 Story 1. The Busted X Texan. We were camped amid the foothills on the trail which led up to Kicking Horse Pass. The sun had already passed from sight beyond the white summits above us, and the shadow of the monstrous mountain range darkened the prairie to the east to the horizon's rim. Our bivouac was made in a grove of lofty firs, six or eight in number, and a little rivulet trickling from the upper slopes fell with soft lapsing sound within a few feet of our campfire. We did not even pitch a tent, for the sky was mild, and above us the monstrous trees lifted their protecting canopy of stems. The hammocks were swung for the ladies, and each gentleman preempted the claim which suited him best by depositing his blanket and rifle upon it. The entire party were in the best of spirits, and nature responded to our happiness in its kindest mood. Laughter sounded pleasantly at intervals from the busy group, each working at some self-appointed industry. The hum of cheerful conversation mingled with the murmurs of the brook, and now and then the snatch of some sweet song would break from tune full lips, brief spirited melodious as a bobble-links, dashing upward from the clover-heads, and before the mighty shadow lying gloomily on the great prairie plain, which stretched eastward for a thousand miles, had grown to darkness, the active happy workers had given to the bivouac that look of designed orderliness which a trained party always give to any spot they select in which to make a camp or pass a night. An hour before there was nothing to distinguish that grove of trees or the ground beneath them from any other spot or hill within the reach of eye, but now it commanded the landscape, and had you been trailing over the vast plain, the bright fire-light, the group of men and women moving to and fro, the picketed horses, the fluttering bits of color here and there, would have caught your gaze ten miles away, and were you tired or hungry, or even lonesome, you would have naturally turned your horse's head toward that camp as toward a cheerful reception and a home, for wherever is happy human life, to it all lonely life is drawn as by a magnet. And this was demonstrated by our experience then and there, for scarcely had we done with supper, and by this time the gloom had grown to darkness, and the half-light of the evening held the landscape, when out of the semi-gloom there came a call, the call of a man hailing a camp. Indeed, we were not sure he had not hailed several times before we heard him. For to tell the truth, we were a very merry crowd, and as light of heart, as if there was not a worry or care in all the world, at least for us, and the smallest spark of a joke exploded us like a battery. Indeed, so rollicking was our mood that our laughter was nearly continuous, and it is quite possible that the stranger may have hailed us more than once without our hearing him. And this was the more likely because the man's voice was not of the loudest, nor was it positive in the energy of its appeal. Indeed, there was a certain feebleness or timidity in the stranger's ale, as if he was mistrustful that any good fortune could respond to him, and hence deprecated the necessity of the resort. But hear him, we did at last, and he was greeted with a chorus of voices to come in, come in, you're welcome. And partly because we had finished our repast, and partly from courtesy, and the natural promptings of gentle folk to give a visitor courteous greeting, we all arose and received him standing. And certainly, had the kindly act been unusual with us, not one of our group would have regretted the extra condescension bestowed upon him at his coming, after he had entered the circle of our firelight, and we saw the expression of his features. What a mirror the human face is. Looking into it, how we behold the soul, the accidents that have befallen it, and the disappointments it has borne, are not the faces of men as carved tablets on which we read the records of their lives. The face of childhood is smoothly beautiful, like a white page on which neither with ink of red or black has any pen drawn character. But as the years go on, the pen begins to move, and the fatal tracery to grow, that tracery which means and tells so much. And the face of this man, this wave, so to speak, this wave that had come to us from the stretch of the prairie, whose southern line is the southern gulf. This stranger, who had come so suddenly to the circle of our light, and so plaintively sought admission to its comfort and its cheer, was a face which one might read at a glance. Not one in our circle that did not instantly feel that he embodied some overwhelming calamity. A look of sadness, of a mild continuous sorrow, overspread his face. There was a pitiful expression about the mouth as if brave determination had withdrawn its lines from it forever. From his eyes a certain mistrustfulness looked forth, not mistrustfulness of others, but of himself, as if confidence in his own powers had received an overwhelming shock. The man's appearance made an instant and unmistakable impression upon the entire company. The ladies, God bless their sweet and sympathetic natures, were profoundly moved at the pitiful aspect of our guests. Their bosoms thrilled with sympathy for one upon whose devoted head Evil Fortune had so evidently emptied its quiver, nor were our less sensitive masculine natures untouched by his forlorn appearance. A target for Evil Fortune whispered, to the major, a regular bullseye was the solemn respond, a bullseye by Gad at the end of the score. It was not a poetic expression. I wish the reader to know that I do not record it as such. I only preserve it as evidence of the major's humanity, and of the unaffected sympathy for the stranger which at that moment filled all hearts. Naturally, as it can well be imagined, the gaiety of our company had been utterly checked by the coming of our sad guest. In the presence of such a wreck of human happiness, perhaps of human hope, what person of any sensibility could maintain a lightsome mood? Had it not been for one peculiarity, a peculiarity I am confident all of us observe, the depression of our spirits would have been as profound as it was universal. This peculiarity was the stranger's appetite. This fortunately had remained unimpaired, an oasis in the Sahara of his life. The one remnant left him from the wreck of his fortunes whispered in his thick, a perfect remnant returned the major sentitiously. For myself, acting as host to this appetite, and being naturally of a philosophic turn, I watched its development with the keenest interest, not to say with a growing curiosity. Here is something, I said to myself, that is unique. That fine law of recompense, which is kindly distributed through the universe, finds here, I reflected, a most instructive and conclusive demonstration. Robbed by an adverse fate of all that made life agreeable, this man, this pilgrim of time, this wayfarer to eternity, this companion of mine on the road of life, has had bestowed upon him an extraordinary solace, has been permitted to retain a commensurate satisfaction. Surely life cannot have lost its attraction, for one whose stomach still preserves such aspirations. And, prompted by the benevolence of my mood and the anticipations of a wise forecast, I collected in front of me whatever edibles remained on the table, that, if the supply of our hospitality should prove insufficient, the exhibition of his spirit should at least be conclusive. But if the countenance of the stranger was of a most melancholy cast, there were not lacking hints that by nature he had been endowed with vivacity of spirit. For, as he continued with an industry which was remarkable to refresh himself, there were appearances, which came to the eye in the corners of his mouth, which made the observer conclude that he was not lacking the sense of humor. And if his experience had been most unfortunate, there wasn't him an ability to appreciate the ludicrousness of its changeful situations. Indeed, one could but conclude that originally he must have been of a buoyant, not to say sanguine, disposition. And if one could but prevail upon him to narrate the incidents of his life, they would be found to be most entertaining. It was something like an hour before our melancholy-looking guest had fully improved the opportunity with which a bit-nignant providence had supplied him, a freak in which one might conclude she seldom indulged. He ceased to eat and sat for a moment, gazing pensively at the dishes. It seemed to me, but in this I may possibly be mistaken, that a darker shade of sadness possessed his face at the conclusion than the one that shadowed it so heavily at the beginning of the repast. The pleasures of hope, I said to myself, are evidently greater to my species than are those of recollection. Now that there is nothing left for my guest to anticipate, it is evident that memory ceases to excite. And I could but feel that had our provisions been more abundant, the stranger's appetite would not have been so easily appeased. With something of regret in my voice, I sought to divert his mind from that sense of disappointment, which I judged from his countenance threatened to oppress his spirits. Friend, I said, I doubt not that you have trailed a goodly distance, and your fasting has been long. I have not eaten a meal in two days, was the response. Heavens, exclaimed Dick, and then aside to the Major, is it credible that that man ate two days ago? Gad exclaimed the Major, the man's stomach is nothing but a pocket. A pocket, I should call it, an unexplored cavern, retorted Dick. The direction and reason of your long trail would be interesting, I resumed, and if not impertinent friend, may I ask you whence you have come? I have journeyed from Texas, replied the man, and his voice nearly broke as he said it. Oh, exclaimed the ladies, and they sympathetically grouped themselves anticipating with true feminine sensitiveness some terrible denouement. Texas, I ejaculated. Gad, said the Major, the devil, said Dick. Yes, Texas repeated the man, and he groaned. By this time, as any intelligent reader will easily divine, our whole group was in a condition of mild excitement. Several of us had resided in Texas, and we felt that we stood at the threshold of a history, a history with infinite possibilities in it. For myself, I knew not how to proceed. My position as a host forbade me to interrogate. The sorrows of life are sacred, and my sensitiveness withheld me from thrusting myself within the enclosure of my guest's recollections. That his experiences, could we but be favored with a narration of them, would be entertaining, painfully entertaining, I keenly realized. But how to proceed, I saw not. I remained silent. Yes, it was the stranger who broke the silence. I am a busted ex Texan. The relief that came to me at the instant was indescribable. The path was made plain. We all felt that we were not only on the threshold of a history, but of a narration of that history. The ladies fluttered into position for listening. I could but see it, and so I am bound to record that I saw Dick irreverently punch the Major. It was a punch which carried with it the significance of an exclamation. The Major received it with the face of a Spartan, but with the grunt of a Chinook chief. Friend, I said, we are accustomed to beguile the evening hours with entertaining descriptions of travels, often of personal incidents of the haps and hazards of life, and if it would not be disagreeable to you, we would be vastly entertained to be on doubt by any narration with which you might favor us of your Texan experiences and of the fortunes which befell you there. For a few moments the silence remained unbroken, saved by the crackle of the fire, and the soft movement in the great furs overhead, a movement which is to sound what dawn is to the day, not so much a sound as a feathery suggestion that sound might come. It was a genial hour, and the mood of the hour began to be felt in our own. The warmth of it evidently penetrated the bosom of our guest. He had eaten, he was filled, appreciably so at least, and that happy feeling, that comfortable sense of fullness which characterizes the after-dinner hour, pervaded him with its genial glow. He loosened his belt, another tremendous nudge from Dick, and a look of a contentment softened his features. Whatever storm had wrecked his light, he had now passed beyond its billows, and from the sure haven into which he had been blown, he could gaze with complacent resignation, if not with happiness, at the dangers through which he had passed. I am sure that we were all delighted at the brightening appearance of our guest, and felt that, if the story he was to tell us was one which included disasters, it would at least be lightened by traces of humor and the calm acceptance of a philosophic mind. I was born in the state of Connecticut, so our guest began his narration. I came from a venturesome stalk, and the instinct of commercial enterprise may be regarded as hereditary in my family. My grandfather was the first one to discover the tropical attributes of the Beechwood tree. He first perceived that it contained within its fibers the pungency of the nutmeg. With a salarity which we remember with pride in our family, he availed himself of the commercial value of his discovery, and for years did a prosperous trade in the credulity of mankind. He was a man of humor, a sense which has been to some extent transmitted to myself. He was a man of humor, and I have no doubt he enjoyed the joke he was practicing on people fully as much as the prophets which the practical embodiment of his humor brought to his pocket. My father was a deacon, a man of true piety, and eminently respectable. He was engaged in the retail grocery business, a business which offers opportunities to a person of wit and of an inventive turn of mind. The butter that he sold was salted invariably by one rule, a rule which he discovered and applied in the seller of the store himself. And the sugar which he sold, if it was sanded, was always sanded by a method which improved rather than detracted from its appearance. Here our guest paused a moment as if enjoying the recollections of the virtues of his ancestors. His face was as sober as ever, but his look was one of contentment, and I could but note the suggestion of merriment, the merriment of a happy memory, in his eye. How happy it is for an offspring to be able to recall the character of his forefathers with such liveliness of mind. The motive which impelled me towards Texas, he resumed, was one which was natural for me to feel, thus ancestrally connected. I had erred my father's business, the deacon who had died full of honors, ripe in years, and in perfect peace. But the business did not prosper in my hands. Perhaps I had not erred with the business, the deacon's ability, that accuracy of eye, that gravity of appearance, that deafness of touch, so to speak, which underlay his success. Be that as it may, the business did not pay, and without hesitation I sold it, and with a comfortable sum for investment, I journeyed to Texas. It is proper for me to remark that the welcome I received was most cordial. I chose a populous center for a temporary residence, and proceeded to look around me. I found the Texans to be a warmhearted people, much given to hospitality, and willing, with a charming disinterestedness, to admit all newcomers with capital to the enormous profits of their various enterprises. For the first time in my life I found myself among people who were successful in everything they undertook. Their profits were simply enormous. No speculation could possibly fail. However I invested my money, I was assured that I would speedily become a millionaire. Cotton was a certain crop, corn was never known to fail. The Texan tobacco was rapidly driving the Cuban out of the market. The aboriginal grapes of the state, of which there were millions of acres waiting for the presses, yielded, as Europe confessed, a wine superior to champagne. If I preferred herding, all I had to do was to purchase a few sheep and simply sit down. There was no section of the globe where sheep were so prolific, fleeces so thick, or the demands of markets so clamorous. And as for horses, I was assured that no one in Texas who knew the facts of the case would spend any time in raising them. The prairies were full of them. Hundreds of thousands of them, all blooded stock, true descendant sir from the Moorish Barb, distributed through the whole country at the Spanish invasion. I need to do nothing but purchase 50,000 acres, fence the territory in, and the enclosed herds would continue to propagate indefinitely. Such were the delightful pictures which my entertainers presented to me. Captivated by the charming manners of my hosts, my sanguine temperament kindled into heat at the touch of their enthusiasm. Where every venture was sure of successful issue, there was no need for deliberation or selection. I invested indiscriminately in all, and waited aboyantly for the results. Here the stranger paused, compelled perhaps by a slight interruption. Dick had retired, closely followed by the major. Our guest certainly was not devoid of humor, and I was convinced, as I watched the play of his features, that he apprehended and appreciated the reason for their retirement. He lifted a plate from the table, inspected it closely, turned it over, gazed contemplatively at its reversed side, and poising it deftly upon the point of three fingers quietly remarked, The gentlemen, I believe, have been in Texas. They have, I replied, we three were there together. Ah, it was all he said. I might add it was all that could be said. At this point Dick and the major rejoined us. Their eyes showed traces of recent tears. They were still wiping their faces with their handkerchiefs. With that refinement, which is characteristic of true gentlemen, and which seeks concealment of any extraordinary emotion, they had considerably retired to indulge their laughter. I am delighted, continued our guest, after Dick and the major had resumed their seats, I am delighted to find myself in company with men of experience. I feel that you will not question the veracity of my story, or fail to appreciate the outcome of my enterprises. At the end of two years, my property was distributed promiscuously throughout the state, and I was reduced to the necessity of making one final venture to recoup myself for the losses which, to the astonishment of the entire Texan community, I assured them I had met. I was the only man, as they asserted, that had ever failed to make a magnificent success in Texas. You can readily conceive, gentlemen, that I was determined to make no mistake in my final venture. There were other reasons, beside the one of caution, which persuaded me to begin with a moderate investment. So I bought one cow. It was impossible for me to make a mistake from such a beginning. Every person in Texas that had rapidly risen to financial eminence had started with one cow. Many a time had a Texan ranchman swept his hand with a royal gesture over a landscape of flowers and a mesquite brush dotted with thousands of cattle, and exclaimed, Stranger, I started this year ranch with one cow. And then he would take out a piece of chalk and figure out to me on his saddle how that one cow had multiplied herself into 7,523 other cows, which had proceeded to promptly multiply themselves regular as the seasons come round, sir, at the same reckless manner until it was evident that the number of her progeny was actually curtailed by the size of the saddle and the lack of chalk. Now I was eager to possess a cow with such a multiplication table attachment, and being unable to wait even 10 years before I could tingle with the sensation of being a millionaire ranchman, I decided to shorten the propasionary stage by half. And so I purchased two cows. At this point, Dick rolled over upon the grass, and the major was doubled up as with sudden pain. As for myself, I confess I could not restrain my emotions. I had been through the same experience as had fallen to my guests. And I appreciated the sanguine characteristics of a temperament which prompted him to the investment and the humor of the situation. I laughed till my eyes flowed with tears and the stillness of the foothills resounded with the unrestrained merriment of the entire camp. The humor of our guests was truly American, the humor of suggestive restraint and exaggeration, both. He narrated his experiences which had resulted in the loss of his fortune and the collapse of his hopes with a face like a deacons and with a quaint and most charming sense of the ludicrousness of the position, a position of which he himself was the cause and central object. He fairly represented that type of men who combine in their composition that which is most practical and imaginative alike, whose energy can subdue a continent and whose boastfulness would awaken contempt if it were not palliated by the magnitude of their achievements, a humor that is often barbed, but which is most willingly directed against one's self. But whether directed against the humorist or his neighbor carries no poison upon its point and leaves no wound to wrinkle. My financial condition, said our guest, resuming, my financial condition at the time I made this final investment contributed to the hopefulness of my mood and made me feel the excitement of a reckless speculation. For though my two cows only cost me $17.50 each, nevertheless, when the purchase was concluded and the goods delivered, and I had made a careful inventory of my remaining assets, a business proceeding which the average Texan found it necessary to go through about once in two weeks in order that he might know what his financial standing was or whether he had any standing at all. When I say the purchase was consummated and an inventory of my remaining assets made, I discovered that the two cows had swallowed up nearly my entire estate and that a few dollars of farther expenditure would plunge me into bottomless insolvency. I must confess that this disclosure of my financial condition added zest to the undertaking and filled me with that fine excitement which accompanies a desperate speculation. I have always felt that another cow would have made a financier of me and that I could have taken my place among my brethren in Wall Street without a tremor of the muscles or the least sense of inferiority. The cows were both black in color, so black that they would make a spot in the darkness of the blackest night that ever gloomed under the cypresses of the Guadalupe. If those cows, I said to myself as I looked over them, if those cows ever do bring forth calves at the rate that the Texan, of whom I purchased them, figured out on his saddle, they'll put the whole state under an eclipse. I cannot say, speaking with that restraint which I have always cultivated, I cannot say, ladies and gentlemen, that I regarded either cow with any great affection. There were peculiarities about them which checked the outgoing of my emotional nature. They had a way of looking at me through the wire fence that made me feel grateful to the inventor of barbed wire. I cannot describe the look exactly. It was a direct, earnest, steady, intense inspection of my person that made me feel out of place as it were and caused me to remember that I had duties at home which required me to get there as rapidly as possible. One morning seeing that the basis of my speculation was near the centre of the field and busily feeding on the bountiful growths of nature, I crept softly through the wires of the fence that I might gather some pecan nuts under a big tree that stood some twenty rods away. I reached the tree in safety and proceeded to pick up the nuts. I had filled one pocket only when I heard a noise behind me and, looking up, I saw that all the profits of my stock speculation and all my stock itself were coming toward me on a jump. I was never more collected in my life. My mind instantly reached the conclusion that the pecan crop that year was so large in Texas that it would not pay to pick up another nut under that tree, that the whole thing should stand over as it were until another fall, and that the sooner I retired from that field, the better it would be for me and the few pecans that I had with me. Acting in harmony with this conclusion, which to my mind carried with it the force of a demonstration, I started for the wire fence. I have no doubt but that the line of my movement was absolutely straight. I assure you, gentlemen, that if cows had multiplied in my business connection as rapidly as they did in my imagination during the next sixty seconds of time, I should have been in Texas to this day. The whole field was actually alive with cows. I reached the fence just one jump ahead of the oldest cow, and seeing no reason why I should take time to crawl through between the wires, I lifted myself over the airy construction in a manner that must have convinced that old animated bit of blackness that I had absolute ownership in every nut about me. This little episode supplied me with material for reflection for at least a week, and made me realize that any northern man that enters into a speculation with Texas cows as a basis must keep his eyes open and not allow his thoughts to be diverted by any side issues like pecan nuts while the business is developing. The sixth morning after my speculation had arrived at the ranch, my profits began to roll in upon me, or to state it more practically and in a business-like manner the oldest cow produced a calf. This raised my spirits and made me feel that my business was fairly started. I went to my stock book and promptly made an entry as follows. 7523-1. This meant that there were only 7,522 yet to realize on, that is if 7,522 calves should promptly come to time seeing that one calf had already actually come to time my herd would be complete. I think gentlemen you can readily understand my feelings as I stood contemplating the first fruition of my hopes from behind a tree. The cow was securely tied, but still from habit I took my usual position when inspecting my stock. My mood was very hopeful. I felt as every Texan felt in those days when by some accident he found himself in possession of actual property. There is a calf I said I've only had to wait six days for that calf to materialize. Suppose another calf should materialize in six days. I extracted a pencil from my pocket and began to figure I multiplied that calf by six. I mean that at the end of six days I multiplied that calf by another calf. Every time I put down a new multiplier I took a look at the calf and every time I looked at the calf it multiplied itself as it were until I felt the full force of the Texan statement. Save that the more I multiplied the more I felt that 7523 did not fairly represent the certainties of the speculation. That cow would surely make a millionaire of me yet, if nothing happened. But gentlemen, something did happen and it happened in this wise. You have doubtless by this concluded that the cow was a wild cow. The man who sold her to me had not put it precisely that way. He had represented her to me as a cow of mild manners, thoroughly domesticated, of the sweetest possible temper used to the women folks playful with children. In short, a creature of such amiability that she actually longed to be petted. But I had already discovered that her manners were somewhat abrupt and that either the man did not understand the nature of the cow or I did not understand the man. I was convinced that if she had ever been domesticated it had been done by some family every member of which had died in the process or had suddenly moved out of the country only a short distance ahead of her and that she had utterly forgotten her early training. Still I had no doubt but that her amiability was there although temporarily somewhat latent and that the influences of a gentle spirit would revive the dormant sensibilities of her nature. The sight of a milk-pale, I said to myself, will surely awaken the reminiscences of her early days and of that sweet home life which was hers when she yielded at morn and at night her glad contribution to the nourishment of a Christian family. There was on my ranch a servitor of foreign extraction who did my cooking for what he could eat, chin-foo by name, and to him I called to bring me the large tin-pale which served the household, which like most Texan households in the tertiary period, so to speak, of their fortunes was conducted on economic principles as a wash tub, a chip basket, a water bucket, and a dinner gong. It also occurred to me as I stood looking at the cow and caught the spirit of her expression, so to speak, that as she had come to stay was a permanent fixture of the establishment as it were, chin-foo might as well do the milking first as last, moreover as the Texan from whom I purchased her had assured me that she was a kind of household pet, the children's friend, and took to women folks naturally, the case was a very clear one. For as chin-foo had long hair, worn no hat, and dressed in the flowing drapery, the cow, unless she was more of a physiologist than I gave her credit for, would be in doubt somewhat as to the sex of the Chinaman. And before she had time to ruminate upon it and reach a dead sure conclusion, the milking would be over, and I would have scored the first point in the game if she was a cow of ability, had any trumps, and was up to any tricks as it were. So I told chin-foo, as he approached with the pail in his hand, that the cow was a splendid milker, thoroughly domesticated, accustomed to Chinaman, and that he might have the honor of milking her first. I remarked, furthermore, that as everything about the place was new to her, and she was a little nervous, I would gently attract her attention in front while he proceeded to extract the delicious fluid. I charged him, in addition, to remember that it was always the best policy to approach a cow of her temperament in a bold and indifferent manner, as if he had milked her all of his life and get down to business at once, and that any hesitation or show of nervousness on his part would tend to make her more nervous. I must say that Chin-foo acted in a highly creditable manner, considering he was in a strange land, and to my certain knowledge had no money laid by for funeral expenses. For, while I was stirring the dust and flourishing my stick in a desultory manner in front of the cow to divert her mind and keep her thoughts from wandering backward too directly, he fluttered boldly up to her and laid firmly hold of two teats with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. At this point of his narration, the stranger paused a moment. There was a sort of plaited look on his face, and he gazed at the plates with an expression in his eyes of sorrowful recollection. I cannot say he resumed as one who speaks oppressed with a sense of uncertainty exactly what did happen, for I never saw the Chinaman again until he alighted. I only know that when he came down he was practically inside the pail, and that he sat in it a moment with a kind of dreamy eastern look on his face as if he lived on the Isle of Patmos and had seen a vision. And when he had crawled out of the pail, he went directly into the house, saying, the Melican man is damn fully to try milky that cuisine, or words to that effect. But I did not agree with him. I reflected that the Chinese are only an imitative race and wholly lacking in original perception. They never invent anything I said, never study into causes, never get down to principles as it were. It requires a purely occidental intellect to master the problem before me. This cow has a strong disinclination to be milked. Why? What is the motive of her conduct? If I could only answer that. All at once it came to be, came like a flash. The reason was plain. This cow was a mother. The maternal instinct in her case is beautifully developed. Her reasoning faculties less so. She has a calf. To her mind we are trying to rob her beloved offspring of this nourishment. She naturally resents this injustice on our part. Beautiful development of maternity, I apostrophize, as I looked at the cow in the light of this new revelation. Thy instincts are those that sweeten the world and remind us of the benignity that planned the universe. I will bring thy calf to thee. I will show thee that I am not devoid of the spirit of equity, that I am ready to go shares and play fair as it were. Thy calf shall take one side of thee. I will take the other, and thy soul will come forth to me in gratitude. I was delighted. I went directly to the pen, engaged benevolently at the calf. The little imp was a blacker, if possible, than its mother. There was that same peculiar look also in its eyes. You're all hers, I joyfully cry. You are your mother's own child. I seized hold of the neck rope. I opened the pen door, and I went out through that door quicker than a vagrant cat ever got round a corner of a house where a scotch terrier boards. The calf went under the cow, and I struck her head on. But I had come to stay. I grabbed the pail with one hand and a teat with the other. I tugged it, pulled it, twisted it. Not a drop could I start. A suction pump of twenty horsepower would have found it drier than Sahara, and all the while the calf's mouth on the other side was actually running over with milk. In two minutes he looked like a black watermelon. Then the cow, with a kind of back action, suddenly reached out one foot, and when I came to, I found myself facing a mulberry tree with one leg on each side of it. By this time I had reached a decision, and I had the courage of my convictions. I felt it to be my duty to milk that cow. I reminded her in plain straightforward language that I was the son of a deacon, and that she'd find it out before she got through with me. I assured her that I understood the beauty of righteousness, and that I held a strong hand, a straight flush, as it were. I was well aware that the metaphor was somewhat mixed, but it expressed my sentiments and relieved my feelings, and so I fired it at her point blank. She snorted and pawed and bellowed and swore at me in cow language, but I didn't care for that. So I shook the old battered milk pail in her face, and told her I was born in Connecticut and did business on spot cash principle, and that she would know more of the commandments than any cow of her color in Texas before we had our long farewell. By this time the matter had attracted a good deal of attention, for I had carried on my conversation with the cow in the voice of a tragedian when the chief villain of the play has stolen his girl, and my next neighbor, an old sea captain from Matagorda Bay, and his hired men had come over to assist me. They were of the nature of a reinforcement which consisted of the captain, a Mexican, a Michigan man, that stuttered, and two Negroes, Napoleon Bonaparte, De Neville Smith, and George Washington Marlboro Don Singh, by name. Hence we were six in all, and I decided to take the offensive at once. The captain was advanced in years and rheumatic, but a clear-headed man, used to command, and had boarded, as he expressed it, several of the crafts in his own waters. So I put him in charge of the marines, namely ourselves, and told him to fight the ship for all she was worth. He caught on to the thing at once and swore he would sweep the old black hulk, fore, and at, and send every mother's son to the bottom, or make her strike her colors. The vigor of the gallant old gentleman's language and the noble manner in which he shook his cane at the old pirate put us all in good spirits, and I verily believe that if he had, at that fortunate moment, given the word board, we would, niggers and all, have gone over the bulwarks of that old cow with a rush. The captain's plan of action was proof of his courage and in harmony with my own ideas of the matter. He said that our force was ample, every gun shotted, and the ports open, that we had the winward gauge of her, and that the proper course was to send a boat in to cut her cable, and when she drifted down with the current we would wear ship, lay up alongside, grapple, pass, lashings aboard, and send the whole crew on to her deck with the rush. Assaulted in such a man of war style, he was competent, she would become confused, be intimidated, and strike her colors without firing a gun. The brave and sonorous language with which our commander set forth his plan of assault captured our imagination, and we all longed for the moment when the word of command would permit us to swarm up the sides and over the rail of the old bovine. Not only was the general plan thus agreed upon, but each man had his post of duty assigned to him. When the cable was cut, that is, when the cow should find herself at liberty and bolt, as she would be sure to do, the Mexican was to lasso her and hang on. Napoleon Bonaparte de Neville and George Washington Marlboro were to lay hold of her horns to port and starboard, as the captain insisted, while the Michigan man, who was over six feet tall and leggy, was to fasten with a good grip onto her tail that he might serve not only as a drag, as our commander phrased it, but as a pilot as well, if she should get to yawing or be suddenly taken aback and be unable to come up into the wind promptly, while I was held in reserve to guard against emergencies. I did not quite like the position assigned to me, and so intimated to the captain, but he said no one could tell how it might go when we once got out of the harbor, and if any of the braces should part, or the sea get high, that he would have to send an additional man to the wheel for, he added in a whisper, God knows that long-legged a Michigan land lover could never keep her to a straight course if she should once get running with the wind over her quarter and everything drawing through that cornfield. I saw the force of his reasoning and felt easier, so without further delay we went into action. The old captain stood, knife in hand, ready to cut the lariat, which held the cow to the tree, but before he did so, he hailed, all ready to cut cables. Forward to Lord Captain, shouted Napoleon the Neville, which is this year, nigger, guant adieu, if you're the other nigger, let's go! Go, wave, darn nigger, shouted George Washington Marlboro, what you take this nigger for, if you tink's as quant a let go, this old black cow. I'll give a silver dollar to the nigger that holds on the longest, I yelled. Well answered, mate, sang out the old captain, all ready to cut cables, cut she is. The cow gave a bellow, like the roar of a lion, and made a rush with lowered horns at the captain. Now, this was not the course laid down on his chart for her to take, and he and the rest of us were struck all aback as he afterwards expressed it, but he met the emergency with spirit. He broke his big Spanish oak stick on the nose of the brood, and then the old mariner rolled in the dust. Lay aboard of her, men, shouted the old hero, in a voice like a foghorn, flourishing the fragments of his stick. Lay aboard of the old cuss, I say. Cast your grapplings, greaser, seize her helm, some of you, and throw it hard over to port. These orders were obeyed with alacrity, not a man flinched. The loop of the lasso settled over the polished horns to the roots, and onwards and the eagle set it tight with a twang. Napoleon Bonaparte and George Washington rushed headlong upon her, and hung to horns and ears while the man from Michigan fastened a grip on her lifted tail as she tore past him, which straightened him out like a lathe. As to myself, I could only stand and gaze with solicitude upon the terrific contest, on the issue of which depended not only the chances of my speculation, but even the preservation of my self-esteem. The combat deepened and enlarged itself as it were. A bulldog who was standing along the road in search of adventure and two foxhounds joined in the fight. The calf, the only one of the 7,523 I was ever destined to behold, broke from its pin and ran bellowing to its mother. The dogs bade, the niggers yelled, the Mexicans swore in his delightful tongue, and the stuttering Michigander remained silent, simply from his inability to pronounce the profanity of his feelings. Suddenly the cow, which had been slowly working her way with her several attachments clinging to her, toward the road which ran along the front of the field, turned and started to pale mel toward the river, which flowed wide and deep through the rushes at the rear of it. She left the path and took to the corn, and through the mass of growing stalk she swept like a whirlwind. Onward she came. I anticipated the awful catastrophe and stood riveted to the spot. The old captain still sat in the gravel where the cow had bowled him, his hand grasping the shattered cane, and his game leg extended. He too foresaw the inevitable. Through the corn came the cow, like a black Saturn attended by her satellites, but her career was too terrific for these to hold to their connection. The laws of the universe forbade it. Napoleon Bonavar de Neville lost his hold as she crashed into the Saugum patch. George Washington Marlborough tripped over an irrigation ditch and soared away at a tangent like a sputtering remnant of a burnt-out world. Don Juan San Diego went the wrong side of a mulberry tree and the lasso parted with a snap. He never stopped until his momentum carried him through the slats of the neighboring cow pen. Only the long-legged Michigander kept his hold, and he looked like a pair of extended scissors. I stood aghast at the impending ruin of my hopes with my lower jaw dropped. The captain alone retained his presence of mind as the black unit of my last text and speculation shot by him with Michigan elongated like a peninsular fastened to her tail. He rolled up to his knees and roared, starboard your helm, boy, luffer up, luffer up for the love of God, or the Colonel is busted. It is doubtful if the Michigan man ever heard the stentorian call of the captain, for sound travels only 1,300 feet to the second, and the cow was certainly going considerably faster than that. And besides, he was himself engaged with a terrific earnestness in a vain effort to extricate a word out of his throat, which stuck like a wad in a smutty gun, a word of undoubted Saxon origin and of expressive force, and which has saved more blood vessels from bursting than the Lancet of the phlebotomist for as he streamed past, there was left floating upon the air a long string of Ds, thus no one who did not hear them could ever conceive of the awful sputtering, hissing sound that they caused in the atmosphere as they came out of the mouth of the mad stuttering Michigander. And as he and the cow bored a hole through the reeds on the bank of the river and hitting a cypress stump ricocheted into the water, that fiery string of Ds, still hot and sputtering, reached half across the field. The splash of the two as they struck the water brought the old captain to his feet, and in spite of his rheumatic leg, he rushed toward the river crying, man overboard, man overboard, gone clean over the four chains, lifeboats to port and starboard. With such a frightful catastrophe, gentlemen, the remembrance of which actually makes me nervous, my last speculation in Texas ended. Going over the whole matter with the captain that evening, a process which took us well into the night, it was our united opinion that the speculation was a failure. This conviction was mutual and profound. The cow was not only gone, but she had shown such disinclination to be domesticated, and such a misapprehension of the true purpose of life that the prospect was truly disheartening. Why, damn it, Colonel, said the captain, we've no evidence that the old cow wanted to be milked. To this discouraging conclusion of the captains, I was compelled to give a sorrowful assent. I recognized that my speculation was in arrears, as it were, and that it would never figure up a profit. Therefore, next day I divided my few personal effects between the captain and the noble men who had risked their lives for an idea, who had seen the tragedy played out, and the curtain rung down to my last appearance, as it were. And with the few dollars which alone remained of the fortune which I took with me to Texas, I mounted my horse and started northward to join that noble army of martyrs, that brotherhood of sufferers, that fraternity of the busted, whose members are legion and who are known as ex Texans. The hilarity of the camp that evening under the foothills will never be forgotten by those of us who composed the happy number and who listened with streaming eyes and aching sides to the narrative of our unfortunate guest. He told his story with a directness and simplicity of narrative, with a gravity of countenance and plaintiveness of voice, which heightened the humor of the substance. Never did the stars, which have seen so much of human happiness, which have listened to so much of the rollicking humor of those who were fashioned for laughter, looked down upon a jollier camp. Long after our guest had ended his narrative and was apparently sleeping in happy forgetfulness of his Texas speculation, succeeding pauses of silence would come roars of laughter. The remembrance of the humorous tale banished sleep, and even after slumber had fallen on us all, fun still held possession of our dreams, for Dick, starting from sleep in a nightmare of hilarity, roared out, luffer up, luffer up, or the Colonel is busted. Aye, aye, thank God for laughter. Thank him heartily and ever, dear friend. Low the winds, run the tides as they may. The sorrows of life may be many, and its griefs may be keen, and we who are frosted with years, and you who are blooming, have felt and will feel the sting of false friends and the burden of losses. But lose what we may, or be pained, as we have been and shall be. We are happy in this, we who know how to laugh, that we find wings for each burden, saw us for pains, and return for all losses in our sweet sense of humor. Thank heaven. So whether rich men or poor, healthy or sick, brown-headed or gray, we will go on, like children, with eyes for all beauty and hearts for all fun. Let lilies teach us, and of the birds of the air, let us learn. The day that is not shall not make us anxious, for of each day is the evil enough, and the morrow shall take care of itself. He dislikes to dabble with rhyme and with measure, says that good honest prose is the best and the sweetest if the words be well chosen, short Saxon and Pithy, and that making a verse is the business of women, of green boys at school, and of lovers when spooning. But try him, it may be he will, for a lesson is in it, and that makes it worth telling. The woods have their secrets and sorrows and struggles as well as the cities. You can find in the woods many things, if you look, beside trees, rocks and mountains. Jack Whitcomb, he said his name was, though I doubted, for the name on his bosom, Tattooed in Purple, didn't point quite that way, but that doesn't matter. One name in the woods is as good as another, if a man answers to it, and it's easily spoken. So we called him Jack Whitcomb and asked nothing further. Brave? Why, of course he was brave. Men are not cowards. Cowards don't come to the woods, they stay in the cities, where policemen are thick and the streets are all lighted. In the woods men trail with their ears and eyes open and sleep when they sleep, with their hands on the rifles. Why? Well, panthers are plenty and cunning and quiet, and a man is a fool that goes carelessly stumbling under trees where they crouch, under crags where they gather. Furthermore, with the saints, now and then, there are sinners that live in the woods, and some half-breeds are wicked and know nothing of law unless taught by a bullet. I've done what I could to teach knaves the Commandments. Yes, Jack Whitcomb was brave, brave as the bravest. His glance was as keen, and his mouth was as silent as the trailers should be, who looks and who listens by day and by night, having no one to talk to. His finger was quick when it handled the trigger, and his eye loved the sights as lightning loves rivers. I've seen him stand up when the odds were against him. Stand up like a man who takes coolly the chances. That proves he was brave, as I understand it. One day we were voting on far Mr. Cine. We were fetching the portage above the great rapids where they whirled, roaring down, fresh at full, at their widest. When we saw, from a rock that stretched outward and over the wild hissing water, as it swept on in thunder, a canoe coming down, rolling over and over, with a little papoose clinging tight to the lashings. And as it lanced by, Jack went in like an otter. How he did it, God knows, but at the foot of the rapids, half a mile farther down, racing onward, I found him high and dry on the beach, in a faint like a woman, with the little papoose pulling away at his jacket. And when he came to, he put child to his shoulder, nor stopped till it lay in the arms of its mother. We were trailing Henry and I, trailing and trapping in the land of the north, where fur was the thickest, and naives were as plenty as mink or as otter. We took turns at sleeping, and trailed our line double to keep our own skins, if we didn't get others. It was folly to say where we were, and we knew it. For the naives, they got thicker, and soon there was shooting, getting on pretty lively. But we held to the business and scouted the line once a week, like true trappers. And no accident happened, save some holes in our jackets, and my powder horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet. So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively. But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened around us each day, and we weren't quite decided to stand in for a fight and settle the matter. Or pull up our traps and get out of the country when it settled itself. And in this way it happened. We were scouting the lake on the west shore one morning to find the naives' camp and how many were in it, when a short space ahead there came of a sudden a crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen or twenty placed rifles had burst an ambushment. And then in an instant there sounded another. Two sharp twin reports and the death yells that followed told us, as we listened, where the lead had been driven. Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb. Do you think men who live by trapping and shooting don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles? Jack was trailing the lake to find our encampment. For far away in the south there had come to his cabin a rumor that we in the Northland were holding our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting. So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing to give us the help of another good rifle. That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble he was there by your side. You could always count on him with finger on trigger and both barrels loaded. So Henry and I both took to our covers right and left of the trail Jack must take in retreating. We didn't wait long for the boy knew his business and soon he came backward loading and running like a man who was busy but wouldn't be hurried beyond his own gate if he stopped there forever. As he passed our two covers I piped him a whistle and he stopped in his tracks and with low pleasant laughter stood there in full view coolly capping the nipples. I have shot on each gulf both southern and northern. I have trailed the long trail between either ocean. Brave men I have seen both in good and in evil but never a braver than the man called Jack Whitcomb. Well why describe it? Call it scrimmage or battle. It was done in a minute or it may be a dozen. It came like a whirlwind and we three were in it as men are in whirlwinds. It came like the thunder with a crash and a roar and a long running rumble dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded and a few lucky naves that fled wildly backward and Henry and I when it passed were left standing by the body of him whose name was Jack Whitcomb who lay as he fell when headlong he tumbled his rifle still clenched and both barrels smoking. I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets and a good many gashes by spear points and arrows. I have learned in my trailing a good many symbols which have power to keep men from crossing the river before the Lord calls with voice that is certain and the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body though ugly and deep was not beyond curing. We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle with death for his life and we won. For Jack mended. We made a canoe and we bore him far southward. A hundred good miles down the river we boated till we came to his house of huge logs strongly building beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water. It was a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled if peace might be found this side of the silence which brings peace to all that know sorrow in living. Yes we boated him down to his home by the rapids his home no rather his house let us call it for how can a house be a home with not in it in house that is home must be love warm and human a voice that is sweet a heart that is gentle a soul that is true and besides these a cradle that prattles and coos and the quick-falling patter of little white feet that run hither and thither to his house and not to his home then we brought him for certainly nothing and no one was in it save himself and a dog a bed and a table some chairs a few books and a picture and this was the story that he told us in dying the man might have lived beyond doubt had he cared to but he didn't no motive he said and he had none as we felt later on when he told us his story so he died without word or sign and in silence we stood and saw him go forth on his journey without speaking a word without a hand lifted to hold or to stop him for we did not feel certain what was wisdom for one who went forth in such passion perhaps it was best he should go and be over with pain loss and trouble forever and ever Henry says it were well we should all of us go when life has no aim and no hope and no doing remains to be done and days are but eating and drinking and breathing only these and no more but before he went forth he gave me a message I loved her so his story began Henry you remember the look on his face as he said it as he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the picture she was strong and she drew me as life draws the young and as death draws the old I could not resist her she was vital with force to attract and to hold she raised me a race for my life and she won it I was man not a boy and I loved as man loves when the forces of light are in him full-blooded as rivers and meadows when they flow to the sedges did she love me perhaps who can tell she was woman and hence she was dark as the night and as hidden who could find her who the depth of her nature might measure I tried but could not then boldly I speak speak as man speaks but once unto woman true and straight did I say it man fashion but she drew back offended she shrank from my praying and with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me had a man shown a tithe of that look in his eye on his face he or I would have died on the instant but what can a man do when scorned by a woman so I left her I need not say more my life it was ended it wasn't worth living I am made in that fashion so I came to the woods where else when in trouble can man go and find what he needs consolation go you down to her house in the city John Norton to the house where she lives and give her this message word for word let her hear it say where you left me there's gold in that box to pay your expenses word for word as I tell you nor say a word further then he bad us goodbye and marched away bravely as a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain and under the pines on the bank of the rapids we bury the man whom the woods called Jack Whitcomb and the picture he loved we placed on his bosom I went down to her house in the city a cabin of stone brown as Tamarack bark trimmed with olive it was high as a pine that stands on a mountain the door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern at the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier his face was a solemn as judgment to sinners he looked at me some and I looked him all over then he suddenly bowed like a half breed with manners and told me to enter and he would call madame the room was as large as a townhouse where settlers hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages the walls were like caves in far Arizona all covered with pictures of houses and battles of ships blown onward by gales in mid ocean of children with wings pretty queer looking creatures of men and of women and some were half naked but the floor was of oak which gleamed like a polish and with mats thick as moss and with skins it was covered so I felt quite at home as there I stood looking and noting the size and signs of the cabin then all of a sudden there came a soft rustle like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn and down the wide stairway across the great hall to the door of the room in which I was standing stately and swift came a woman and entered tall as the tallest made firmly knit firmly both in form and in limb but full and well rounded dark of eye darker face with hair like a raven like the girls of Nevada where live the old races whose blood is as fire and whose skin is of olive whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens arms bare to the shoulders neck and the bosom uncovered her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward and round her in folds of soft creamy whiteness no ring on her hand nor in ear not a circle of gold around her throat one armlet of silver and one at her wrist loosely clasped small and slender so she entered and stood and looked me all over then slowly she spoke your name sir and business madam I said in the woods and then call me John Norton John Norton the trapper then I stopped mighty sudden for her face it grew white to the lips and the chin and she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper when he sinks his axe into the heart and it totters and quivers so I stopped stopped quick and stood looking then her dark face it lighted and she said speaking quickly John Norton I know you I know you are honest you live in the woods you are good I can trust you all men I have heard come to you in their trouble have you seen in the north have you met in the woods has there come to your cabin a man tall as you brave as you and as tender a man like to this and out of her gown from the folds on her bosom she lifted a locket of pearl colored velvet touched a spring and I saw as the lid of it opened the face of the man I and Henry had buried John Norton she cried and her eyes burned like fever her hand shook and trembled her face was as marble have you seen in the woods man like to this picture speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble for I did him wrong I thought he held lightly my fair name and fame held lightly my honor I thought he meant evil and my heart filled with anger dismissed him in scorn but I learned I learned later he was true and spake truth and loved me as heaven then I stood and I looked and held my face steady so it gave her no sign of what I was thinking I saw she was honest and I wished then to spare her but my word it was pledged pledged to him and dying to stand as I stood face to face with this woman in her house in that room and give her his message decide not to know as far worse than the knowing at times so I rallied and told her the message word for word as he charged the night he lay dying in his house on the bank above the swift rapids madame I said I have seen a man like that picture face and form he was brave as you say he was tender he was true unto death and he loved you as heaven and these are the words that he sent you in dying I a man of the woods bring you this as last message from one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids of that northern river which pours its brown water to the lake of st. John from far mysticine tell her John Norton I loved her loved her in living with a love that was true and with same love in dying loved her like a man like a saint like a sinner for time now and time ever that the one picture she gave me I kept living dying and after that it lies on the breast of the man that you buried on the breast of the man who living did love her and that there it will lie until it shall crumble with heart underneath it to dust so tell her and improve that I tell her the truth and I did tell it that night when we met and I told her I loved give her this the watch that I wore on the evening we met and the evening we parted let her open and see with her eyes let her see that I loved her so say and no more thus I spake word for word as he told me I spake I gave her the watch and I said no word further I had done as I pledged I had said as he charged me so I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal but she said not a word nor made she a sign the watch she took from me touched the spring and it opened and there twist the glass and the gold withered and faded lay a leaf of red rose one leaf and no more for a moment she stood stood and gazed at the leaf her face grew as white as her gown and she trembled and shook like a white swan and dying and then she cried my god I have killed him my lover and down on the floor on the skins at her feet she dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning it was only last month that we too in trailing trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids for we wanted to see before going northward if evil had come to the grave of our comrade but the grave lay untouched by beast or by human the grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful at the foot of the grave the rosary I planted was as high as my head and the leaves of the roses lay as thick as red snowflakes on the mound that was under and we knew that on breast as he slept was her picture so we felt as we gazed it was well with jack would come but often at night when alone in my cabin I hear the low murmur of far northern rapids and often I see the great house and its splendor and wonder if death has helped the proud woman to lay off her grief and escape from her sorrow and blazed a line through the dark valley of shadow and brought her in peace to the edge of the clearing where I know she would see jack would come stand waiting so I say it again and I say it with knowledge that the woods have their sorrows as well as the cities and he knows but little of this great northern forest who thinks there's not in it save trees lakes and mountains and a story two story three of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray this LibriVox recording is in the public domain story three how deacon Tubman and a parson Whitney kept New Year's one New Year's exclaimed deacon Tubman as he lifted himself to his elbow and peered through the foster window pane toward the east where the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight New Year's ah he repeated as he hitched himself into an upright position and straightened his nightcap that had somehow gone askew in his slumber bless my soul how the years fly but that's all right yes that's all right no one can expect them to say and why should we there's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet and with this consulatory observation the deacon rubbed his head energetically while the bright happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as the process proceeded yes there's better fish in the net than we've taken out he added galey and if there isn't there's no use of crying about it with this philosophical observation he bounced merrily out of bed and into his trousers i say deacon tubman bounced into his trousers but to be exact i should say that he bounced into half of them and with the other half trailing behind him he skipped to the window and putting his little plump round face almost against the pane gazed out upon the world everything was bright sparkling and cold for the earth was covered with snow and the clear gray of the early morning spread its rayless illumination over the great dome in the fading blue of which a few starry points still gleamed bless me what a morning he exclaimed beautiful beautiful he repeated as he stood with his eyes fastened upon the east and balancing himself on one foot felt around with the other for that half of the trousers not yet appropriated bless me what a day he ejaculated as he saved himself by a quick upward wrench from falling from a trip he had inadvertently given himself in an abortive effort to insert his foot into the unfilled leg of his pantaloons ah that's a good and he exclaimed trip yourself up and getting into your own trousers will ya deacon tubman and he laughed long and merrily to himself over his little joke ah happy new year to everybody cried the deacon as he thrust his foot into his stalking for the floor of the good man's chamber was carpetless and so cleanly white that its cleanliness itself was enough to freeze one yes a happy new year to everybody high low rich poor south north east and west where ere they be the world over at home and abroad amen and the deacon partly at the sweeping character of his benediction and partly because he was feeling so jolly inside he couldn't help it laughed merrily as he seized a boot and thrust his foot vigorously into it what's this what's this cried the deacon as he tugged away at the straps until he was red in the face this boot never went on hard before what's the matter with the pesky thing and he arose from his chair and standing on one foot turned and twisted about tugging all the while at the straps bless my soul exclaimed the deacon disgusted with its strange behavior what is the matter with the pesky boot then he sat down upon the chair again wrenched his foot out of the offending article and held it up between both hands in front of him and shook it violently when with a bump and a bound out rattled a package upon the floor and roll halfway across the room the deacon was after it in a jiffy and seizing it in his little fat hands held it up before his eyes and read a new year's gift from miranda now miranda was the deacons housekeeper mrs. tubman having peacefully departed this life some years before and speaking appreciatively of the sex a more prim prudent particular member of it never existed she had been initiated some 10 years before into that amiable sisterhood commonly known as spinsters and was it might be added a typical representative industrious you may well say so her floors stoves dishes linen well if they weren't clean nowhere on earth might you find clean ones she hated dirt as she did original sin and i've no doubt but that in her own mind considered its existence in the world as the one certain damning and conclusive evidence of the fall it was really an entertainment to see her looking about the house first back of dirt and the cold blooded manner in which she would seize upon it bear it away in the dustbin and removing the lid of the stove consign it to the flames was well what what should i say yeah that's it was most edifying amiable yes after her way and a very noiseless sort of way it was too for though she had lived with the deacon for nearly a dozen years he had never known her to so far forget her propriety as to indulge in anything more hearty and hilarious than the most decorous of smiles which smile was such a kind of illumination to her face as a star of inconceivably small magnitude makes to the sky in trailing across it of her personal appearance i will say nothing sacred let it be to memory if you ever saw her or one like her whether full front or profile whether sideways or edgewise the vision i am ready to swear remains with you vividly still let it suffice then when i observe that miss miranda was not physically stowed and that the deacon standing joke was by no means a bad one when he described her as not actually burdened with fat yes she was very cleanly very thin very prudent very particular person that never joined in any sports or amusements never joked or participated in a happy events in a happy joyous fashion but lived unobtrusively and i may say coldly in her own prim cold bloodless little world gracious me exclaimed the deacon as he looked at the package gracious me what has got into mirandi and he looked scrutinizingly at the little fine thin faintly traced inscription on the package as if the writer had begrudged the ink that must be expended on the letters or from a subtle animistic self sympathy had made the chirrography faint delicate and attenuated as her own self gracious me reiterated deacon tubman as he proceeded to untie the knot on the pale blue ribbon smoothly bound around the package whoever knew mirandi to make a present before and the deacon was so surprised at what had taken place that for a moment he doubted the evidence of his own senses and put it in my boot too and the deacon stopped undoing the parcel and lying back in the chair roared at the thought of the prim modest particular miranda perpetrating such a joke and when the wrapping of the package was at last undone for every corner increase of it was as carefully turned and as sharply edged as if the smoothing iron had passed over them will wonders ever cease at this startling world of ours outdropped a nightcap yes a nightcap delicately and deftly crocheted in warm woolen stuff of a rich cardinal color laughed the deacon as he held the cap between his thumb and forefinger of one hand up before his eyes while he rubbed his bald crown with the other good for mirandi and then as a small slip of white paper fluttered to the floor he seized it and read a happy new year to deacon tubman from miranda a good girl a good girl said the deacon not overburdened with fat but a good girl and with this rather equivocal compliment to the donor with his boot in one hand and the cap in the other he rushed impulsively to the stairway and shouted a happy new year to you mirandi god bless you god bless you and he swung the boot instead of the cap vigorously over his head while his round rosy face beamed down the stairway into the cold hall below like a warm harvest moon over the autumnal stubble in response to the deacons hearty and I may say somewhat uproarious greeting the kitchen door timidly opened and miranda who had been a stir for nearly an hour and had the table already laid for breakfast stepped into view and with a smile on her face that actually broadened its thinness dangerously near to the proportions of a genial and happy reciprocation of the jovial greeting dropped a curtain and said thank you deacon dubman I hope you may have many happy returns a thousand to you mirandi shouted the deacon in response a thousand to you and your children and the little man swung his boot vehemently over his head and laughed like a boy at his own joke while poor frightened scandalized miranda turned and scutted like a patch of thin vapor blown by an unexpected gust of wind through the door into the kitchen with a face colored scarlet from an actual unmistakable blush though once the blood came that reddened the clean cold wide of her thin face is a physiological mystery in a moment the deacon was fully dressed and he scuttled as merrily and noisily down the resounding stairway as a gust of autumn wind running through a patch of russet leaves through the hall and kitchen he bustled and out into the woodshed where he ran against old tauzer the big newfoundland watchdog who stood in the passage expectantly watching his coming a happy new year to you tauzer old boy he cried and seizing the huge dog by his shaggy coat he wrestled with him like a merry hearted boy a happy new year to you old fellow he repeated as the dog broke into a series of joyful barks speak it right out tauzer God made you as full of fun as he has the rest of us and a good deal fuller than many of your kind and mine too and with this backhanded hid at the vinegar of his zitched and assiduous hearted of his own species the deacon shuffled along the crisp icy path toward the barn while tauzer gambled through the deep snow and plunged into the huge fleecy drifts in as merry a mood as his merry master a happy new year to you old jack he called out to his horse as he entered the barn and jack made a happy return more expectant perhaps of his breakfast of oats than appreciative of the greeting and a happy new year to you you youngster he shouted to the colt who being at liberty to rome at will had already appropriated a section of the haymow to his own satisfaction none of that you woolly coated rogue you he cried as he jumped aside to escape a kick that the bunch of equine mischief antically snapped at him none of that you little unconverted sinner you I barely believe the person is right and that in Adam's fall we send all men and beasts golds and children all in one lot and so talking to himself and his cattle the jolly little man whose good-heartedness represented a more genuine orthodoxy than the whole Westminster catechism bustled merrily about the barn and did his chores while the cockerels crowed noisily from their purges overhead the fat white pigs grunted in lazy contentment from their warm beds of straw and the oxen with their large luminous eyes gazed benevolently at him as he crammed their manger generously full with the fragrant hay that smelled sweetly of the flowers and odorous meadowlands where in the warm summer sunshine it had ripened for the welcome sigh how happy is life in whatever part of this great fragrant world of ours it is lived when men live it happily and how gloomy seems its sunshine even when seen through the shadows and darkness of our surly moods what happy-hearted fairy was it that possessed the deacons heart and home on this bright New Year's morn I wonder surely some angel of fun and frolic had flown into the deacons house with the opening of the year and was filling it and the hearts within it too with mirthful moods for the deacon laughed and joked as he buttered his cakes and fired off his funny sayings at Miranda as he had never joked and laughed before until Miranda herself smiled and giggled yes actually giggled behind the coffee-earn at his merry squibs as if the little imp above mentioned was mischievously tickling her yes I will say it her spinster ribs Miranda I'm going up to see the parson exclaim the deacon when the morning devotions were over and see if I can thaw him out a little I've heard there used to be a lot of fun in him in his younger days but he sort of frozen all up laterally and I can see that the young folks are afraid of him and the church do but that won't do no that won't do repeated the good man emphatically for the minister ought to be loved by young and old rich and poor and everybody and a church without young folks in it is like a family with no children in it yes I'll go up and wish him a happy new year anyway perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the people and see the young folks at their fun it'll do him good and them good and me good and do everybody good saying which the deacon got inside his warm fur coat and started towards the barn to harness jack into the worn old-fashioned sleigh which sleigh was built high in the back and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions ornamented with a prancing horse in an impossible attitude done in bright vermilion on a blue black ground two happy new year to you parson whitney happy new year to you cried the deacon from his sleigh to the parson who stood curled up and shivering in the doorway of the parsonage and may you live to enjoy a hundred come in come in cried parson whitney in response I'm glad you've come I'm glad you've come I've been wanting to see you all the morning and in the cordiality of his greeting he literally pulled the little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the stairway to his study in the chamber overhead thinking of me well now I never exclaimed the deacon as assisted by the parson he twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a little too snugly filled for an easy exit thinking of me and among all these books too bibles, catechisms, tracts, theology, sermons well well that's funny what made you think of me deacon tubman responded the parson as he seated himself in his armchair I want to talk with you about the church the church ejaculated the deacon in response nothing going wrong I hope yes things are going wrong deacon responded the parson the congregation is growing smaller and smaller and yet I preach good strong biblical soul satisfying sermons I think good ones good ones answered the deacon promptly never better never better in the world and yet the people are deserting the sanctuary rejoined the parson solemnly and the young people won't come to the sociables and the little children seem actually afraid of me what shall I do deacon and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis you have hit the nail on the head squares a hatchet parson responded the deacon the congregation is thinning the young people don't come to the meetings and the little children are afraid of you what's the matter deacon cried the parson in return what is it he repeated earnestly speak it right out don't try to spare my feelings I will listen to I will do anything to win back my people's love and the strong old-fashioned calvinistic preacher said it in a voice that actually trembled you can do it you can do it in a week exclaimed the deacon encouragingly don't worry about it parson it'll be all right it'll be all right your books are the trouble books ejaculated the parson what have they to do with it everything replied the deacon stoutly you pour over them day in and day out they keep you in this room here when you should be out among the people not making pastoral visits I don't mean that but going around among them chatting and joking and having a good time they would like it and you would like it and as for the young folks how old are you parson 60 next month answered the parson solemnly 60 next month 30 30 that's all you are parson or all you ought to be right the deacon 30 20 16 let the figure slide down and up according to circumstances but never let them go higher than 30 when you are dealing with young folks I'm 60 myself counting years but I'm only 16 16 this morning that's all parson and he rubbed his little round plump hands together looked at the parson and winked bless my soul deacon Tubman I don't know but what you are right answered the parson 60 I don't know as I am 60 and he began to rub his own hands and came within an ace of executing a wink at the deacon himself not a day over 20 if I am any judge of age responded the deacon deliberately as he looked the white-headed old minister over with the most comic imitation of seriousness not a day over 20 on my honor and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson and gave him a punch with his thumb as one boy might deliver a punch at another and then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as the deacon yes it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with a jolly little deacon on the bright New Year's morning and not to be affected by the happiness of his mood but he was actually bubbling over with fun and as full of frolic as if the finger on the dial had in truth gone back 40 years and he was only 16 only 16 parson on my honor but what can I do queried the good man sobering down I make my pastoral visits pastoral visits responded deacon Tubman oh yes and they are all well enough for the old folks but they aren't the kind of biscuit the young folks like too heavy in the center and over hard in the crust for young teeth that parson but what shall I do what shall I do reiterated the parson somewhat despondently oh put on your hat and gloves and warmest coat and come along with me we will see what the young folks are doing and we'll make a day of it come come let the old books and catechisms and sermons and tracks have a respite for once and we'll spend the day out of doors with the boys and girls and the people I'll do it exclaimed the parson deacon Tubman you are right I keep to my study too closely I don't see enough of the world and what's going on in it I was reading the testament this morning and I was impressed with the master's manner of living and teaching it is not certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his ministry on the earth and the children how much he loved the children and how the little ones loved him and why shouldn't they love me too why shouldn't they how make them do it the lambs of my flock shall love me and with these brave words parson whitney bundled himself up in his warmest garment and followed the deacon downstairs tell the folks that you won't be back till night call the deacon from the slay for this is new years and we're going to make a day of it and he laughed away as heartily as might be so heartily indeed that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came shuffling down the icy path toward him bless me how much younger I feel already said the good man as he stood up in the slay and with a strong long breath breathed the cool pure air into his lungs bless me how much younger I feel already he repeated as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old slay only sixteen a day and deacon and he nudged him with his elbow that's right that's all parson answered the deacon gaily as he nudged him vigorously back that's all we are either of us and laughing as merrily as boys the two glided away in the slay well perhaps they didn't have fun that day those two old boys that had started out with the feeling that they were only sixteen and bound to make a day of it and they did make a day of it in fact and such a day as neither had had for forty years for first they went to Bartlett's hill where the boys and girls were coasting and coasted with them for a full hour and then it was discovered by the younger portion of his flock that the parson was not an old stiff solemn surly poke as they had thought but a pleasant good-natured kindly soul who could take and to give a joke and steer a sled as well as the smartest boy in the crowd and when it came to snowballing he could send the ball further than Bill Sykes himself who could out throw any boy in town and roll up a bigger block to the new snow forge they were building than any three boys among them and how the parson enjoyed being a boy again how exhilarating the slide down the steep hill how invigorating the pure cool air how pleasant the noise of the chatting and joking going on around him how bright and sweet the boys and girls look with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes how the old parson's heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go and urged him to stay and how little Alice Dorchester begged him with her little arms around his neck to just stay and give me one more slide you never made such a pastoral call as that parson said that he can as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and goodbyes of the girls while the former fired off a volley of snowballs in his honor and the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them god bless them god bless them said the parson they have lifted a great load from my heart and taught me the sweetness of life of youth and the wisdom of him who took the little ones in his arms and blessed them ah deacon he added i've been a great fool but i'll be so thank god no more three now old jack was a horse of a great deal of character and had a great history but of this none in that section saved the little deacon knew a word dick tubman the deacons youngest wildest and a might add favorite son had purchased him of an impecunious jockey at the close of a to him disastrous campaign that cleaned him completely out and left him in a strange city a thousand miles from home with nothing but the horse harness and sulky and a list of unpaid bills that must be met before he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes under such circumstances it was that dick tubman ran across the horse and partly out of pity for his owner and partly out of admiration of the horse whose failure to win at the race was more due to his lack of condition and the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed bought him off hand and having no use for him himself shipped him as a present to the deacon with whom he had now been for four years with no harder work than plowing out the good old man's corn in the summer and jogging along the country roads on the deacons errands having said this much of the horse perhaps i should more particularly describe him he was in soothe an animal of most unique and extraordinary appearance for in the first place he was quite seventeen hands in height and long in proportion he was also the reverse of shapely in the fashion of his build for his head was long and bony and his hip bones sharp and protuberant his tail was what is known among horsemen as a rat tail being but scantily covered with hair and his neck was even more scantily supplied with a mane while in color he could easily have taken any premium put up for homeliness being an ashen ron modeled with black and patches of a diverse hue but his legs were flat and corded like erasers his neck long and thin as a thoroughbreds his nostrils large his ears sharply pointed and lively while the white rings around his eyes hinted at a cross somewhere in his pedigree with arabian blood a huge bony homely looking horse he was as he drew the deacon and merenda into the village on market days and sundays with a loose shambling gate making altogether an apparent so homely and peculiar that the smart village chaps riding along in their jaunty turnouts used to chaff the good deacon on the character of the steed and satirically challenge him to a brush the deacon always took the bad an edge in good part although he inwardly said more than once if I ever get a good chance when there ain't too many around I'll go up to the turn of the road beyond the church and let jack out on them for dick had given him a hint of the horse's history and told him he could knock the swats out of thirty and wickedly urged the deacon to take the shine out of them airy chaps some of these days such was the horse then that the deacon had ahead of him and the old-fashioned sleigh when with the parson alongside he struck into the principal street of the village new year's day is a lively day in many country villages and on this bright one especially as the slaying was perfect everybody was out indeed it had got noise to broad that certain trotters of local fame were to be on the street that afternoon and as the boys worded it there would be heaps of fun going on so it happened that everybody in town and many who lived out of it were on that particular street and just at the hour two when the deacon came to the foot of it so that the walk on either side was lined darkly with lookers on and the smooth snow path between the two lines looked like a veritable home stretch on a race day now when the deacon had reached the corner of the main street and turned into it it was at that point where the course terminated and the brushes were ended and at the precise moment when the dozen or twenty horses that had come flying down were being pulled up preparatory to returning at a slow gate to the customary starting point at the head of the street a half mile away so the old-fashioned sleigh was quickly surrounded by the light fancy cutters of the rival racers and old jack was shambling along in the midst of the high spirited and smoking nags that had just come down the stretch hello deacon shouted one of the boys who was driving a trim looking bay and who had crossed the line at the ending of the course second only to the pacer that could speed like lightning as the boys said hello deacon ain't you going to shake out old chambl heels and show us fellas what speed is today and the merry-hearted chap son of the principal lawyer of the place laughed heartily at his challenge while the other drivers looked at the great angular steed that without check was walking carelessly along with his head held down ahead of the old sleigh and its churchly occupants i don't know but what i will answer the deacon good naturedly i don't know but what i will if the parson don't object and you won't start off too quick to begin with for this is new years and a little extra fun won't hurt any of us i reckon do it do it we'll hold up for you answered a dozen merry voices do it deacon it'll do old chambl heels good to go a 10 mile an hour gate for once in his life and the parson needn't fear of being scandalized by any speed you'll get out of him either and the merry-hearted chaps are hard as men and boys will when everyone is jolly and fun flows fast and so with any amount of good natured chafing from the drivers of the fastons and for many that lined the roads too and for the day gave a greater liberty than usual to bantering speech the speedy ones a paste slowly up to the head of the street with old jack shambling to merely in the midst of them but the horse was a knowing old fellow and had scored at too many races not to know that the return was to be leisurely taken and indeed he was a horse of independence and of too even perhaps of too sluggish a temperament to waste himself in needless action but he had the right stuff in him and hadn't forgotten his early training either for when he came to the turn his head and tail came up his eyes brightened and with a playful movement of his huge body without the least hint from the deacon he swung himself and the cumbersome old slay into line and began to straighten himself for the coming brush now jack was as i have said a horse of huge proportions and needed steadying at the start but the good deacon had no experience with the ribbons and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving and so it came about that old jack was so confused at the start that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off being all mixed up as the saying is so much so that the crowd roared at his ungainly efforts and his flying rivals were twenty yards away before he had even got started but at last he got his huge body in a straight line and leaving his miserable shuffle squared away to his work and with head and tail up went off at so slashing a gate that it fairly took the deacon's breath away and caused the crowd that had been hooting him to roar their applause while the parson grabbed the edge of the old slay with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the other what a pity mr longface that god made horses as they are and gave them such grandeur of appearance and action and put such an eagle-like spirit between their ribs so that quitting the plotting motions of the ox they can fly like that noble bird and come sweeping down the course as on wings of the wind it was not my fault nor the deacons nor the parson's either please remember then that awkward shuffling homely looking old jack was thus suddenly transformed by the royalty of blood of pride and of speed given him by his creator from what he ordinarily was into a magnificent spectacle of energetic velocity with muzzle lifted well up tail erect the few hairs in it streaming straight behind one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply back the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group and yet so little was the pace to him that he fairly gambled and playfulness as he went slashing along until the deacon verily began to fear that the honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send his heels antically through his treasured dashboard indeed the spectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent and his action so free spirited and playful as he came sweeping onward that the cheers such as could heaven see the deacon's old horse look at him look at him what a stride ran ahead of him and old bill sikes a trainer in his day but now a hanger on at the village tavern or that section of it known as the bar wiped his watery eyes with his dreamulous fist as he saw jack come swinging down and as he swept past with his open gate powerful stroke and stifles playing well out brought his hand down with a mighty slap against his thigh and said I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer it was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead or they would surely have been more than one collision for the old sleigh was of such size and strength the good deacons so unskilled at the reins and jack who was adding to his momentum with every stride going at so determined a pace that had he struck the rear line with no gap for him to go through something serious would surely have happened but as it was the drivers saw the huge horse with the cumbersome old sleigh behind him bearing down on them at such a gate as made their own speed sharp as it was seemed slow and pulled out in time to save themselves and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cluster of leaves but by this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed for old jack was going nigh to a 30 clip a frightful pace for an inexperienced driver to ride and they began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit not doubting that old jack ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to manage would take the hint and immediately slow up but though the huge horse took the hint it was in exactly the opposite manner that the deacon intended he should for he interpreted the little man's steady pull as an intimation that his driver was getting over his flurry and beginning to treat him as a horse ought to be treated in a race and that he could now having got settled to his work go ahead and go ahead he did the more the deacon pulled the more the great animal felt himself steadied and assisted and so the harder the good man tugged at the reins the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of him worked until the deacon got alarmed and began to call upon the horse to stop crying well jack well oh boy I say well will you now that's a good fellow and many other coaxing calls while he pulled away steadily at the reins but the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls as he had his pressure upon the reins for the crowds on either side re-yelling and hooting and swinging their caps so that the deacons voice came indistinctly to his ears at best and he interpreted his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead and so with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood the crowds cheering him to the echo the steadying pull the encouraging cries of his driver in his ears and his only rival the pacer whirling along only a few rods ahead of him the monstrous animal with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old slave from the snow let out another link and with such a burst of speed as was never seen in the village before tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that within the distance of a dozen lengths he lay lapped upon him and the two were going at nose and nose what is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with men or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him and why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment is it pride is it the comradeship of courage or is it the rising of the indomitable in us that loves nothing so much as victory and hates nothing so much as defeat be that as it may no sooner was old jack fairly lapped on the pacer whose driver was urging him along with rain and voice alike and the contest seemed doubtful then the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both so that carried away by the excitement of the race they fairly forgot themselves and entered as wildly into the contest as two ungodly jockeys deacon tubman said the parson as he clutched more stoutly the rim of his tall hat against which as the horse tore along the snowchips were pelting in showers deacon tubman do you think the pacer will beat us not if i can help it not if i can help it yelled the deacon in reply as with something like a rangeman's skill he lifted jack to another spurt go it old boy he shouted encouragingly go along with you i say and the parson also carried away by the whirl of the moment cried go along oh boy go along with you i say this was the very thing and the only thing that the huge horse whose blood was now fairly aflame wanted to rally him for the final effort and in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him he gathered himself together for another burst of speed and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon who had risen and was standing erect in the sleigh fell back into the arms of the parson while the great horse rushed over the line amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark i may say favoring remark than the parson who suddenly found himself the center of a crowd of his own parishioners many of whom would scarcely have been expected to participate in such a scene but who thought out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day and vastly excited over jack's contest thronged upon the good man laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd so everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a happy new year and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns and everybody praised old jack and rallied the deacon on his driving and then everybody went home good-natured and happy laughing and talking about the wonderful race and the change that had come over parson whitney and as for parson whitney himself the day and its fun had taken 20 years from his age and nothing would answer but the deacon must go with him and help eat the new year's pudding at the parsonage and he did at the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day and joked each other as merrily as two boys then parson whitney told some reminiscences of his college days and the scrapes he got into and about a riot between town and gown when he carried the bullies club and the deacon returned by narrating his experiences with a certain deacon jones a watermelon patch when he was a boy and over their tails and their nuts they laughed till they cried and roared so lustily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang the books on the library shelves rattled and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror but at last the stories were all told the jokes all cracked the laughter all laughed and the little deacon wished the parson goodbye and jogged happily homework but more than once he laughed to himself and said bless my soul i didn't know the parson had so much fun in him and long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon had left him musing of other days and the happy pleasant things that were in them and many times he smiled and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly for he said what a wild boy i was and yet i meant no wrong and the dear old days were very happy i i parson whitney the dear old days were very happy not only to the but to all of us who following our son have faced westward so long that the light of the morning shows through the dim haze of memory but happier than even the old days will be the young ones i wean when following still westward we suddenly come to the gates of the east and the morning once more and there in the dawn of a day which is endless we find our lost youth and its loves to lose them and it no more forever thank god end of story three