his “Mention” he was so proud and confident of his powers that he rashly rushed off and proposed to a charming little girl art-student just as poor and as ingenious as himself.

It was during his honey-moon—when he was blissfully happy—that he produced his medal picture, and then there came a halt in his affairs for lack of money, and the bills and the babies rolled in on him till they had threatened to drown him altogether, and in sheer desperation he composed his little plaint to his uncle which brought him the saving three hundred dollars and, a week later, the awful letter that made him red with shame for months afterward.

In spite of all his resolves and struggles fate had been adverse to him once more. He was in great difficulties, and the necessity of facing an immediate danger was again upon him. It was of course useless and entirely out of the question to write a second letter to the uncle, whom he felt in his anger would willingly see them all slowly die of starvation rather than help them further, provided, of course, they could do so decently and quietly and not make any unpleasant scandal about it.

“I shall not write to him again, whatever happens,” he said, clinching his fists; and then he added, with an altogether ugly look on his usually placid face, “if the worst comes to the worst and we have to shoot ourselves, or otherwise go under, it will make a great deal of unfavorable talk at home and that,” he continued, smiling grimly, “is something he won’t like at all.”

Little Barlow had not been indulging in any such gloomy reflections the month before; on the contrary he had not been so hopeful and light hearted for a long time. He had paid his rent and a big color bill (which threatened to become malignant) with the compensation he had received for a remarkably living portrait of a rich and titled Englishman. “If I receive two more orders of the kind I will be on solid rock,” he triumphantly asserted to his beaming little wife, “and there now seems every prospect that I’ll get them. Lord Richemont was very much pleased with my work—as was his friend Sir Garnet Walton—and they have practically promised me at least one more order apiece. I will probably have to go to London soon to paint Lady Richemont, and who knows what will come out of the connections I may make there.”

Poor little Barlow’s day dreams were short lived, for toward the end of the following week—when he was just upon the point of starting—he received a letter from his patron telling him that Lady Richemont found his portrait wonderfully good and true and liked it immensely, but that she would be unable to pose for him for some time on account of a serious and sudden illness which had pulled her down in strength and temporarily altered her face. Then the bread bill dropped in, and little Barlow, wearing an exceedingly serious and abstracted air, settled it with the money he had reserved for his ticket to England, and the next day (out of an almost cloudless sky) fell an unkind and unexpected thunderbolt, in the shape of a legal summons from his frame-maker to pay one hundred and forty seven francs still due.

Now this was needlessly cruel on the frame-maker’s part, for little Barlow had ordered from him—or recommended his friends to order—nearly six thousand francs worth of work in the past five years. But the frame-maker suddenly “saw red,” as they say in France, and was in financial troubles in his turn, and decided to fall on poor little Barlow’s back with the entire and somewhat massive machinery of the French law.

“This document,” said little Barlow, gazing with mingled awe and curiosity at the officially stamped paper, “calls for our immediate attention. We are coming dangerously near to the point of being seized and sold out, and, if that were ever to take place, it would mean a complete and definite end to us.” While he was reflecting what it was best for him to do under the circumstances, the postman once again passed by and handed in another letter from London which when he had torn it open and read it, eased his mind mightily. It informed him that if he would accept £20 instead of the catalogue price of £30 for a last year Salon picture—then exposed at the Crystal Palace—he could dispose of it immediately.

He was so delighted at this unexpected good fortune that he caught his little wife by the waist—although she held a baby in each arm at the time and was in danger of dropping and injuring them seriously—and waltzed her round and round the studio. Then he told her all about the good news, and sat down and wrote a reply agreeing to let his picture go somewhat reluctantly (for the looks of the thing) provided he was paid at once; after which he sallied out and walked way over across town and deposited it himself in the main post office of the rue du Louvre so that there would be a little less chance of its going astray than by simply dropping it in a branch office letter-box in the next street. Then he went home and patiently waited for the response.

A whole week passed and it did not come and he was at length forced by the actual necessities of life to borrow twenty francs from a friend named Bolton. Toward the middle of the second week he got another ten from an acquaintance named Sidney, but still the anxiously looked for communication did not put in its appearance. Matters were assuming a decidedly ominous aspect now—the frame-maker’s suit having been decided against him by default—so he wrote a rather peevish letter to the Secretary of the Exhibition which, after some further delay, elicited a reply. In it he was told that the gentleman who had wanted his picture had gone away for a short cruise on his yacht and had neglected as yet to make known his ultimate intentions in regard to it.

This note rendered little Barlow well-nigh desperate. What was he to do? He remembered a kind friend, a Dr. Galt, who had offered to loan him a little money once before (and whom he knew had a warm heart for all the world), so he went over to his office on the rue St. Honore to ask him if he could help him in his emergency, but Fortune was once again against him and he learned with a sinking heart that the doctor had gone to Edinburg to attend a medical congress then being held there and would not be back for at least two weeks.

Then he returned to his studio, much discouraged and cast down, and told his brave but sad little wife about this last and crowning disappointment.

“It’s no use,” said little Barlow despairingly, “every thing is against us and we are now certain of being sold out. The danger is immediate and our furniture may be seized at any moment. If I had only a little more time I think I should be able to get the money somewhere, but the hundred and forty-seven francs—and the twenty-five extra ones for costs—might just as well be so many thousands, for I’m as powerless to raise them as though they were. All the fellows who are likely to have any money to spare are out of town and I’ve borrowed all I can from Bolton and Sidney.”

His wife knit her brow and reflected a moment; then she said slowly but bravely, “I think I have found a way of paying the bill. It’s an unpleasant way, but it’s the only one of which I know. We have pawned practically all our silver and jewelry but this, and it’s right that it should go now;” saying which, she resolutely drew off her engagement ring—daintily set with small diamonds and pearls—and held it out toward her husband. “I hoped, dear, when you put it on my finger to have always kept it there, but it’s best under the present circumstances that it should leave it.”

Little Barlow refused to take it, with tears in his eyes at the sacrilege, but she smiled at him cheerily and continued gently. “It is off now and the damage is done, so don’t be gloomy, sweetheart, but take it like a good boy. We won’t have to leave it at the Mont de Piete permanently, for you are sure of getting some more money one of these days, and then we can redeem it, and I will have another association with it and will value it all the more on that account.”

So little Barlow was at length prevailed upon to go with it to the Succursale of the rue de Rennes, and borrowed the utmost which that establishment would lend on it, which was only sixty francs.

“This partially solves the difficulty,” he said gloomily, on his return, “but if we cannot raise a hundred and twelve francs more for the rest of the bill and costs, we might just as well have nothing at all, for the real good it will do us.”

“There is that Mrs. Harvey at the Hotel Continental,” suggested his wife furtively; “she wrote to you last spring and asked you the price of the little Salon picture which you had already sold. You called on her at the time and she seemed affable and well-meaning, so why don’t you try her now?”

“I don’t know that she’s in town, even,” little Barlow replied, “but if she is, I’ve nothing left to sell her, and I don’t know how to beg. If it were for anyone else, say Bolton or Sidney for instance, I might try to do it, but for myself, or you, or the little ones—who after all are part of me—I really couldn’t. I’m afraid I’ve too much pride left even yet!”

“Well,” said his wife, “if that is the only objection, I can suggest an ingenious course of action for you. An idea, which is nothing short of brilliant, has just occurred to me. Why don’t you ask her for the money as though it were for some one else? You can give her that impression easily without telling an untruth. You can say that you know a man—which you do, don’t you, you big goose?”—she rattled on, laughing heartily—“that you know a man who is in great trouble—which is again true, isn’t it? You can expatiate on the sad particulars of his case just as much as ever you please, in fact the more you do so the better. If this will save your pride and enable you to ask her for the money, I don’t think, all things considered, the deceit is an unpardonable one. We were given our wits by a kind Providence, and there’s no law that I know of—either in Heaven or Earth—against our using them on desperate occasions like this.”

Little Barlow, in spite of his sorry plight, joined his wife in a burst of laughter on the conclusion of her monologue and rolled over and over on the sofa in convulsions of irrepressible merriment.

“Yes,” continued his wife, laughing so that she could hardly speak, “let’s save our pride and try to get out of our difficulty at the same time. Mrs. Harvey thinks we are fairly well off, as we dress well, have rather a swell looking studio and apartment, and appear tolerably prosperous to the outside world, so she will never suspect she is assisting you, whom, I am sure, however, she would much rather help than a perfect stranger. However, to be doubly secure, we will start a subscription book for the unhappy mortal, whose name you must not disclose out of consideration for his sensitiveness, and I will put my name down at the very top of the list for sixty francs. You must also make Bolton and Sidney each write down their names and the amounts they have loaned you as if they were contributions.”

“You’re a genius,” said little Barlow admiringly, giving vent to a fresh burst of laughter, “and I’ll take your advice. It’s too bad we’re obliged to impose on the old lady’s credulity, but it won’t hurt her seriously, and it will save us all from certain ruin; besides, we can pay her back later when something lucky turns up.”

Accordingly, the next evening, little Barlow decked himself out very carefully in his best suit, pinned a gardenia in the lapel of his coat, and, looking exceedingly prosperous and handsome, called on Mrs. Harvey at the hotel Continental. He was fortunate enough to find her at home, and alone. He chatted with her pleasantly on all sorts of subjects, and finally leading the conversation ’round with considerable tact to the heart breaking case of THE MAN HE KNEW, surprised himself at the success of his hypocrisy.

He told the old lady the most navrante details of his situation, and so worked on her sympathies with the probabilities of the wife and babies becoming homeless, that she positively shed tears, and felt in her pocket for her purse; and when—judging the moment to be opportune—he showed her the subscription book, she tremulously wrote her name down for one hundred francs and paid him the money then and there.

He felt rather mean and uncomfortable in taking it, but it meant life and hope to him again, so he thanked her fervently for the MAN HE KNEW and, promising to give her news of him in the near future, somewhat abruptly took his departure.

His little wife was overjoyed at the success of her scheme; but they still lacked twelve francs. This sum they finally raised by pawning a silver belt-buckle, two broken scarf pins, and their four remaining coffee spoons, and little Barlow was able to pay the horrid frame-maker in full and tell him what he thought of him in perfect safety.

A fortnight later he received a check for £20 from the gentleman who had been off on the boating expedition, and about the same time he got word from Sir Garnet Walton that he could paint his portrait whenever he chose. So he returned Mrs. Harvey’s contribution, with the heartfelt gratitude of the MAN HE KNEW, and crossed the channel to a period of great triumph and prosperity. He not only painted the portrait of Sir Garnet Walton, but that of his mother, and his wife, and his little daughter, and several of his friends.

He is out of the gloomy woods of poverty at last, and his feet are firmly planted on the high road which leads to fame and fortune. Furthermore he has learned to smile at his past misery and even to forgive his short-sighted but benevolently inclined uncle for not alleviating it.

“I suppose, considering the trying situation, it was not inexcusably wicked to impose, as I did, on old Mrs. Harvey’s kindness,” he remarked one day to his wife; “but all the same it was steering rather too close to a confidence game to suit my conscience altogether. I didn’t like the business at all, but there are unfortunately many things in life which border on untruthfulness of action but which one is compelled to do nevertheless. This happened to be one of them.”

—John P. Rogers.

A QUESTION.

BY DANSKE DANDRIDGE.

My Psyche, straying in a glimmering night,

A flitting moth, o’er drenched and drowsy bloom.

Sees the faint radiance from thy spirit’s room

And to that distant hope directs her flight.

Thus, in forlornest need and longing-plight,

The lost bee flies to die in golden broom;

Thus hies the insect to the spider’s loom,

That dew-decked peril, flashing in the light.

What wilt thou do? Thy splendor softly shade

That flies may quiver round it unafraid?

Or burn and dazzle, till the wings that soar,

Shrivelled and scorched, are useless evermore?

Or wilt thou draw the screen and close the bars,

That the poor baffled moth may seek the stars.

LOVE IS BLIND

“Who knocks at the portal—so late?” whispered the little Greek maid.

“That may depend,” replied a clear voice outside, “some say I am a friend, some a foe.”

The heart of the little Greek maid beat fast in her bosom. For three nights she had heard this voice and for three nights a beautiful youth, with silvery wings and his face concealed by a silver gauze, had appeared to her in a dream.

“No, no, I have been forbidden to open the portal,” said the little Greek maid.

“It is very cold and dark out here,” sighed the voice wistfully, “open the portal but half way.”

“Only half way,” she replied, curiosity impelling her.

In this manner the beautiful youth, with silvery wings and his face concealed by a silver gauze, affected an entrance.

“Oh, take the silver gauze from off thy face!” prayed the little Greek maid.

“On a single condition,” answered the youth, “and that is, that I may cover thy face with it. In love, one, or the other, must always wear a silver veil across the eyes.”

So she suffered him to bind the fillet about her forehead, but still she could not see him.

“Oh, take the silver gauze from off my face!” prayed the little Greek maid.

“In that case, I will be compelled to leave thee and never come again,” he answered sadly.

But still she plead with him, whereupon he removed the silver gauze from off her eyes and for the space of a second she gazed upon his countenance, which shone resplendent, like the sun in his strength.

And she fell at his feet as one dead.

But when again she ventured to raise her face, he was gone!

—William Theodore Peters.

Some Picturesque bits of Baltimore.

BY G. Alden Peirson

A glimpse of Mount Vernon Place, including the Washington Monument and the Methodist Church. This site was covered by a dense forest at the time the erection of the Monument was begun, in 1815.

Jones’ Falls, named in honor of one David Jones, who is said to have been the first actual settler on the tract of land on which Baltimore is built.

He lived in 1661 on Front Street, at that time known as Jones’ Street.

Looking from under a Bridge at the Mouth of the Falls.

In Tyson Alley.

A Bit of the Falls near Monument Street.

A mile farther down the stream, showing the Front Street Theatre, which was built in 1838, and formerly known as the “New Theatre and Circus.”

The Booths, Charlotte Cushman, Jenny Lind, and many other celebrities, appeared in this famous old play-house. At the present time its walls are in a state of decay, and it is no longer used.

Marsh or Centre Market, and the rear of the Maryland Institute.

At Locust Point, below Federal Hill.

In Little Pleasant Street, near Charles Street.

In a Shadowy Side Street.

In the vicinity of Richmond Market and Grundy Row.

The Old Edward Patterson House on Winchester Street.

In a Ship-Yard at Locust Point.

The Ship-Yard’s Ancient Boiler Shop.

IN THE HARBOR AT NIGHT

PAINTED BY IRVING WARD

THE FOUR FEARS OF OUR GENERAL

Souvenirs of Childhood

The following conversation took place one evening upon one of those points of Algeria where we Frenchmen have had to fight so desperately and so often. We had encamped, or rather we had bivouacked, in a charming little valley at the foot of a mountain, which, picturesque as it was, suggested only evil things.