The large number of Kipling's stories could not have been written outside India, or at least the Orient. They are of the East eastern. "Without Benefit of Clergy," "Muhammad Din," "The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows," "The Man Who Would Be King"—the very names conjure up the environment. They do more than that; they almost tell the story. Before he began to write, Kipling knew thoroughly his adopted literary land; in the same way all successful writers must know theirs if they mean to reveal the influence of surroundings on character, if they mean to give, as many writers do, a miniature of the locality in each sketch. To read one of Mary E. Wilkins's stories is to catch the flavor of all New England. Her nun is indeed a New England nun. Nowhere else do people keep house quite so; but in scores of Massachusetts and Connecticut homes the women, married and single, are 'that partic'lar'—or nearly as particular as Louisa Ellis. But wait a minute!Mary E. Wilkins Freeman If there are tens of women like Louisa Ellis, wherein comes the story? Why, do you not see?—just in the plus, the superfluity of New Englandishness that there is in Louisa. It is the breadth of that more-so that gave Miss Wilkins her twenty-four stories in the same book, and others outside it. And here is the point: in this kind of story, your writer must know his locality so well that the sameness of the people has a difference in each family and in each member of that family. In other words, his characters must be persons, not figureheads; they may be types, it is true, but they must have the soul of individuality breathed into them. For instance, in this one collection of stories Miss Wilkins has two Louisas, and they both are typically of New England, they both have suitors, and they both are averse to marriage; moreover, each slight course of events is built on the impulse of the woman to avoid matrimony. But here the likeness ends; for the women are individuals, and the lovers are different from each other. The character-drawing of these two stories is a daring attempt on the part of the author, but it is a remarkably successful one.
Hamlin Garland has been almost as successful with his middle Northwest as Miss Wilkins has with her New England. His stories can not be called quaint, as hers can, nor sweet exactly; but they can be said to be as graphic, faithful, straightforward, homely, and to have been compiled with as patient and sympathetic an observation—not so minute, but as unerring. They are freer, bolder, more like the country he portrays. With Mr. Garland perhaps we have more of the out-of-doors, literal country, the black soil into which the people's lives are ploughed and from which they come out again sometimes at the top of the corn tassel. With Miss Wilkins the country is more that country not built with hands, eternal in characteristics. Of both writers the work is great work, and you can not go astray in taking either for your model. "Up the Coolly" is a remarkable tragedy—for tragedy it is. "The Return of the Private" is all too pathetically true. "Among the Corn Rows" is startlingly realistic, and "A Branch Road"—well, doubtless people have varying opinions about the usefulness of such pictures, but nobody can gainsay the excellence of the craftsmanship.
In a somewhat different way, with just as much realism maybe, but surely with a large dash of romance, Bret Harte pre-empted California as a literary land two decades before these younger writers staked out their claims. "Tennessee's Partner" and "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" are perfect in their way, and their way is this way: the place-character narrative.
To write such a narrative, you must have vividly and accurately in mind your selected environment. It is to form the color of your picture. If you do not think you know thus intimately any locality, open your eyes. The beautiful fact about living is, that we all always live somewhere, and that same somewhere is full of a number of things, and of nothing more surely than of local color. It is your business as a writer to add this color constantly to your stories; but the best way to proceed is not to attempt to spread it on from the outside, but to let it shine through from within. To be sure, it must be on the valleys and hills, the streets and the houses and the window curtains; but it must also be in the speech of your peoples, in their notions, their attitude toward each other and toward the great and little questions of human relationship. Besides knowing the environment, you must know indisputably some individuals of the place. You can not draw a life-like sketch from an abstraction. The canvas painters have taught us that truth, and so have the sculptors. For every figure they have a living model. They must know where the bones and sinews are, even if they mean to etherealize. So must you, and you have a harder problem; your figure must speak. One false tone, and you mar the impression. Mary E. Wilkins, excellent artist that she is, has impaired one of her strongest stories, "The Revolt of Mother," by a lapse of art in respect to two of her characters. The girl and boy are not old enough for the age the author intimates; or what she says that they are is too old for what they prove that they are when they speak and when they keep silent even,—especially the girl. Moreover, we feel that the mother is ten or fifteen years younger, than the age given her. These are minor points, one admits, and, as we say, the story is excellent; but in so far as it fails in little ways it is not superfine, though one of the most lovable and dramatic, of Miss Wilkins's productions. In art you must not make this mistake; it is no answer to assert that in life the woman was sixty and the boy and girl fourteen and twenty. On the basis of the character-drawing the woman is forty-five or fifty and the children are twins, less than sixteen years old. In other words, a realist that is an artist as well selects not only what is true but also what will immediately without argument seem true. Miss Wilkins usually is convincing.
In addition to an unmistakably clear knowledge of place and personality, you must know both local dialect and family vernacular. The various individuals of your sketch, if they happen to belong to the same household, must speak as if they so belonged. In actual life when you converse with a company of persons, you can pick out two members of the same family as readily as you can pick out two members of the same community. Your character-narrative must reveal this likeness, not by declaration especially, but by a subtle unity of vocabulary that does not at the same time preclude individuality.
The writers of this kind of short-story owe much to the past. We are inclined to think of quiet and truthful character sketchers, who reveal an appreciative knowledge of the influence of environment, as distinctly a late nineteenth century brotherhood; but the fact is that while moderate realism is undoubtedly the last artistic word on the subject of effective character-revelation, it is also the first. The modern novel of manners (and the artistic short-story of the same class as an offshoot of it) drew from a full stream of realism. As far back as the age of Overbury and Bishop Hall the public was interested in prose character-sketches. The fact that essays could have such names as "The Tinker" and "The Milkmaid" was a promise of the light of common day. Then the gentle de Coverley papers came on with their slight narrative and continued portrait, their delightful skits on class environment and tradition;The novel of manners then, Tristram Shandy's frank shamelessness about familiar things; then the Vicar of Wakefield's struggling poverty; and finally the women entered—Evelina, Belinda, Emma, Mary Barton, and the gentle ladies of Cranford, bringing with them the tea-table and the trials of the parlor and of factory life. The only thing that was needed to make the archetype complete by the middle of the nineteenth century was for some one to take persistently the same large yet specific environment. Trollope's Cathedral Town Studies Anthony Trollope did so in his Cathedral Town Studies. What ran parallel for a time with the novel of manners, but had a later and fuller development, is the psychological problem novel, begun by Richardson and Fielding and handed over to the late nineteenth century writers by Charlotte Brontë. This psychological problem novel bears the same relation to the novel of manners as the character-events short-story bears to the character-environment one.
You doubtless realize, as every one realizes, that a good short-story is hard to write, but in the hardness comes the inspiration. If you succeed, you have scored a triumph. But for your comfort, be assured that the possibility is not beyond even a high-school student. The attempt in very instructive at least.
Remember that you are not writing a biography, but a place-character narrative in the short-story form. You are not called on to record every incident in the life of your subject or even every important incident. The happenings may all be minor, in fact. The only essential thing is that you reveal the indissoluble connection between environment and characteristics. The person is what he is because he has lived at that place with those habitual surroundings.
There is this precaution, however, that you must take; you must not let your narrative degenerate into a mere analysis and enumeration of qualities. You are to write a story. And to write a story you must have a happening or a series of happenings, however mild. Usually one of these should be of more importance than the others, and the others should be related to it as subordinates, in order that the effect may be single. Any part of the life of your people that lies behind the day of your revelation, if mentioned at all, should be told in retrospect; whatever lies ahead, if mentioned at all, can be only prophecy. And, finally, here is a little secret, an open one among artists, but one shut away from the herd of common scribblers; what you do not tell but only skilfully suggest is what makes for excellence and immortality.
"Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying."—Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo ball was an old one, scarred, chipped and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Iman Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me.
"Does the heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially.
The heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo ball to a khitmatgar?
"By your honour's favour, I have a little son. He has seen this ball and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself."
No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo balls. He carried out the battered thing into the veranda, and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo ball?
Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room—a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt, which came, perhaps, half way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son."
He had-no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner, who was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief.
"This boy," said Imam Din, judiciously, "is a budmash—a big budmash. He will, without doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behaviour." Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din.
"Tell the baby," I said, "that the Sahib is not angry and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his father's arms and said gravely, "It is true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I am a man!"
From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room; but on the neutral ground of the garden we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side, and "Salaam, Muhammad Din" from mine. Daily on my return from office the little white shirt and the fat little body used to rise, from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid, and daily I checked my horse there that my salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly.
Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the grounds. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside that circle again was a rude square, traced out in its bits of red brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure my garden.
Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work then or later; but that evening a stroll through the garden brought me unawares full on it, so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold heads, dust bank and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and he had scattered his rubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din laboured for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a tearful and apologetic fact that he said, "Talaam, Tahib," when I came home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muhammad Din that, by my singular favour, he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball creation.
For some months the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy, from my fowls—always alone, and always crooning to himself
A gaily spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his little buildings, and I looked that Muhammad Din should build something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never completed.
Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and no "Talaam, Tahib" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an English doctor.
"They have no stamina, these brats," said the doctor, as he left Imam Din's quarters.
A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad Din.
—Rudyard Kipling.
"Plain Tales from the Hills." (Doubleday, Page & Co., 1907.)
The cool maples rustled temptingly before the open kitchen window, and seemed to mock the busy worker within. Flies buzzed at the screen, door, and at intervals found entrance through sundry gaps in the rusty screening. Inside there was the endless clatter of dishes, the hissing sound of frying meat, and occasionally a sharp exclamation in a nervous, high-pitched voice. The owner of the voice, a woman of about thirty-five, was walking busily around the kitchen. A soiled gingham apron nearly covered a worn gray skirt, and several large safety-pins held her waist together over her flat chest. Premature wrinkles hardened her eyes and mouth. Her hair drawn back over a high, bony forehead, was twisted into an untidy little knot at the back of her head. On each of her cheeks, just below the bone, came and went bright spots of color—the only color about her, for her hair had no glints of light and her apathetic blue eyes seemed absolutely devoid of luster.
As she hastened back and forth, opening the oven door, setting the table, inspecting the contents of various kettles steaming on the big stove, she still found time to throw a glance, now and then, out to the rickety porch, where a pale-faced little girl sat in an old red porch-chair. The child's big eyes, startlingly prominent in her wan face, followed the woman, and, when the latter looked at her, a sudden smile would curve the straight little lips. But at times she would look away from the kitchen out beyond to the wheat-fields, gleaming yellow in the August sun—and still farther to the cool green woods, with the hard blue sky above them. Then the child would sigh, and her face would grow wondering and anxious, as she turned back again and smiled at the woman in the kitchen—a curious, wistful, unchildlike smile. On the step beside her lay a worn little home-made crutch.
"Here come the men-folks, mother," the child exclaimed suddenly. Her mother came to the door, and shading her eyes with her apron, peered up the dusty lane. Then she went back to the house and hurriedly finished setting the table. The heavy plates and cups were hardly in place on the red-checked cloth before the men came clattering up the walk and up the porch. Most of them had a smile for the pale little girl in the chair, and one had brought her a bunch of red field-poppies, already half withered, in his big hand. The child took them eagerly, laying their vivid petals lovingly against her pale cheek. The rest of the men filed past with a grin or a roughly tender, word—all but the last. He came up the steps, his forehead wrinkled in a scowl evidently habitual, his mouth hard, his eyes deep-set and forbidding. He did not even notice the child, and she shrank back in her chair, her lip trembling, her eyes wide with fear.
"Dinner near ready, Jane?" he demanded in a gruff tone. Jane gave a brief little nod and hurried on with the rest of the preparations. Rough laughter, scraping of boots, loud clattering of knives on plates, and a continual demand for replenishment, followed the course of the dinner. Jane sat wearily, but her plateful of cabbage and pork lay untasted before her. Out on the porch the little girl sipped a glass of milk and watched the cool dimness of the distant woods.
The men pushed back their chairs, wiped their mouths with the backs of their brown hands, and hurried away to the fields. Jane's husband stopped for a moment to mend a rip in his boot. It was a difficult rip to mend and his temper was soon exhausted.
"Why don't ye learn that white-faced brat out there to work!" he stormed, "us short o' hands an' her less good than none at all—an' a nuisance to boot." Jane suddenly turned and let a saucer fall. Her lips were compressed for a moment, then she went down on one knee and carefully picked up the fragments of china.
"What a snap ye've got, next to what brother Dan's wife had," Jim went surlily on. "Dan made her go out an' tend his grapes, while all ye've got to do is cook a little and wash up—an' ye act as if ye was worked hard. Dan's wife never kicked—she'd be'n sorry if she had," and he gave a hard dry laugh in appreciation of his own humor.
But Jane did not hear this last remark; she was thinking of her brother-in-law's wife, a frail little woman whose life had been made up of pruning grapevines or cutting grapes, working side by side with the Italian women whom her husband hired, working harder than any of them did, too, and for far less recompense. She remembered how angry Dan had been because his wife had appeared one afternoon in a shirt-waist, instead of the usual wrapper. It was a clumsy, cheap, ill-made thing, but Margaret's eyes had danced when Jane came to see her that day. And she remembered how Dan had come in and declared he wanted no high-falutin' things around his house; that he had married to get some one to work for him, not for a parlor ornament. Poor little Margaret! How her thin cheeks had flushed and her timid eyes filled with tears! But she died not long after—Jane gave a half-envious sigh.
"Goin' to stand there all day lookin' at nothin'?" a gruff voice asked suddenly, and she started. The knife with which she had been peeling potatoes to fry for supper, slipped and cut her finger. She went over to the sink and wiped away the red streak, while her husband shufflingly made his exit, grumbling to himself over the foolishness of ever bothering with such a useless baggage as a woman. On the porch he stumbled over the little crutch and kicked it aside with an oath.
The afternoon wore away slowly. Little Meg slept on her cot upstairs, her cheeks hot and damp, her arms flung wide in the weariness of childhood. Jane sewed steadily at a heap of burlap grain bags, until the sun went down in a riot of yellow and crimson behind the trees. Jane put away her sewing, gently woke Meg, and prepared to go downstairs to get supper ready. She stopped to look at the sunset before she went down. Along the road beyond came the rattle of wheels; a buggy passed in which sat a woman in solitary state. A striped silk dress enveloped her ample person, a hat with nodding red roses and a broad white brim shaded a pair of stupid, comfortable eyes, and cast its shadow over a mouth that fairly sagged with good humor and good living. Her fat hands, lying idly in her lap and holding the reins loosely, were pulled back and forth by the jogging brown horse. Jane recognized in the woman Mrs. Petersen, her nearest neighbor, and half hungrily surmised that she was returning home from a meeting of the "Tuesday Social Club." The buggy leisurely passed the house and disappeared along the dusty lane.
Suddenly, in one rush of emotion, the whole barrenness of Jane's lot came over her. She thought of the long days filled with unceasing labor—the dull, gray days that stretched endlessly behind her and yet more endlessly before her. Her life seemed one wearying round of dish-washing and cooking, of going to bed utterly worn out and of rising next morning just as tired as she had been the night before. She felt a terrible grudge rise in her against her husband—and she allowed this grudge now to fill her soul completely, instead of crushing out such feelings as she had hitherto done. Why had he never helped her to have a good time as other women had? Why had he forgotten that she was a woman and fond of dainty things? She thought of the stern young fellow who had courted her when she was a girl—so very long ago that was. And how she had married him, and how proud she had been of him, and how she had boasted of his thrift to all her neighbors. And then she remembered how sternness which she admired in the youth had changed into surliness in the man; how gradually—little by little—she had lost hope—she who had hoped for so much and had had to little given her. On her, and on her alone, the brunt of all his displeasure and of all his wrath had fallen.
Then suddenly her face cleared; as she heard a sleepy yawn from the bed; little Meg lay watching her, her sleep-filled eyes smiling their same brave smile. At least, Jane thought, she had Meg—and Dan's wife had not even had a Meg. Dan's wife had never known the sweetness of clinging hands and the comfort of damp baby kisses. So even for her, life still held compensation. She looked out at the west where the riotous reds had now faded to soft rose and gray. The outlines of the woods were softened and the nodding tree-tops seemed beckoning her to come away with them. Almost involuntarily the woman stretched out her hands towards the trees, and her hungry eyes filled with tears. Perhaps some day, when little Meg became stronger—perhaps some day they two—just they—might go away somewhere, together—somewhere where the world was all soft rose and gray, where there were no endless days of toil, no angry voice, nothing but peace. Then perhaps Meg would—
"Jane," a rough voice broke in on her musings, "fer God's sake, woman, what ails ye? Seven o'clock an' no bite to eat ready!"
Jane hurriedly rose from the window. For the first time in her life she had let her day-dreams really make her forget her dull, common-place world. She stopped to smooth Meg's moist curls, and ran downstairs. There at the foot stood her husband, a whole day's displeasure frowning forth in his face, an angry light in his eyes.
"I know it's late, Jim—it's too bad," Jane faltered, "but you never had to wait before. I was busy—I was thinking—I—"
"Busy!" he sneered. "Busy! Settin' down doin' nothin' but hushin' that blamed brat. Let her alone. She ain't only a nuisance anyhow—spend yer time on something worth while."
Half unconsciously Jane looked at her hands; the forefinger of the right was rough and needle-pricked, and her hands were red and raw from much dish-washing and cleaning. She thought to herself how often she longed to caress little Meg, to hug her and rock her for a whole afternoon, to love, love, love her to her heart's content—but she had never found time. Then her husband's last cutting words came back to her. She took a step forward, the suffering of years in her face. The red spots on her cheeks were very red now. "Can I help it," she gasped, "that my baby is a puny little thing? Is it my fault? What care has she ever had, excepting what I have been able to steal for her? If you were a man like other men—not a brute—then perhaps you would understand!" She clinched her hand and looked defiantly up into his face.
Jim stood still for a moment, astonished at the outburst from his meek wife. Then his quick anger blazed up, and, lifting his big hand, he struck Jane full in the face. She fell back against the stairway, her face white, save for the red spots which were livid now. Her eyes, were full of tears from the force of the blow. She heard Jim's voice from a distance.
"No use waitin' here forever," he grumbled. "I'll go to Reynold's an' get a bite; his wife'll probably have it waitin'." And she saw him turn to the door along which Meg just came tapping. The child hurried to get out of his way. Jim slouched heavily through the room, and out of the house, his big boots creaking as he went.
Jane sat down on the step. Her head ached from the force of the blow. She felt dazed with the suddenness of everything. Little Meg came and sat down beside her, patting Jane's rough hand with her soft palm to attract her attention; then she settled down quietly beside her, her bright head leaning on her mother's apron. Darkness came, but Jane did not stir. Meg had gone to sleep.
Suddenly the crutch beside them slipped and rattled against the wall. Meg woke and cried out with fright. Jane absently took the child in her arms and tried to soothe her, but Meg was thoroughly frightened and refused to be comforted. At length she was quiet and Jane carried her to bed. In a few moments, her baby-fear forgotten, she was again fast asleep. Jane went over to the window and crouched there, bitterness in her heart. Over in the west the shadowy outlines of the trees looked mysterious, aloof, unsympathetic; so did the cold white stars over them. Sympathy seemed to have gone out of everything in the whole world. And Jane leaned heavily on the sill and thought.
For a long time she sat there, until she heard Meg stir restlessly on the bed. Then she rose and looked mechanically towards the Reynolds house. A bright light burned in a lower room, so she knew that her husband was still there, talking over the day's affairs with Farmer Reynolds. Her husband! She felt a sudden shrinking at the mere word. She decided that she hated him, she knew that she hated him, with the pent-up hatred of years. And she shuddered when she thought of to-morrow and the next to-morrow, and all the dull to-morrows that would have to come—and he must be in them all; that was the thought which made her sick and faint. She lay down on the bed beside Meg, merely loosening her waist and uncoiling her hair. Physical weariness brought a dreamless sleep. She woke with a start, after a sleep that seemed to have lasted for centuries. There was strange noises downstairs—gruff, muffled voices, queer shuffling as of heavy boots, and then a sudden scraping against the outer door. With a quick unreasoning fear at her heart, Jane flew down the stairs and out into the kitchen. Some one had lighted the oil lamp there. Her eyes saw at first only a blurred group before her. Her vision cleared gradually, until the blur resolved itself into four men, with alarmed, puzzled faces, who were carrying several boards on which lay something covered with a big coat. Jane held her breath, while the men looked sheepishly at one another. Then she ran to the heap, lifted the coat, and looked down at her husband. His face was hard and set, the jaw projecting; but the usual sneer was gone from his mouth, and his closed eyes gave him an expression of peace. Jane dropped the coat as if dazed and turned helplessly to the men. They, equally helpless, nudged Farmer Reynolds forward to act as spokesman. His big, kindly face was abashed and solemn, his fingers nervously twirled his rough cap.
"It was a stroke, mum," he managed to jerk out at last, "some kind of a fit, Doc says. It carried him right, off, too, quicker'n a wink, an' not a mite o' pain. There he was a-sittin' an' scrappin' like a good feller one minute—an' then his face kind o' went pale, an' over he keeled. First we knew it was him on the floor, clean knocked out." Reynolds was becoming garrulous in his efforts to relieve the embarrassment of the situation, but Jane had already forgotten him. They had laid Jim on the floor and Jane sat down beside him, carefully adjusting his tumbled coat and smoothing the rough hair off his low forehead. She did it all in a calm and matter-of-fact way. The men looked helplessly at one another, while Jane, utterly unconscious of them, continued her ministrations to the dead. Was it a few hours ago or was it many years ago that she had vowed never to call him husband again? She had forgotten—after all, it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered now.
Suddenly there came a tapping down the steps. The stair door was pushed open, and a towsled, barefooted, night-gowned little figure appeared on the threshold. "Mother," Meg quivered, "where are you?" When she saw her mother, she made straight for her, almost tumbling over the crutch in her haste. She threw her arms, lovingly around her mother's neck. Jane started—the queer, dazed look left her eyes, though her cheeks were still pale, save for one long red mark. With a little sob she turned, crushed the child to her, and began to cry.
"Oh, but we did love him, Meg, didn't we?" she sobbed. "And he was good to us, just as good as he knew how to be. Oh, Meg, Meg, if I had only been a better wife to him!"
—Katherine Kurz.
"Gad! and to think, Jim, that I ever lived on Front street!" The frock-coated, silk-hatted stage manager removed the big black cigar from his mouth, and with a pudgy little finger, on which sparkled a blue diamond of unusual size, he flicked away the ashes. "Though it really was a rather decent sort of a place then, you know." He addressed his companion, a press-agent, first, however, carefully readjusting the cigar so that it should be at such an angle to his lips as to suggest sportiness.
Now, the south side of the thoroughfare just mentioned consists chiefly of warehouses and saloons, the north side chiefly of saloons and pawnshops. On summer days the street squirms with chickens, bulldogs and babies; but on the warm evenings, when the pawnshops and the warehouses are closed, when the saloons are doing a lucrative business, then the chickens roost on the back fences, the bulldogs doze lazily on the stone flaggings, and in the stuffy little sleeping apartments above the saloons the children of the saloon-keepers dream of the envy which, by means of delicious chili-sauce sandwiches, they will create the next day among the children of the pawnbrokers.
The two men were now approaching the most prosperous saloon in the street. Streams of light, coming from both above and below the little green baize door, shone on a swinging signboard. "Tim Dugan's Café," the gilt letters informed any who were unacquainted with the neighborhood. Boorish men could be heard calling jocularly for more beer, and the constant slamming of the cash drawer mingled with the clinking of heavy glasses.
"A song! It's time fer a chune!" called a raucous voice.
"Aha, yer right there, it's Terry fer us," acquiesced one of the crowd.
"Terry! Terry! it's oop on the table fer ye, Terry." The cry was accompanied by much loud laughter and the shuffling of heavy boots. Labor-hardened hands clapped approval, and then for a moment there was silence.
"'A sailor's wife a sailor's star shall be.'"
The sweet, though untrained tenor voice, rang high and clear.
"'Yo-ho-oh, boyoys, ho—'"
The two fashionably dressed men stopped in front of the short door.
"Jove! what a voice!" the manager breathed.
"'A long, long life to my sweet wife!'"
No sound interrupted the ringing sailor ballad.
"Let's go in and have a drink," suggested the press-agent, when the song was finished.
As unobtrusively as possible the two men entered.
"More! more!" the appreciative, if unschooled, audience was demanding, and in the clatter of applause the strangers were unnoticed.
"'I have come to say good-bye, Dolly Grey.'"
The then new popular song thrilled the listeners with its martial rhythm, as the plaintive cadences of the beautiful voice rang in their ears.
"'Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you.'"
The singer's glance fell on the new listeners. His merry eyes wavered and his face flushed until it became as red as his curly hair. He stopped short in the chorus.
"I guess it's me that's been yowling anough fer tunight, byes," he mumbled, as he climbed down from the table and, sliding behind the counter, donned the white apron which proclaimed him a bartender.
"Wy, Terry, wat's the matter wit ye? We got a have one more afore ye quit."
But Terry shook his head vigorously in an emphatic "no," as he rapidly cleaned the thick glasses.
The two men from the world of dazzling footlights ordered drinks, paid doubly for them, made a bluff at enjoying the poor liquor, and then quietly left the café, and continued their walk past the warehouses, pawnshops and saloons of Front street.
The next morning, when the heavy wagons were rattling over the cobble-stones of the narrow, dirty thoroughfare, and the children of the pawnbrokers were engaged in throwing "spit-balls" at the children of the saloon-keepers, "Tim Dugan's Café" was for the second time honored with the entrance of the stage-manager of the minstrel show which was to be in town the next week. This potentate had come on ahead of his company to adjust some little difficulty with the play-house owners, and now that that business had been settled, another matter of importance presented itself: the tenor soloist, no longer in his prime, had left.
The manager sauntered up to the bar, rested his right elbow on the marble slab, settled his "silk" hat more comfortably on his head, shoved his left hand deep into his trousers' pocket—whereupon an attractive chinking sound could be heard—and crossed his gaitered feet.
"One," he announced, and the ruddy-haired Irish lad, who had been busy washing glasses, quickly, deftly, filled a mug with frothy beer.
"Ahem!" The manager puffed up his heavy chest and leaned both elbows on the bar.
Then, ensued a whispered dialogue, during which Terry Flynn's laughing eyes alternately grew round with wonder and twinkled with pleasure.
"Sorry!" gasped the bartender at last, "not a bit of it. Ye cin bet yer shiny, boots, an' it's me as 'll do it!"
The manager, smiling with the satisfaction of having clinched an excellent bargain, made his way among the chickens, bulldogs and babies of Front street and soon left the beery atmosphere far behind him.
Terry, however, kept his own council. Not until the following Monday did he give any information concerning the identity of the "swell gent" who had so strangely visited him.
Then how the inhabitants of Front street rejoiced! Terry Flynn—often called "Irish" for short—redheaded Terry Flynn, who had many a time caused a quarrel to be forgotten by breaking into a song as he rattled the mugs on the bar—Terry—their Terry—was going on the stage! He would own a silk tile, and wear diamond studs—but he would sing no more for Front street.
How the bony-fisted, generous men, in spite of their keen regret at losing him, rejoiced in Terry's good fortune!
"Ha'n't I said, ag'in an' ag'in, as Terry could sing twicet as fine as the feller 'at sang 'atween the acks o' 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' one time w'en I went an' seen it? Ha'n't I now?" queried a delighted teamster.
"Aye, that ye 'ave, Jawn, that ye 'ave," replied a pensioned sailor, also jubilant over the fame in store for Terry.
As for Terry himself, he had not yet recovered from his surprise, and so had little room for other emotions. He was too ignorant, too fresh from his peat-carrying labors in the shamrock country, to have any fear of stage fright. Indeed, that word was not in his stunted vocabulary.
He went that afternoon to rehearse "Nancy Lee," with the rest of the company, newly arrived, who were to join him in the "yo-ho's." How well the song sounded when supplemented by such a chorus! Terry's blood quickened! He did not observe the coldness of the other singers towards him. He would have cared little if he had felt the lack of friendliness, for so sunny was his Irish temperament, so strong his Irish independence and congeniality, that he would not easily have lost hope of winning the good will of his associates. Moreover Terry was so humble that he would rather have expected them to stand a little aloof at first; but when, black-faced and white-gloved, he stood upon the great stage of the Opera House, and filled the domed auditorium with his strong, beautiful tenor notes, he knew nothing save that he was one of "them actor fellows" now; that the men and women from the world of wealth were listening to him. His eyes sparkled with excitement.
"A long, long life to my sweet wife," he sang.
In the silence of the people Terry instinctively recognized their appreciation.
"Nancy Lee—"
The vaulted ceiling sent the round, high notes back to the eager ears of the audience.
"Yo-ho-boyoys, ho—"
The "yo-ho" didn't sound with the proper vigor. It was flat. A frown appeared between Terry's arched eyebrows. He was singing his "Yo-ho's" alone! Slowly he turned, still singing, to face the other minstrels. Some one snickered, "Do you see us singing with a bar-tender?"
"Nance—"
Terry stopped. A calloused fist, with strong muscle and Irish temper to speed it, shot out.
"Curtain!" called the manager, wildly. The audience, though somewhat surprised, accepted this performance as a ridiculous climatic ending to one of the "stunts," and gave a vigorous applause. But Terry heeded neither applause nor curtain. He was demonstrating to these unmannerly show men, that though they might refuse to sing with a bar-tender, they could not refuse to accept from one a lesson in pugilism.
Terry paused to take a long breath. He glared at the men, one of whom was holding a handkerchief to a rapidly swelling eye, another of whom was hugging an aching side. Terry had done his work quickly. The manager hastened up to interfere.
"They might a' told me so afore. It isn't me as they need be makin' a fool of. I'm made as good as them, even if it do be a truth that I sell the beer they drink," Terry said, dazed. He picked up the battered opera hat which had been part of his costume and started towards the door.
"My dear Mr. Flynn, I will adjust this little misunderstanding. I assure you, it shall not occur again."
Terry turned. "Why," he laughed strangely, as he picked a bit of lint from his sleeve. "Aren't ye knowin'? I'd be ashamed t' sing, with such dum poor excuses fer men," he replied, and made his way down the rickety stairway, to the street, not stopping even to remove the grease-paint.
"It's them as might a been men, and told me," he sobbed as he walked slowly back again to dirty, ill-lighted Front street, to don again his white apron; to pass the amber-colored foamy liquid over the bar; to sing "Nancy Lee" in Tim Dugan's Café; to sing for the rough men who would deem it a sacrilege to lift their harsh voices with Terry's sweet plaintive tones.
—Dorothea G. Knoblock.
Nora Titay, a widow of fifty, came home from the gambling house one afternoon in bad humor. Her hair hung carelessly over her wrinkled face, which always looked as if it had been dipped in a barrel of flour. As she walked along the street, she spat and muttered, with her mouth full of buyo, "Pshe, this cursed panguingue will ruin me. I had bad luck this week. Yesterday I lost ten pesos, and now twelve. I haven't a single penny left. I wonder where Rosa and I will get the money to buy our food. I have sold her ring to pay my debts. To-morrow, there will be another game. I shall play again to see if I can recover what I have lost. But where shall I get money? Oh, I see! Chiquito is coming to-night to court Rosa. He is very rich, and is willing to give anything he has if he can only win my daughter's love. But foolish girl! She does not like him, because he is a Chinaman. She prefers to love that poor, simple student, Pedro. I will force her to marry Chiquito; then I can play panguingue at any time. I shall soon be rich."
"Rosa," said Titay as soon as she arrived at the house, "you must look well to-night, for Chiquito is coming. You must not show any sour face to him. I want you to marry him whether you like to or no. Do you understand me? Now, don't say anything or I will whip you," said Titay, seriously. "Why don't you marry him yourself, mamma? You will be a good partner for him since you love him better than I do," said Rosa laughing. "What, you foolish girl! Do you mean to joke me, your mother? I am looking out for your good," said Titay angrily, then slapped and pinched her daughter. They were still quarreling when Chiquito came.
"Buena noche, Nola Tetay y Senolita Losa," said Chiquito in his poor Spanish, when he came.
"Buenas noches, Chiquito," replied Titay with a smile. "Here is a basket of oranges and tikoy for you and Senolita Losa," said Chiquito, while he was uncovering the basket. "What a very good son-in-law, I have!" murmured Titay. "Chiquito, to-morrow afternoon you must come here ready to marry Rosa. Bring a priest with you, and get a wedding dress for her. But, by the way, lend me a sum of money, for I must buy something." Chiquito was so glad that he immediately handed to her his purse. "What kind of dress shall I bring, mother?" asked Chiquito eagerly. "You must ask Rosa about that," murmured Titay. Chiquito went to Rosa, who was looking out of the window, absorbed in thought. "Senolita Losa, what kind of dress should you like for our wedding?" asked Chiquito politely. "Baboy! (swine) what wedding do you mean? Do you think I would marry you, baboy?" said Rosa, angrily. "Your mother told me that I must come here to-morrow afternoon, and you and I should be married," said Chiquito. "You had better marry mother. She is more fit for you. Now, go away." Nora Titay was so busily counting her money and thinking how many times she could play panguingue with it that she did not hear the quarrel. "Nola Tetay, Losa is angry with me. She does not want to marry me," said Chiquito.
"Never mind, you can go home now, Chiquito, and be ready for to-morrow. I will see that she accepts the proposal," said Titay. Chiquito went home gladly, and Titay got busy compelling Rosa to marry Chiquito, till the daughter was forced to make a promise.
The next day, at the appointed hour, Chiquito came with a priest. But Rosa could not be found in the house. A letter was found instead saying that Rosa had eloped with Pedro. Chiquito, disliking to lose his money, asked for Titay's hand. They were married that very day.
—Joaquina E. Tirona.