by Ralph Henry Barbour, originally begun December 1906
THE RESCUE
Kenneth's first act after hearing the alarm was to awake Joe. This he did by the simple expedient of yanking the bedclothes away from him and yelling "Fire!" at the top of his lungs. Then, stumbling over the chairs, he groped his way to the hall door and opened it. The corridor was already filled with excitement and confusion. Of the eighteen boys who roomed on that floor fully half were in evidence, standing dazedly about in pajamas or night-shirts and shouting useless questions and absurd answers. Simms, who lived at the far end of the corridor, emerged from his room dragging a steamer trunk after him. Instantly the scantily-clad youths dashed into their rooms intent on rescuing their belongings. Joe joined Kenneth at the door.
"Where 's the fire?" he gasped.
"I don't know," answered Kenneth, "but I can smell it. Get something on; I'm going to. Has anyone given the alarm?" he asked, as Simms hurried back toward his study.
"Yes! No! I don't know! Everything 's on fire upstairs! You 'd better get your things out!"
"Somebody ought to give the alarm," said Kenneth. "Who's seen Mr. Bronson?"
But none had time to answer him. Kenneth scooted down the hall and thumped at the instructor's door. There was no answer and Kenneth unceremoniously shoved it open. The study was in darkness.
"Mr. Bronson!" he cried. "Mr. Bronson!"
There was no reply, and Kenneth recollected that very frequently Mr. Bronson spent Sunday night at his home. He hurried back to his own room and found Joe throwing their belongings out of the windows. At that moment the bell on School Hall began to clang wildly and a second afterward the alarm was taken up by the fire-bell in the village, a mile away.
Kenneth pulled on his trousers and shoes, looked for a coat only to find that Joe had thrown all the coats out of the windows, and went back to the corridor. All up and down it boys were staggering along with trunks and bags, while from the western end the smoke was volleying forth from Number 19 in great billowy clouds. From the floor above raced fellows with suit-cases and small trunks, shouting and laughing in the excitement of the moment.
One of the older boys, Harris by name, came galloping upstairs with a fire extinguisher, followed by a crowd of partly-dressed fellows from Upper House. But the smoke which filled the end of the corridor drove them back and the stream from the extinguisher wasted itself against the fast-yellowing plaster of the wall. The building was rapidly becoming uninhabitable and, calling Joe from the study, where he was vainly trying to get the study table through the casement, Kenneth made for the stairs. The light at the far end of the corridor shone red and murky through the dense clouds of smoke.
"All out of the building!" cried a voice from below, and the half-dozen adventurous spirits remaining in the second floor corridor started down the stairs.
"Do you know how it began?" asked Joe of a boy beside him.
"Yes," was the reply. "King, in 19, was reading in bed with a lamp he has, and he went to sleep and upset it somehow. He got burned, they say."
"Serves him right," muttered someone. Kenneth glanced around and found Grafton Hyde beside him.
"Hello," said Kenneth.
"Hello," answered Grafton. "Did you save anything?"
"Yes, I guess so," Kenneth replied. "Did you?"
For the moment animosities were forgotten, wiped out of existence by the calamity.
"Not much," said Grafton. "But I don't care. I tried to get my trunk down but the smoke was fierce and the end of the building was all in flames. So I lit out."
The lower hall was crowded with boys. Doctor Randall, tall and gaunt in a red flowered dressing gown, and several of the instructors were doing their best to clear the building.
"All out, boys!" called the Doctor. "It is n't safe here now! The firemen will be here in a minute and you '11 only be in the way! I want you all to go over to Upper House!"
"Hello!" said Kenneth. "What 's the matter with you, Jasper?"
Jasper Hendricks, the youngest boy in school, was crouched in a dim corner of the hall, sobbing and shaking as though his heart was broken.
"What 's up?" asked Grafton.
"Don't know. Here 's young Jasper crying like a good one. What 's the trouble, Jasper? Did you get hurt?"
But the boy apparently did n't even hear them.
"Lost his things, probably," suggested Grafton, "and feels it. Never mind, kid, you 'll get some more."
"I want every boy out of the building!" cried the Doctor. But his voice was almost downed in the babel of cries and shouts and laughter.
"Come on, Jasper," said Kenneth, trying to raise him to his feet. "We 've got to get out."
For the first time he caught a glimpse of the boy's face. It was white and drawn and horror-stricken.
"What 's the matter?" cried Kenneth in alarm. Young Hendrick's lips moved but Kenneth could not distinguish the whispered words.
"Eh? What 's that? Speak louder! You 're all right now! Don't be scared! •What is it?" And Kenneth bent his head as the younger boy clung to him convulsively.
"Mister Whipple!"
Kenneth barely caught the whispered words.
"Mr. Whipple," he muttered. "What does he mean?" He pulled the lad's body around so that he could see his face in the smokedimmed light. "What about him, Jasper? He's safe, is n't he?"
The white face shook from side to side.
"What does he say?" cried Grafton. "Whipple? Is n't he down? Where is he?"
"He must be—!"
Kenneth paused, his own face paling, and looked fearsomely toward the stairs down which the gray-brown smoke was floating wraith-like. Then his eyes met Grafton's and he read his own horror reflected there.
"Jasper's room is next to Mr. Whipple's," said Grafton hoarsely. "He must have seen something! Jasper, is Mr. Whipple up there now?"
The lad's head nodded weakly. Then he broke again into great dry sobs that shook him from head to foot. Kenneth seized him beneath the shoulders and dragged him a few yards nearer the door. There he put him down.
"Don't cry, Jasper," he whispered kindly. "It 's all right; we 'll save him!"
For an instant he looked about him. Through the doors the boys were pushing their way outward, protesting, laughing, excitedly.
Of the faculty Doctor Randall alone was in sight. One other instant Kenneth hesitated. Then with a bound he was half-way up the first flight.
"Who 's that going up there?" cried the Doctor. "Here, come back instantly!"
But Kenneth did not hear, or, hearing, paid no heed. He was at the second floor, the evil-smelling smoke thick about him, blinding his eyes and smarting his throat. Above him was a strange lurid glare and the roaring of the flames. For a moment his heart failed him and he leaned weak and panting against the banister. Then a voice sounded in his ears.
"It 's no use, Garwood," cried Grafton. "We can't get up there."
"We 'll try," was the answer.
Bending low, his sleeve over his mouth, Kenneth rushed the next flight. Grafton was at his heels. At the top Kenneth crouched against the last step and squinted painfully down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Whipple's room and the flames. The heat was stifling and the smoke rolled toward them in great red waves. Grafton, choking, coughing, crouched at Kenneth's side.
"We can't reach him," he muttered. "The fire has cut him off."
It seemed true. Mr. Whipple's room was at the far end and between his door and the stairway the flames were rioting wildly, licking up the woodwork and playing over the lathes from which the plaster was crumbling away. Kenneth's heart sank and for an instant he thought he was going to faint. Everything grew black before him and his head settled down on his outstretched arm. Then Grafton was shaking him by the shoulder and his senses returned.
"Come on!" cried Grafton. "Let 's get out of this while we can! We 'll be burned alive in a minute!" There was panic in his voice and he tugged nervously at Kenneth's arm.
At that moment a great expanse of plaster fell from the ceiling some thirty feet away and the flames glared lundly through the corridor, making everything for a brief moment as light as day. From below came calls, but Kenneth did not hear them.
"Look!" he cried, seizing Grafton's arm. "On the floor! Do you see?"
"Yes," shouted Grafton. "It 's Mr. Whipple! Can we get him?"
"I 'm going to try," was the calm reply. "Will you come with me?"
For a moment the two boys looked into each other's eyes, squinting painfully in the acrid smoke. The flames crackled and roared in their ears. The strained, terror-stricken look passed from Grafton's face. His eyes lighted and he even smiled a little.
"Come on," he said simply.
"Wait!" Kenneth leaned down so that his face was against the spindles and took a deep breath. There was a current of clearer air arising from the well and, although it smarted in his lungs, it gave him relief. Grafton followed his example. Then, for they realized that there was no time to lose, with one accord they rushed, stooping, down the corridor into the face of the flames.
Mr. Whipple lay stretched face downward on the floor where he had fallen when overcome by the smoke and, as is more than likely, his terror. He was in his night-clothes and one hand grasped a small satchel. Behind him the floor was afire scarcely a yard away. The thirty feet from the stairs to where he lay seemed as many yards to the rescuers, and the heat grew fiercer at every step. But they gained the goal, fighting for breath, bending their heads against the savage onslaughts of the flames, and seized the instructor's arms. Whether he was alive there was no time to ascertain. There was time for nothing save to strive to drag him toward the stairway. With tightly-closed eyes, from which the smarting tears rolled down their faces, and sobbing breaths, they struggled back.
But if it had been hard going it was trebly hard returning. The instructor was not a large man nor a heavy one, but now he seemed to weigh tons. Their feet slipped on the plaster-sprinkled boards and their hearts hammered in their throats. Ten feet they made; and then, as though angry at being deprived of their prey, the flames burst with a sudden roar through the melting partition a few feet behind them and strove to conquer them with a scorching breath. Kenneth staggered to his knees under its fury and Grafton gave a cry of anguish and despair. But the fiery wave receded and they struggled desperately on, fighting now for their own lives as well as for that of the instructor.
Ten feet more and the worst was passed. A frenzied rush for the stairway and safety was in sight. Half falling, half stumbling, they went down the first few steps to the landing at the turn, Mr. Whipple's inert body thumping along between them. There, with faces held close to the boards, they lay drinking in grateful breaths of the smoke-poisoned air, which, after what they had been inhaling, was fresh and sweet.
Then, above the booming of the fire, voices reached them, hoarse, anxious voices, and white faces peered up at them through the smoke from the corridor below.
"All right!" called Kenneth, but, to his surprise, his words were only hoarse whispers. Struggling to his knees, he seized Mr. Whipples's arm and strove to go on. But Grafton offered no assistance. He lay motionless where he had thrown himself on the landing.
"Come on!" croaked Kenneth impatiently, and tugged at his double burden. Then the crimson light went suddenly out and he subsided limply against the banisters just as the rescuers dashed up to them.
When Kenneth came to a few minutes later he was being carried across the campus. Near at hand a fire-engine throbbed and roared, sending showers of sparks into the winter darkness. Behind him a red glare threw long moving shadows across the grass. In his ears were snouts and commands and a shrill whistling. Then he lost consciousness again.
...to be concluded.
"Uncle John, Mind-Reader"
by Ethel D. Puffer, January 1902
"I think that you will certainly win in next June's tennis tournament, Peggy!"
Peggy wheeled round on the window-seat, quite pale with astonishment.
"How in all the world did you guess that I was thinking of the tournament?" she quavered. "I have n't said one word!"
"Oh, I 'm a modern magician, you know," answered Uncle John, gravely. "Any inquiries to make to-day about future events?"
"No; but truly," Peggy was insisting, when a gruff voice was heard from under the table, where a pair of spectacles seemed to be in imminent danger of falling into a bulky volume,—that may have been Caesar, but looked like "Gulliver's Travels,"—read in semi-darkness between two dusty elbows.
"I 'll bet a penny," said the voice, "that you can't tell what I 'm thinking of!"
"Perhaps not exactly, most valiant nephew," said Uncle John, speaking this time with slow, rolling intonation and the air of a tragedy hero, "but I would wager the half of my ducats that—at—this—very—moment—you—are—wondering if Bacon wrote Shakspere. Am I right?"
The spectacled youth—Ted was fourteen, but looked older—was open-mouthed. "My gracious, you almost hit it!" he cried. "I was wondering if Shakspere ever visited Venice. Now, did you read my thoughts, honestly?"
"We shall have to call you 'Uncle John, Mind-Reader,'" was Peggy's suggestion.
Uncle John settled himself leisurely in his big leather chair and turned a twinkling eye upon the eager children. "I was only tapping the regular telegraph line," said he, teasingly. "Ran a little ahead of time in your case, Ted."
"Uncle, you are horrid!" cried Peggy. "I just believe you willed us to think those things, like the wicked goblin I was reading about yesterday in my 'Gray Fairy Book.'"
"Well, I did and I did n't, little Peggy. Would you really like to know? It would n't bother you to hear a real explanation? After all, there 's nothing simpler in the world than my little trick. See, this is the idea of it: Suppose old Rover here on the hearth-rug hears you calling on the other side of a field of Deacon Jones's best timothy. He never stops to think that Deacon Jones will be furious, not he! He plunges across, the quickest way. Well, now, the next time Rover comes by that field, how is he most likely to go across? By his own path, is n't he? The way he went before. And if you stood on the other side and heard him barking, you 'd know pretty well at what spot the old brown nose would appear. Now in that restless brain of yours you 're making paths for thought all the time. You know that the postman does n't often bring you anything but your good St. Nicholas, and you 've made a little path between your thought of mail-time and your magazine—and when the end of the month comes on, I fancy you travel that path pretty often when you hear the postman's ring. But for every thought you have half a dozen possible paths; only the one you travel oftenest is the one you 're likely to travel next time, and by just the same stations."
"I see," said Peggy, thoughtfully. "Then something made you think just now I was traveling my tennis-path?"
"Yes. About ten minutes ago Mr. Jenkins passed the window. Now, we don't know Mr. Jenkins very well; the only thing we notice about him is that every summer afternoon we see him driving out to the Athletic Club—easiest path for Mr. Jenkins! Well, then, Athletic Club. I knew you did n't play golf; I knew you delighted in tennis—easiest path awav from the Athletic Club. Then I knew you wanted immensely to win the girls' cup; and I will confess I saw you put your arm into position for a good serve,—though that was 'no fair,' of course,—and there you are!"
"And for me," said Ted, "you willed me to think of Shakspere, did n't you? I know my first thought, when you began to speak so solemnly and slowly, was Henry Irving as I heard him last week."
"You 're right, Ted; and the path was opened to Venice by throwing the word 'ducats' in your way. But I 'd heard you discussing the Bacon matter yesterday with your father, and took my chances of your getting to that point in time for my question. So you see it 's like a sausage-mill: 1 throw in my meat at one end, and I can look for its coming out again in the particular kind of sausage you offer. Peggy makes 'em flavored with fresh air, and dew, and little girls' games; but you, old fellow, use decidedly musty spices of the Orient and bygone days. Then, there 's another thing, to go back to our paths: it is n't always the oldest and the broad-trodden, but sometimes the newest, if it is pretty deep-plowed, that you 'll take. You remember how I expected you to take the Bacon one, because you made that only yesterday."
Ted was plunged in meditation, gazing with wrinkled forehead into the fire. "I don't think I like that," said he. "You 'd know all a fellow 's up to, supposing you know his paths."
"That 's the point," laughed Uncle John—"supposing I know his paths! But I can tell you there are lots of things to find out about a fellow's paths. Suppose you and Peggy take your pencils, and I 'll show you what I mean."
Ted drew his fountain-pen from his pocket, but Peggy would not be satisfied until she had possessed herself of Uncle John's silver pencil and a sheet of mama's best stiff and crested note-paper.
"Now here 's a good gray word," said Uncle John; "no especial paths made for it, no especial exploration of its country, so we can start fair. Now write down as quickly as possible a list of words in the order in which they come into your minds after writing the first word, and—we shall see what we shall see. Attention! Present pencils! Now, all ready: Horse!"
For three minutes there was a diligent scratching. Ted stared into vacancy, and now and again made as if he would clutch a hovering through, and Peggy suspended her pencil in the air; but they put the final flourish together. Here are the lists as Uncle John read them out:
PEGGY.
horse
carriage
drive
trees
birds' nests
collection
school
Dr. Lane
examination
grandma
TED.
horse
quadruped
Jungle Book
Kipling
author
fame
study
perserverance
gymnastics
Greece
"Peggy, my dear," said Uncle John, " it is easy to see how your mind works. You love woods and out-of-door games; and the school, and Dr. Lane your teacher, and the examination lead your thoughts only to what comes after them in spring—grandma's farm and all your country sports. And your paths are between things all of the same kind—every-day things that have been together in the same picture in your mind, so that the paths between them are well worn. As for you, Ted, it 's not hard, of course, to trace the reading and study that most interest you now. But more important is the way you think. Quadruped and author, you 'll notice, are more general, as we say—that is, refer to larger classes of objects than horse and Kipling; and the thing that made the path between them easy is not their being together in experience, like Peggy's horse and carriage, but the fact that the quality of four-leggedness, which a horse has, is the mark of the quadruped. It 's as if you broke up the notion 'horse,' and took a part of it, and made that the name of a class. The philosopher would say that you went from the single or particular to the general—and that's what he does himself! I 'm not sure you have n't the making of a Lord Bacon in yourself, old fellow!"
"Oh, Ted, how splendid!" broke in Peggy; but her uncle had not finished his talk.
"Now, the name of this path-traveling in the mind," he went on, " is the association of ideas; and according to the kinds of ideas that are associated together—that have paths between them, you know—we name it outer or inner association: outer for the ideas of things that we 've seen together in the world, like Peggy's horse and carriage, as I said before; inner for the ideas of things that have n't time or place in common, but only another idea—like Ted's four-leggedness."
Peggy laughed out here, and was frowned on by her philosophical brother, who then proceeded to show the character his uncle had given him.
"I don't see yet what makes one thought come after another," he insisted. "It is n't just like Rover, after all—for Rover was looking out for the easiest way. He knew beforehand what he wanted—to get across the field to me. But when I 'm thinking, I don't know beforehand what I want, and I 'm certainly not looking out for the easiest way to think."
"Ted," said Uncle John, "you are a rash boy, for you have brought on yourself a rather long explanation, without which I can't answer your question. You know, of course, that you can't think without that active brain of yours, which is made up of billions of tiny cells and nerve-paths between the cells. For thinking is n't your brain; and yet for every movement of your thought something happens there. What it is we don't know, but perhaps something like an electric current from cell to cell along the nerve-paths. Now, suppose sometime last summer Peggy was in the woods and went bird-nesting. The ideas of the trees and the birds' nests were together in her mind, and some kind of a change took place in her brain, corresponding to each idea. We 'll say—just for a rough scheme—that the little brain-cell A" (Uncle John drew out his pencil) "was charged or excited for the tree, and the little cell B for the nest. And then there was a breaking through of this current of the nerve-path between A and B, because both were active at the same time. Now, next time when A was charged with a current—when Peggy thought of carriage and then of trees—that little nerve-path which had been broken through once before between A and B let the current through again to cell B, and consequently, B being excited, Peggy thought of birds' nests again."
"But horse and quadruped were never together in any such way in my life, Uncle John."
"I don't know, my boy; they may have been. Perhaps you saw the words together in the dictionary; and, if not, the parts of them were. That is, a horse has a good many other qualities besides his four-leggedness, but four-leggedness belongs to horses and quadrupeds together. Now, if the brain-cell X for four-leggedness has sometimes had a current between it and Z for quadruped, and sometimes between it and Y for horse, when X is excited,—as when I said 'horse!—then the current is likely to break right through where it had been before—and then you think of quadruped. And now, since I 'm among the big words, I may as well give you two more. What we 've been playing with is what they call successive association–"
"One idea after the other?" put in Ted.
"Just so. But did you ever think that we often have a lot of ideas at once? If I say 'ocean,' you hear the word, and you get an image of the big blueness and the sails and gulls, and a feeling of the salt air, and all those ideas rush together to make the one meaning. The sound of the word 'ocean ' sends a current all at once into all those other ideas that make up the whole. Don't you know, when one particular kind of clang is heard down the street, Ted, you think the word 'fire engine'?—and the picture of a shining thing with men hanging over it, and galloping horses, and general excitement; and all these ideas rush together, so that, at the second of hearing the clang, you shout and rush to the window. Well, that sort of thing we call simultaneous association."
"Uncle John," said Peggy, "you know last night I was thirsty, and I crept down in the dark to get a glass of water from the sideboard, and in the hall I ran across something big and furry—oh, I nearly screamed out with fright! But the next minute I touched a button, and I almost laughed out. What do you suppose it was? Your big fur-lined coat—it just came over me in a flash! and I could just see the nice old gray thing with the frogs and the big collar: was that si— simultaneous association?"
"Exactly," said Uncle John. "Something like playing blindman's-buff. If I catch a tip of your curls, I can see and hear and touch you all at once—you and all your naughtiness!"
"But, Uncle John," pursued Ted, "I 'm not sure that it works that way with me. When I run across anything in the dark, I don't see a picture of the thing in my mind. It 's as though something shouted it out at me —'table!' or 'sofa!' And when you say 'ocean,' I don't see it, or only a little. I think of the waves dashing, and the wind whistling in the sails."
"Well, well!" cried his uncle. "We 're finding out all your secrets! Do you know you have an auditory imagination ? That means you think first with your ears, so to speak. It 's just as truly simultaneous association as the other, only your paths are between ideas of sound, of hearing, and not of sight. Peggy, here, is a visualizer." Peggy looked scared. "That means, of course, that she thinks mostly in terms of sight. Now, I am what they call a motor type; that is, I think in terms of moving. And my simultaneous association, even for fire-engine, is n't half so much of the shining object as of the dash which I make to the window to see it; and for 'ocean.' it is much more my own movements in swimming, or even of saying the word 'ocean' with my own lips. Of course these different ways of imagining and remembering things can be combined in the same person, nearly always are so, only usually some one way is stronger than the others. Did you ever hear of the curious diseases called mental blindness and deafness? I knew a man once who was afflicted with the first. If he saw a table, for instance, he did n't know what it was for; could n't call it by name. His boots he would be as likely to call his hair-brush as anything; and yet if he touched the things, he knew at once what they were. You see what had happened. His association-paths for sight-sensations had been broken up. What kind of association was it that was lacking, Ted?"
"Simultaneous!" cried Ted, proudly. "Because the sight of the boots ought to have sent the current rushing to the sound of the word 'boots,' and the motions he would make putting them on, and—oh, everything!"
"Well," said Uncle John, "then perhaps Peggy can tell me how mental deafness would act. If a man really hears a bell ring, but is mentally deaf—"
"Why, then," said Peggy, doubtfully, " I suppose he would know that something was there, but he would n't know what it was, or see a picture of it in his mind, or obey its call to dinner."
"Well, then, since you are such clever children, perhaps you can tell me which kind of disease would be worse for each of you—Ted, the auditory, and Peggy, the visual young person."
This was easy. "Why, mental deafness," cried Ted, "for me, because most of my simultaneous associations come in sound, and I understand sounds better." And Peggy was equally sure that, as she always paid more attention to the looks of things, not to understand what she saw would be dreadful.
"Dear me!" said Uncle John, at length. "I 'm finding out about all your paths more than I ever knew before. And you see what a dangerous thing it is to get any paths broken through that you don't want to be dependent on or to go on using."
Ted was quite pale. "But, uncle, that 's perfectly frightful!" he cried. "Suppose I do something selfish once, or suppose I think of something very wrong or mean once—then that old nerve-path is there, ready to break out again as soon as one end of it is touched up,—and I 've got to think the mean thing, have I? Uncle John, have I got to think always of telling a lie—every time I get caught whispering in school?"
Peggy looked up as if she remembered something, and Uncle John had clearly not forgotten that shameful episode, either.
"I suppose you have, old fellow, unless you break out over and over again some new path for the current to take. Make your new path deep and wide enough, and it will go on broadening itself until the old one is quite overgrown. Make your new resolution a regular shock! Do you remember our discussion last year about Dan O'Brien's taking the pledge? How you said it was nonsense that a man with intelligence enough to keep a whole greenhouse going should n't have enough sense to know what drunkenness meant to himself and his family? and how I encouraged his resolve? That was just to make his new path deep enough. Every time he thinks of the drink now, the brain-path to church and the signed promise and his wife's joyful face is shorter than the brain-path to the saloon; and every time the current does n't break through and he does n't go down to the corner, there 's a deeper track in the one path and a weed grown in the other. Pretty soon the current can't break through any more. Well, Ted, you 're about to remark that my figures are getting mixed, as indeed they are. But I 'll tell you there 's nothing that 's so dreadful or so comforting to think of as this matter of these brain-paths of association—dreadful or comforting according as you find that you 're drifting wrong or steering right."
A wise uncle finds an interesting way to teach his niece and nephew about patterns of thoughts, habits, conscience—and even throws in a tiny temperance lecture! Note that even as recently as 1901 there was no accepted way to properly spell Shakespeare's name. Even the Bard didn't spell it the same twice!If Peggy had not been so deeply absorbed in her thoughts she must have heard the footsteps of her Uncle John when he came and looked over her shoulder. The autumn rain was dripping from the dull yellow leaves of the trees, and whirling them in tempestuous voyages down the gutters on both sides of the street, beating the scanty grass on the lawn, the patient horses, and shivering passers-by in a persistent attack, as if determined to make its last effort of spite before the soft snow should wrap the landscape in its comforting embrace. Not a summery outlook, certainly, nor one in which you would have expected a lively little girl to find such promise of out-of-door enjoyment as would keep her restless attention chained for the long, silent half-hour that had passed; and yet this extraordinary uncle leaned over and whispered in the golden-veiled little ear:
"I think that you will certainly win in next June's tennis tournament, Peggy!"
Peggy wheeled round on the window-seat, quite pale with astonishment.
"How in all the world did you guess that I was thinking of the tournament?" she quavered. "I have n't said one word!"
"Oh, I 'm a modern magician, you know," answered Uncle John, gravely. "Any inquiries to make to-day about future events?"
"No; but truly," Peggy was insisting, when a gruff voice was heard from under the table, where a pair of spectacles seemed to be in imminent danger of falling into a bulky volume,—that may have been Caesar, but looked like "Gulliver's Travels,"—read in semi-darkness between two dusty elbows.
"I 'll bet a penny," said the voice, "that you can't tell what I 'm thinking of!"
"Perhaps not exactly, most valiant nephew," said Uncle John, speaking this time with slow, rolling intonation and the air of a tragedy hero, "but I would wager the half of my ducats that—at—this—very—moment—you—are—wondering if Bacon wrote Shakspere. Am I right?"
The spectacled youth—Ted was fourteen, but looked older—was open-mouthed. "My gracious, you almost hit it!" he cried. "I was wondering if Shakspere ever visited Venice. Now, did you read my thoughts, honestly?"
"We shall have to call you 'Uncle John, Mind-Reader,'" was Peggy's suggestion.
Uncle John settled himself leisurely in his big leather chair and turned a twinkling eye upon the eager children. "I was only tapping the regular telegraph line," said he, teasingly. "Ran a little ahead of time in your case, Ted."
"Uncle, you are horrid!" cried Peggy. "I just believe you willed us to think those things, like the wicked goblin I was reading about yesterday in my 'Gray Fairy Book.'"
"Well, I did and I did n't, little Peggy. Would you really like to know? It would n't bother you to hear a real explanation? After all, there 's nothing simpler in the world than my little trick. See, this is the idea of it: Suppose old Rover here on the hearth-rug hears you calling on the other side of a field of Deacon Jones's best timothy. He never stops to think that Deacon Jones will be furious, not he! He plunges across, the quickest way. Well, now, the next time Rover comes by that field, how is he most likely to go across? By his own path, is n't he? The way he went before. And if you stood on the other side and heard him barking, you 'd know pretty well at what spot the old brown nose would appear. Now in that restless brain of yours you 're making paths for thought all the time. You know that the postman does n't often bring you anything but your good St. Nicholas, and you 've made a little path between your thought of mail-time and your magazine—and when the end of the month comes on, I fancy you travel that path pretty often when you hear the postman's ring. But for every thought you have half a dozen possible paths; only the one you travel oftenest is the one you 're likely to travel next time, and by just the same stations."
"I see," said Peggy, thoughtfully. "Then something made you think just now I was traveling my tennis-path?"
"Yes. About ten minutes ago Mr. Jenkins passed the window. Now, we don't know Mr. Jenkins very well; the only thing we notice about him is that every summer afternoon we see him driving out to the Athletic Club—easiest path for Mr. Jenkins! Well, then, Athletic Club. I knew you did n't play golf; I knew you delighted in tennis—easiest path awav from the Athletic Club. Then I knew you wanted immensely to win the girls' cup; and I will confess I saw you put your arm into position for a good serve,—though that was 'no fair,' of course,—and there you are!"
"And for me," said Ted, "you willed me to think of Shakspere, did n't you? I know my first thought, when you began to speak so solemnly and slowly, was Henry Irving as I heard him last week."
"You 're right, Ted; and the path was opened to Venice by throwing the word 'ducats' in your way. But I 'd heard you discussing the Bacon matter yesterday with your father, and took my chances of your getting to that point in time for my question. So you see it 's like a sausage-mill: 1 throw in my meat at one end, and I can look for its coming out again in the particular kind of sausage you offer. Peggy makes 'em flavored with fresh air, and dew, and little girls' games; but you, old fellow, use decidedly musty spices of the Orient and bygone days. Then, there 's another thing, to go back to our paths: it is n't always the oldest and the broad-trodden, but sometimes the newest, if it is pretty deep-plowed, that you 'll take. You remember how I expected you to take the Bacon one, because you made that only yesterday."
Ted was plunged in meditation, gazing with wrinkled forehead into the fire. "I don't think I like that," said he. "You 'd know all a fellow 's up to, supposing you know his paths."
"That 's the point," laughed Uncle John—"supposing I know his paths! But I can tell you there are lots of things to find out about a fellow's paths. Suppose you and Peggy take your pencils, and I 'll show you what I mean."
Ted drew his fountain-pen from his pocket, but Peggy would not be satisfied until she had possessed herself of Uncle John's silver pencil and a sheet of mama's best stiff and crested note-paper.
"Now here 's a good gray word," said Uncle John; "no especial paths made for it, no especial exploration of its country, so we can start fair. Now write down as quickly as possible a list of words in the order in which they come into your minds after writing the first word, and—we shall see what we shall see. Attention! Present pencils! Now, all ready: Horse!"
For three minutes there was a diligent scratching. Ted stared into vacancy, and now and again made as if he would clutch a hovering through, and Peggy suspended her pencil in the air; but they put the final flourish together. Here are the lists as Uncle John read them out:
PEGGY.
horse
carriage
drive
trees
birds' nests
collection
school
Dr. Lane
examination
grandma
TED.
horse
quadruped
Jungle Book
Kipling
author
fame
study
perserverance
gymnastics
Greece
"Peggy, my dear," said Uncle John, " it is easy to see how your mind works. You love woods and out-of-door games; and the school, and Dr. Lane your teacher, and the examination lead your thoughts only to what comes after them in spring—grandma's farm and all your country sports. And your paths are between things all of the same kind—every-day things that have been together in the same picture in your mind, so that the paths between them are well worn. As for you, Ted, it 's not hard, of course, to trace the reading and study that most interest you now. But more important is the way you think. Quadruped and author, you 'll notice, are more general, as we say—that is, refer to larger classes of objects than horse and Kipling; and the thing that made the path between them easy is not their being together in experience, like Peggy's horse and carriage, but the fact that the quality of four-leggedness, which a horse has, is the mark of the quadruped. It 's as if you broke up the notion 'horse,' and took a part of it, and made that the name of a class. The philosopher would say that you went from the single or particular to the general—and that's what he does himself! I 'm not sure you have n't the making of a Lord Bacon in yourself, old fellow!"
"Oh, Ted, how splendid!" broke in Peggy; but her uncle had not finished his talk.
"Now, the name of this path-traveling in the mind," he went on, " is the association of ideas; and according to the kinds of ideas that are associated together—that have paths between them, you know—we name it outer or inner association: outer for the ideas of things that we 've seen together in the world, like Peggy's horse and carriage, as I said before; inner for the ideas of things that have n't time or place in common, but only another idea—like Ted's four-leggedness."
Peggy laughed out here, and was frowned on by her philosophical brother, who then proceeded to show the character his uncle had given him.
"I don't see yet what makes one thought come after another," he insisted. "It is n't just like Rover, after all—for Rover was looking out for the easiest way. He knew beforehand what he wanted—to get across the field to me. But when I 'm thinking, I don't know beforehand what I want, and I 'm certainly not looking out for the easiest way to think."
"Ted," said Uncle John, "you are a rash boy, for you have brought on yourself a rather long explanation, without which I can't answer your question. You know, of course, that you can't think without that active brain of yours, which is made up of billions of tiny cells and nerve-paths between the cells. For thinking is n't your brain; and yet for every movement of your thought something happens there. What it is we don't know, but perhaps something like an electric current from cell to cell along the nerve-paths. Now, suppose sometime last summer Peggy was in the woods and went bird-nesting. The ideas of the trees and the birds' nests were together in her mind, and some kind of a change took place in her brain, corresponding to each idea. We 'll say—just for a rough scheme—that the little brain-cell A" (Uncle John drew out his pencil) "was charged or excited for the tree, and the little cell B for the nest. And then there was a breaking through of this current of the nerve-path between A and B, because both were active at the same time. Now, next time when A was charged with a current—when Peggy thought of carriage and then of trees—that little nerve-path which had been broken through once before between A and B let the current through again to cell B, and consequently, B being excited, Peggy thought of birds' nests again."
"But horse and quadruped were never together in any such way in my life, Uncle John."
"I don't know, my boy; they may have been. Perhaps you saw the words together in the dictionary; and, if not, the parts of them were. That is, a horse has a good many other qualities besides his four-leggedness, but four-leggedness belongs to horses and quadrupeds together. Now, if the brain-cell X for four-leggedness has sometimes had a current between it and Z for quadruped, and sometimes between it and Y for horse, when X is excited,—as when I said 'horse!—then the current is likely to break right through where it had been before—and then you think of quadruped. And now, since I 'm among the big words, I may as well give you two more. What we 've been playing with is what they call successive association–"
"One idea after the other?" put in Ted.
"Just so. But did you ever think that we often have a lot of ideas at once? If I say 'ocean,' you hear the word, and you get an image of the big blueness and the sails and gulls, and a feeling of the salt air, and all those ideas rush together to make the one meaning. The sound of the word 'ocean ' sends a current all at once into all those other ideas that make up the whole. Don't you know, when one particular kind of clang is heard down the street, Ted, you think the word 'fire engine'?—and the picture of a shining thing with men hanging over it, and galloping horses, and general excitement; and all these ideas rush together, so that, at the second of hearing the clang, you shout and rush to the window. Well, that sort of thing we call simultaneous association."
"Uncle John," said Peggy, "you know last night I was thirsty, and I crept down in the dark to get a glass of water from the sideboard, and in the hall I ran across something big and furry—oh, I nearly screamed out with fright! But the next minute I touched a button, and I almost laughed out. What do you suppose it was? Your big fur-lined coat—it just came over me in a flash! and I could just see the nice old gray thing with the frogs and the big collar: was that si— simultaneous association?"
"Exactly," said Uncle John. "Something like playing blindman's-buff. If I catch a tip of your curls, I can see and hear and touch you all at once—you and all your naughtiness!"
"But, Uncle John," pursued Ted, "I 'm not sure that it works that way with me. When I run across anything in the dark, I don't see a picture of the thing in my mind. It 's as though something shouted it out at me —'table!' or 'sofa!' And when you say 'ocean,' I don't see it, or only a little. I think of the waves dashing, and the wind whistling in the sails."
"Well, well!" cried his uncle. "We 're finding out all your secrets! Do you know you have an auditory imagination ? That means you think first with your ears, so to speak. It 's just as truly simultaneous association as the other, only your paths are between ideas of sound, of hearing, and not of sight. Peggy, here, is a visualizer." Peggy looked scared. "That means, of course, that she thinks mostly in terms of sight. Now, I am what they call a motor type; that is, I think in terms of moving. And my simultaneous association, even for fire-engine, is n't half so much of the shining object as of the dash which I make to the window to see it; and for 'ocean.' it is much more my own movements in swimming, or even of saying the word 'ocean' with my own lips. Of course these different ways of imagining and remembering things can be combined in the same person, nearly always are so, only usually some one way is stronger than the others. Did you ever hear of the curious diseases called mental blindness and deafness? I knew a man once who was afflicted with the first. If he saw a table, for instance, he did n't know what it was for; could n't call it by name. His boots he would be as likely to call his hair-brush as anything; and yet if he touched the things, he knew at once what they were. You see what had happened. His association-paths for sight-sensations had been broken up. What kind of association was it that was lacking, Ted?"
"Simultaneous!" cried Ted, proudly. "Because the sight of the boots ought to have sent the current rushing to the sound of the word 'boots,' and the motions he would make putting them on, and—oh, everything!"
"Well," said Uncle John, "then perhaps Peggy can tell me how mental deafness would act. If a man really hears a bell ring, but is mentally deaf—"
"Why, then," said Peggy, doubtfully, " I suppose he would know that something was there, but he would n't know what it was, or see a picture of it in his mind, or obey its call to dinner."
"Well, then, since you are such clever children, perhaps you can tell me which kind of disease would be worse for each of you—Ted, the auditory, and Peggy, the visual young person."
This was easy. "Why, mental deafness," cried Ted, "for me, because most of my simultaneous associations come in sound, and I understand sounds better." And Peggy was equally sure that, as she always paid more attention to the looks of things, not to understand what she saw would be dreadful.
"Dear me!" said Uncle John, at length. "I 'm finding out about all your paths more than I ever knew before. And you see what a dangerous thing it is to get any paths broken through that you don't want to be dependent on or to go on using."
Ted was quite pale. "But, uncle, that 's perfectly frightful!" he cried. "Suppose I do something selfish once, or suppose I think of something very wrong or mean once—then that old nerve-path is there, ready to break out again as soon as one end of it is touched up,—and I 've got to think the mean thing, have I? Uncle John, have I got to think always of telling a lie—every time I get caught whispering in school?"
Peggy looked up as if she remembered something, and Uncle John had clearly not forgotten that shameful episode, either.
"I suppose you have, old fellow, unless you break out over and over again some new path for the current to take. Make your new path deep and wide enough, and it will go on broadening itself until the old one is quite overgrown. Make your new resolution a regular shock! Do you remember our discussion last year about Dan O'Brien's taking the pledge? How you said it was nonsense that a man with intelligence enough to keep a whole greenhouse going should n't have enough sense to know what drunkenness meant to himself and his family? and how I encouraged his resolve? That was just to make his new path deep enough. Every time he thinks of the drink now, the brain-path to church and the signed promise and his wife's joyful face is shorter than the brain-path to the saloon; and every time the current does n't break through and he does n't go down to the corner, there 's a deeper track in the one path and a weed grown in the other. Pretty soon the current can't break through any more. Well, Ted, you 're about to remark that my figures are getting mixed, as indeed they are. But I 'll tell you there 's nothing that 's so dreadful or so comforting to think of as this matter of these brain-paths of association—dreadful or comforting according as you find that you 're drifting wrong or steering right."
"Betsy Brandon's Guest"
(A True Story)
by Caroline Mays Brevard, February 1907
For not more than an hour ago all the family had driven to the town to see General Washington, who was to be received there with great honor, and with as handsome a demonstration as the brave, patriotic folk of the town and county could make for him.
It was a wonderful thing, this southern tour of the General—now President of the United States. He had traveled in his family carriage all the way down from Virginia, through the Carolinas and Georgia near the coast to Savannah, and was now returning through the "up-country," stopping at Augusta, Camden, Charlotte, and other towns. All along the route people united to do him honor, and war-worn veterans who had followed his standard, pressed near to grasp his hand.
And now that he was coming to Salisbury such grand things were to be done! Captain John Beard in command of the "Rowan Light Horse Company" had gone to meet him at Charlotte and escort him to Salisbury. A company of boys—one of whom was Betsy's brother—were to meet him half a mile from town and march as his escort with the men. And the boys were to be in uniform and were to wear buck tails in their hats. And Betsy's sister was to be one of the little girls, all dressed in white, to scatter flowers before the General when he entered the town. Oh, it would all be beautiful! Yet Betsy must stay at home.
Was it not a little hard? And was it altogether strange that twelve year-old Betsy, in spite of the self-control taught by the strict old-time discipline, must, from time to time, wipe away the gathering tears?
Vet not every one had gone to Salisbury, for, after a while, Betsy was surprised to see two gentlemen riding up the avenue. On reaching the house, they dismounted, and one—a gentleman of very grand and handsome appearance—bowed low to the little maid and asked if she would be kind enough to give breakfast to two tired wayfarers.
Betsy curtsied, in the pretty, old fashion, and said that as all the grown people had gone to town to see General Washington, she was afraid the breakfast might not be very nice, but she would have something ready in a little while, and would they please be seated on the piazza.
"I am a plain old man." said the gentleman who had spoken, "and only want a cup of milk and piece of cornbread." The "plain old man" was very dignified and courteous, and there was something in his bearing so noble that somehow his little hostess felt that here was a man fit to stand with the greatest. "I promise you," he continued, "that you shall see General Washington before any of your people do."
How that might be Betsy did not know, nor did she question. For there was something about this unexpected guest that won her trust from the beginning. So she hurried away to the kitchen to interview old Dinah. Then, while Dinah was making ready the hoecake, and Cindy was setting the table, Betsy herself ran down the hill to the spring house for the milk and butter. In a little while the simple repast was ready, and the guests were bidden to partake of it.
Betsy was pleased, as any hostess would have been, to see how the breakfast was enjoyed. Encouraged by the kindness of the gentleman who had promised that she should see General Washington, she talked freely of the great doings in town that day. There was to be a grand reception in the afternoon and a ball at night. Her mother had the most beautiful gown for the ball, and no doubt all the other ladies had beautiful gowns. But her father would wear his old uniform. And then she told of how her father honored and loved General Washington, and of how he said that he was the greatest man and the best in all the world.
But now the guests rose and he who had asked for the breakfast thanked Betsy for it. "The milk you gave me," he said, "is the best I have drunk for many a day, and the hoe-cake is delicious. I thank you for your kindness. I must now bid you farewell and go on my journey."
"Farewell. Sir," said Betsy, curtsying. "But when—" for now the question would come-"when do I see General Washington?"
She raised her eager eyes to meet those of the stranger who had given her the promise. With a kind smile he answered simply: "I am General Washington."
Like other wonderful things it had all come about very naturally. The General was fatigued by his journey, and knowing that he would have little opportunity of rest during the day, left his party for a while, and, with one attendant, rode on horseback to the Brandon house for some refreshment before going on to Salisbury, six miles further. And so it came to pass that the little girl in the North Carolina farm-house not only saw the great man but entertained him at breakfast.
by Caroline Mays Brevard, February 1907
(And one appropriate for the date, to boot!)It was a bright spring morning in 1791 and the sun shone as bright over the Brandon plantation as it did in the county town of Salisbury. Yet little Miss Betsy Brandon, sitting lonely and disconsolate on the piazza of the great plantation house, did not think of the sunshine, did not notice the gay tulips nodding good morning, did not listen to the merry songs of the birds; for her thoughts were in Salisbury, and she longed to be there.
For not more than an hour ago all the family had driven to the town to see General Washington, who was to be received there with great honor, and with as handsome a demonstration as the brave, patriotic folk of the town and county could make for him.
It was a wonderful thing, this southern tour of the General—now President of the United States. He had traveled in his family carriage all the way down from Virginia, through the Carolinas and Georgia near the coast to Savannah, and was now returning through the "up-country," stopping at Augusta, Camden, Charlotte, and other towns. All along the route people united to do him honor, and war-worn veterans who had followed his standard, pressed near to grasp his hand.
And now that he was coming to Salisbury such grand things were to be done! Captain John Beard in command of the "Rowan Light Horse Company" had gone to meet him at Charlotte and escort him to Salisbury. A company of boys—one of whom was Betsy's brother—were to meet him half a mile from town and march as his escort with the men. And the boys were to be in uniform and were to wear buck tails in their hats. And Betsy's sister was to be one of the little girls, all dressed in white, to scatter flowers before the General when he entered the town. Oh, it would all be beautiful! Yet Betsy must stay at home.
Was it not a little hard? And was it altogether strange that twelve year-old Betsy, in spite of the self-control taught by the strict old-time discipline, must, from time to time, wipe away the gathering tears?
Vet not every one had gone to Salisbury, for, after a while, Betsy was surprised to see two gentlemen riding up the avenue. On reaching the house, they dismounted, and one—a gentleman of very grand and handsome appearance—bowed low to the little maid and asked if she would be kind enough to give breakfast to two tired wayfarers.
Betsy curtsied, in the pretty, old fashion, and said that as all the grown people had gone to town to see General Washington, she was afraid the breakfast might not be very nice, but she would have something ready in a little while, and would they please be seated on the piazza.
"I am a plain old man." said the gentleman who had spoken, "and only want a cup of milk and piece of cornbread." The "plain old man" was very dignified and courteous, and there was something in his bearing so noble that somehow his little hostess felt that here was a man fit to stand with the greatest. "I promise you," he continued, "that you shall see General Washington before any of your people do."
How that might be Betsy did not know, nor did she question. For there was something about this unexpected guest that won her trust from the beginning. So she hurried away to the kitchen to interview old Dinah. Then, while Dinah was making ready the hoecake, and Cindy was setting the table, Betsy herself ran down the hill to the spring house for the milk and butter. In a little while the simple repast was ready, and the guests were bidden to partake of it.
Betsy was pleased, as any hostess would have been, to see how the breakfast was enjoyed. Encouraged by the kindness of the gentleman who had promised that she should see General Washington, she talked freely of the great doings in town that day. There was to be a grand reception in the afternoon and a ball at night. Her mother had the most beautiful gown for the ball, and no doubt all the other ladies had beautiful gowns. But her father would wear his old uniform. And then she told of how her father honored and loved General Washington, and of how he said that he was the greatest man and the best in all the world.
But now the guests rose and he who had asked for the breakfast thanked Betsy for it. "The milk you gave me," he said, "is the best I have drunk for many a day, and the hoe-cake is delicious. I thank you for your kindness. I must now bid you farewell and go on my journey."
"Farewell. Sir," said Betsy, curtsying. "But when—" for now the question would come-"when do I see General Washington?"
She raised her eager eyes to meet those of the stranger who had given her the promise. With a kind smile he answered simply: "I am General Washington."
Like other wonderful things it had all come about very naturally. The General was fatigued by his journey, and knowing that he would have little opportunity of rest during the day, left his party for a while, and, with one attendant, rode on horseback to the Brandon house for some refreshment before going on to Salisbury, six miles further. And so it came to pass that the little girl in the North Carolina farm-house not only saw the great man but entertained him at breakfast.
The New Boy at Hilltop, Chapter 4
by Ralph Henry Barbour, originally begun December 1906
SUSPENDED
Grafton could scarcely believe it at first. When he discovered that Jim Marble really meant that he was to go to the second team his anger almost got the better of him, and the glance he turned from Jim to Kenneth held nothing of affection. But he took his place at right guard on the second and, although with ill grace, played the position while practice lasted. Kenneth took pains to keep away from him since there was no telling what tricks he might be up to. The first team put it all over the second that day and Jim Marble was smiling when time was called and the panting players tumbled downstairs to the showers. On Friday practice was short. After it was over Kenneth stopped at the library on his way back to Lower House. When he opened the door of Number 12 he found Joe with his books spread out, studying.
"Hello, where have you been?" asked Joe. "Graft was in here a minute ago looking for you. Said if you came in before dinner to ask you to go up to his room a minute. Of course," said Joe, grinning, "he may intend to throw you out of the window or give you poison, but he talked sweetly enough. Still, maybe you 'd better stay away; perhaps he 's just looking for a chance to quarrel."
Kenneth thought a minute. Then he turned toward the door.
"Going?" asked Joe.
"Yes."
"Well, if you 're not back by six I 'll head a rescue party."
Grafton Hyde roomed by himself on the third floor. His two rooms, on the corner of the building, were somewhat elaborately furnished, as befitted the apartments of "the richest fellow in school." He had chosen the third floor because he was under surveillance less strict than were the first and second floor boys. The teacher on the third floor was Mr. Whipple and, as his rooms were at the other end of the hall and as he paid little attention at best to his charges, Grafton did about as he pleased. To-night there was no light shining through the transom when Kenneth reached Number 21 and he decided that Grafton was out. But he would make sure and so knocked at the door. To his surprise he was told to come in. As he opened the door a chill draft swept by him, a draft at once redolent of snow and of cigarette smoke. The room was in complete darkness, but a form was outlined against one of the windows, the lower sash of which was fully raised, and a tiny red spark glowed there.
"Who is it?" asked Grafton's voice.
"Garwood," was the reply. "Joe said you wanted me to look you up."
The spark suddenly dropped out of sight, evidently tossed through the open window.
"Oh," said Grafton with a trace of embarrassment. "Er—wait a moment and I '11 light up."
"Don't bother," said Kenneth. "I can't stay but a minute. I just thought I 'd see what you wanted."
"Well, you 'll find a chair there by the table," said Grafton, sinking back on the window-seat. "Much obliged to you for coming up."
There was a silence during which Kenneth found the chair and Grafton pulled down the window. Then,
"Look here, Garwood," said Grafton, "you 've got my place on the team. I don't say you did n't get it fair and square, because you did. But I want it. You know me pretty well and I guess you know I generally get what I want. You 're a pretty good sort, and you 're a friend of Joe's, and I like Joe, but I might make it mighty uncomfortable for you if I wanted to, which I don't. I '11 tell you what I '11 do, Garwood. You get yourself back on the second team and I '11 make it right with you. If you need a little money—"
"Is that all?" asked Kenneth, rising.
"Hold on! Don't get waxy! Wait till I explain. I '11 give you twenty-five dollars, Garwood. You can do a whole lot with twenty-five dollars. And that 's a mighty generous offer. All you 've got to do is to play off for a couple of days. To-morrow you could be kind of sick and not able to play. No one would think anything about it, and you can bet I would n't breathe a word of it. What do you say?"
"I say you 're a confounded cad!" cried Kenneth hotly.
"Oh, you do, eh? I have n't offered enough, I suppose!" sneered Grafton. "I might have known that a fellow who would only give a dollar to the teams would be a hard bargainer! Well, I 'm not stingy; I 'll call it thirty. Now, what do you say?"
"When you get your place back it 'll be by some other means than buying it," said Kenneth contemptuously. He turned toward the door. "You have n't got enough money to buy everything, you see; and—"
There was a sharp knock on the door.
"If you say anything about this," whispered Grafton hoarsely, "I 'll—I 'll—Come in!"
"Who is here?" asked Mr. Whipple's voice as the door swung open.
"I, sir, and Garwood," answered Grafton.
"Ah! Garwood! And which one of you, may I ask, has been smoking cigarettes?"
There was a moment's silence. Then,
"Nobody in here, sir," answered Grafton.
"That will do, Hyde. Don't attempt to shield him," said Mr. Whipple coldly. "Light the gas, please."
Grafton slid off the window-seat and groped toward where Kenneth was standing.
"Yes, sir," he said, "as soon as I can find a match." He brushed heavily against Kenneth. "I beg your pardon, Garwood. I 'm all turned around. Where—? Oh, here they are." A match flared and Grafton lighted the drop-light. Mr. Whipple turned to Kenneth, a triumphant smile on his thin features.
"Well, what have you to say?" he asked.
"About what, sir?" inquired Kenneth.
"About smoking. You deny it then."
"Yes."
"Ah! And what about this?" Mr. Whipple opened his hand and displayed a portion of a cigarette with charred end. "You should be more careful where you throw them, Garwood. This came from the window just as I was passing below."
"It's not mine," was the answer.
"Oh, then it was you, Hyde?"
Grafton smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"If you can find any cigarettes in my room, sir, you—"
"Pshaw! What's the use in pretending?" interrupted the instructor, viewing Kenneth balefully. "I fancy I know where to look for cigarettes, eh, Garwood? You have no objection to emptying your pockets for me?"
"None at all, Mr. Whipple."
"Then, may I suggest that you do so?"
Kenneth dove into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief and a small piece of pencil, into the other and—
"Ah!" said Mr. Whipple triumphantly.
In Kenneth's hand lay a piece of folded paper, a skate strap and—a box of cigarettes! He stared at the latter bewilderedly for a moment. Then he glanced sharply at Grafton. That youth regarded him commiseratingly and slowly shook his head.
"I 'll take those, if you please," said Mr. Whipple. Kenneth handed them over.
"I never saw them before," he said simply.
"Oh, of course not," jeered the instructor. "And the room rank with cigarette smoke! That's a pretty tall story, I think, Garwood. You told me once that I would never catch you smoking cigarettes. You see you were a trifle mistaken. You may go to your room."
"I was n't smoking cigarettes," protested Kenneth. "I never saw that box before in my life. If Hyde won't tell I will. I came up here and found him—"
He stopped. What was the use? Telling on another fellow was mean work, and, besides, Mr. Whipple would n't believe him. He had no proof to offer and all the evidence was against him. He turned to the door. On the threshold he looked back at Grafton.
"You sneak!" he said softly.
Then, with the angry tears blinding his eyes, he hurried down to his room to unburden his heart to Joe Brewster.
Joe was wildly indignant and was all for dashing upstairs and "knocking the spots out of Graft!" But Kenneth refused his consent to such a procedure.
"I 'll tell them the truth when they call me up," he said. "If they don't believe me they need n't."
Well, they did n't. Kenneth refused to incriminate Grafton and as all the evidence was strongly against him he was held guilty. The verdict was "suspension" as soon as Kenneth's parents could be communicated with. Grafton denied having smoked with Kenneth and got off with a lecture for permitting an infraction of the rules in his study. Joe stormed and sputtered, but as Kenneth had bound him to secrecy he could do no more.
That night Upper and Lower met in the second basket-ball game and Grafton Hyde played right guard on the Lower House team. Fate was kind to the Blues. Knox, Upper's crack right forward, was out of the game with a twisted ankle and when the last whistle blew the score board declared Lower House the winner by a score of 12 to 9. And Lower House tramped through the snow, around and around the campus, and made night hideous with songs and cheers until threatened by the faculty with dire punishment if they did not at once retire to their rooms. And up in Number 12 Kenneth, feeling terribly out of it all, heard and was glad of the victory.
Sunday afternoon he spent in packing his trunk, for, in spite of Joe's pleadings, he was determined not to return to Hilltop when his term of suspension was over. He expected to hear from his father in the morning, in which case he would take the noon train to New York on the first stage of his journey.
That night they sat up late, since it was to be their last evening together, and Joe was very miserable. He begged Kenneth to go to Doctor Randall and tell just what had occurred. But Kenneth shook his head.
"He would n't believe me if I did," he said. "And, anyhow, what's the use of staying while Whipple 's here? He 'd get me fired sooner or later. No, the best way to do is to quit now. I 'm sorry, Joe; you and I were getting on together pretty well, were n't we?"
"Yes," answered Joe sadly. And then he became reminiscent and asked whether Kenneth remembered the way they kicked the furniture around that first evening and how Kenneth had joshed Grafton Hyde.
When they at last went to bed Kenneth found himself unable to sleep. Eleven o'clock struck on the town clock. From across the room came Joe's regular breathing and Kenneth, punching his pillow into a new shape, envied him. For a half-hour longer he tossed and turned, and then slumber came to him, yet so fitfully that he was wide awake and out of bed the instant that that first shrill cry of "Fire!" sounded in the corridor.
...to be continued
SUSPENDED
Grafton could scarcely believe it at first. When he discovered that Jim Marble really meant that he was to go to the second team his anger almost got the better of him, and the glance he turned from Jim to Kenneth held nothing of affection. But he took his place at right guard on the second and, although with ill grace, played the position while practice lasted. Kenneth took pains to keep away from him since there was no telling what tricks he might be up to. The first team put it all over the second that day and Jim Marble was smiling when time was called and the panting players tumbled downstairs to the showers. On Friday practice was short. After it was over Kenneth stopped at the library on his way back to Lower House. When he opened the door of Number 12 he found Joe with his books spread out, studying.
"Hello, where have you been?" asked Joe. "Graft was in here a minute ago looking for you. Said if you came in before dinner to ask you to go up to his room a minute. Of course," said Joe, grinning, "he may intend to throw you out of the window or give you poison, but he talked sweetly enough. Still, maybe you 'd better stay away; perhaps he 's just looking for a chance to quarrel."
Kenneth thought a minute. Then he turned toward the door.
"Going?" asked Joe.
"Yes."
"Well, if you 're not back by six I 'll head a rescue party."
Grafton Hyde roomed by himself on the third floor. His two rooms, on the corner of the building, were somewhat elaborately furnished, as befitted the apartments of "the richest fellow in school." He had chosen the third floor because he was under surveillance less strict than were the first and second floor boys. The teacher on the third floor was Mr. Whipple and, as his rooms were at the other end of the hall and as he paid little attention at best to his charges, Grafton did about as he pleased. To-night there was no light shining through the transom when Kenneth reached Number 21 and he decided that Grafton was out. But he would make sure and so knocked at the door. To his surprise he was told to come in. As he opened the door a chill draft swept by him, a draft at once redolent of snow and of cigarette smoke. The room was in complete darkness, but a form was outlined against one of the windows, the lower sash of which was fully raised, and a tiny red spark glowed there.
"Who is it?" asked Grafton's voice.
"Garwood," was the reply. "Joe said you wanted me to look you up."
The spark suddenly dropped out of sight, evidently tossed through the open window.
"Oh," said Grafton with a trace of embarrassment. "Er—wait a moment and I '11 light up."
"Don't bother," said Kenneth. "I can't stay but a minute. I just thought I 'd see what you wanted."
"Well, you 'll find a chair there by the table," said Grafton, sinking back on the window-seat. "Much obliged to you for coming up."
There was a silence during which Kenneth found the chair and Grafton pulled down the window. Then,
"Look here, Garwood," said Grafton, "you 've got my place on the team. I don't say you did n't get it fair and square, because you did. But I want it. You know me pretty well and I guess you know I generally get what I want. You 're a pretty good sort, and you 're a friend of Joe's, and I like Joe, but I might make it mighty uncomfortable for you if I wanted to, which I don't. I '11 tell you what I '11 do, Garwood. You get yourself back on the second team and I '11 make it right with you. If you need a little money—"
"Is that all?" asked Kenneth, rising.
"Hold on! Don't get waxy! Wait till I explain. I '11 give you twenty-five dollars, Garwood. You can do a whole lot with twenty-five dollars. And that 's a mighty generous offer. All you 've got to do is to play off for a couple of days. To-morrow you could be kind of sick and not able to play. No one would think anything about it, and you can bet I would n't breathe a word of it. What do you say?"
"I say you 're a confounded cad!" cried Kenneth hotly.
"Oh, you do, eh? I have n't offered enough, I suppose!" sneered Grafton. "I might have known that a fellow who would only give a dollar to the teams would be a hard bargainer! Well, I 'm not stingy; I 'll call it thirty. Now, what do you say?"
"When you get your place back it 'll be by some other means than buying it," said Kenneth contemptuously. He turned toward the door. "You have n't got enough money to buy everything, you see; and—"
There was a sharp knock on the door.
"If you say anything about this," whispered Grafton hoarsely, "I 'll—I 'll—Come in!"
"Who is here?" asked Mr. Whipple's voice as the door swung open.
"I, sir, and Garwood," answered Grafton.
"Ah! Garwood! And which one of you, may I ask, has been smoking cigarettes?"
There was a moment's silence. Then,
"Nobody in here, sir," answered Grafton.
"That will do, Hyde. Don't attempt to shield him," said Mr. Whipple coldly. "Light the gas, please."
Grafton slid off the window-seat and groped toward where Kenneth was standing.
"Yes, sir," he said, "as soon as I can find a match." He brushed heavily against Kenneth. "I beg your pardon, Garwood. I 'm all turned around. Where—? Oh, here they are." A match flared and Grafton lighted the drop-light. Mr. Whipple turned to Kenneth, a triumphant smile on his thin features.
"Well, what have you to say?" he asked.
"About what, sir?" inquired Kenneth.
"About smoking. You deny it then."
"Yes."
"Ah! And what about this?" Mr. Whipple opened his hand and displayed a portion of a cigarette with charred end. "You should be more careful where you throw them, Garwood. This came from the window just as I was passing below."
"It's not mine," was the answer.
"Oh, then it was you, Hyde?"
Grafton smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"If you can find any cigarettes in my room, sir, you—"
"Pshaw! What's the use in pretending?" interrupted the instructor, viewing Kenneth balefully. "I fancy I know where to look for cigarettes, eh, Garwood? You have no objection to emptying your pockets for me?"
"None at all, Mr. Whipple."
"Then, may I suggest that you do so?"
Kenneth dove into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief and a small piece of pencil, into the other and—
"Ah!" said Mr. Whipple triumphantly.
In Kenneth's hand lay a piece of folded paper, a skate strap and—a box of cigarettes! He stared at the latter bewilderedly for a moment. Then he glanced sharply at Grafton. That youth regarded him commiseratingly and slowly shook his head.
"I 'll take those, if you please," said Mr. Whipple. Kenneth handed them over.
"I never saw them before," he said simply.
"Oh, of course not," jeered the instructor. "And the room rank with cigarette smoke! That's a pretty tall story, I think, Garwood. You told me once that I would never catch you smoking cigarettes. You see you were a trifle mistaken. You may go to your room."
"I was n't smoking cigarettes," protested Kenneth. "I never saw that box before in my life. If Hyde won't tell I will. I came up here and found him—"
He stopped. What was the use? Telling on another fellow was mean work, and, besides, Mr. Whipple would n't believe him. He had no proof to offer and all the evidence was against him. He turned to the door. On the threshold he looked back at Grafton.
"You sneak!" he said softly.
Then, with the angry tears blinding his eyes, he hurried down to his room to unburden his heart to Joe Brewster.
Joe was wildly indignant and was all for dashing upstairs and "knocking the spots out of Graft!" But Kenneth refused his consent to such a procedure.
"I 'll tell them the truth when they call me up," he said. "If they don't believe me they need n't."
Well, they did n't. Kenneth refused to incriminate Grafton and as all the evidence was strongly against him he was held guilty. The verdict was "suspension" as soon as Kenneth's parents could be communicated with. Grafton denied having smoked with Kenneth and got off with a lecture for permitting an infraction of the rules in his study. Joe stormed and sputtered, but as Kenneth had bound him to secrecy he could do no more.
That night Upper and Lower met in the second basket-ball game and Grafton Hyde played right guard on the Lower House team. Fate was kind to the Blues. Knox, Upper's crack right forward, was out of the game with a twisted ankle and when the last whistle blew the score board declared Lower House the winner by a score of 12 to 9. And Lower House tramped through the snow, around and around the campus, and made night hideous with songs and cheers until threatened by the faculty with dire punishment if they did not at once retire to their rooms. And up in Number 12 Kenneth, feeling terribly out of it all, heard and was glad of the victory.
Sunday afternoon he spent in packing his trunk, for, in spite of Joe's pleadings, he was determined not to return to Hilltop when his term of suspension was over. He expected to hear from his father in the morning, in which case he would take the noon train to New York on the first stage of his journey.
That night they sat up late, since it was to be their last evening together, and Joe was very miserable. He begged Kenneth to go to Doctor Randall and tell just what had occurred. But Kenneth shook his head.
"He would n't believe me if I did," he said. "And, anyhow, what's the use of staying while Whipple 's here? He 'd get me fired sooner or later. No, the best way to do is to quit now. I 'm sorry, Joe; you and I were getting on together pretty well, were n't we?"
"Yes," answered Joe sadly. And then he became reminiscent and asked whether Kenneth remembered the way they kicked the furniture around that first evening and how Kenneth had joshed Grafton Hyde.
When they at last went to bed Kenneth found himself unable to sleep. Eleven o'clock struck on the town clock. From across the room came Joe's regular breathing and Kenneth, punching his pillow into a new shape, envied him. For a half-hour longer he tossed and turned, and then slumber came to him, yet so fitfully that he was wide awake and out of bed the instant that that first shrill cry of "Fire!" sounded in the corridor.
...to be continued
"A Gift From American Children"
by Charles De Kay, November 1901
So over he came, against the will of the French king, in a ship he fitted out with his own money—a slender, boyish-looking young man still in his teens; and well he fought for our ancestors. When he arrived they did not know much about war, and were slowly learning how to manage armies and feed large bodies of men and lead soldiers into battle. They had few cannons and guns, and little powder, and Lafayette brought them some in his ship. And through his example, and through his arguments in Paris during a brief visit home, he brought it at last to the point that French fleets and well-drilled French regiments were sent across the Atlantic. After the war, when he went back, Congress and the people and General Washington thanked him, and the children came out of school to see him pass, and hurrahed for him. Then he went to France, and his wounds and the high rank he won in America made him the idol of the people. What he told them about America made them feel that they too ought to have something to say in the government of the land, and a little later they decided that if the king and the nobles would not let them help to govern they must rule the land for themselves. Still later they decided to have a republic once and for all, a republic like ours, with a president elected from time to time, instead of a king who ruled whether he was fit to rule or not.
Lafayette came again to this country when he was old. Great rejoicings met him everywhere. Congress granted him a large sum of money and much land. The children were drawn up at the entrance to the towns where he passed in his coach, waving branches and scattering flowers, while bands of prettily dressed young girls sang songs of welcome. This pleased Lafayette more than anything else. He knew that the men of his own age, who had been his comrades in the war to free the colonies, liked him and were glad he came; but he had not imagined how the children had been taught to love him. He saw then that he would never be forgotten in the great land of North America, which was destined to contain more people than all Europe can support. He knew then that from generation to generation the children would learn in school and at the fireside what he had done.
So it has turned out that the children of the present day have not forgotten the boy Lafayette, who followed his own warm heart and came to the rescue of the poor colonists.
A statue of Lafayette on horseback is a proof what good memories they have.
Here is a picture of the great statue of Lafayette in bronze, sealed astride of a bronze horse. It stands in the courtyard of the finest of all the old buildings in Paris, the Louvre, near the bank of the river Seine, not far from the famous old Gothic church of Notre Dame.
The Louvre is covered with sculpture, and in its halls and galleries, where the courtiers of the kings of France used to assemble, there are wonderful old paintings and statues. It has many courts, but the courtyard where this statue of Lafayette is placed is the largest of all. In the middle is a little park, with trees, bushes, and flowers. The statue that recalls Lafayette rises on its pedestal among the leaves.
What has it to do, perhaps you ask, with the children of the United States? Everything. Some years ago they gave the money for it. The school-children put the money together little by little; and when school after school added its gift to the fund, the sum grew until all that was needed was ready.
The sculptor chosen was Wayland Bartlett, an American living in France. His model was accepted by the officials in Paris who have charge of public monuments and can accept or refuse to take a statue according as they think it worthy to be placed in Paris, or not good enough. When they first heard of the Children's Monument to Lafayette, the Parisians were very much pleased, and so, when the model was accepted and it was asked where the monument should stand, the officials gave it one of the best places in the city, where all foreigners and many Parisians are sure to come, because through this courtyard, the square of the Carrousel, or merry-go-round, nearly everybody passes in order to reach the entrance to the art treasures of the Louvre. As Lafayette nearly eighty years ago had been touched by the welcome he got from the children of America, so the Parisians also were touched by the gift of the children to their city in memory of one of their famous citizens.
The Place du Carrousel inside the Louvre has on the side toward the gardens of the Tuileries nothing but a beautiful arch with pink marble columns in front and bronze figures on top; then come the gardens where the palace used to stand in which the Emperor Louis Napoleon lived, and then the fountains and gate and long vista of the street called the Champs-Êlysées, until far in the distance, on higher ground, one sees another and bigger arch of triumph against the sky. So it is that the bronze statue of Lafayette, seated on the horse on the tall pedestal among the trees in the courtyard of the Louvre, seems to be signaling with the hilt of his sword to some one up that long vista, past the little arch, far up yonder by the big arch a mile away.
What did the sculptor mean by putting the sword in Lafayette's hand with the hilt upward, the point downward? The sword with point on high means war, because one strikes with the point of the sword; but when the hilt is uppermost it means peace. Perhaps the sculptor meant to say that Lafayette, although a soldier from the age of thirteen, and once in command of all the armies of France, was always on the side of justice and order and peace. He did what he could to quiet the angry passions of his fellow-countrymen and save the king and queen from death, and when Napoleon grew great, he voted against giving him unlimited power, foreseeing that he would wreck France. Lafayette always hoped that the French would imitate the Americans and be content with having thrown off the yoke of their oppressors. But the conditions in France were very different from the state of affairs in America. What was possible in a new and thinly peopled land like ours was not possible in Europe at that time. It took nearly a century before France was able to found a republic like ours, for there were too many enemies within the country and about it. In New York there is on Union Square a statue of Lafayette, modeled by a Frenchman, which shows him as he was when he first came over, full of ardor and hope. The statue in Paris is Lafayette at a later age, when he was trying to keep the French within bounds and was appealing in vain to reason. Both are good statues. Each is fitted for the city where it stands. We like to think of him as the generous youth who left wife, great position, and wealth behind him to devote himself to the cause of a little struggling nation that only asked to work out its own destiny.
Would schoolchildren today be interested in supporting such a thing, I wonder?The Marquis de Lafayette, a young noble in the army of the French king, was hardly more than a boy when he heard that the British colonies in North America would not stand the foolish rule of the king and Parliament of England any longer. Boy as he was, he had followed the troubles between the colonies and England, and saw at once that if the people in the New World of America would only fight for the right to manage their own affairs, the people in other lands, like his own country, might take courage and force their rulers to let them govern themselves.
So over he came, against the will of the French king, in a ship he fitted out with his own money—a slender, boyish-looking young man still in his teens; and well he fought for our ancestors. When he arrived they did not know much about war, and were slowly learning how to manage armies and feed large bodies of men and lead soldiers into battle. They had few cannons and guns, and little powder, and Lafayette brought them some in his ship. And through his example, and through his arguments in Paris during a brief visit home, he brought it at last to the point that French fleets and well-drilled French regiments were sent across the Atlantic. After the war, when he went back, Congress and the people and General Washington thanked him, and the children came out of school to see him pass, and hurrahed for him. Then he went to France, and his wounds and the high rank he won in America made him the idol of the people. What he told them about America made them feel that they too ought to have something to say in the government of the land, and a little later they decided that if the king and the nobles would not let them help to govern they must rule the land for themselves. Still later they decided to have a republic once and for all, a republic like ours, with a president elected from time to time, instead of a king who ruled whether he was fit to rule or not.
Lafayette came again to this country when he was old. Great rejoicings met him everywhere. Congress granted him a large sum of money and much land. The children were drawn up at the entrance to the towns where he passed in his coach, waving branches and scattering flowers, while bands of prettily dressed young girls sang songs of welcome. This pleased Lafayette more than anything else. He knew that the men of his own age, who had been his comrades in the war to free the colonies, liked him and were glad he came; but he had not imagined how the children had been taught to love him. He saw then that he would never be forgotten in the great land of North America, which was destined to contain more people than all Europe can support. He knew then that from generation to generation the children would learn in school and at the fireside what he had done.
So it has turned out that the children of the present day have not forgotten the boy Lafayette, who followed his own warm heart and came to the rescue of the poor colonists.
A statue of Lafayette on horseback is a proof what good memories they have.
Here is a picture of the great statue of Lafayette in bronze, sealed astride of a bronze horse. It stands in the courtyard of the finest of all the old buildings in Paris, the Louvre, near the bank of the river Seine, not far from the famous old Gothic church of Notre Dame.
The Louvre is covered with sculpture, and in its halls and galleries, where the courtiers of the kings of France used to assemble, there are wonderful old paintings and statues. It has many courts, but the courtyard where this statue of Lafayette is placed is the largest of all. In the middle is a little park, with trees, bushes, and flowers. The statue that recalls Lafayette rises on its pedestal among the leaves.
What has it to do, perhaps you ask, with the children of the United States? Everything. Some years ago they gave the money for it. The school-children put the money together little by little; and when school after school added its gift to the fund, the sum grew until all that was needed was ready.
The sculptor chosen was Wayland Bartlett, an American living in France. His model was accepted by the officials in Paris who have charge of public monuments and can accept or refuse to take a statue according as they think it worthy to be placed in Paris, or not good enough. When they first heard of the Children's Monument to Lafayette, the Parisians were very much pleased, and so, when the model was accepted and it was asked where the monument should stand, the officials gave it one of the best places in the city, where all foreigners and many Parisians are sure to come, because through this courtyard, the square of the Carrousel, or merry-go-round, nearly everybody passes in order to reach the entrance to the art treasures of the Louvre. As Lafayette nearly eighty years ago had been touched by the welcome he got from the children of America, so the Parisians also were touched by the gift of the children to their city in memory of one of their famous citizens.
The Place du Carrousel inside the Louvre has on the side toward the gardens of the Tuileries nothing but a beautiful arch with pink marble columns in front and bronze figures on top; then come the gardens where the palace used to stand in which the Emperor Louis Napoleon lived, and then the fountains and gate and long vista of the street called the Champs-Êlysées, until far in the distance, on higher ground, one sees another and bigger arch of triumph against the sky. So it is that the bronze statue of Lafayette, seated on the horse on the tall pedestal among the trees in the courtyard of the Louvre, seems to be signaling with the hilt of his sword to some one up that long vista, past the little arch, far up yonder by the big arch a mile away.
What did the sculptor mean by putting the sword in Lafayette's hand with the hilt upward, the point downward? The sword with point on high means war, because one strikes with the point of the sword; but when the hilt is uppermost it means peace. Perhaps the sculptor meant to say that Lafayette, although a soldier from the age of thirteen, and once in command of all the armies of France, was always on the side of justice and order and peace. He did what he could to quiet the angry passions of his fellow-countrymen and save the king and queen from death, and when Napoleon grew great, he voted against giving him unlimited power, foreseeing that he would wreck France. Lafayette always hoped that the French would imitate the Americans and be content with having thrown off the yoke of their oppressors. But the conditions in France were very different from the state of affairs in America. What was possible in a new and thinly peopled land like ours was not possible in Europe at that time. It took nearly a century before France was able to found a republic like ours, for there were too many enemies within the country and about it. In New York there is on Union Square a statue of Lafayette, modeled by a Frenchman, which shows him as he was when he first came over, full of ardor and hope. The statue in Paris is Lafayette at a later age, when he was trying to keep the French within bounds and was appealing in vain to reason. Both are good statues. Each is fitted for the city where it stands. We like to think of him as the generous youth who left wife, great position, and wealth behind him to devote himself to the cause of a little struggling nation that only asked to work out its own destiny.
"The King's Pie"
by Abbie Farwell Brown, January 1911
Hugh, the lord mayor, was at his wit's end with all that must be done. As he sat in the town hall holding his aching head, while a mob of decorators and artists and musicians, costumers, jewelers, and florists clamored about him, there came to him a messenger from Cedric, his son. Cedric was one of the king's own courtiers, and he knew his Majesty's taste well. So he had sent to the lord mayor a hint as to how the king might best be pleased. Being a man of few words, this is how his message ran:
"His Majesty is exceedingly fond of pie."
Long pondered the lord mayor over this mysterious message, reading it backward and forward, upside down and crisscross, and mixed up like an anagram. But he could make nothing of it except what it straightforwardly said: that the king was exceedingly fond of pie.
Now in those days pie meant but one thing—a pasty, that is, meat of some sort baked in a dish covered with dough. At that time there was no such thing known as a pie made of fruit or mincemeat. Pie was not even a dainty. Pie was vulgar, ordinary victuals, and the lord mayor was shocked at his son's even mentioning pie in connection with the king.
"Pie indeed!" he shuddered. "A pretty dish to set before a king on his wedding journey! How can pie be introduced into my grand pageant? The king can get pie anywhere, in any hut or hovel along his way. What has Blessington to do with pie?"
The lord mayor snorted scornfully, and was about to dismiss his son's hint from his mind, when he had an idea! A pie! A great, glorified, poetic, symbolic pie such as could be carried in procession decorated with flowers! That was a happy thought. The lord mayor dismissed every one else and Sent for all the master cooks of the city.
It was decided to accept Cedric's hint for what it was worth, and make pie the feature of the day. There should be a grand pageant of soldiers and maskers and music. And, following the other guilds, last of all should come the cooks, with their ideas of pie presented as attractively as might be, for the edification of the king. Moreover, the lord mayor said, in dismissing the white-capped company:
"To whichever of you best pleases his Majesty with the pie, I will give this reward: a team of white oxen, a hundred sacks of white flour, and a hundred pieces of white silver."
"Hurrah!" shouted the cooks, waving their white caps. Then away they hurried to put on their thinking-caps instead and plan for the building of the king's pie.
Now, among the cooks of Blessington there were two brothers, Roger and Rafe. Roger, the elder, had one of the hugest kitchens and shops in Blessington. But Rafe, the younger, had only a little old house on an acre of land under a little red-apple tree, with a little red cow who gave a little rich cream every day. Rafe was very poor, and no richer for having a brother well-to-do like Roger. For the thrifty cook had little to do with Rafe, whose ways were not his ways.
Rafe cooked in his little kitchen for the poor folk of the town, charging small prices such as they could pay. Indeed, often as not he gave away what he had cooked for himself to some one who seemed hungrier. This is a poor way to make profit of gold, but an excellent way to make profit of affection. And Rafe was rich in the love of the whole town.
Roger was among the cooks whom the lord mayor summoned to consult about the king's pic. But Rafe knew nothing at all of it, until one afternoon he was surprised by a visit from his brother, who had not darkened his door for many a day.
"Well, Brother," said Roger, briefly, "I suppose you are not busy, as I am. Will you work for me for a day or two? In fact, I need you."
"Need me!" said Rafe, in surprise. "How can that be, Brother?"
"I have a great task at hand," said the master cook; "a task that needs extra help. You must come. Your own work can wait well enough, I judge."
Rafe hesitated. "I must cook for my pocr people first," he said.
Roger sneered. "Your poor people, indeed! I am cooking for the king! Will you hesitate now?"
"Cooking for the king!" cried Rafe. "Ah, but he is not so hungry as my neighbors will be tomorrow without their rabbit-pies."
"Rabbit-pies! It is a pie for the king that I am making!" shouted Roger, in high dudgeon,—"such a pie as you and your louts never dreamed of. Now what say you? Will you come?"
"I must do my own small cooking first," said Rafe, firmly.
"Very well then," growled Roger. "Cook for your beggars first, but come to me to-morrow. Every cook in town but you is engaged. I must have your help."
"I will come," said Rafe, simply, and Roger bade him a surly good-by without thanks or promises.
The next morning, when his own simple tasks were done, Rafe hied him to his brother's kitchen, and there he found great doings. Roger was superintending the preparations for baking an enormous pie. A group of masons had just finished building the huge oven out of doors, and about a score of smiths were struggling with the pie-dish, which they had forged of iron. It was a circular dish ten feet across and four feet deep; and it looked more like a swimming-tank than anything else.
Rafe stared in amazement. "Is that to hold your pie, Brother?" he asked.
"Yes," growled Roger. "Now get to work with the other men, for the crust must be baked this morning."
Three assistant cooks in caps and aprons were busy sifting buckets of flour, measuring out handfuls of salt and butter. Others were practising with long rolling-pins made for the occasion, so big that a man had to be at each end. On the ground lay a great round piece of tin, ten feet across, pierced full of holes.
"What is that?" whispered Rafe to one of his fellow-cooks.
"That is to be the lid of the pie," answered the cook. "See, they are lifting it onto the dish now. It will have a strong hinge, and it will be covered with crust."
"And what is to fill this marvelous pie?" asked Rafe, wondering still more. "Tender capon? Rabbits? Venison? Peacocks? What is suitable for a king? I do not know."
"Ah, there you show your lack of imagination!" cried the cook. "Master is a great man. This is a poetic pie. It is to be filled with flowers, and on the flowers will be sitting ten beautiful little children, pink and sweet as cherubs, dressed all in wreaths of flowers. And when the pie reaches the king, the top will be opened, and they will all begin to sing a song in honor of their Majesties. Is it not a pretty thought?"
"Well, if the king be not too hungry," said the practical Rafe, doubtfully.
"Nonsense!" cried the cook, testily. "Would you make out our king tb be a cannibal, indeed?"
"Nay," said Rafe; "that is why I doubt. However, I am here but to assist in this colossal plan. Hand me yon bag of salt."
All day long at Roger's kitchen the cooks worked over the king's pie. At noon came a band of ten mothers, each with a rosy, smiling baby. They placed the children in the great shell to see how they would look. Every one cried: "Charming! Superb! But ah! we must not tell any one, for Roger has paid us well, and the other cooks must not know how he is to win the prize to-morrow!"
Weary and unthanked, with his meager day's wage,—a little bag of flour and a pat of butter, sugar and a handful of salt,—Rafe went home, musing sadly. "A team of white oxen; a hundred sacks of white flour; a hundred pieces of white silver,—what a prize! If only I could earn these I should be rich indeed and able to help my poor neighbors. But Roger will win the prize," he thought.
He spread on the table his frugal supper. He had emptied his larder that morning for a sick woman. He had but a few apples and a bowl of cream. It was the first food that he had eaten that day, for his brother had forgotten to bid him to his table.
As he was taking a bite from one of the rosycheeked apples, there came a tap at the door.
"Enter!" cried Rafe, hospitably. The door creaked, and there tottered in a little, bent, old woman in a long black cloak, leaning on a staff.
"Good evening, Son," she said, in a cracked voice. "Are you a man of charity, or will you turn away a poor old soul who has had nothing to eat for many hours?"
Rafe rose and led her to the table. "Sit down, Mother," he said kindly. "Sit and share my poor supper: a few apples from my little tree, a sup of the cream which my good little red cow gives me,—that is all; but you are welcome."
"Thanks, Son," said the old woman, and without further words she began to eat. But when she had finished she sat for a few moments looking into the empty bowl. Then she said:
"Son, why do you not bake a pie for the king?"
"I!" cried Rafe, astonished. "How can I make a pie? You see all I have in my cupboard. There is nothing but a little bag of flour, a pat of butter, a handful of sugar and salt."
"It is enough," said the stranger. "Son, I. will show you a secret. You have been kind to me. Now I will tell you that which until this day no man has known. You shall make the king a pie indeed!"
"But, Mother," interrupted Rafe, smiling, "you do not know what manner of pies are being made. I have seen but one—a giant pie, a glorious pie, all golden crust and flowers and pink little babies who sing!"
"Humph!" grunted the old woman. "A pie for a pasteboard king. Why not cook a pie to tempt a hungry man?"
"The king is indeed a man," mused Rafe. "But how shall I make a pie without viands of any sort?" (As I have said, to speak of a pie in those days meant always a dish of meat or game or poultry.)
"I will tell you," said the old woman. "Have you not a tree of red apples? Yes, luscious apples of a goodly flavor, for I have tasted them." She leaned forward, whispering earnestly: "Make your pie of them, my son!"
"Apples! A pie of apples!" cried Rafe. "Who ever heard of such a thing!" (And at this time, indeed, no one had.)
"Nay, you need not laugh so scornfully," said the old crone. "You shall see! I will help you."
At her command Rafe fetched out the bag of flour and the butter, salt and sugar. Then he went to gather a basket of apples, while the old woman mended the fire and mixed the dough. Wonderingly he watched her pare the apples, core and slice them, and cover all with a blanket of crust laid softly over, but not tucked in at the edges as for an ordinary pasty. Soon the pie was baked, all flaky and brown. When it came smoking hot from the oven, the old woman slipped a knife under the blanket of crust and lifted it aside.
"See," she said, "the apples are steamed and soft. Now I will mash them with a knife and mix the butter and sugar generously therein. This one must ever do, Son, last of all. This is the crown of my secret, the only recipe for a perfect pie."
Rafe watched her curiously, by no means convinced. Then, from a pouch somewhere concealed in her robe, she drew out a strange round nut, such as Rafe had never seen before.
"This is the final blessing," she said. "See, I will grate a little of this magic nut into the pie." Forthwith it was done, and a whiff of spicy fragrance reached Rafe's nose, and, more than anything, gave him confidence in this strange new pie.
"It smells worthy," said Rafe, hungrily.
Without a word the stranger drew from under a cover a little pie baked in a tiny tin, an exact copy of the other. "Eat," she said. "Eat and judge if my secret be worth keeping."
Rafe sunk his teeth into the warm, crisp crust and ate eagerly. His eyes sparkled, but he spoke no word till the last crumb was gone.
"Oh!" he said. "It is a magic pie! Never such have I met before! Never, in all my life!"
The old woman nodded. "A magic pie," she said. "And still better when you serve it with the yellow cream of your little red cow."
"It is a pie for a king," said Rafe. "But shall I be allowed in the procession, Mother?"
"All the cooks in Blessington who choose may march with that guild," said the old woman. "Bear your pie proudly in your own hands, wearing your cap and apron. I will send some one to walk beside you and carry the jug of cream. She shall be here to-morrow when you milk the little red cow. Treat her kindly for my sake."
"Mother, how can I ever thank you—" began Rafe. But, with a quickness which seemed impossible to her years, the old woman had slipped out of the door and was gone.
The next morning bright and early Rafe went out to milk his cow. And there in the stall stood a young maid, the fairest he had ever seen.
"Good morning, Rafe," said the maid, dropping a curtsy. "I am Meg, and I have come to help you carry the king's pie." She smiled so sweetly that Rafe 's heart danced a jig. She was dressed in a neat little gown of blue, with a white apron and a dainty cook's cap on her flaxen curls. And she wore red stockings and shoes, with silver buckles. From under her apron she drew a little blue jug. "See, I have brought this to hold the cream," she said, "and it is full of red strawberries for your breakfast. Milk the little red cow, Rafe, and then we can eat and be gone as soon as the cream has risen."
In a happy daze Rafe did as she bade. Merrily they breakfasted together on milk and berries and a wheaten loaf which the maid had brought, as if she knew how hungry Rafe would be. Then Meg skimmed the cream for the blue jug, and they were ready to start. Rafe, in his white cap and apron, bore the precious pie, while Meg walked along at his side. A merry, handsome couple they were.
When they came to the market-place they found a great crowd assembled. "Ho, Rafe! Rafe!" people shouted to him, for every one knew and loved him. "Come here! Come with us!"
But Rafe answered: "Nay. I am going to walk in the procession with the other cooks. I have a pie for the king."
"A pie! A pie!" they cried good-naturedly. "Look at Rafe's pasty! Of what is it made, Rafe? Grasshoppers or mice?" For they knew how poor he was.
But Rafe only smiled and pushed his way to where the cooks were gathered. They, too, greeted him with jests. But he insisted that he must march with them. So they gave him place at the very end of the line, with the little maid at his side. But when he saw the wonderful pies all around him, he sighed and shook his head, looking ruefully at his own simple offering. The little maid, seeing him so look, said:
"Never mind, Rafe. You are giving your best to the king. No one can do more than that."
The people waited. The hands of the great clock in the market-place crept slowly around until they marked noon. Every one began to feel uneasy, for it was close upon the dinner-hour, and the long procession had not moved. The king and queen were late.
At last there sounded the blast of a trumpet, which told that the king and his bride had arrived, and that the lord mayor had led them to their seats on the balcony in front of the town hall. Every one gave a sigh of relief. But then there was another long wait, while the hands of the clock crept on—on, and the people watched and craned their necks eagerly. The lord mayor was making his speech, and it was very long. Finally arose more shouts and huzzas, not because the speech was good, but because it was ended. And presently another trumpet gave signal for the procession to start.
Off they went, through the streets full of cheering, hungry people. Soldiers and bands of music led the way; then came the maskers and the flower-maidens, the city guilds and all the arts and crafts. Finally passed along the yoke of snowy oxen, with ribbons in their ears, drawing a white wain in which were the bags of flour and silver, the prize for the best pie-maker of Blessington. When the company of white-capped cooks came within sight of the king, he laughed merrily and said:
"Cooks! Now we shall have something worth while, for I am growing hungry indeed!" And the young queen whispered: "So am I!"
Then came the pies. And such pies! Carried on the shoulders of sturdy boys, drawn by teams of ponies, wreathed in flowers and stuck over with mottos, the pies passed along before the hungry king. And not one of the pies was real! The king's smile gradually faded.
There was a wonderful big pie fashioned like a ship,—rigged with masts and sails and manned by sailor-dolls. There was a fine brown pasty like a bird's nest, and when it passed the king, off came the cover, and out flew four-and-twenty blackbirds croaking lustily.
"Good-by, dinner!" sighed the king, looking after them wistfully. The queen nudged him and said: "'Sh! Behave, your Majesty!" But she also began to look hungrier and hungrier.
There passed a pie in a carriage drawn by six mules. It seemed piping hot, for steam came out of it. But when it reached the king it blew up with a bang! scattering showers of blossoms over the royal party.
"My faith!" cried the king, "methought this was the end of all things. But it seems not. Here come more and more empty pies!" The queen smelled of her salts and grew paler every moment.
One pie had a musical box inside and played a sweet tune as it passed the king. In one was hidden a tiny dwarf, who popped out like a jack-in-the-box when the queen pulled a golden cord.
Still the procession moved on, and so did the hands of the clock; and the king's hands moved to his ample girdle, which he tightened sharply. But both he and the pale young queen were too polite to ask the lord mayor for buns or something to sustain them.
The pie which caused the greatest excitement as it passed along, drawn by four white horses, was that of Roger, the master cook, who walked proudly beside it. When it came opposite the king the carriage stopped, the cover was lifted, and ten beautiful babies on a bed of roses waved their little hands and began to sing. The queen leaned forward eagerly, forgetting to be hungry. "How sweet! The darlings!" she murmured. "Oh, this is the best of all!" Roger the cook heard her and flushed with triumph.
But the king grumbled: "Humph! They look good enough to eat, but—my faith, I hope that this is the end, for soon I must eat something, or I shall become a cannibal!"
"Your Majesty!" protested the queen, faintly. But the king interrupted her.
"What comes here?" he cried. "This looks sensible!" It was Rafe and the pretty maid bringing up the rear of the procession. Side by side they walked in cap and apron, he bearing the small, delicately browned pie, she with a jug of yellow cream. No one paid any attention to them, but closed in around them, following Roger's chariot.
When Rafe and Meg came opposite the king and queen, they turned and Rafe bowed low, holding up the pie as high as he could. The pretty maid curtsied gracefully, and offered the cream-jug with a winsome smile. The crowd was fain to hustle them on; but the king struck the floor with his staff and pointed eagerly at the pie.
"Hold!" he cried. "What have you there?"
Every one stopped and began to stare. Rafe bowed again.
"'T is a pie, your Majesty," said Rafe, simply, "an apple-pie."
"With cream for the top," lisped the little maid, curtsying again.
"Apple-pie!" cried the king. "Who ever heard of an apple-pie! A pie should be of savory meat. But of apples!" Words failed to express his astonishment.
"Butter and sugar, Sire, go to the making of it, and the dust of a wondrous nut. Will you taste it, Sire?" Rafe held out the pie temptingly.
"With thick cream to pour on the top—yellow, sweet, rich, thick cream!" said Meg, lingering over each word as if it melted on her lips.
"Give hither that pie!" almost shouted the hungry king. "I will look into this matter." And, drawing a dagger from his girdle, he seized and stabbed the pie to the heart. Sniffing at it eagerly, his eyes grew round, and he smacked his lips. "It is good, I wager my scepter!" he cried. "Hand me the cream, fair maid."
The little maid stepped, up and daintily poured cream upon the shattered pie, and without more ado the king began to eat with his dagger. (This was not considered bad manners in those days.) After the first mouthful he stopped only to say: "Food of the fairies! Pie of the pixies! Cook, you are a magician!" He went on at a rate which threatened not to leave a mouthful. But the queen pulled at his sleeve. "A bite for me, your Majesty," she begged. And, with an apology, the king handed her what was left, watching her wistfully till she ate the last crumb.
"Delicious ! I never tasted anything finer," she cried. "I must have the recipe."
"I must have the cook!" cried the king, turning to Rafe, with a broad grin on his merry, fat face. "You must come with me and cook such pies for every meal. Yes, I will have them for breakfast, too," he insisted, in response to a protest from the queen.
Then up stepped Hugh, the lord mayor.
"Sire," said he, bowing low, "will your Majesty deign to point out to me the pie which has best pleased you, that I may have it set in the place of honor, and give the prize to the maker?"
"That I cannot do," said the king, "for the pie no longer exists. It is here," and he slapped his generous waistband. "But give whatever prize there may be to this worthy fellow, whom I now dub Baron Applepy. Baron, wear this ring in token of my pleasure in your pie." He drew a fine ruby from his finger and gave it to Rafe.
"And this is for the little maid," said the queen, taking a beautiful pearl necklace and tossing it over Meg"s curls.
But Roger, the master cook, stood by and tore his hair when he saw what was happening.
Then up came the yoke of white oxen drawing the cart bearing the prize. And the lord mayor gave a goad into Rafe's hands, with words of congratulation.
"Now mount and come with me," said the king. But Rafe hesitated.
"Your Majesty," he replied, "I see no way to make another pie like this which has pleased you. For I have no more of the magic nuts wherewith to flavor a second."
The king frowned, "What! No more pie! Is this to be the first and the last? Sirrah, I am not pleased!"
Then little Meg stepped forth. "The magic nut is the nutmeg," said she. "My name is Meg, and Granny called the magic nuts after me. I know where is hidden a store of them. These are my dower." She emptied her pockets of the nuts which they held, and they were a precious handful.
"Ha!" cried the king, eagerly, "you must marry Baron Applepy, that he may use your dower in our behalf."
Rafe and the maid looked sidewise at one another.
"You are willing, my dear?" said the queen, smiling upon Meg.
"Yes," whispered she. with red-apple cheeks.
"Yes, indeed!" cried Rafe when the queen looked at him. But again he seemed troubled.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I cannot leave my poor neighbors. There will be no one to cook for them at my prices."
"You shall have your own price from me," said the king.
Rafe bowed low. "You do me great honor," he said humbly. "But I cannot leave my poor people, my house and my cow and my apple-tree: indeed I cannot."
The king looked very angry and raised his staff with a gesture of wrath. But the queen laid her hand upon his arm.
"Why may he not live where he will and yet cook the pies for us?" she said. "A messenger on a fleet horse can bring them to us every day. We shall then have pies like that first delicious one, made from apples from that very same red-apple tree of his. They would be best of all."
"True," said the king, reflecting for a moment.
"Please, your Majesty," said Meg, in her most winsome tones, "I do so long to help Rafe pick the red apples for your pies and skim the yellow cream of the little red cow. And please, I do so long to help him cook for his poor neighbors, who will miss him so. Now that we have the prize, we can do much for them. Please, your Majesty !"
"Please, your Majesty!" echoed Rafe.
"Please, your Majesty!" begged the queen. So the king hemmed and hawed and yielded. "But see, Baron Applepy." he said, "that you make me three fine pies every day, for which my swiftest messenger shall call. Now farewell to thee—and to all. We must be off."
"Heaven bless your Majesties," said Rafe and Meg, bowing and curtsying low. Then Rafe lifted the little maid into the white cart beside the hundred sacks of flour and the bag of silver, and amid shouts and cheers away they drove the white oxen toward the little house on the acre of land under the red-apple tree, where the little red cow was waiting for them. And there they lived happily ever after, making three pies a day for the king at an enormous price, and feeding the beloved poor people, his neighbors, for no price at all.
As in all fairy tales, the kind and generous younger brother wins the day.There was great excitement in Blessington, for the king was coming with his young bride, and the town was preparing to give them a famous welcome.
Hugh, the lord mayor, was at his wit's end with all that must be done. As he sat in the town hall holding his aching head, while a mob of decorators and artists and musicians, costumers, jewelers, and florists clamored about him, there came to him a messenger from Cedric, his son. Cedric was one of the king's own courtiers, and he knew his Majesty's taste well. So he had sent to the lord mayor a hint as to how the king might best be pleased. Being a man of few words, this is how his message ran:
"His Majesty is exceedingly fond of pie."
Long pondered the lord mayor over this mysterious message, reading it backward and forward, upside down and crisscross, and mixed up like an anagram. But he could make nothing of it except what it straightforwardly said: that the king was exceedingly fond of pie.
Now in those days pie meant but one thing—a pasty, that is, meat of some sort baked in a dish covered with dough. At that time there was no such thing known as a pie made of fruit or mincemeat. Pie was not even a dainty. Pie was vulgar, ordinary victuals, and the lord mayor was shocked at his son's even mentioning pie in connection with the king.
"Pie indeed!" he shuddered. "A pretty dish to set before a king on his wedding journey! How can pie be introduced into my grand pageant? The king can get pie anywhere, in any hut or hovel along his way. What has Blessington to do with pie?"
The lord mayor snorted scornfully, and was about to dismiss his son's hint from his mind, when he had an idea! A pie! A great, glorified, poetic, symbolic pie such as could be carried in procession decorated with flowers! That was a happy thought. The lord mayor dismissed every one else and Sent for all the master cooks of the city.
It was decided to accept Cedric's hint for what it was worth, and make pie the feature of the day. There should be a grand pageant of soldiers and maskers and music. And, following the other guilds, last of all should come the cooks, with their ideas of pie presented as attractively as might be, for the edification of the king. Moreover, the lord mayor said, in dismissing the white-capped company:
"To whichever of you best pleases his Majesty with the pie, I will give this reward: a team of white oxen, a hundred sacks of white flour, and a hundred pieces of white silver."
"Hurrah!" shouted the cooks, waving their white caps. Then away they hurried to put on their thinking-caps instead and plan for the building of the king's pie.
Now, among the cooks of Blessington there were two brothers, Roger and Rafe. Roger, the elder, had one of the hugest kitchens and shops in Blessington. But Rafe, the younger, had only a little old house on an acre of land under a little red-apple tree, with a little red cow who gave a little rich cream every day. Rafe was very poor, and no richer for having a brother well-to-do like Roger. For the thrifty cook had little to do with Rafe, whose ways were not his ways.
Rafe cooked in his little kitchen for the poor folk of the town, charging small prices such as they could pay. Indeed, often as not he gave away what he had cooked for himself to some one who seemed hungrier. This is a poor way to make profit of gold, but an excellent way to make profit of affection. And Rafe was rich in the love of the whole town.
Roger was among the cooks whom the lord mayor summoned to consult about the king's pic. But Rafe knew nothing at all of it, until one afternoon he was surprised by a visit from his brother, who had not darkened his door for many a day.
"Well, Brother," said Roger, briefly, "I suppose you are not busy, as I am. Will you work for me for a day or two? In fact, I need you."
"Need me!" said Rafe, in surprise. "How can that be, Brother?"
"I have a great task at hand," said the master cook; "a task that needs extra help. You must come. Your own work can wait well enough, I judge."
Rafe hesitated. "I must cook for my pocr people first," he said.
Roger sneered. "Your poor people, indeed! I am cooking for the king! Will you hesitate now?"
"Cooking for the king!" cried Rafe. "Ah, but he is not so hungry as my neighbors will be tomorrow without their rabbit-pies."
"Rabbit-pies! It is a pie for the king that I am making!" shouted Roger, in high dudgeon,—"such a pie as you and your louts never dreamed of. Now what say you? Will you come?"
"I must do my own small cooking first," said Rafe, firmly.
"Very well then," growled Roger. "Cook for your beggars first, but come to me to-morrow. Every cook in town but you is engaged. I must have your help."
"I will come," said Rafe, simply, and Roger bade him a surly good-by without thanks or promises.
The next morning, when his own simple tasks were done, Rafe hied him to his brother's kitchen, and there he found great doings. Roger was superintending the preparations for baking an enormous pie. A group of masons had just finished building the huge oven out of doors, and about a score of smiths were struggling with the pie-dish, which they had forged of iron. It was a circular dish ten feet across and four feet deep; and it looked more like a swimming-tank than anything else.
Rafe stared in amazement. "Is that to hold your pie, Brother?" he asked.
"Yes," growled Roger. "Now get to work with the other men, for the crust must be baked this morning."
Three assistant cooks in caps and aprons were busy sifting buckets of flour, measuring out handfuls of salt and butter. Others were practising with long rolling-pins made for the occasion, so big that a man had to be at each end. On the ground lay a great round piece of tin, ten feet across, pierced full of holes.
"What is that?" whispered Rafe to one of his fellow-cooks.
"That is to be the lid of the pie," answered the cook. "See, they are lifting it onto the dish now. It will have a strong hinge, and it will be covered with crust."
"And what is to fill this marvelous pie?" asked Rafe, wondering still more. "Tender capon? Rabbits? Venison? Peacocks? What is suitable for a king? I do not know."
"Ah, there you show your lack of imagination!" cried the cook. "Master is a great man. This is a poetic pie. It is to be filled with flowers, and on the flowers will be sitting ten beautiful little children, pink and sweet as cherubs, dressed all in wreaths of flowers. And when the pie reaches the king, the top will be opened, and they will all begin to sing a song in honor of their Majesties. Is it not a pretty thought?"
"Well, if the king be not too hungry," said the practical Rafe, doubtfully.
"Nonsense!" cried the cook, testily. "Would you make out our king tb be a cannibal, indeed?"
"Nay," said Rafe; "that is why I doubt. However, I am here but to assist in this colossal plan. Hand me yon bag of salt."
All day long at Roger's kitchen the cooks worked over the king's pie. At noon came a band of ten mothers, each with a rosy, smiling baby. They placed the children in the great shell to see how they would look. Every one cried: "Charming! Superb! But ah! we must not tell any one, for Roger has paid us well, and the other cooks must not know how he is to win the prize to-morrow!"
Weary and unthanked, with his meager day's wage,—a little bag of flour and a pat of butter, sugar and a handful of salt,—Rafe went home, musing sadly. "A team of white oxen; a hundred sacks of white flour; a hundred pieces of white silver,—what a prize! If only I could earn these I should be rich indeed and able to help my poor neighbors. But Roger will win the prize," he thought.
He spread on the table his frugal supper. He had emptied his larder that morning for a sick woman. He had but a few apples and a bowl of cream. It was the first food that he had eaten that day, for his brother had forgotten to bid him to his table.
As he was taking a bite from one of the rosycheeked apples, there came a tap at the door.
"Enter!" cried Rafe, hospitably. The door creaked, and there tottered in a little, bent, old woman in a long black cloak, leaning on a staff.
"Good evening, Son," she said, in a cracked voice. "Are you a man of charity, or will you turn away a poor old soul who has had nothing to eat for many hours?"
Rafe rose and led her to the table. "Sit down, Mother," he said kindly. "Sit and share my poor supper: a few apples from my little tree, a sup of the cream which my good little red cow gives me,—that is all; but you are welcome."
"Thanks, Son," said the old woman, and without further words she began to eat. But when she had finished she sat for a few moments looking into the empty bowl. Then she said:
"Son, why do you not bake a pie for the king?"
"I!" cried Rafe, astonished. "How can I make a pie? You see all I have in my cupboard. There is nothing but a little bag of flour, a pat of butter, a handful of sugar and salt."
"It is enough," said the stranger. "Son, I. will show you a secret. You have been kind to me. Now I will tell you that which until this day no man has known. You shall make the king a pie indeed!"
"But, Mother," interrupted Rafe, smiling, "you do not know what manner of pies are being made. I have seen but one—a giant pie, a glorious pie, all golden crust and flowers and pink little babies who sing!"
"Humph!" grunted the old woman. "A pie for a pasteboard king. Why not cook a pie to tempt a hungry man?"
"The king is indeed a man," mused Rafe. "But how shall I make a pie without viands of any sort?" (As I have said, to speak of a pie in those days meant always a dish of meat or game or poultry.)
"I will tell you," said the old woman. "Have you not a tree of red apples? Yes, luscious apples of a goodly flavor, for I have tasted them." She leaned forward, whispering earnestly: "Make your pie of them, my son!"
"Apples! A pie of apples!" cried Rafe. "Who ever heard of such a thing!" (And at this time, indeed, no one had.)
"Nay, you need not laugh so scornfully," said the old crone. "You shall see! I will help you."
At her command Rafe fetched out the bag of flour and the butter, salt and sugar. Then he went to gather a basket of apples, while the old woman mended the fire and mixed the dough. Wonderingly he watched her pare the apples, core and slice them, and cover all with a blanket of crust laid softly over, but not tucked in at the edges as for an ordinary pasty. Soon the pie was baked, all flaky and brown. When it came smoking hot from the oven, the old woman slipped a knife under the blanket of crust and lifted it aside.
"See," she said, "the apples are steamed and soft. Now I will mash them with a knife and mix the butter and sugar generously therein. This one must ever do, Son, last of all. This is the crown of my secret, the only recipe for a perfect pie."
Rafe watched her curiously, by no means convinced. Then, from a pouch somewhere concealed in her robe, she drew out a strange round nut, such as Rafe had never seen before.
"This is the final blessing," she said. "See, I will grate a little of this magic nut into the pie." Forthwith it was done, and a whiff of spicy fragrance reached Rafe's nose, and, more than anything, gave him confidence in this strange new pie.
"It smells worthy," said Rafe, hungrily.
Without a word the stranger drew from under a cover a little pie baked in a tiny tin, an exact copy of the other. "Eat," she said. "Eat and judge if my secret be worth keeping."
Rafe sunk his teeth into the warm, crisp crust and ate eagerly. His eyes sparkled, but he spoke no word till the last crumb was gone.
"Oh!" he said. "It is a magic pie! Never such have I met before! Never, in all my life!"
The old woman nodded. "A magic pie," she said. "And still better when you serve it with the yellow cream of your little red cow."
"It is a pie for a king," said Rafe. "But shall I be allowed in the procession, Mother?"
"All the cooks in Blessington who choose may march with that guild," said the old woman. "Bear your pie proudly in your own hands, wearing your cap and apron. I will send some one to walk beside you and carry the jug of cream. She shall be here to-morrow when you milk the little red cow. Treat her kindly for my sake."
"Mother, how can I ever thank you—" began Rafe. But, with a quickness which seemed impossible to her years, the old woman had slipped out of the door and was gone.
The next morning bright and early Rafe went out to milk his cow. And there in the stall stood a young maid, the fairest he had ever seen.
"Good morning, Rafe," said the maid, dropping a curtsy. "I am Meg, and I have come to help you carry the king's pie." She smiled so sweetly that Rafe 's heart danced a jig. She was dressed in a neat little gown of blue, with a white apron and a dainty cook's cap on her flaxen curls. And she wore red stockings and shoes, with silver buckles. From under her apron she drew a little blue jug. "See, I have brought this to hold the cream," she said, "and it is full of red strawberries for your breakfast. Milk the little red cow, Rafe, and then we can eat and be gone as soon as the cream has risen."
In a happy daze Rafe did as she bade. Merrily they breakfasted together on milk and berries and a wheaten loaf which the maid had brought, as if she knew how hungry Rafe would be. Then Meg skimmed the cream for the blue jug, and they were ready to start. Rafe, in his white cap and apron, bore the precious pie, while Meg walked along at his side. A merry, handsome couple they were.
When they came to the market-place they found a great crowd assembled. "Ho, Rafe! Rafe!" people shouted to him, for every one knew and loved him. "Come here! Come with us!"
But Rafe answered: "Nay. I am going to walk in the procession with the other cooks. I have a pie for the king."
"A pie! A pie!" they cried good-naturedly. "Look at Rafe's pasty! Of what is it made, Rafe? Grasshoppers or mice?" For they knew how poor he was.
But Rafe only smiled and pushed his way to where the cooks were gathered. They, too, greeted him with jests. But he insisted that he must march with them. So they gave him place at the very end of the line, with the little maid at his side. But when he saw the wonderful pies all around him, he sighed and shook his head, looking ruefully at his own simple offering. The little maid, seeing him so look, said:
"Never mind, Rafe. You are giving your best to the king. No one can do more than that."
The people waited. The hands of the great clock in the market-place crept slowly around until they marked noon. Every one began to feel uneasy, for it was close upon the dinner-hour, and the long procession had not moved. The king and queen were late.
At last there sounded the blast of a trumpet, which told that the king and his bride had arrived, and that the lord mayor had led them to their seats on the balcony in front of the town hall. Every one gave a sigh of relief. But then there was another long wait, while the hands of the clock crept on—on, and the people watched and craned their necks eagerly. The lord mayor was making his speech, and it was very long. Finally arose more shouts and huzzas, not because the speech was good, but because it was ended. And presently another trumpet gave signal for the procession to start.
Off they went, through the streets full of cheering, hungry people. Soldiers and bands of music led the way; then came the maskers and the flower-maidens, the city guilds and all the arts and crafts. Finally passed along the yoke of snowy oxen, with ribbons in their ears, drawing a white wain in which were the bags of flour and silver, the prize for the best pie-maker of Blessington. When the company of white-capped cooks came within sight of the king, he laughed merrily and said:
"Cooks! Now we shall have something worth while, for I am growing hungry indeed!" And the young queen whispered: "So am I!"
Then came the pies. And such pies! Carried on the shoulders of sturdy boys, drawn by teams of ponies, wreathed in flowers and stuck over with mottos, the pies passed along before the hungry king. And not one of the pies was real! The king's smile gradually faded.
There was a wonderful big pie fashioned like a ship,—rigged with masts and sails and manned by sailor-dolls. There was a fine brown pasty like a bird's nest, and when it passed the king, off came the cover, and out flew four-and-twenty blackbirds croaking lustily.
"Good-by, dinner!" sighed the king, looking after them wistfully. The queen nudged him and said: "'Sh! Behave, your Majesty!" But she also began to look hungrier and hungrier.
There passed a pie in a carriage drawn by six mules. It seemed piping hot, for steam came out of it. But when it reached the king it blew up with a bang! scattering showers of blossoms over the royal party.
"My faith!" cried the king, "methought this was the end of all things. But it seems not. Here come more and more empty pies!" The queen smelled of her salts and grew paler every moment.
One pie had a musical box inside and played a sweet tune as it passed the king. In one was hidden a tiny dwarf, who popped out like a jack-in-the-box when the queen pulled a golden cord.
Still the procession moved on, and so did the hands of the clock; and the king's hands moved to his ample girdle, which he tightened sharply. But both he and the pale young queen were too polite to ask the lord mayor for buns or something to sustain them.
The pie which caused the greatest excitement as it passed along, drawn by four white horses, was that of Roger, the master cook, who walked proudly beside it. When it came opposite the king the carriage stopped, the cover was lifted, and ten beautiful babies on a bed of roses waved their little hands and began to sing. The queen leaned forward eagerly, forgetting to be hungry. "How sweet! The darlings!" she murmured. "Oh, this is the best of all!" Roger the cook heard her and flushed with triumph.
But the king grumbled: "Humph! They look good enough to eat, but—my faith, I hope that this is the end, for soon I must eat something, or I shall become a cannibal!"
"Your Majesty!" protested the queen, faintly. But the king interrupted her.
"What comes here?" he cried. "This looks sensible!" It was Rafe and the pretty maid bringing up the rear of the procession. Side by side they walked in cap and apron, he bearing the small, delicately browned pie, she with a jug of yellow cream. No one paid any attention to them, but closed in around them, following Roger's chariot.
When Rafe and Meg came opposite the king and queen, they turned and Rafe bowed low, holding up the pie as high as he could. The pretty maid curtsied gracefully, and offered the cream-jug with a winsome smile. The crowd was fain to hustle them on; but the king struck the floor with his staff and pointed eagerly at the pie.
"Hold!" he cried. "What have you there?"
Every one stopped and began to stare. Rafe bowed again.
"'T is a pie, your Majesty," said Rafe, simply, "an apple-pie."
"With cream for the top," lisped the little maid, curtsying again.
"Apple-pie!" cried the king. "Who ever heard of an apple-pie! A pie should be of savory meat. But of apples!" Words failed to express his astonishment.
"Butter and sugar, Sire, go to the making of it, and the dust of a wondrous nut. Will you taste it, Sire?" Rafe held out the pie temptingly.
"With thick cream to pour on the top—yellow, sweet, rich, thick cream!" said Meg, lingering over each word as if it melted on her lips.
"Give hither that pie!" almost shouted the hungry king. "I will look into this matter." And, drawing a dagger from his girdle, he seized and stabbed the pie to the heart. Sniffing at it eagerly, his eyes grew round, and he smacked his lips. "It is good, I wager my scepter!" he cried. "Hand me the cream, fair maid."
The little maid stepped, up and daintily poured cream upon the shattered pie, and without more ado the king began to eat with his dagger. (This was not considered bad manners in those days.) After the first mouthful he stopped only to say: "Food of the fairies! Pie of the pixies! Cook, you are a magician!" He went on at a rate which threatened not to leave a mouthful. But the queen pulled at his sleeve. "A bite for me, your Majesty," she begged. And, with an apology, the king handed her what was left, watching her wistfully till she ate the last crumb.
"Delicious ! I never tasted anything finer," she cried. "I must have the recipe."
"I must have the cook!" cried the king, turning to Rafe, with a broad grin on his merry, fat face. "You must come with me and cook such pies for every meal. Yes, I will have them for breakfast, too," he insisted, in response to a protest from the queen.
Then up stepped Hugh, the lord mayor.
"Sire," said he, bowing low, "will your Majesty deign to point out to me the pie which has best pleased you, that I may have it set in the place of honor, and give the prize to the maker?"
"That I cannot do," said the king, "for the pie no longer exists. It is here," and he slapped his generous waistband. "But give whatever prize there may be to this worthy fellow, whom I now dub Baron Applepy. Baron, wear this ring in token of my pleasure in your pie." He drew a fine ruby from his finger and gave it to Rafe.
"And this is for the little maid," said the queen, taking a beautiful pearl necklace and tossing it over Meg"s curls.
But Roger, the master cook, stood by and tore his hair when he saw what was happening.
Then up came the yoke of white oxen drawing the cart bearing the prize. And the lord mayor gave a goad into Rafe's hands, with words of congratulation.
"Now mount and come with me," said the king. But Rafe hesitated.
"Your Majesty," he replied, "I see no way to make another pie like this which has pleased you. For I have no more of the magic nuts wherewith to flavor a second."
The king frowned, "What! No more pie! Is this to be the first and the last? Sirrah, I am not pleased!"
Then little Meg stepped forth. "The magic nut is the nutmeg," said she. "My name is Meg, and Granny called the magic nuts after me. I know where is hidden a store of them. These are my dower." She emptied her pockets of the nuts which they held, and they were a precious handful.
"Ha!" cried the king, eagerly, "you must marry Baron Applepy, that he may use your dower in our behalf."
Rafe and the maid looked sidewise at one another.
"You are willing, my dear?" said the queen, smiling upon Meg.
"Yes," whispered she. with red-apple cheeks.
"Yes, indeed!" cried Rafe when the queen looked at him. But again he seemed troubled.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I cannot leave my poor neighbors. There will be no one to cook for them at my prices."
"You shall have your own price from me," said the king.
Rafe bowed low. "You do me great honor," he said humbly. "But I cannot leave my poor people, my house and my cow and my apple-tree: indeed I cannot."
The king looked very angry and raised his staff with a gesture of wrath. But the queen laid her hand upon his arm.
"Why may he not live where he will and yet cook the pies for us?" she said. "A messenger on a fleet horse can bring them to us every day. We shall then have pies like that first delicious one, made from apples from that very same red-apple tree of his. They would be best of all."
"True," said the king, reflecting for a moment.
"Please, your Majesty," said Meg, in her most winsome tones, "I do so long to help Rafe pick the red apples for your pies and skim the yellow cream of the little red cow. And please, I do so long to help him cook for his poor neighbors, who will miss him so. Now that we have the prize, we can do much for them. Please, your Majesty !"
"Please, your Majesty!" echoed Rafe.
"Please, your Majesty!" begged the queen. So the king hemmed and hawed and yielded. "But see, Baron Applepy." he said, "that you make me three fine pies every day, for which my swiftest messenger shall call. Now farewell to thee—and to all. We must be off."
"Heaven bless your Majesties," said Rafe and Meg, bowing and curtsying low. Then Rafe lifted the little maid into the white cart beside the hundred sacks of flour and the bag of silver, and amid shouts and cheers away they drove the white oxen toward the little house on the acre of land under the red-apple tree, where the little red cow was waiting for them. And there they lived happily ever after, making three pies a day for the king at an enormous price, and feeding the beloved poor people, his neighbors, for no price at all.
The New Boy at Hilltop, Chapter 3
by Ralph Henry Barbour, originally begun December 1906
MR. WHIPPLE SUBSCRIBES
Kenneth's first week at Hilltop passed busily and happily. There had been no more talk on Joe's part about getting rid of his room-mate. The two had become fast friends. Kenneth grew to like Joe better each day; and it had n't taken him long to discover that it was because of Joe's ability to squirm out of scrapes or to avoid detection altogether rather than to irreproachable conduct that Doctor Randall looked upon him as a model student.
Basket-ball practice for both the Upper and Lower House teams took place every week-day afternoon. Kenneth had erred, if at all, on the side of modesty when speaking of his basket-ball ability. To be sure, he was light in weight for a team where the members' ages averaged almost sixteen years, but he made up for that in speed, while his prowess at shooting baskets from the floor or from fouls was so remarkable that after a few practice games had been played all Lower House was discussing him with eager amazement and Upper House was sitting up and taking notice. At the end of the first week Kenneth secured a place on the second team at right guard, and Grafton Hyde, whose place in a similar position on the first team was his more by reason of his size and weight than because of real ability, began to work his hardest.
The closer Kenneth pressed him for his place the more Grafton's dislike of the younger boy became evident. As there was the length of the floor between their positions in the practice games the two had few opportunities to "mix it up," but once or twice they got into a scrimmage together and on those occasions the fur flew. Grafton was a hard, rough player and he did n't handle Kenneth with gloves. On the other hand, Kenneth asked no favors nor gave any. Naturally Grafton's superior size and strength gave him the advantage, and after the second of these "mix-ups," during which the other players and the few spectators looked on gleefully and the referee blew his whistle until he was purple in the face, Kenneth limped down to the dressing-room with a badly bruised knee, a factor which kept him out of the game for the next two days and caused Grafton to throw sarcastic asides in the direction of the bench against which Kenneth's heels beat a disconsolate tattoo.
Four days before the first game with Upper House—the Championship Shield went to the team winning two games out of three—Lower House held an enthusiastic meeting at which songs and cheers were practised and at which the forty-odd fellows in attendance pledged themselves for various sums of money to defray the cost of new suits and paraphernalia for both the basket-ball and hockey teams.
"How much do you give?" whispered Kenneth.
"Five dollars," answered Joe, his pencil poised above the little slip of paper.
Kenneth stared.
"But— is n't that a good bit?" he asked incredulously.
"It seems so when you only get twenty dollars a month allowance," answered Joe ruefully. "But every fellow gives what he thinks he ought to, you know; Graft usually gives ten dollars, but lots of the fellows can only give fifty cents."
"I see," murmured Kenneth. "'What he thinks he ought to give,' eh? That 's easy."
The following afternoon Upper and Lower Houses turned out en masse to see the first of the hockey series and stood ankle-deep in the new snow while Upper proceeded to administer a generous trouncing to her rival.
"Eat 'em up, Upper! Eat 'em up, Upper!" gleefully shouted the supporters of the crimson-stockinged players along the opposite barrier.
"Oh, forget it!" growled Joe, pulling the collar of his blue sweater higher about his neck and turning a disgusted back, to the rink. "That 's 14 to 3, is n't it? Well, it must be pretty near over, that's one comfort! Hello, here comes Whipple. Gee, but he makes me tired! Always trying to mix with the fellows. I wonder if he was born with that ugly smile of his. He 's coming this way." Joe groaned. "He thinks I 'm such a nice little boy and says he hopes my heart is of gold to match my hair! Would n't that peev you?"
"Ah, Brewster," greeted Mr. Whipple, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "how goes it to-day?" He accorded Kenneth a curt nod.
"Going bad," growled Joe.
"Well, well, we must take the bad with the good," said the instructor sweetly. "Even defeat has its lesson, you know. Now—"
But Kenneth did n't hear the rest. Grafton Hyde was beside him with a slip of paper in his hand.
"Say, Garwood," said Grafton loudly enough to be heard by the audience near-by, "I wish you 'd tell me about this. It 's your subscription slip. These figures look like a one and two naughts, but I guess you meant ten dollars instead of one, did n't you?"
"No," answered Kenneth calmly.
"Oh! But—only a dollar?" inquired Grafton incredulously.
The fellows nearest at hand who had been either watching the game or delighting in Joe's discomforture turned their attention to Grafton and the new junior.
"Exactly," answered Kenneth. "The figures are perfectly plain, are n't they?"
Grafton shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Oh, all right," he said. "Only a dollar seemed rather little, and I wanted to be sure—"
"Did n't anyone else give a dollar?" demanded Kenneth.
"We don't make public the amounts received," answered Grafton with much dignity.
Kenneth smiled sarcastically.
"What are you doing now?" he asked.
"I merely asked—"
"And I answered. That 's enough, is n't it?"
"Yes, but let me tell you that we don't take to stingy fellows in Lower House. You'd better get moved to Upper, Garwood; that 's where you belong. You 're a fresh kid, and I guess we don't have to have your subscription anyway." He tore the slip up contemptuously and tossed the pieces to the snow. Kenneth colored.
"Just as you like," he answered. "I subscribed what I thought proper and you 've refused to accept it. You have n't worried me."
But a glance over the faces of the little throng showed that public sentiment was against him. Well, that could n't be helped now. He turned his back and gave his attention to the game. But the incident was not yet closed. Mr. Whipple's smooth voice sounded in its most conciliatory tones:
"We all know your generosity, Hyde. Let us hope that by next year Garwood will have learned from you the spirit of giving."
Kenneth swung around and faced the instructor.
"May I ask, sir, how much you gave?"
"Me? Why—ah—I think the teachers are not required—I should say expected to—ah— contribute," answered Mr. Whipple agitatedly.
"I guess they are n't forbidden to," answered Kenneth. "And I don't believe you 've got any right to criticize the size of my subscription until you 've given something yourself."
Mr. Whipple's smile grew tremulous and almost flickered out.
"I 'm sure that the boys of the Lower House know that I am always ready and eager to aid in any way," he replied with angry dignity. "If they will allow me to contribute—" He paused and viewed the circle smilingly.
The idea tickled all hands hugely.
"Yes, sir!"
"Thank you, sir!"
"About five dollars, Mr. Whipple!"
Mr. Whipple's smile grew strained and uneasy. He had not expected acceptance of his offer.
"Yes, yes, perhaps it is best to keep the donations confined to the student body," he said. "Perhaps at another time you 'll allow—"
"Right now, sir!" cried Joe. "Give us a couple of dollars, sir!"
The demand could not be disregarded. Shouts of approval arose on every hand. On the ice, Wason of the Upper House team had hurt his knee and time had been called; and the waiting players flocked to the barrier to see what was up. Mr. Whipple looked questioningly at Grafton and found that youth regarding him expectantly. With a sigh which was quickly stifled he drew forth his pocket book and selected a two dollar note from the little roll it contained. He handed it to Grafton who accepted it carelessly.
"Thanks," said Grafton. "I 'll send you a receipt, sir."
"Oh, that is not necessary," replied Mr. Whipple. Now that the thing was past mending he made the best of it. His smile had returned in all its serenity. "And now, Garwood," he said, "as I have complied with your requirements, allow me to say that your conduct has not been—ah—up to Hilltop standards. Let me suggest that you cultivate generosity."
Kenneth, who had kept his back turned since his last words, swung around with an angry retort on his lips. But Joe's hand pulled him back.
"Shut up, chum!" whispered Joe. "Let him go."
Kenneth swallowed his anger and Mr. Whipple, with a smiling nod, followed by a quick, malevolent glance at Joe, turned away from the group of grinning faces.
Chuckles and quiet snickers followed him.
There was joy in the ranks of the enemy. Only Kenneth showed no satisfaction over the instructor's discomfiture for he realized that the latter would hold him partly accountable for it.
Presently, the game having come to an end with the score 18 to 7 in Upper's favor, he and Joe went back together up the hill.
"I wish," said Joe, with a frown, "you had n't made that fuss about the subscription. Fellows will think you 're stingy, I 'm afraid."
"Well, they '11 have to think so then," responded Kenneth defiantly. "Anyhow, Hyde had no business pitching into me about it like that in public."
"No, that's so," Joe acknowledged. "He had n't. I guess he's got it in for you good and hard. But don't you be worried."
"I 'm not," answered Kenneth. And he did n't look to be.
"I 'm going to see Jim Marble before Graft gets at him with a lot of yarns about you," Joe continued.
"Thanks," said Kenneth. "I wish you would. I don't want to lose all show for the team."
"You bet you don't! You 're getting on finely, too, are n't you? I don't see how you work those long throws of yours. Graft says it's just your fool luck." Joe chuckled. "I asked him why he did n't cultivate a little luck himself! He's been playing like a baby so far; sloppy 's no name for it!"
"Think Marble notices it?"
"Of course he notices it! Jim don't miss a thing. Why?"
"Nothing, only— well, I've made up my mind to beat Grafton out; and I'm going to do it!"
Two days later there was deeper gloom than ever in Lower House. Upper had won the first basket-ball game! And the score, 14 to 6, did n't offer ground for comfort. There was no good reason to suppose that the next game, coming a week later, would result very differently. Individually three at least of the five players had done brilliant work, Marble at center. Joe at left forward and Collier at left guard having won applause time and again. But Upper had far excelled in team-work, especially on offense, and Lower's much-heralded speed had n't shown up. On the defense, all things considered, Lower had done fairly well, although most of the honor belonged to Collier at left guard, Grafton Hyde having played a slow, blundering game in which he had apparently sought to substitute roughness fof science. More than half of the fouls called on the Blue had been made by Grafton. And, even though Upper had no very certain basket-thrower, still she could n't have helped making a fair share of those goals from fouls.
Kenneth had n't gone on until the last minute of play, and he had not distinguished himself. In fact his one play had been a failure. He had taken Grafton's place at right guard. Carl Jones, Upper's big center, stole the ball in the middle of the floor and succeeded in getting quite away from the field. Kenneth saw the danger and gave chase, but his lack of weight was against him. Jones brushed him aside, almost under the basket, and, while Kenneth went rolling over out of bounds, tossed the easiest sort of a goal. But Kenneth's lack of success on that occasion caused him to work harder than ever in practice, and, on the following Thursday the long-expected happened. Grafton Hyde went to the second team and Kenneth took his place at right guard on the first.
...to be continued
MR. WHIPPLE SUBSCRIBES
Kenneth's first week at Hilltop passed busily and happily. There had been no more talk on Joe's part about getting rid of his room-mate. The two had become fast friends. Kenneth grew to like Joe better each day; and it had n't taken him long to discover that it was because of Joe's ability to squirm out of scrapes or to avoid detection altogether rather than to irreproachable conduct that Doctor Randall looked upon him as a model student.
Basket-ball practice for both the Upper and Lower House teams took place every week-day afternoon. Kenneth had erred, if at all, on the side of modesty when speaking of his basket-ball ability. To be sure, he was light in weight for a team where the members' ages averaged almost sixteen years, but he made up for that in speed, while his prowess at shooting baskets from the floor or from fouls was so remarkable that after a few practice games had been played all Lower House was discussing him with eager amazement and Upper House was sitting up and taking notice. At the end of the first week Kenneth secured a place on the second team at right guard, and Grafton Hyde, whose place in a similar position on the first team was his more by reason of his size and weight than because of real ability, began to work his hardest.
The closer Kenneth pressed him for his place the more Grafton's dislike of the younger boy became evident. As there was the length of the floor between their positions in the practice games the two had few opportunities to "mix it up," but once or twice they got into a scrimmage together and on those occasions the fur flew. Grafton was a hard, rough player and he did n't handle Kenneth with gloves. On the other hand, Kenneth asked no favors nor gave any. Naturally Grafton's superior size and strength gave him the advantage, and after the second of these "mix-ups," during which the other players and the few spectators looked on gleefully and the referee blew his whistle until he was purple in the face, Kenneth limped down to the dressing-room with a badly bruised knee, a factor which kept him out of the game for the next two days and caused Grafton to throw sarcastic asides in the direction of the bench against which Kenneth's heels beat a disconsolate tattoo.
Four days before the first game with Upper House—the Championship Shield went to the team winning two games out of three—Lower House held an enthusiastic meeting at which songs and cheers were practised and at which the forty-odd fellows in attendance pledged themselves for various sums of money to defray the cost of new suits and paraphernalia for both the basket-ball and hockey teams.
"How much do you give?" whispered Kenneth.
"Five dollars," answered Joe, his pencil poised above the little slip of paper.
Kenneth stared.
"But— is n't that a good bit?" he asked incredulously.
"It seems so when you only get twenty dollars a month allowance," answered Joe ruefully. "But every fellow gives what he thinks he ought to, you know; Graft usually gives ten dollars, but lots of the fellows can only give fifty cents."
"I see," murmured Kenneth. "'What he thinks he ought to give,' eh? That 's easy."
The following afternoon Upper and Lower Houses turned out en masse to see the first of the hockey series and stood ankle-deep in the new snow while Upper proceeded to administer a generous trouncing to her rival.
"Eat 'em up, Upper! Eat 'em up, Upper!" gleefully shouted the supporters of the crimson-stockinged players along the opposite barrier.
"Oh, forget it!" growled Joe, pulling the collar of his blue sweater higher about his neck and turning a disgusted back, to the rink. "That 's 14 to 3, is n't it? Well, it must be pretty near over, that's one comfort! Hello, here comes Whipple. Gee, but he makes me tired! Always trying to mix with the fellows. I wonder if he was born with that ugly smile of his. He 's coming this way." Joe groaned. "He thinks I 'm such a nice little boy and says he hopes my heart is of gold to match my hair! Would n't that peev you?"
"Ah, Brewster," greeted Mr. Whipple, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "how goes it to-day?" He accorded Kenneth a curt nod.
"Going bad," growled Joe.
"Well, well, we must take the bad with the good," said the instructor sweetly. "Even defeat has its lesson, you know. Now—"
But Kenneth did n't hear the rest. Grafton Hyde was beside him with a slip of paper in his hand.
"Say, Garwood," said Grafton loudly enough to be heard by the audience near-by, "I wish you 'd tell me about this. It 's your subscription slip. These figures look like a one and two naughts, but I guess you meant ten dollars instead of one, did n't you?"
"No," answered Kenneth calmly.
"Oh! But—only a dollar?" inquired Grafton incredulously.
The fellows nearest at hand who had been either watching the game or delighting in Joe's discomforture turned their attention to Grafton and the new junior.
"Exactly," answered Kenneth. "The figures are perfectly plain, are n't they?"
Grafton shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Oh, all right," he said. "Only a dollar seemed rather little, and I wanted to be sure—"
"Did n't anyone else give a dollar?" demanded Kenneth.
"We don't make public the amounts received," answered Grafton with much dignity.
Kenneth smiled sarcastically.
"What are you doing now?" he asked.
"I merely asked—"
"And I answered. That 's enough, is n't it?"
"Yes, but let me tell you that we don't take to stingy fellows in Lower House. You'd better get moved to Upper, Garwood; that 's where you belong. You 're a fresh kid, and I guess we don't have to have your subscription anyway." He tore the slip up contemptuously and tossed the pieces to the snow. Kenneth colored.
"Just as you like," he answered. "I subscribed what I thought proper and you 've refused to accept it. You have n't worried me."
But a glance over the faces of the little throng showed that public sentiment was against him. Well, that could n't be helped now. He turned his back and gave his attention to the game. But the incident was not yet closed. Mr. Whipple's smooth voice sounded in its most conciliatory tones:
"We all know your generosity, Hyde. Let us hope that by next year Garwood will have learned from you the spirit of giving."
Kenneth swung around and faced the instructor.
"May I ask, sir, how much you gave?"
"Me? Why—ah—I think the teachers are not required—I should say expected to—ah— contribute," answered Mr. Whipple agitatedly.
"I guess they are n't forbidden to," answered Kenneth. "And I don't believe you 've got any right to criticize the size of my subscription until you 've given something yourself."
Mr. Whipple's smile grew tremulous and almost flickered out.
"I 'm sure that the boys of the Lower House know that I am always ready and eager to aid in any way," he replied with angry dignity. "If they will allow me to contribute—" He paused and viewed the circle smilingly.
The idea tickled all hands hugely.
"Yes, sir!"
"Thank you, sir!"
"About five dollars, Mr. Whipple!"
Mr. Whipple's smile grew strained and uneasy. He had not expected acceptance of his offer.
"Yes, yes, perhaps it is best to keep the donations confined to the student body," he said. "Perhaps at another time you 'll allow—"
"Right now, sir!" cried Joe. "Give us a couple of dollars, sir!"
The demand could not be disregarded. Shouts of approval arose on every hand. On the ice, Wason of the Upper House team had hurt his knee and time had been called; and the waiting players flocked to the barrier to see what was up. Mr. Whipple looked questioningly at Grafton and found that youth regarding him expectantly. With a sigh which was quickly stifled he drew forth his pocket book and selected a two dollar note from the little roll it contained. He handed it to Grafton who accepted it carelessly.
"Thanks," said Grafton. "I 'll send you a receipt, sir."
"Oh, that is not necessary," replied Mr. Whipple. Now that the thing was past mending he made the best of it. His smile had returned in all its serenity. "And now, Garwood," he said, "as I have complied with your requirements, allow me to say that your conduct has not been—ah—up to Hilltop standards. Let me suggest that you cultivate generosity."
Kenneth, who had kept his back turned since his last words, swung around with an angry retort on his lips. But Joe's hand pulled him back.
"Shut up, chum!" whispered Joe. "Let him go."
Kenneth swallowed his anger and Mr. Whipple, with a smiling nod, followed by a quick, malevolent glance at Joe, turned away from the group of grinning faces.
Chuckles and quiet snickers followed him.
There was joy in the ranks of the enemy. Only Kenneth showed no satisfaction over the instructor's discomfiture for he realized that the latter would hold him partly accountable for it.
Presently, the game having come to an end with the score 18 to 7 in Upper's favor, he and Joe went back together up the hill.
"I wish," said Joe, with a frown, "you had n't made that fuss about the subscription. Fellows will think you 're stingy, I 'm afraid."
"Well, they '11 have to think so then," responded Kenneth defiantly. "Anyhow, Hyde had no business pitching into me about it like that in public."
"No, that's so," Joe acknowledged. "He had n't. I guess he's got it in for you good and hard. But don't you be worried."
"I 'm not," answered Kenneth. And he did n't look to be.
"I 'm going to see Jim Marble before Graft gets at him with a lot of yarns about you," Joe continued.
"Thanks," said Kenneth. "I wish you would. I don't want to lose all show for the team."
"You bet you don't! You 're getting on finely, too, are n't you? I don't see how you work those long throws of yours. Graft says it's just your fool luck." Joe chuckled. "I asked him why he did n't cultivate a little luck himself! He's been playing like a baby so far; sloppy 's no name for it!"
"Think Marble notices it?"
"Of course he notices it! Jim don't miss a thing. Why?"
"Nothing, only— well, I've made up my mind to beat Grafton out; and I'm going to do it!"
Two days later there was deeper gloom than ever in Lower House. Upper had won the first basket-ball game! And the score, 14 to 6, did n't offer ground for comfort. There was no good reason to suppose that the next game, coming a week later, would result very differently. Individually three at least of the five players had done brilliant work, Marble at center. Joe at left forward and Collier at left guard having won applause time and again. But Upper had far excelled in team-work, especially on offense, and Lower's much-heralded speed had n't shown up. On the defense, all things considered, Lower had done fairly well, although most of the honor belonged to Collier at left guard, Grafton Hyde having played a slow, blundering game in which he had apparently sought to substitute roughness fof science. More than half of the fouls called on the Blue had been made by Grafton. And, even though Upper had no very certain basket-thrower, still she could n't have helped making a fair share of those goals from fouls.
Kenneth had n't gone on until the last minute of play, and he had not distinguished himself. In fact his one play had been a failure. He had taken Grafton's place at right guard. Carl Jones, Upper's big center, stole the ball in the middle of the floor and succeeded in getting quite away from the field. Kenneth saw the danger and gave chase, but his lack of weight was against him. Jones brushed him aside, almost under the basket, and, while Kenneth went rolling over out of bounds, tossed the easiest sort of a goal. But Kenneth's lack of success on that occasion caused him to work harder than ever in practice, and, on the following Thursday the long-expected happened. Grafton Hyde went to the second team and Kenneth took his place at right guard on the first.
...to be continued
"Winter at Wildyrie"
by T. Morris Longstreth, February 1922
It is a beautiful spot near a lake called Dark-eyed Water and a mountain, Clouds' Cobble, and we live there the year round. We have two chief amusements—living and answering letters. Since it is considered unusual for three men to live of their own accord in a place that is so lovely, so healthful, and so interesting, we get a great many letters. These collect for us at the Lake Placid Club post-office and have to be carted in on our backs, along with books, bacon, wool socks, lollypops, and the other necessaries of a forest life.
But they are worth their weight in amusement. On an evening when the snow is piling silently down upon the spruces, and Prunier is pulling at his old pipe before a blazing birch-log, E. L. and I drag out the wood-box in which we keep the unanswered correspondence and have a good laugh. We are as cosy as toasted cheese, having just had a supper of broiled venison and tarts made from some of Prunier's wild raspberries, then E. L. will read questions like these:
"How on earth do you get enough to eat?" "What do you mean, forty-five below zero?" "Why on earth do you remain in that heat-forsaken spot?" "What on earth do you find to do?"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FORTY-FIVE BELOW?"
To begin with, forty-five below zero means that the mercury has to rise seventy-seven degrees before it reaches freezing point. That makes you safe—no thaws, no wet feet, the ice will stay hard, the snow will stay soft. This feeling of security is very comforting to anybody who has lived where every snow-storm turns to rain and every hour of skating is likely to be the last. Security is, then, the first boon granted us by the Frost King.
The second is lack of wind. I have seen an entire week of zero weather without a breeze. Going out of Wilderness House is like going from one room to another, except that as you breathe the motionless air it burns a little, like soda-water in summer. Color flames everywhere. The shadows of trees are an intense blue, and the fields of snow on the far plains or on the mountainsides are not white, but heliotrope or gold or purple or canary. The fir-trees glisten, the pines glow in green fire. The sky shines like polished steel by day, and at night is of bluer, darker steel, set with ragged, glittering stars.
Seventy-five degrees of frost brings new colors into existence, new exhilarations, new sounds—new sounds especially. E. L. and I put on tarn and mackinaw and gloves some nights and go down to the shores of Darkeyed Water to hear the frost at work. At first, it is all so still that you could hear a wood-mouse squeak over in the next county. Suddenly there is a zip-crack! And we jump. But it is not a bomb; just a tree. There was a bit of sap or moisture caught, then, and something ripped. Now, down in the valley, we hear a fusillade, several trees cracking at once. The cold has gripped the night and is squeezing, squeezing, until there is no moisture left. That is why we feel nothing.
Not always, of course, can one stand around and philosophize. There comes a day when the skirts of a blizzard are swishing out of the southern door of the world and a cold wave pouring in through the northern; then it is very different. The mercury may be fifty degrees higher, but the wind is blowing. The whole landscape is a hurricane of howling gray. The forest roars. You might suppose the north Atlantic Ocean was beating on our shutters. One drift tops the southern eaves of Wilderness House. Tomorrow it will be fun seeing what the storm has done. To-day we repair ski-harness or go on a short snow-shoe walk in the woods, for a few minutes of wind like that will freeze you. Which brings us naturally to the next question.
"how On Earth Do You Keep Warm?"
There are four rules for that: wear wool; wear it loose; eat the right things; and don't be afraid. With two pairs of socks, an extra pair of mittens, a flannel shirt (or maybe two), a sweater, and some wind-proof outer garment, E. L. and I can ski all morning at twenty below and sit down in the snow for a thirty-minute lunch and be more comfortable than in June. In June, there are flies in the forest. In winter, there are no problems of insects or of swamps, of sudden rains, of wet wood, or of spoiled food. In winter the human furnace burns better, and you have the pleasure of being able to eat more sweets and still maintain that righteous feeling. A little ax-work will bring a glow. You have the satisfaction of lording it over the elements. In the forest, there is never much wind; and where there is little wind, it is small trouble to keep warm. Keep out of the wind and wear wool.
But the last rule is the most important. A little care and a little courage—that is the secret of the winter sportsman. You can shiver worse in anticipation than in- any reality.
"what On Earth Do You Find To Do?"
At last, after this brief introduction to the weather you will meet, and with our assurance that you will not freeze to death, I propose to list the sports in which E. L. and I personally indulge. The list is n't complete, because we are not accomplished athletes. Neither do we do all these things at Wildyrie, for some, as you will see, require an equipment already established, or a crowd of people with whom to do them. But we are not so very far from Lake Placid Club, which is the winter capital of America, and there, as everybody knows, are to be found the best facilities for winter sports in America, the best teachers to school one in these sports, and a crowd of girls and fellows, old and young, all learning and enjoying the same thing. In addition, there are the International Speed-skating Championships, the International Figure-skating Competition, the International Curling Competition, and the International Ski-jumping Competition to watch. But I shall content myself with telling about what any fellow or girl can do; because not everybody can get to Placid, but everybody can have a sort of Wildyrie Junior of their own at home.
Winter can be divided into three parts: ice, level snow, and hills. In our country, there is so much snow (often 150 inches; that is, over 12 feet, the record for the last twelve years having been 226 inches, government figures), that we can not depend on the wind and thaws keeping the lakes clear. So we either scrape rinks on the lake or flood tenniscourts. But it is worth doing, for there are many sports possible on clear ice: Plain skating, racing, figure-skating, hockey, skate-sailing, ice-boating, motor-cycling (in which a steel runner has been substituted for the wheel), motorjoring (in which you are dragged behind a motor-cycle while on skates—a practicable pastime on good ice), curling, ice-tennis (on skates, exciting enough and worth trying), ice-baseball (on sneakers, a lively and upsetting pastime), and gymkhana (a carnival of foolishness, being an adaptation to the ice of Hallowe'en games and other antics. A peanut-race on skates makes ordinary fun look solemn).
So much for the ice, and we have scarcely drawn on winter's account as yet. These are three ways of getting over snow: on snowshoes, on skis, and on runners. Let 's consider snow-shoes first, since they come first historically, being the way the Iroquois trod these same hills so many moons ago.
Plain snow-shoeing is not so plain as it sounds. By the time you have tied the thongs a few hundred times (though there is a regular strap harness now which is easier to manage) and stubbed your toes and crossed your heels, you will have discovered how very clever it was to be an Indian. But just the same, the snow-shoe is the one way possible to thread our underbrushy forests and to climb our close-growth mountains. And after all, if you get the right equipment, it is as easy as walking in the woods in summer.
Snow-shoe racing is a good way to discover who has the best lungs. Best lungs can beat best legs, given a hard course. A cross-country snow-shoe hike on a moonlight night to a place where you are sure of hot chocolate and Adirondack griddle-cakes (the special kind with powdered maple-sugar and cream that will just pour) is one apex of winter sport.
Snow-shoe climbing. To stand on a slippery peak, perched up in the infinite, with a whole world of white and blue beneath you and a good slide to come, on the tail of your shoes—that is another glorious sensation.
Relaying. We play a game in which the fellows are stationed a half-mile apart and have to carry not a ribbon, but a pack-basket, as in a relay-race, combining speed with obstacles, and very good fun.
Plain skiing. Plain skiing is the easiest, the most practical, and most delightful way that has yet been discovered of being an angel in this world.
Ski-running is cross-country flying on earth.
Ski-racing tells you what kind of a man you are.
Ski-jumping is the only way yet found of falling a hundred feet without hurting yourself.
Ski-joring is the art of managing a horse, your skis, your partner, and the rest of you while being whirled prestissimo along a road.
Sledding sounds tame after all that I have said about skiing, but if you take one of our upland pastures filled with stumps and glacial boulders, incline it at an angle very like a roof, and have a slight crust on the snow, sledding can be made attractive to the most venturesome.
Shuting. If the extra-venturesome cry for danger, they can try a flexible flier on the iced toboggan-shutes.
Tobogganing. An accurate way of dropping down a gulf so that you continue on your way rejoicing at the bottom. On the Lake Placid Club shutes we make sixty miles an hour, and as one is only an inch from the ground it seems more! "Swishee! walkee back a milee" is the Indian notion of it.
Toboggan racing, six a-breast down a free hill is good fun.
Tobojoring is done by hitching a toboggan to a horse and allowing him to do the rest. This is a dangerous sport unless you know your horse very well, for you come very close to his heels.
Sleighing, the coldest known form of merrymaking.
Sleigh-joring, in which you follow a sleigh on skis is equally cold, but more interesting.
Straw-rides have a place in the program, and hitching-parties, particularly those in which a horse with a taste for practical jokes takes the lead, can provide a very charming moonlight soirée.
The sports mentioned partially answer the question of what E. L. and I find to do; and yet I have not mentioned the grand climax of winter sport, the exploring trip.
This always begins with a look at the map. Some mountain view that we have never seen; some route, through passes and over lakes, that looks as if it would consume two or three days without doing us up, and we are afire. We add the last touches to our equipment, the last parcel of food to the pack, and turn our backs on Wilderness House. But not on comfort, for we have Prunier with us this time—he on snow-shoes, we on skis, with snow-shoes on our backs for emergencies, and with just a little bacon, a little tea, and a bite of sweet chocolate for lunch.
Perhaps we make some cabin for the night; perhaps not. If not, then the work begins. Snow must be cleared, browse cut to unroll the sleeping-bags on, much wood piled for the long night—then supper, darkness, turn-in, talk-a-little, morning!
Skiing; Or, How On Earth To Fly
Skiing is the easiest of all sports to learn well enough to enjoy. The beginner on skis has to choose a gentle slope, keep his feet moderately close together, and go; he is skiing. The thing to do is to get your equipment and begin. I 'll describe E. L.'s equipment, which includes just what is necessary for our forest ski-running, and nothing more.
Skis—hickory, about seven feet long (determined by how high you can reach above your head) straight-grained. Harness—this is bought separately and consists of toe-irons, which lock in the slot after you find out just how wide they must be by trying them on your shoe. There 's a toe-strap and a heel-strap and a lever at the back which snaps backward when the ski is being put on. Some wear another strap over the instep. E. L. carries an extra strap, also extra rawhide for an emergency. Shoes—the regular ski-boot is the best, but expensive: If you have a concave heel on your shoe and (most important of all) straight sides to the sole (instead of the ordinary shaped sole), that is all that you need for comfort. The idea of the straight sole is to let the foot have no play sideways. It must be held firmly along the ski or you can not make your turns. The shoe ought to be large enough for you to wear two pairs of socks. Ski-sticks—there is much good-natured quarreling done, I am told, about whether to use sticks or not. E. L. and I would as soon think of going skiing without our skis as without our sticks. They are invaluable for climbing, for dividing the exertion with the legs on the level, for braking on perilous slopes. The ordinary stick is of wood, a poor material. Get bamboo sticks and wrap them with tire-tape, and see that the ring at the bottom is six inches across and made of aluminum, leatherwrapped. You had better dull the steel point, too. And never carry these sticks across you when going down hill, because you may lose an eye. It is very easy to trail them behind. Your hand goes through the leather thongs at the top. Rest it on the bottom of the loop when pushing and see what a purchase it gives you. Wax—when it is warm, or when the snow is new, we use a dark wax, rubbing it in, and, if the day is going to be very sticky, ironing it in with a warm iron. This gives a glassy surface almost impossible to climb with, but swift on the level. Linseed oil is nearly as good if rubbed a while. For most of the winter we need nothing except a slight going over the ski surface with emery-paper. Before doing up the skis for the summer, they should be surfaced with oil and then tied at each end with a four-inch wood-block in the middle, to keep the spring in. Clothing—two pairs of mittens (one of horsehide), a wind-proof outer garment, knickers of wool, with golf-stockings (and puttees for long trips), a tam, and a sweater tied around the waist, to put on when you stop. These are the essentials of outside wear. Always start off on a run a little cool; you 'll soon warm up. It is possible to ski in almost the same things you would play tennis in, and not be uncomfortably cold. Have outside surfaces as smooth as possible, so that the snow can not cling to them.
And now you are in our clutches. You are going skiing for the first time with E. L. and me this afternoon. Keep up your courage; we will get you back safe—a skier!
E. L. has helped you fasten on your harness; I have explained that there are but two things to remember at first: keep your skis parallel as you push one ahead and then the other; and think of yourself as a carriage spring when you go down hill—that is, keep your knees a little bent, a little flexible, and, if there is a steep hollow, bend a little more to offset the lurch. By keeping low, there is less danger of upset, and yet you want to keep your balance. It is ten times easier than learning to skate, for you have a platform to stand on (if you keep your skis close) instead of two separate steel ridges. Now we will start.
"Seven Spill," our favorite run, begins very easily, for we don't want to discourage you at the outset. There is almost a mile of wood-road. You soon catch on to the knack of sliding first one ski straight ahead, and then the other. And pushing with alternate sticks comes natural. Pretty soon you have forgotten the queerness of gliding ahead over two feet of snow with no apparent effort, and you begin to notice the woods—a partridge-track here, a mouse-track there. You are getting conceited, thinking how clever you are to "catch" on so easily to a sport that you have always imagined very difficult. What an idiot you were not to have tried it years ago! And how immensely expert you are—you have n't fallen once!
E. L. and I look at each other and smile a smile which reads, "Poor thing, little he knows!" We judge that it is now time for you to begin to learn, now that your first confidence is established. We turn from the wood-road into the woods, taking a trail that winds gently upward. "Help!"
We look behind. You are flat on your back, your skis are above you, your poles criss-cross, and you are disappearing slowly. "Don't struggle!" yells E. L. We go back.
"Don't struggle," say I, looking compassionately down, but offering no assistance. Now, once and for all, we are going to tell you how to arise.
First, do not struggle. It only gets you over-heated and out of breath. The less haste, the more skiing. Second, wiggle your skis so that they are parallel and below you. There! Now you are lying comfortably in the snow with your skis together and below. Pull them up a little by bending your legs. Now, grasp a stick in each hand, just above the ring, plant each firmly, and push up, slowly, keeping your balance. You are standing! It 's easy if you take it slowly. "What made you fall?" Look, you tried to take too steep a slope straight up. See how we zigzagged just a little on the trail?
The stage of the first fall has been passed. You are less conceited now, and your education can begin.
"You might have given me a hand," says your reproachful look, when you have taken the snow out of your ears and neck. But we know better. Every time we help you up, you are postponing learning by that much.
The trail rises more steeply now, and your skis slide back unmercifully until you begin to judge a little with your eye as to what slope they will take. You notice how we have tacked like a sail-boat in the woods where it is open, and you marvel at the quick kick turn that we make. It is very easy. Stand with your left ski firm on the level; lean, if you must, a trifle on your left stick right beside you (not slanting off), get your right stick out of the way, and then, lifting the right ski high, high, turn your foot out and back. It will come down almost parallel to your left ski, but facing the other way, yet without dislocating anything. When it is firm, lift your left ski gently around, parallel to it, and you have made the turn in your tracks. You will be immensely proud of yourself—for no reason at all. To-morrow you will not think of crowing about it, any more than you would feel superior to a baby because you can lace your shoes and it can't.
We have now gone two miles, and you have learned to glide on the level, have learned the sort of slope a ski will not take without throwing you, have learned the kick turn which enables you to tack. The trail comes out on an upland pasture, and all at once you feel ready to admit that you know nothing. "Down that?" you say in astonishment, "never!"
"Lots of times!" says E. L., grinning.
Walking, you know, is merely a scientific process of falling forward; and conversely, skiing at least, you should fall not quite backward, but a little to one side or the other; never forward. We tell you this for use only in the final emergency. We don't want you to fall, and we advise you not to expect to fall. For in skiing, what you expect happens. Our final instructions are: keep the knees limber, the shoulders a trifle forward, the sticks held behind, the skis parallel and close together, and have confidence! If you want to steer around a rock on the right, advance the right ski a few inches and press on the inner edge; you will curve a little to the left.
You are surprised how smooth, how easy, and, immediately, how fast is your motion! You crouch lower, remembering something of what we said, bend a little as a gully appears ahead of you, and emerge upright, much to your surprise. "This is glorious. Whew! Just missed that stump—must n't get conceited," you think. There is no more time for thought—a long, descending snow-slope, a speed that seems ridiculously fast, and yet somehow not unsafe. The scenery is a blur; but the scenery can wait; you will come back and look at it to-morrow. The snow sizzes from your skis, you brake a little with your sticks. And now you go faster, faster, Faster! and—totter, fall, splash!
Three somersaults, and you are now sitting in the pleasant snow watching E. L. flash by like an albino cannon-ball.
The first good downhill run usually convinces the beginner that skiing is the sport to stick to till death intervenes. E. L. goes up the hill and does the Telemark turn, the Christiania, and a few other stunts while you get your wind. And then we move on. The shadows are getting longer and are an intense blue. A distant range, the Sentinels, is turning rose-color and salmon and flame in the sun's last fire. The ozone in the air, the zest of speed in the blood (for you have got on to the swinging stride by now), the cold, the color, the beauty everywhere, make you think you are gliding on air. The mercury is below zero now, but you would n't believe it, and the air holds you up like a steel brace; you are perspiring.
And now we stand before the last long coast into our home clearing. "Have a care!" I yell to E. L., disappearing in the dusk.
"You bet!" he shouts back, scooting around a downward curve like a scared rabbit. You and I stand listening until the silence of the arctic night is complete. I tell you to be cautious, wish you luck, and watch you go. You crouch now, gladly. You spill at that second turn and hope I did n't hear; and quickly get under way again. The dusk gives you confidence. You keep in E. L.'s track, flying down the almost invisible way, the cold air on your cheeks, a new exhilaration in your heart. Finally, you shoot out into the clearing, your knees trembling a little from the unaccustomed strain, but with an exultation singing inside you. You can ski. At least, you have come five perilous miles without losing a limb. E. L. is chuckling as you pull up excitedly beside him. I join you with the feelings of Mercury alighting from the air. Through the windows of Wilderness House a welcome light shines. A still more welcome odor of broiled venison will greet you through the opened door. And yet, for all your hunger, your fatigue, you are sorry to quit; you take a last look at the immense, blue, arching beauty of the night.
"Great, was n't it?" says E. L.
"Great!" you echo, heartily. There is a feeling of band-music in your blood, but you can not put it into words—any more than I can.
An exhilarating portrait of winter sports in the 1920s, especially skiing.For the sake of new St. Nicholas readers who have not heard of Wildyrie, it is necessary to repeat that in New York State there is a wilderness of forest, lake, and mountain, river, pass, and pond, larger than Yellowstone Park, called the Adirondacks. In this wilderness at latitude 44°17'14" N., longitude 78°54'41" W., there is a group of buildings made of logs, moss-chinked, set in a particular section called Wildyrie, which we named Wilderness House. At Wilderness House live Essex Lad, an ex-city chap of fifteen plus, Prunier, the French-Canadian guide, a descendant of the old coureurs de bois, who is mellow with wisdom and woodsmoke, and myself, who am not yet bent with years.
It is a beautiful spot near a lake called Dark-eyed Water and a mountain, Clouds' Cobble, and we live there the year round. We have two chief amusements—living and answering letters. Since it is considered unusual for three men to live of their own accord in a place that is so lovely, so healthful, and so interesting, we get a great many letters. These collect for us at the Lake Placid Club post-office and have to be carted in on our backs, along with books, bacon, wool socks, lollypops, and the other necessaries of a forest life.
But they are worth their weight in amusement. On an evening when the snow is piling silently down upon the spruces, and Prunier is pulling at his old pipe before a blazing birch-log, E. L. and I drag out the wood-box in which we keep the unanswered correspondence and have a good laugh. We are as cosy as toasted cheese, having just had a supper of broiled venison and tarts made from some of Prunier's wild raspberries, then E. L. will read questions like these:
"How on earth do you get enough to eat?" "What do you mean, forty-five below zero?" "Why on earth do you remain in that heat-forsaken spot?" "What on earth do you find to do?"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FORTY-FIVE BELOW?"
To begin with, forty-five below zero means that the mercury has to rise seventy-seven degrees before it reaches freezing point. That makes you safe—no thaws, no wet feet, the ice will stay hard, the snow will stay soft. This feeling of security is very comforting to anybody who has lived where every snow-storm turns to rain and every hour of skating is likely to be the last. Security is, then, the first boon granted us by the Frost King.
The second is lack of wind. I have seen an entire week of zero weather without a breeze. Going out of Wilderness House is like going from one room to another, except that as you breathe the motionless air it burns a little, like soda-water in summer. Color flames everywhere. The shadows of trees are an intense blue, and the fields of snow on the far plains or on the mountainsides are not white, but heliotrope or gold or purple or canary. The fir-trees glisten, the pines glow in green fire. The sky shines like polished steel by day, and at night is of bluer, darker steel, set with ragged, glittering stars.
Seventy-five degrees of frost brings new colors into existence, new exhilarations, new sounds—new sounds especially. E. L. and I put on tarn and mackinaw and gloves some nights and go down to the shores of Darkeyed Water to hear the frost at work. At first, it is all so still that you could hear a wood-mouse squeak over in the next county. Suddenly there is a zip-crack! And we jump. But it is not a bomb; just a tree. There was a bit of sap or moisture caught, then, and something ripped. Now, down in the valley, we hear a fusillade, several trees cracking at once. The cold has gripped the night and is squeezing, squeezing, until there is no moisture left. That is why we feel nothing.
Not always, of course, can one stand around and philosophize. There comes a day when the skirts of a blizzard are swishing out of the southern door of the world and a cold wave pouring in through the northern; then it is very different. The mercury may be fifty degrees higher, but the wind is blowing. The whole landscape is a hurricane of howling gray. The forest roars. You might suppose the north Atlantic Ocean was beating on our shutters. One drift tops the southern eaves of Wilderness House. Tomorrow it will be fun seeing what the storm has done. To-day we repair ski-harness or go on a short snow-shoe walk in the woods, for a few minutes of wind like that will freeze you. Which brings us naturally to the next question.
"how On Earth Do You Keep Warm?"
There are four rules for that: wear wool; wear it loose; eat the right things; and don't be afraid. With two pairs of socks, an extra pair of mittens, a flannel shirt (or maybe two), a sweater, and some wind-proof outer garment, E. L. and I can ski all morning at twenty below and sit down in the snow for a thirty-minute lunch and be more comfortable than in June. In June, there are flies in the forest. In winter, there are no problems of insects or of swamps, of sudden rains, of wet wood, or of spoiled food. In winter the human furnace burns better, and you have the pleasure of being able to eat more sweets and still maintain that righteous feeling. A little ax-work will bring a glow. You have the satisfaction of lording it over the elements. In the forest, there is never much wind; and where there is little wind, it is small trouble to keep warm. Keep out of the wind and wear wool.
But the last rule is the most important. A little care and a little courage—that is the secret of the winter sportsman. You can shiver worse in anticipation than in- any reality.
"what On Earth Do You Find To Do?"
At last, after this brief introduction to the weather you will meet, and with our assurance that you will not freeze to death, I propose to list the sports in which E. L. and I personally indulge. The list is n't complete, because we are not accomplished athletes. Neither do we do all these things at Wildyrie, for some, as you will see, require an equipment already established, or a crowd of people with whom to do them. But we are not so very far from Lake Placid Club, which is the winter capital of America, and there, as everybody knows, are to be found the best facilities for winter sports in America, the best teachers to school one in these sports, and a crowd of girls and fellows, old and young, all learning and enjoying the same thing. In addition, there are the International Speed-skating Championships, the International Figure-skating Competition, the International Curling Competition, and the International Ski-jumping Competition to watch. But I shall content myself with telling about what any fellow or girl can do; because not everybody can get to Placid, but everybody can have a sort of Wildyrie Junior of their own at home.
Winter can be divided into three parts: ice, level snow, and hills. In our country, there is so much snow (often 150 inches; that is, over 12 feet, the record for the last twelve years having been 226 inches, government figures), that we can not depend on the wind and thaws keeping the lakes clear. So we either scrape rinks on the lake or flood tenniscourts. But it is worth doing, for there are many sports possible on clear ice: Plain skating, racing, figure-skating, hockey, skate-sailing, ice-boating, motor-cycling (in which a steel runner has been substituted for the wheel), motorjoring (in which you are dragged behind a motor-cycle while on skates—a practicable pastime on good ice), curling, ice-tennis (on skates, exciting enough and worth trying), ice-baseball (on sneakers, a lively and upsetting pastime), and gymkhana (a carnival of foolishness, being an adaptation to the ice of Hallowe'en games and other antics. A peanut-race on skates makes ordinary fun look solemn).
So much for the ice, and we have scarcely drawn on winter's account as yet. These are three ways of getting over snow: on snowshoes, on skis, and on runners. Let 's consider snow-shoes first, since they come first historically, being the way the Iroquois trod these same hills so many moons ago.
Plain snow-shoeing is not so plain as it sounds. By the time you have tied the thongs a few hundred times (though there is a regular strap harness now which is easier to manage) and stubbed your toes and crossed your heels, you will have discovered how very clever it was to be an Indian. But just the same, the snow-shoe is the one way possible to thread our underbrushy forests and to climb our close-growth mountains. And after all, if you get the right equipment, it is as easy as walking in the woods in summer.
Snow-shoe racing is a good way to discover who has the best lungs. Best lungs can beat best legs, given a hard course. A cross-country snow-shoe hike on a moonlight night to a place where you are sure of hot chocolate and Adirondack griddle-cakes (the special kind with powdered maple-sugar and cream that will just pour) is one apex of winter sport.
Snow-shoe climbing. To stand on a slippery peak, perched up in the infinite, with a whole world of white and blue beneath you and a good slide to come, on the tail of your shoes—that is another glorious sensation.
Relaying. We play a game in which the fellows are stationed a half-mile apart and have to carry not a ribbon, but a pack-basket, as in a relay-race, combining speed with obstacles, and very good fun.
Plain skiing. Plain skiing is the easiest, the most practical, and most delightful way that has yet been discovered of being an angel in this world.
Ski-running is cross-country flying on earth.
Ski-racing tells you what kind of a man you are.
Ski-jumping is the only way yet found of falling a hundred feet without hurting yourself.
Ski-joring is the art of managing a horse, your skis, your partner, and the rest of you while being whirled prestissimo along a road.
Sledding sounds tame after all that I have said about skiing, but if you take one of our upland pastures filled with stumps and glacial boulders, incline it at an angle very like a roof, and have a slight crust on the snow, sledding can be made attractive to the most venturesome.
Shuting. If the extra-venturesome cry for danger, they can try a flexible flier on the iced toboggan-shutes.
Tobogganing. An accurate way of dropping down a gulf so that you continue on your way rejoicing at the bottom. On the Lake Placid Club shutes we make sixty miles an hour, and as one is only an inch from the ground it seems more! "Swishee! walkee back a milee" is the Indian notion of it.
Toboggan racing, six a-breast down a free hill is good fun.
Tobojoring is done by hitching a toboggan to a horse and allowing him to do the rest. This is a dangerous sport unless you know your horse very well, for you come very close to his heels.
Sleighing, the coldest known form of merrymaking.
Sleigh-joring, in which you follow a sleigh on skis is equally cold, but more interesting.
Straw-rides have a place in the program, and hitching-parties, particularly those in which a horse with a taste for practical jokes takes the lead, can provide a very charming moonlight soirée.
The sports mentioned partially answer the question of what E. L. and I find to do; and yet I have not mentioned the grand climax of winter sport, the exploring trip.
This always begins with a look at the map. Some mountain view that we have never seen; some route, through passes and over lakes, that looks as if it would consume two or three days without doing us up, and we are afire. We add the last touches to our equipment, the last parcel of food to the pack, and turn our backs on Wilderness House. But not on comfort, for we have Prunier with us this time—he on snow-shoes, we on skis, with snow-shoes on our backs for emergencies, and with just a little bacon, a little tea, and a bite of sweet chocolate for lunch.
Perhaps we make some cabin for the night; perhaps not. If not, then the work begins. Snow must be cleared, browse cut to unroll the sleeping-bags on, much wood piled for the long night—then supper, darkness, turn-in, talk-a-little, morning!
Skiing; Or, How On Earth To Fly
Skiing is the easiest of all sports to learn well enough to enjoy. The beginner on skis has to choose a gentle slope, keep his feet moderately close together, and go; he is skiing. The thing to do is to get your equipment and begin. I 'll describe E. L.'s equipment, which includes just what is necessary for our forest ski-running, and nothing more.
Skis—hickory, about seven feet long (determined by how high you can reach above your head) straight-grained. Harness—this is bought separately and consists of toe-irons, which lock in the slot after you find out just how wide they must be by trying them on your shoe. There 's a toe-strap and a heel-strap and a lever at the back which snaps backward when the ski is being put on. Some wear another strap over the instep. E. L. carries an extra strap, also extra rawhide for an emergency. Shoes—the regular ski-boot is the best, but expensive: If you have a concave heel on your shoe and (most important of all) straight sides to the sole (instead of the ordinary shaped sole), that is all that you need for comfort. The idea of the straight sole is to let the foot have no play sideways. It must be held firmly along the ski or you can not make your turns. The shoe ought to be large enough for you to wear two pairs of socks. Ski-sticks—there is much good-natured quarreling done, I am told, about whether to use sticks or not. E. L. and I would as soon think of going skiing without our skis as without our sticks. They are invaluable for climbing, for dividing the exertion with the legs on the level, for braking on perilous slopes. The ordinary stick is of wood, a poor material. Get bamboo sticks and wrap them with tire-tape, and see that the ring at the bottom is six inches across and made of aluminum, leatherwrapped. You had better dull the steel point, too. And never carry these sticks across you when going down hill, because you may lose an eye. It is very easy to trail them behind. Your hand goes through the leather thongs at the top. Rest it on the bottom of the loop when pushing and see what a purchase it gives you. Wax—when it is warm, or when the snow is new, we use a dark wax, rubbing it in, and, if the day is going to be very sticky, ironing it in with a warm iron. This gives a glassy surface almost impossible to climb with, but swift on the level. Linseed oil is nearly as good if rubbed a while. For most of the winter we need nothing except a slight going over the ski surface with emery-paper. Before doing up the skis for the summer, they should be surfaced with oil and then tied at each end with a four-inch wood-block in the middle, to keep the spring in. Clothing—two pairs of mittens (one of horsehide), a wind-proof outer garment, knickers of wool, with golf-stockings (and puttees for long trips), a tam, and a sweater tied around the waist, to put on when you stop. These are the essentials of outside wear. Always start off on a run a little cool; you 'll soon warm up. It is possible to ski in almost the same things you would play tennis in, and not be uncomfortably cold. Have outside surfaces as smooth as possible, so that the snow can not cling to them.
And now you are in our clutches. You are going skiing for the first time with E. L. and me this afternoon. Keep up your courage; we will get you back safe—a skier!
E. L. has helped you fasten on your harness; I have explained that there are but two things to remember at first: keep your skis parallel as you push one ahead and then the other; and think of yourself as a carriage spring when you go down hill—that is, keep your knees a little bent, a little flexible, and, if there is a steep hollow, bend a little more to offset the lurch. By keeping low, there is less danger of upset, and yet you want to keep your balance. It is ten times easier than learning to skate, for you have a platform to stand on (if you keep your skis close) instead of two separate steel ridges. Now we will start.
"Seven Spill," our favorite run, begins very easily, for we don't want to discourage you at the outset. There is almost a mile of wood-road. You soon catch on to the knack of sliding first one ski straight ahead, and then the other. And pushing with alternate sticks comes natural. Pretty soon you have forgotten the queerness of gliding ahead over two feet of snow with no apparent effort, and you begin to notice the woods—a partridge-track here, a mouse-track there. You are getting conceited, thinking how clever you are to "catch" on so easily to a sport that you have always imagined very difficult. What an idiot you were not to have tried it years ago! And how immensely expert you are—you have n't fallen once!
E. L. and I look at each other and smile a smile which reads, "Poor thing, little he knows!" We judge that it is now time for you to begin to learn, now that your first confidence is established. We turn from the wood-road into the woods, taking a trail that winds gently upward. "Help!"
We look behind. You are flat on your back, your skis are above you, your poles criss-cross, and you are disappearing slowly. "Don't struggle!" yells E. L. We go back.
"Don't struggle," say I, looking compassionately down, but offering no assistance. Now, once and for all, we are going to tell you how to arise.
First, do not struggle. It only gets you over-heated and out of breath. The less haste, the more skiing. Second, wiggle your skis so that they are parallel and below you. There! Now you are lying comfortably in the snow with your skis together and below. Pull them up a little by bending your legs. Now, grasp a stick in each hand, just above the ring, plant each firmly, and push up, slowly, keeping your balance. You are standing! It 's easy if you take it slowly. "What made you fall?" Look, you tried to take too steep a slope straight up. See how we zigzagged just a little on the trail?
The stage of the first fall has been passed. You are less conceited now, and your education can begin.
"You might have given me a hand," says your reproachful look, when you have taken the snow out of your ears and neck. But we know better. Every time we help you up, you are postponing learning by that much.
The trail rises more steeply now, and your skis slide back unmercifully until you begin to judge a little with your eye as to what slope they will take. You notice how we have tacked like a sail-boat in the woods where it is open, and you marvel at the quick kick turn that we make. It is very easy. Stand with your left ski firm on the level; lean, if you must, a trifle on your left stick right beside you (not slanting off), get your right stick out of the way, and then, lifting the right ski high, high, turn your foot out and back. It will come down almost parallel to your left ski, but facing the other way, yet without dislocating anything. When it is firm, lift your left ski gently around, parallel to it, and you have made the turn in your tracks. You will be immensely proud of yourself—for no reason at all. To-morrow you will not think of crowing about it, any more than you would feel superior to a baby because you can lace your shoes and it can't.
We have now gone two miles, and you have learned to glide on the level, have learned the sort of slope a ski will not take without throwing you, have learned the kick turn which enables you to tack. The trail comes out on an upland pasture, and all at once you feel ready to admit that you know nothing. "Down that?" you say in astonishment, "never!"
"Lots of times!" says E. L., grinning.
Walking, you know, is merely a scientific process of falling forward; and conversely, skiing at least, you should fall not quite backward, but a little to one side or the other; never forward. We tell you this for use only in the final emergency. We don't want you to fall, and we advise you not to expect to fall. For in skiing, what you expect happens. Our final instructions are: keep the knees limber, the shoulders a trifle forward, the sticks held behind, the skis parallel and close together, and have confidence! If you want to steer around a rock on the right, advance the right ski a few inches and press on the inner edge; you will curve a little to the left.
You are surprised how smooth, how easy, and, immediately, how fast is your motion! You crouch lower, remembering something of what we said, bend a little as a gully appears ahead of you, and emerge upright, much to your surprise. "This is glorious. Whew! Just missed that stump—must n't get conceited," you think. There is no more time for thought—a long, descending snow-slope, a speed that seems ridiculously fast, and yet somehow not unsafe. The scenery is a blur; but the scenery can wait; you will come back and look at it to-morrow. The snow sizzes from your skis, you brake a little with your sticks. And now you go faster, faster, Faster! and—totter, fall, splash!
Three somersaults, and you are now sitting in the pleasant snow watching E. L. flash by like an albino cannon-ball.
The first good downhill run usually convinces the beginner that skiing is the sport to stick to till death intervenes. E. L. goes up the hill and does the Telemark turn, the Christiania, and a few other stunts while you get your wind. And then we move on. The shadows are getting longer and are an intense blue. A distant range, the Sentinels, is turning rose-color and salmon and flame in the sun's last fire. The ozone in the air, the zest of speed in the blood (for you have got on to the swinging stride by now), the cold, the color, the beauty everywhere, make you think you are gliding on air. The mercury is below zero now, but you would n't believe it, and the air holds you up like a steel brace; you are perspiring.
And now we stand before the last long coast into our home clearing. "Have a care!" I yell to E. L., disappearing in the dusk.
"You bet!" he shouts back, scooting around a downward curve like a scared rabbit. You and I stand listening until the silence of the arctic night is complete. I tell you to be cautious, wish you luck, and watch you go. You crouch now, gladly. You spill at that second turn and hope I did n't hear; and quickly get under way again. The dusk gives you confidence. You keep in E. L.'s track, flying down the almost invisible way, the cold air on your cheeks, a new exhilaration in your heart. Finally, you shoot out into the clearing, your knees trembling a little from the unaccustomed strain, but with an exultation singing inside you. You can ski. At least, you have come five perilous miles without losing a limb. E. L. is chuckling as you pull up excitedly beside him. I join you with the feelings of Mercury alighting from the air. Through the windows of Wilderness House a welcome light shines. A still more welcome odor of broiled venison will greet you through the opened door. And yet, for all your hunger, your fatigue, you are sorry to quit; you take a last look at the immense, blue, arching beauty of the night.
"Great, was n't it?" says E. L.
"Great!" you echo, heartily. There is a feeling of band-music in your blood, but you can not put it into words—any more than I can.
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