Sunday, April 29, 2007

Booth Tarkington - A Reward of Merit



BOOTH TARKINGTON
A Reward of Merit

I


Penrod and Sam made a gloomy discovery one morning in mid-October. All the
week had seen amiable breezes and fair skies until Saturday, when, about
breakfast-time, the dome of heaven filled solidly with gray vapor and began
to drip. The boys' discovery was that there is no justiceabout the weather.

They sat in the carriage-house of the Schofields' empty stable; the doors upon
the alley were open, and Sam and Penrod stared torpidly at the thin but implacable
drizzle which was the more irritating because there was barely enough of it to
interfere with a number of things they had planned to do.

"Yes; this is _nice_!" Sam said, in a tone of plaintive sarcasm. "This is a _perty
_ way to do!" (He was alluding to the personal spitefulness of the elements.)
"I'd like to know what's the sense of it--ole sun pourin' down every day in the
week when nobody needs it, then cloud up and rain all Saturday! My father said
it's goin' to be a three days' rain."

"Well, nobody with any sense cares if it rains Sunday and Monday," said Penrod.
"I wouldn't care if it rained every Sunday as long as I lived; but I just like to know
what's the reason it had to go and rain to-day.Got all the days o' the week to choose
from and goes and picks on Saturday. That's a fine biz'nuss!"

"Well, in vacation----" Sam began, but at a sound from a source invisible to him
he paused. "What's that?" he said, somewhat startled.
It was a curious sound, loud and hollow and unhuman, yet it seemed to be a cough.
Both boys rose, and Penrod asked uneasily, "Where'd that noise come from?"

"It's in the alley," said Sam.

Perhaps if the day had been bright, both of them would have stepped immediately
to the alley doors to investigate; but their actual procedure was to move a little
distance in the opposite direction. The strange cough sounded again.

"_Say!_" Penrod quavered. "What _is_ that?"

Then both boys uttered smothered exclamations and jumped, for the long, gaunt
head which appeared in the doorway was entirely unexpected. It was the cavernous
and melancholy head of an incredibly thin, old, whitish horse. This head waggled
slowly from side to side; the nostrils vibrated; the mouth opened, and the hollow
cough sounded again.

Recovering themselves, Penrod and Sam underwent the customary human
reaction from alarm to indignation.

"What you want, you ole horse, you?" Penrod shouted. "Don't you come coughin'
around _me_!"

And Sam, seizing a stick, hurled it at the intruder.

"Get out o' here!" he roared.

The aged horse nervously withdrew his head, turned tail, and made a rickety
flight up the alley, while Sam and Penrod, perfectly obedient to inherited impulse,
ran out into the drizzle and uproariously pursued. They were but automatons of
instinct, meaning no evil. Certainly they did not know the singular and pathetic
history of the old horse who had wandered into the alley and ventured to look
through the open door.

This horse, about twice the age of either Penrod or Sam, had lived to find himself
in a unique position. He was nude, possessing neither harness nor halter; all he
had was a name, Whitey, and he would have answered to it by a slight change of
expression if any one had thus properly addressed him. So forlorn was Whitey's
case, he was actually an independent horse; he had not even an owner. For two
days and a half he had been his own master.

Previous to that period he had been the property of one Abalene Morris, a person
of color, who would have explained himself as engaged in the hauling business.
On the contrary, the hauling business was an insignificant side line with Mr. Morris,
for he had long ago given himself, as utterly as fortune permitted, to that talent
which, early in youth, he had recognized as the greatest of all those surging in his
bosom. In his waking thoughts and in his dreams, in health and in sickness, Abalene
Morris was the dashing and emotional practitioner of an art probably more than
Roman in antiquity. Abalene was a crap-shooter. The hauling business was a disguise.

A concentration of events had brought it about that, at one and the same time,
Abalene, after a dazzling run of the dice, found the hauling business an actual danger
to the preservation of his liberty. He won seventeen dollars and sixty cents, and within
the hour found himself in trouble with an officer of the Humane Society on account of an altercation with Whitey. Abalene had been offered four dollars for Whitey some ten
days earlier; wherefore he at once drove to the shop of the junk-dealer who had made
the offer and announced his acquiescence in the sacrifice.

"_No_, suh!" said the junk-dealer, with emphasis. "I awready done got me a good
mule fer my deliv'ry-hoss, 'n'at ole Whitey hoss ain' wuff nofo' dollah nohow! I 'uz
a fool when I talk 'bout th'owin' money roun'that a-way. I know what _you_ up to,
Abalene. Man come by here li'l bitago tole me all 'bout white man try to 'rest you,
ovah on the avvynoo.Yessuh; he say white man goin' to git you yit an' th'ow you in
jail 'count o' Whitey. White man tryin' to fine out who you _is_. He say,nemmine,
he'll know Whitey ag'in, even if he don' know you! He say he ketch you by the hoss;
so you come roun' tryin' fix me up with Whitey so white man grab me,
th'ow _me_ in 'at jail. G'on 'way f'um hyuh, you Abalene! You cain' sell an' you
cain' give Whitey to no cullud man 'in'is town. You go an' drowned 'at ole hoss,
'cause you sutny goin' to jail if you git ketched drivin' him."

The substance of this advice seemed good to Abalene, especially as the seventeen
dollars and sixty cents in his pocket lent sweet colors to life out of jail at this time.
At dusk he led Whitey to a broad common at the edge of town, and spoke to him finally.

"G'on 'bout you biz'nis," said Abalene; "you ain' _my_ hoss. Don' look roun' at me,
'cause _I_ ain' got no 'quaintance wif you. I'm a man o'money, an' I got my own
frien's; I'm a-lookin' fer bigger cities, hoss.You got you' biz'nis an' I got mine.
Mista' Hoss, good-night!"

Whitey found a little frosted grass upon the common and remained there all night.
In the morning he sought the shed where Abalene had kept him, but that was across
the large and busy town, and Whitey was hopelessly lost. He had but one eye;
a feeble one; and his legs were not to be depended upon; but he managed to cover
a great deal of ground, to have many painful little adventures, and to get monstrously
hungry and thirsty before he happened to look in upon Penrod and Sam.

When the two boys chased him up the alley, they had no intention to cause pain;
they had no intention at all. They were no more cruel than Duke, Penrod's little old
dog, who followed his own instincts, and, making his appearance hastily through
a hole in the back fence, joined the pursuit with sound and fury. A boy will nearly
always run after anything that is running, and his first impulse is to throw a stone
at it. This is a survival of primeval man, who must take every chance to get his dinner.
So, when Penrod and Sam drove the hapless Whitey up the alley, they were really
responding to an impulse thousands and thousands of years old--an impulse founded
upon the primordial observation that whatever runs is likely to prove edible. Penrod
and Sam were not "bad"; they were never that. They were something which was not
their fault; they were historic.

At the next corner Whitey turned to the right into the cross-street; thence, turning
to the right again and still warmly pursued, he zigzagged down a main thoroughfare
until he reached another cross-street, which ran alongside the Schofields' yard and
brought him to the foot of the alley he had left behind in his flight. He entered the
alley, and there his dim eye fell upon the open door he had previously investigated.
No memory of it remained, but the place had a look associated in his mind with hay,
and as Sam and Penrod turned the corner of the alley in panting yet still vociferous
pursuit, Whitey stumbled up the inclined platform before the open doors, staggered thunderously across the carriage-house and through another open door into a stall,
an apartment vacant since the occupancy of Mr. Schofield's last horse, now severa
years deceased.

II

The two boys shrieked with excitement as they beheld the coincidence of this strange
return. They burst into the stable, making almost as much noise as Duke, who had
become frantic at the invasion. Sam laid hands upon a rake.

"You get out o' there, you ole horse, you!" he bellowed. "I ain't afraid to drive him out.
I----"

"_Wait_ a minute!" shouted Penrod. "Wait till I----"

Sam was manfully preparing to enter the stall.

"You hold the doors open," he commanded, "so's they won't blow shut and keep him
in here. I'm goin' to hit him with----"

"Quee-_yut_!" Penrod shouted, grasping the handle of the rake so that Sam could
not use it.

"Wait a _minute_, can't you?" He turned with ferocious voice and gestures upon
Duke. "_Duke!_" And Duke, in spite of his excitement, was so impressed that he
prostrated himself in silence, and then unobtrusively withdrew from the stable.
Penrod ran to the alley doors and closed them.

"My gracious!" Sam protested. "What you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to keep this horse," said Penrod, whose face showed the strain of a great idea.

"What _for_?"

"For the reward," said Penrod simply.

Sam sat down in the wheelbarrow and stared at his friend almost with awe.

"My gracious," he said, "I never thought o' that! How--how much do you think we'll
get, Penrod?"

Sam's thus admitting himself to a full partnership in the enterprise met no objection
from Penrod, who was absorbed in the contemplation of Whitey.

"Well," he said judicially, "we might get more and we might get less."

Sam rose and joined his friend in the doorway opening upon the two stalls. Whitey had preempted the nearer, and was hungrily nuzzling the old frayed hollows in the manger.

"May be a hundred dollars--or sumpthing?" Sam asked in a low voice.

Penrod maintained his composure and repeated the new-found expression which had
sounded well to him a moment before. He recognized it as a symbol of the
non-committal attitude that makes people looked up to.

"Well"--he made it slow, and frowned--"we might get more and we mightget less."

"More'n a hundred _dollars_?" Sam gasped.

"Well," said Penrod, "we might get more and we might get less." This time, however,
he felt the need of adding something. He put a question in an indulgent tone, as
though he were inquiring, not to add to his own information but to discover the
extent of Sam's.

"How much do youthink horses are worth, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Sam frankly, and, unconsciously, he added, "They might be
more and they might be less."
"Well, when our ole horse died," said Penrod, "papa said he wouldn't taken five
hundred dollars for him. That's how much _horses_ are worth!"

"My gracious!" Sam exclaimed. Then he had a practical afterthought."But maybe
he was a better horse than this'n. What color was he?"

"He was bay. Looky here, Sam"--and now Penrod's manner changed from the
superior to the eager--"you look what kind of horses they have in a circus, and you
bet a circus has the _best_ horses, don't it? Well, what kind of horses do they
have in a circus? They have some black and white ones, but the best they have are
white all over. Well, what kind of a horse is this we got here? He's perty near white
right now, and I bet if we washed him off and got him fixed up nice he _would_ be
white. Well, a bay horse is worth five hundred dollars, because that's what papa
said, and this horse----"

Sam interrupted rather timidly.

"He--he's awful bony, Penrod. You don't guess that'd make any----"
Penrod laughed contemptuously.

"Bony! All he needs is a little food and he'll fill right up and look good as ever. You
don't know much about horses, Sam, I expect. Why,_our_ ole horse----"

"Do you expect he's hungry now?" asked Sam, staring at Whitey.

"Let's try him," said Penrod. "Horses like hay and oats the best, but they'll
eat most anything."

"I guess they will. He's tryin' to eat that manger up right now, and I bet it ain't
good for him."
"Come on," said Penrod, closing the door that gave entrance to the stalls. "We got
to get this horse some drinkin'-water and some good food."

They tried Whitey's appetite first with an autumnal branch which they wrenched
from a hardy maple in the yard. They had seen horses nibble leaves, and they
expected Whitey to nibble the leaves of this branch, but his ravenous condition
did not allow him time for cool discriminations. Sam poked the branch at him from
the passageway, and Whitey, after one backward movement of alarm, seized it venomously."Here! You stop that!" Sam shouted. "You stop that, you ole horse, you!"

"What's the matter?" called Penrod from the hydrant, where he was filling a bucket.
"What's he doin' now?"

"Doin'! He's eatin' the wood part, too! He's chewin' up sticks as bigas baseball bats!
He's crazy!"
Penrod rushed to see this sight, and stood aghast. "Take it away from him, Sam!" he commanded sharply.

"Go on, take it away from him yourself!" was the prompt retort of his comrade.

"You had no biz'nuss to give it to him," said Penrod. "Anybody with any sense ought
to know it'd make him sick. What'd you want to go and give it to him for?"
"Well, you didn't say not to."
"Well, what if I didn't? I never said I did, did I? You go on in that stall and take it away from him."
"_Yes_, I will!" Sam returned bitterly. Then, as Whitey had dragged the remains
of the branch from the manger to the floor of the stall, Sam scrambled to the top of
the manger and looked over. "There ain't muchleft to _take_ away! He's swallered
it all except some splinters. Better give him the water to try and wash it down with."

And, as Penrod complied, "My gracious, look at that horse _drink_!"

They gave Whitey four buckets of water, and then debated the questionof nourishment. Obviously, this horse could not be trusted with branches, and, after getting their
knees black and their backs sodden, they gave up trying to pull enough grass to
sustain him. Then Penrod remembered that horses like apples, both "cooking-apples" and "eating-apples," and Sam mentioned the fact that every autumn his father received
a barrel of "cooking-apples" from a cousin who owned a farm. That barrel was in the
Williams' cellar now, and the cellar was providentially supplied with "outside doors,"
so that it could bevisited without going through the house. Sam and Penrod set forth
for the cellar.

They returned to the stable bulging, and, after a discussion of Whitey's digestion
(Sam claiming that eating the core and seeds, as Whitey did, would grow trees in
his inside), they went back to the cellar for supplies again--and again. They made
six trips, carrying each time a capacity cargo of apples, and still Whitey ate in
a famished manner. They were afraid to take more apples from the barrel, which
began to show conspicuously the result of their raids, wherefore Penrod made an
unostentatious visit to the cellar of his own house. From the inside he opened a window
and passed vegetables out to Sam, who placed them in a bucket and carried them
hurriedly to the stable, while Penrod returned in a casual manner through the house.

Of his_sang-froid_[30-1] under a great strain it is sufficient to relate that, in the
kitchen, he said suddenly to Della, the cook, "Oh, look behind you!" and by the time
Della discovered that there was nothing unusual behind her, Penrod was gone, and
a loaf of bread from thekitchen table was gone with him.

Whitey now ate nine turnips, two heads of lettuce, one cabbage, eleven raw potatoes,
and the loaf of bread. He ate the loaf of bread last and he was a long time about it;
so the boys came to a not unreasonable conclusion.

"Well, sir, I guess we got him filled up at last!" said Penrod. "I bet he wouldn't eat a
saucer of ice-cream now, if we'd give it to him!"

"He looks better to me," said Sam, staring critically at Whitey. "I think he's kind of
begun to fill out some. I expect he must like us, Penrod; we been doin' a good deal
for this horse."

"Well, we got to keep it up," Penrod insisted rather pompously. "Longas _I_ got
charge o' this horse, he's goin' to get good treatment."
"What we better do now, Penrod?"
Penrod took on the outward signs of deep thought.
"Well, there's plenty to _do_, all right. I got to think."
Sam made several suggestions, which Penrod--maintaining his air of preoccupation
--dismissed with mere gestures.
"Oh, _I_ know!" Sam cried finally. "We ought to wash him so's he'll look whiter'n what
he does now. We can turn the hose on him acrost the manger."
"No; not yet," said Penrod. "It's too soon after his meal. You ought to know that
yourself. What we got to do is to make up a bed for him--if he wants to lay down
or anything."
"Make up a what for him?" Sam echoed, dumfounded. "What you talkin' about?
How can----"
"Sawdust," said Penrod. "That's the way the horse we used to have used to have it.
We'll make this horse's bed in the other stall, and then he can go in there and lay down whenever he wants to."
"How we goin' to do it?"
"Look, Sam; there's the hole into the sawdust-box! All you got to do is walk in there
with the shovel, stick the shovel in the hole till it gets full of sawdust, and then
sprinkle it around on the empty stall."
"All _I_ got to do!" Sam cried. "What are you goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to be right here," Penrod answered reassuringly. "He won't kick or anything,
and it isn't goin' to take you half a second to slip around behind him to the other stall."
"What makes you think he won't kick?"
"Well, I _know_ he won't, and, besides, you could hit him with the shovel if he tried
to. Anyhow, I'll be right here, won't I?"
"I don't care where you are," Sam said earnestly. "What difference would that make
if he ki----"
"Why, you were goin' right in the stall," Penrod reminded him. "When he first came in,
you were goin' to take the rake and----"
"I don't care if I was," Sam declared. "I was excited then."
"Well, you can get excited now, can't you?" his friend urged. "You can just as easy get----"
He was interrupted by a shout from Sam, who was keeping his eye upon Whitey
throughout the discussion.
"Look! Looky there!" And undoubtedly renewing his excitement, Sam pointed at
the long, gaunt head beyond the manger. It was disappearing from view. "Look!"
Sam shouted. "He's layin' down!"
"Well, then," said Penrod, "I guess he's goin' to take a nap. If he wants to lay down
without waitin' for us to get the sawdust fixed for him, that's his lookout, not ours."
On the contrary, Sam perceived a favorable opportunity for action.
"I just as soon go and make his bed up while he's layin' down," he volunteered. "You
climb up on the manger and watch him, Penrod, and I'll sneak in the other stall
and fix it all up nice for him, so's he can go in there any time when he wakes up, and
lay down again, or anything; and if he starts to get up, you holler and I'll jump out
over the other manger."

Accordingly, Penrod established himself in a position to observe the recumbent
figure. Whitey's breathing was rather labored but regular, and, as Sam remarked,
he looked "better," even in his slumber. It is not to be doubted that, although Whitey
was suffering from a light attack of colic, his feelings were in the main those of
contentment. After trouble, he was solaced; after exposure, he was sheltered; after
hunger and thirst, he was fed and watered. He slept.

The noon whistles blew before Sam's task was finished, but by the time he departed
for lunch there was made a bed of such quality that Whitey must needs have been
born fault finder if he complained of it. The friends parted, each urging the other to
be prompt in returning, but Penrod got into threatening difficulties as soon as he
entered the house.


III

"Penrod," said his mother, "what did you do with that loaf of bread Della says you
took from the table?"
"Ma'am? _What_ loaf o' bread?"
"I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon," Mrs. Schofield said severely. "If
you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you hadto do was to----"
"But I wasn't hungry; I----"
"You can explain later," said Mrs. Schofield. "You'll have all afternoon."
Penrod's heart grew cold.
"I _can't_ stay in," he protested. "I've asked Sam Williams to come over."
"I'll telephone Mrs. Williams."
"Mamma!" Penrod's voice became agonized. "I _had_ to give that bread toa--to a
poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and hiswife. They were all
just _starving_--and they couldn't wait while I took time to come and ask you,
mamma. I _got_ to go outdoors this afternoon. I _got_ to! Sam's----"

She relented.
In the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of the episode.

"Where'd we been, I'd just like to know," he concluded, "if I hadn't got out here
this afternoon?"
"Well, I guess I could managed him all right," said Sam. "I was in the passageway,
a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up agin. I expect he wants more to eat."
"Well, we got to fix about that," said Penrod. "But what I mean--if I'd had to stay
in the house, where would we been about the most important thing in the whole
biz'nuss?"
"What you talkin' about?"
"Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?" Penrod's tone had become peevish.
For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of the little differences,
or quarrels, that composed the very texture of their friendship.
"Well, why don't you tell me, then?"
"Well, how can I?" Penrod demanded. "You keep talkin' every minute."
"I'm not talkin' _now_, am I?" Sam protested. "You can tell me _now_,can't you?
I'm not talk----"
"You are, too!" shouted Penrod. "You talk all the time! You----"
He was interrupted by Whitey's peculiar cough. Both boys jumped and forgot
their argument.
"He means he wants some more to eat, I bet," said Sam.
"Well, if he does, he's got to wait," Penrod declared. "We got to get the most
important thing of all fixed up first."
"What's that, Penrod?"
"The reward," said Penrod mildly. "That's what I was tryin' to tell you about, Sam,
if you'd ever give me half a chance."
"Well, I _did_ give you a chance. I kept _tellin'_ you to tell me, but----"
"You never! You kept sayin'----"

They renewed this discussion, protracting it indefinitely; but as each persisted in
clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, the question still remains unsettled.
It was abandoned, or rather, it merged into another during the later stages of the
debate, this other being concerned with which of the debaters had the least "sense."
Eachmade the plain statement that if he were more deficient than his opponent
in that regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge. Each declared that he
would "rather die than be talked to death"; and then, as the two approached a point
bluntly recriminative, Whitey coughed again, whereupon they were miraculously
silent, and went into the passageway in a perfectly amiable manner.

"I got to have a good look at him, for once," said Penrod, as he stared frowningly
at Whitey. "We got to fix up about that reward."
"I want to take a good ole look at him myself," said Sam.

After supplying Whitey with another bucket of water, they returned to the
carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, they were something
a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which they had committed themselves
was beginning to be a little overpowering. If Whitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl,
or even a stray calf, they would have felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow
of their wild daring had disappeared, vague apprehensions stirred. Their "good look"
at Whitey had not reassured them--he seemed large, Gothic, and unusual.

Whisperings within them began to urge that for boys to undertake an enterprise
connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse was perilous. Beneath the surface
of their musings, dim but ominous prophecies moved; both boys began to have the
feeling that, somehow, this affair was going to get beyond them and that they would
be in heavy trouble before it was over--they knew not why. They knew why no more
than they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of Whitey's presence in
the stable a secret from their respective families, but they did begin to realize that
keeping a secret of that size was going to be attended with some difficulty.

In brief, their sensations were becoming comparable to those of the man who stole
a house. Nevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, they
returned to the subject of the reward. The money-value of bay horses, as compared
to white, was again discussed, and each announced his certainty that nothing less
than "a good ole hundred dollars" would be offered for the return of Whitey.
But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due to sinking
feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet they knew, somehow,
that such things were not to be. According to their knowledge, it was perfectly
reasonable to suppose that they would receive this fortune, but they frightened
themselves in speaking of it; they knew that they _could_ not have a hundred
dollars for their own. An oppression, as from something awful and criminal,
descended upon them at intervals.

Presently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again by Penrod's
suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither of them had the
slightest idea how to get it there, but such details as that were beyond the horizon;
they occupied themselves with the question of what their advertisement ought
to "say." Finding that they differed irreconcilably, Penrod went to a cache of his in
the sawdust-box and brought two pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one of the
pencils and several sheets to Sam; then both boys bent themselves in silence to the
labor of practical composition. Penrod produced the briefer paragraph.
Sam's was more ample.
[Illustration: FIG I missing]
[Illustration: FIG II missing]

Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other had written,
but both felt that something praiseworthy had beenaccomplished. Penrod exhaled
a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he had observed his father use sometimes, he said:

"Thank goodness, _that's_ off my mind, anyway!"
"What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed manner
having some effect upon him.
"I don't know what _you're_ goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up the old cigar
box which had contained the paper and pencils. _"I'm_goin' to put mine in here,
so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get at it."
"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," said Sam. There upon he deposited his scribbled
slip beside Penrod's in the cigar box, and the box was solemnly returned to the secret
place whence it had been taken.

"There, _that's_ 'tended to!" said Sam, and, unconsciously imitating his friend's
imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction and relief. Both boys felt that
the financial side of their great affair had been conscientiously looked to, that the
question of the reward was settled, and that everything was proceeding in a
businesslike manner.

Therefore, they were able to turn their attentionto another matter. This was the
question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of the morning, and the
consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided that nothing more was to be done
in apples, vegetables, or bread; it was evident that Whitey must be fed from the
bosom of nature.

"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed him," Penrod
said gloomily. "We could work a week and not get enough to make him swaller
more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew most of it away. He'd try to
scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip, and then he'd haf to kind of blow out his
breath, and after that all the grass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin'
to the outsides of his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple branch.
We can't trust him with branches."
Sam jumped up.
"_I_ know!" he cried. "There's lots of leaves left on the branches. We can give them to him."
"I just said----"
"I don't mean the branches," Sam explained. "We'll leave the branches on the trees,
but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in the bucket and feed 'em to him
out the bucket."

Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an hour the two boys
were busy with the lower branches of various trees in the yard. Thus they managed
to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of wet leaves, which he ate in a perfunctory
way, displaying little of his earlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might
have been more tedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anything
that involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. The drizzle had thickened;
the leaves were heavy with water, and at every jerk the branches sent fat drops over
the two collectors. They attained a noteworthy state of sogginess.

Finally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors, and Della
appeared upon the back porch.

"Musther Penrod," she called, "y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the house this minute an'
change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else ye got on! D'ye hear me?"

Penrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from the tree he
was depleting and ran for the stable.
"You tell her I'm dry as toast!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Della withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; and a moment
later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. She opened it and walked
resolutely to the stable.
"She says I'm to bring ye in the house," said Della, "an' I'm goin' to bring ye!"

Sam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginnings of an
unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did not stay for its
culmination. Without a word to each other they hurriedly tiptoed up the stairs to
the gloomy loft, and there they paused, listening.
They heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.
"Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in," they heard her say; "but I'll show ye! She tole
me to bring ye, and I'm----"

She was interrupted by a peculiar sound--loud, chilling, dismal, and unmistakably
not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough, but Della had not their
experience. A smothered shriek reached their ears; there was a scurrying noise,
nd then, with horror, they heard Della's footsteps in the passageway that ran by
Whitey's manger. Immediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish
of knowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctly the words,
"O Lard in hivvin!" in the well-known voice of Della. She shrieked again, and they
heard the rush of her footfalls across the carriage-house floor. Wild words came from
the outer air, and the kitchen door slammed violently.

It was all over. She had gone to"tell."

Penrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. They climbed the
back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam's yard, and, without consultation,
headed for the cellar doors, nor paused till they found themselves in the farthest, darkest,
and gloomiest recess of the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear, they sank down
upon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against the stone wall.

Thus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping uponPenrod and
Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown was before them. How great
their crime would turn out to be (now that it was in the hands of grown people), they
did not know, but, since it concerned a horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of
terrible dimensions.

Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both innocent and practical
in the morning, now staggered their minds as manifestations of criminal folly. A new
and terrible light seemed to play upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse
belonging to strangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into the
stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually stolen him, and they had
stolen food for him. The waning light through the small window above them warned
Penrod that his inroads upon the vegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered.

Della, that Nemesis, would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and she
would find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the cellar, for she had seen
him when he came up; and also the truth would b known concerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his ase was worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a
suggestion which roused uch horrible possibilitites concerning the principal item of
their ffense that all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.

"Listen, Penrod," Sam quavered: "What--what if that--what if that ole horse maybe
b'longed to a--policeman!" Sam's imagination was not of the comforting kind.
"What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he was some policeman's horse?"

Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words, but both boys
thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey _had_belonged to a
policeman, and in their sense of so ultimate a disaster, they ceased for a time to
brood upon what their parents would probably do to them. The penalty for stealing
a policeman's horse would be only a step short of capital, they were sure. They
would not be hanged; but vague, looming sketches of something called the
penitentiary began to flicker before them.

It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see each other.
"I guess they're huntin' for us by now," Sam said huskily. "I don't--I don't like it
much down here, Penrod."
Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom:
"Well, who ever said you did?"
"Well----" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, "I wish we'd never_seen_ that
dern ole horse."
"It was every bit his fault," said Penrod. "_We_ didn't do anything. If he hadn't
come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happened at all. Ole fool!"
He rose. "I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I've stood about enough for one day."
"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' _home_, are you?"
"No; I'm not! What do you take me for? You think I'm crazy?"
"Well, where _can_ you go?"

How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful, but he made
this statement:

"I don't know where _you're_ goin', but _I'm_ goin' to walk straight out in the
country till I come to a farm-house and say my name's George and live there!"
"I'll do it, too," Sam whispered eagerly. "I'll say my name's Henry."
"Well, we better get started," said the executive Penrod. "We got to get away
from here, anyway."

But when they came to ascend the steps leading to the "outside doors," they
found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.

"It's no use," Sam lamented, "and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to, once before.
Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock--I forgot. We got to go up the stairway
and try to sneak out through the house."

They tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top, then breathlessly
stepped out into a hall which was entirely dark. Sam touched Penrod's sleeve in
warning, and bent to listen at a door.

Immediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where sat Penrod's
mother and Sam's father. It was Sam's mother who had opened the door.

"Come into the library, boys," she said. "Mrs. Schofield is just telling us about it."

And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's mother
rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the fire.

"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling Mr. and Mrs.
Williams about you and Sam," she said. "You'd better make Sam keep near the
fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got wringing wet. Think of their
running off just when most people would have wanted to stay! Well, I'll go on
with the story, then. Della told me all about it, and what the cook next door said
she'd_ seen, how they'd been trying to pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing
all day--and all about the apples they carried from _your_ cellar, and getting wet
and working in the rain as hard as they could--and they'd given him a loaf of bread!
Shame on you, Penrod!" She paused to laugh, but there was a little moisture round
her eyes, even before she laughed.

"And they'd fed him on potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and turnips out of _our
cellar! And I wish you'd see the sawdust bed theymade for him! Well, when I'd
telephoned, and the Humane Society man got there, he said it was the most
touching thing he ever knew. It seems he_knew this horse, and had been looking
for him. He said ninety-nine boys out of a hundred would have chased the poor
old thing away, and he was going to see to it that this case didn't go unnoticed,
because the local branch of the society gives little silver medals for special acts
like this. And the last thing he said before he led the poor old horse away was
that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded one at the meeting of
the society next Thursday night."

... On the following Saturday morning a yodel sounded from the sunny sidewalk
in front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth, beheld the familiar
figure of Samuel Williams in waiting.

Upon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by a white
ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod was a decoration
precisely similar.
"'Lo, Penrod," said Sam. "What you goin' to do?"
"Nothin'."
"I got mine on," said Sam.
"I have, too," said Penrod. "I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for mine."

Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other without shame.
Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy either in himself or in his comrade.
On the contrary!

Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they wandered,
with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street and to the empty yards
and spectatorless windows of the neighborhood. Then he looked southward toward
the busy heart of the town, where multitudes were.

"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house clock," said Penrod.



by Booth Tarkington


Friday, April 27, 2007

Nu Url :Review

(interrupting your viewing with a short commercial message lol)

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Thursday, April 26, 2007

Axel Munthe - "For Those Who Love Music"

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE MUSIC

I had engaged him by the year. Twice a week he came and went through his
whole repertoire, and lately, out of sympathy for me, he would play
the_Miserere_ of the _Trovatore_,[Footnote: Miserere of theTrovatore.
Trovatore is an opera by Verdi.] which was his show piece,twice over.
He stood there in the middle of the street looking steadfastly up at my
windows while he played, and when he had finished he would take off his
hat with an "Addio, Signor!" [Footnote: AddioSigner: "Good-by, Sir."]

It is well known that the barrel-organ, like the violin, gets a fuller and more
sympathetic tone the older it is. The old artist had an excellent instrument,
not of the modern noisy type which imitates a whole orchestra with flutes
and bells and beats of drums, but a melancholy old-fashioned barrel-organ
[Footnote: A melancholy barrelorgan. What does the author mean by this?]
which knew how to lend a dreamy mystery to the gayest allegretto,
Footnote: Allegretto: lively, a musical term to denote the tempo of a
composition.] and in whose proudest tempo di Marcia [Footnote: Tempo di
Marcia: marching time.] there sounded an unmistakable undertone of resignation.

And in the tenderer pieces of the repertoire, where the melody, muffled and
staggering like a cracked old human voice, groped its way amongst the rusty
pipes of the treble, then there was a trembling in the bass like suppressed sobs.
Now and then the voice of the tired organ failed it completely, and then the old
man would resignedly turn the handle during some bars of rest more touching
in their eloquent silence than any music.

True, the instrument was itself very expressive, but the old man had surely
his share in the sensation of melancholy which came over me whenever I heard
his music. He had his beat in the poor quarter behind the Jardin des Plantes,
[Footnote: Jardin des Plantes: the botanical garden.] and many times during
my solitary rambles up there had I stopped and taken my place among the scanty
audience of ragged streetboys which surrounded him.

It was not difficult to see that times were hard--the old man's clothes were
doubtful, and the pallor of poverty lay over his withered features, where I read
the story of a long life of failure. He came from the mountains around Monte
Cassino
, [Footnote: Monte Cassino: a monastery on a hill near Cassino, Italy,
about forty-five miles from Naples.] so he informed me, but where the monkey
hailed from I never quite got to know.

Thus we met from time to time during my rambles in the poor quarters. Had I
a moment to spare I stopped for a while to listen to a tune or two, as I saw that it
gratified the old man, and since I always carried a lump of sugar in my pocket
for any dog acquaintance I might possibly meet, I soon made friends with the
monkey also. The relations between the little monkey and her impressario
[Footnote: Impressario: the conductor of an opera or a concert.] were unusually
cordial, and this notwithstanding that she had completely failed to fulfil the
expectations which had been founded upon her--she had never been able to learn
a single trick, the old man told me. Thus all attempts at education had long ago
been abandoned, and she sat there huddled together on her barrel-organ and did
nothing at all.

Her face was sad, like that of most animals, and her thoughts were far away.
But now and then she woke up from her dreams, and her eyes could then take
asuspicious, almost malignant expression, as they lit upon some of the street boys
who crowded round her tribune [Footnote: Round her tribune: a curious use of this
word, which means a pulpit or bench from which speeches were made.] and tried
to pull her tail, which stuck out from her little gold-laced garibaldi. [Footnote:
Garibaldi: a jacket which took its name from its likeness in shape to the red shirt
worn by the Italian patriot Garibaldi.] To me she was always very amiable;
confidently she laid her wrinkled hand in mine and absently she accepted the little
attentions I was able to offer her. She was very fond of sweetmeats, and burnt
almonds were, in her opinion, the most delectable thing in the world.

Since the old man had once recognized his musical friend on a balcony of the
Hotel de L'Avenir, [Footnote: Hotel de L'Avenir: literally, "Hotel of the Future."]
he often came and played under my windows. Later on he became engaged,
as already said, to come regularly and play twice a week,--it may, perhaps, appear
superfluous for one who was studying medicine, but the old man's terms were so
small, and you know I have always been so fond of music. Besides it was the only
recreation at hand--I was working to take my degree in the spring.

So passed the autumn, and the hard times came. The rich tried on the new winter
fashions, and the poor shivered with the cold. It became more and more difficult
for well-gloved hands to leave the warm muff or the fur-lined coat to take out a
copper for the beggar, and more and more desperate became the struggle for
bread amongst the problematical existences [Footnote: The problematical
existences. Explain this expression.] of the street.

Now and then I came across my friend, and we always had, as before, a kind word
for one another. He was now, wrapped up in an old Abruzzi cloak, [Footnote:
Abruzzi cloak. Abruzzi is a division of western Italy including three provinces.]
and I noticed that the greater the cold became the faster did he turn the handle to
keep himself warm; and towards December the _Miserere_ itself was performed
in allegretto.

The monkey had now become civilian, and wrapped up her little thin body in a long
ulster such as Englishmen wear; but she was fearfully cold notwithstanding, and,
forgetful of all etiquette, more and more often she jumped from the barrel-organ
and crept in under the old man's cloak.

And while they were suffering out there in the cold I sat at home in my cosy, warm
room, and instead of helping them, I forgot all about them, more and more taken
up as I was with my coming examination, with no thought but for myself. And then
one day I suddenly left my lodgings and removed to the Hotel Dieu to take the
place of a comrade, and weeks passed before I put my foot out of the hospital.

I remember it so well, it was on New Year's Day we met each other again. I was
crossing the Place de Notre Dame, [Footnote: Place de Notre Dame. The square in
front of Notre Dame Cathedral.] mass was just over, and the people were streaming
out of the old cathedral. As usual, a row of beggars was standing before the door,
imploring the charity of the church-goers. At the farther end, and at some distance
from the others, an old man stood with bent head and outstretched hat, and with
painful surprise I recognized my friend in his threadbare old coat without the Abruzzi
cloak, without the barrel-organ, without the monkey.

My first impulse was to go up to him, but an uneasy feeling of I do not know what held
me back; I felt that I blushed and I did not move from my place. Every now and then
a passer-by stopped for a moment and made as if to search his pockets, but I did not
see a single copper fall into the old man's hat. The place became gradually deserted,
and one beggar after another trotted off with his little earnings. At last a child came
out of the church, led by a gentleman in mourning; the child pointed towards the old
man, and then ran up to him and laid a silver coin in his hat.

The old man humbly bowed his head in thanks, and even I, with my unfortunate
absent-mindedness, was very nearly thanking the little donor also, so pleased was I.
My friend carefully wrapped up the precious gift in an old pocket-handkerchief,
and stooping forward, as if still carrying the barrel-organ on his back, he walked off.

I happened to be quite free that morning, and thinking that a little walk before
luncheon could do me no harm after the hospital air, I followed him at a short
distance across the Seine. [Footnote: Seine. Paris is on the River Seine. "buon
giorno": "Good day."] Once or twice I nearly caught him up, and all but tapped
him on the shoulder, with a"Buon giorno, Don Gaetano!" Yet, without exactly
knowing why, I drew back at the last moment and let him get a few paces ahead of
me again.

We had just crossed the Place Maubert [Footnote: Place Maubert: Boulevard St.
Germain
: streets in Paris.] and turned into the Boulevard St. Germain; the boulevard
was full of people, so that, without being noticed, I could approach him quite close.
He was standing before an elegant confectioners' shop, and to my surprise he entered
without hesitation. I took up my position before the shop window, alongside some shivering street arabs [Footnote: Street Arabs. What is meant by this term?] who stood there,
absorbed in the contemplation of the unattainable delicacies within, and I watched the
old man carefully untie his pocket-handkerchief and lay the little girl's gift upon the
counter.

I had hardly time to draw back before he came out with a red paper bag of sweets
in his hand, and with rapid steps he started off in the direction of the Jardin des
Plantes. I was very much astonished at what I had seen, and my curiosity made me follow him.
He slackened his pace at one of the little slums behind Hopital de la Pitie, [Footnote:
Hopital de la Pitie: literally,"Hospital of Pity."] and I saw him disappear into a dirty
old house.

I waited outside a minute or two and then I groped my way through the pitch-dark
entrance, climbed up a filthy staircase, and found a door slightly ajar. An icy, dark
room, in the middle three ragged little children crouched together around a half-extinct braziero, [Footnote:Brazier: a pan for burning coals. Tuscan. Tuscany is one of the
divisions of northern Italy.] in the corner the only furniture in theroom--a clean iron
bedstead, with crucifix and rosary hung on the wall above it, and by the window
an image of the Madonna adorned with gaudy paper flowers; I was in Italy, in my
poor, exiled Italy. And in the purest Tuscan the eldest sister informed me that
Don Gaetano lived in the garret.

I went up there and knocked, but got no answer, so I opened the door myself.
The room was brightly lit by a blazing fire. With his back towards the door, Don
Gaetano was on his knees before the stove busy heating a saucepan over the fire;
beside him on the floor lay an old mattress with the well-known Abruzzi cloak thrown
over it, and closeby, spread out on a newspaper, were various delicacies--an orange,
walnuts, and raisins, and there also was the red paper bag. Don Gaetano dropped a
lump of sugar into the saucepan, stirred it with a stick, and in a persuasive voice I
heard him say, "Che bella roba, che bella roba,quanto e buono questa latte con lo
zucchero! Non piange anima mia, adesso siamo pronti!" [Footnote: "What nice things,
what nice things, how good this milk with sugar is! Don't cry, my darling, it is readynow!"]
A slight rustling was heard beneath the Abruzzi cloak and a black littlehand was stretched
out toward the red paper bag.

"Primo il latte, primo il latte" admonished the old man. "Non importa, piglio tu una,"
[Footnote: "The milk first, the milk first--never mind, take one."] he repeated, and
took a big burnt almond out of the paperbag; the little hand disappeared, and a crunching
was heard under the cloak. Don Gaetano poured the warm milk in a saucer, and then he
carefully lifted up a corner of the cloak. There lay the poor little monkey with heaving
breast and eyes glowing with fever. Her face had become so small and her complexion
was ashy gray. The old man took heron his knees, and tenderly as a mother he poured
some spoonfuls of the warm milk into her mouth. She looked with indifferent eyes
towards the delicacies on the table, and absently she let her fingers pass through her
master's beard. She was so tired that she could hardly hold her head up, and now and
then she coughed so that her thin little body trembled, and she pressed both her hands
to her temples. Don Gaetano shook his head sadly, and carefully laid the little invalid
back under the cloak.

A feeble blush spread over the old man's face as he caught sight of me.I told him that I happened to be passing by just as he was entering his house, and that I took the liberty
of following him upstairs in order to bid him good-morning and to give him my new
address, in the hope that he would come and play to me as before. I involuntarily
looked round for the barrel-organ as I spoke, and Don Gaetano, who understood,
informed me that he no longer played the organ--he sang. I glanced at the precious
pile of wood beside the fire-place, at the new blanket that hung before the window
to keep out the draught, at the delicacies on the newspaper--and I also understood.

The monkey had been ill three weeks--"la febbre," [Footnote: La febbre:the fever.]
explained the old man. We knelt one on each side of the bed, and the sick animal
looked at me with her mute prayer for help. Her nose was hot, as it is with sick
children and dogs, her face wrinkled like that of an old, old woman, and her eyes
had got quite a human expression. Her breathing was so short, and we could hear
how it rattled in her throat. The diagnosis was not difficult--she had consumption.
Nowand again she stretched out her thin arms as if she implored us to help her, and
Don Gaetano thought that she did so because she wished to be bled. I would willingly
have given in in this case, although opposed in principle to this treatment, if I had
thought it possible that any benefit could have been derived from it; but I knew only
too well how unlikely this was, and I tried my best to make Don Gaetano understand it.

Unhappily I did not know myself what there was to be done. I had at that time a friend
amongst the keepers of the monkey-house in the Jardindes Plantes, and the same night
he came with me to have a look at her; he said that there was nothing to be done, and
that there was no hope. And he was right. For one week more the fire blazed in Don Gaetano's garret, then it was left to go out, and it became cold and dark as before in the old man's
home.

True, he got his barrel-organ out from the pawn-shop, and now and then a copper fell
into his hat. He did not die of starvation, and that was about all he asked of life. The
spring came and I left Paris; and God knows what become of Don Gaetano.

If you happen to hear a melancholy old barrel-organ in the courtyard, go to the
window and give a penny to the poor errant [Footnote: Errant:wandering.]
musician--perhaps it is Don Gaetano! If you find that his organ disturbs you, try if
you like it, better by making him stand a little farther off, but don't send him away
with harshness! He has to bear so many hard words as it is; why should not we then
be a little kind to him--we who love music?



--AXEL MUNTHE (adapted).


[Footnote: What interested the author in the old organ-grinder? What was the music
like? Explain the title of the story. By what incidents does the author show the unselfish devotion of the old musician for his pet? Was his pet winning or lovable? Why did the
old man care so much for it? Is the picture of the old man dignified or sordid? Why?
Point out instances of dramatic contrast. Are the descriptions in the story
simple or elaborate?]

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Lord Dunsany (Fifty One Tales) "The Death of Pan"

THE DEATH OF PAN

When travellers from London entered Arcady they lamented one to another
the death of Pan.

And anon they saw him lying stiff and still.

Horned Pan was still and the dew was on his fur; he had not the lookof a live
animal. And then they said, "It is true that Pan is dead."

And, standing melancholy by that huge prone body, they looked for long
time at memorable Pan.

And evening came and a small star appeared.

And presently from a hamlet of some Arcadian valley, with a sound of idle
song, Arcadian maidens came.

And, when they saw there, suddenly in the twilight, that old recumbent god,
they stopped in their running and whispered among themselves.
"How silly he looks," they said, and thereat they laughed a little.

And at the sound of their laughter Pan leaped up and the gravel flew from his hooves.

And, for as long as the travellers stood and listened, the crags and the hill-tops
of Arcady rang with the sounds of pursuit.

by Lord Dunsany

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Lord Dunsany (Fifty One Tales) - "Charon"

CHARON

Charon leaned forward and rowed. All things were one with his weariness.

It was not with him a matter of years or of centuries, but of widefloods of time,
and an old heaviness and a pain in the arms that had become for him part of
the scheme that the gods had made and was of a piece with Eternity.

If the gods had even sent him a contrary wind it would have divided all time
in his memory into two equal slabs.

So grey were all things always where he was that if any radiance lingered
a moment among the dead, on the face of such a queen perhaps as Cleopatra,
his eyes could not have perceived it.

It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They
were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither
Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might
be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.

Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one
down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.

Then one man came alone. And the little shade sat shivering on a lonely bench
and the great boat pushed off. Only one passenger: the gods knew best.
And great and weary Charon rowed on and on beside the little, silent,
shivering ghost.

And the sound of the river was like a mighty sigh that Grief in the beginning
had sighed among her sisters, and that could not die like the echoes of human
sorrow failing on earthly hills, but was as old as time and the pain in Charon's arms.

Then the boat from the slow, grey river loomed up to the coast of Dis and the
little, silent shade still shivering stepped ashore, and Charon turned the boat
to go wearily back to the world. Then the little shadow spoke, that had been a man.

"I am the last," he said.

No one had ever made Charon smile before, no one before had ever made him weep.


by Lord Dunsany

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Lord Dunsany (Exerpt from "Fifty One Tales")

THE ASSIGNATION

Fame singing in the highways, and trifling as she sang, with sordid adventurers,
passed the poet by.

And still the poet made for her little chaplets of song, to deck her forehead in the
courts of Time: and still she wore instead the worthless garlands, that boisterous
citizens flung to her in the ways, made out of perishable things.

And after a while whenever these garlands died the poet came to her with his
chaplets of song; and still she laughed at him and wore the worthless wreaths,
though they always died at evening.

And one day in his bitterness the poet rebuked her, and said to her:
"Lovely Fame, even in the highways and the by ways you have not foreborne
to laugh and shout and jest with worthless men, and I have toiled for you and
dreamed of you and you mock me and pass me by."

And Fame turned her back on him and walked away, but in departing she looked
over her shoulder and smiled at him as she had not smiled before, and, almost
speaking in a whisper, said:

"I will meet you in the graveyard at the back of the Workhouse in a hundred years."


by Lord Dunsany


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Introducing Eugene Field

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sheila Vogtmann and PG Distributed Proofreaders

[Transcriber's notes: _ before and after a word or phrase indicate
italics, + indicate bolded text]

THE WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE OF EUGENE FIELD
A LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES

NEW YORK 1901
by EUGENE FIELD.


TO MY SEVEREST CRITIC, MY MOST LOYAL ADMIRER, AND MY ONLY DAUGHTER, MARY
FRENCH FIELD, THIS LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED. E.F.

INTRODUCTION

I have never read a poem by Mr. Field without feeling personally drawn to
the author. Long after I had known him as a poet, I found that he had
written in prose little scraps or long essays, which had attracted me in
just the same way, when I had met with them in the newspapers, although I
had not known who the author was.


All that he writes indeed is quite free from the conventionalisms to which
authorship as a profession is sadly liable. Because he is free from them,
you read his poems or you read his prose, and are affected as if you met
him. If you were riding in a Pullman car with him, or if you were talking
with him at breakfast over your coffee, he would say just such things in
just this way. If he had any art, it was the art of concealing art. But I
do not think that he thought much of art. I do not think that he cared
much for what people say about criticism or style. He wrote as he felt, or
as he thought, without troubling himself much about method. It is this
simplicity, or what it is the fashion of the day to call frankness, which

gives a singular charm to his writing.

EDWARD E. HALE.

[[*My Note* Selected piece for this blog is the final tale in the collection, entitled +THE FAIRIES OF PESTH+]]

THE FAIRIES OF PESTH [1]


An old poet walked alone in a quiet valley. His heart was heavy, and the
voices of Nature consoled him. His life had been a lonely and sad one.
Many years ago a great grief fell upon him, and it took away all his joy
and all his ambition. It was because he brooded over his sorrow, and
because he was always faithful to a memory, that the townspeople deemed
him a strange old poet; but they loved him and they loved his songs,--in
his life and in his songs there was a gentleness, a sweetness, a pathos
that touched every heart. "The strange, the dear old poet," they called
him.

Evening was coming on. The birds made no noise; only the whip-poor-will
repeated over and over again its melancholy refrain in the marsh beyond
the meadow. The brook ran slowly, and its voice was so hushed and tiny
that you might have thought that it was saying its prayers before going to
bed.

The old poet came to the three lindens. This was a spot he loved, it was
so far from the noise of the town. The grass under the lindens was fresh
and velvety. The air was full of fragrance, for here amid the grass grew
violets and daisies and buttercups and other modest wild-flowers. Under
the lindens stood old Leeza, the witchwife.

"Take this," said the poet to old Leeza, the witchwife; and he gave her a
silver piece.

"You are good to me, master poet," said the witchwife. "You have always
been good to me. I do not forget, master poet, I do not forget."

"Why do you speak so strangely?" asked the old poet. "You mean more than
you say. Do not jest with me; my heart is heavy with sorrow."

"I do not jest," answered the witchwife. "I will show you a strange thing.
Do as I bid you; tarry here under the lindens, and when the moon rises,
the Seven Crickets will chirp thrice; then the Raven will fly into the
west, and you will see wonderful things, and beautiful things you will
hear."

Saying this much, old Leeza, the witch-wife, stole away, and the poet
marvelled at her words. He had heard the townspeople say that old Leeza
was full of dark thoughts and of evil deeds, but he did not heed these
stories.

"They say the same of me, perhaps," he thought. "I will tarry here beneath
the three lindens and see what may come of this whereof the witch wife
spake."

The old poet sat amid the grass at the foot of the three lindens, and
darkness fell around him. He could see the lights in the town away off;
they twinkled like the stars that studded the sky. The whip-poor-will told
his story over and over again in the marsh beyond the meadow, and the
brook tossed and talked in its sleep, for it had played too hard that day.

"The moon is rising," said the old poet. "Now we shall see."

The moon peeped over the tops of the far-off hills. She wondered whether
the world was fast asleep. She peeped again. There could be no doubt; the
world was fast asleep,--at least so thought the dear old moon. So she
stepped boldly up from behind the distant hills. The stars were glad that
she came, for she was indeed a merry old moon.

The Seven Crickets lived in the hedge. They were brothers, and they made
famous music. When they saw the moon in the sky they sang "chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," three times, just as old Leeza, the witchwife,
said they would.

"Whir-r-r!" It was the Raven flying out of the oak-tree into the west.
This, too, was what the old witchwife had foretold. "Whir-r-r" went the
two black wings, and then it seemed as if the Raven melted into the night.
Now, this was strange enough, but what followed was stranger still.

Hardly had the Raven flown away, when out from their habitations in the
moss, the flowers, and the grass trooped a legion of fairies,--yes, right
there before the old poet's eyes appeared, as if by magic, a mighty troop
of the dearest little fays in all the world.

Each of these fairies was about the height of a cambric needle. The lady
fairies were, of course, not so tall as the gentleman fairies, but all
were of quite as comely figure as you could expect to find even among real
folk. They were quaintly dressed; the ladies wearing quilted silk gowns
and broadbrim hats with tiny feathers in them, and the gentlemen wearing
curious little knickerbockers, with silk coats, white hose, ruffled
shirts, and dainty cocked hats.

"If the witchwife had not foretold it I should say that I dreamed,"
thought the old poet. But he was not frightened. He had never harmed the
fairies, therefore he feared no evil from them.

One of the fairies was taller than the rest, and she was much more richly
attired. It was not her crown alone that showed her to be the queen. The
others made obeisance to her as she passed through the midst of them from
her home in the bunch of red clover. Four dainty pages preceded her,
carrying a silver web which had been spun by a black-and-yellow garden
spider of great renown. This silver web the four pages spread carefully
over a violet leaf, and thereupon the queen sat down. And when she was
seated the queen sang this little song:

"From the land of murk and mist
Fairy folk are coming
To the mead the dew has kissed,
And they dance where'er they list
To the cricket's thrumming.

"Circling here and circling there,
Light as thought and free as air,
Hear them ciy, 'Oho, oho,'
As they round the rosey go.

"Appleblossom, Summerdew,
Thistleblow, and Ganderfeather!
Join the airy fairy crew
Dancing on the swaid together!
Till the cock on yonder steeple
Gives all faery lusty warning,
Sing and dance, my little people,--
Dance and sing 'Oho' till morning!"

The four little fairies the queen called to must have been loitering. But
now they came scampering up,--Ganderfeather behind the others, for he was
a very fat and presumably a very lazy little fairy.

"The elves will be here presently," said the queen, "and then, little
folk, you shall dance to your heart's content. Dance your prettiest
to-night, for the good old poet is watching you."

"Ah, little queen," cried the old poet, "you see me, then? I thought to
watch your revels unbeknown to you. But I meant you no disrespect,--
indeed, I meant you none, for surely no one ever loved the little folk
more than I."

"We know you love us, good old poet," said the little fairy queen, "and
this night shall give you great joy and bring you into wondrous fame."

These were words of which the old poet knew not the meaning; but we, who
live these many years after he has fallen asleep,--we know the meaning of
them.

Then, surely enough, the elves came trooping along. They lived in the
further meadow, else they had come sooner. They were somewhat larger than
the fairies, yet they were very tiny and very delicate creatures. The elf
prince had long flaxen curls, and he was arrayed in a wonderful suit of
damask web, at the manufacture of which seventy-seven silkworms had
labored for seventy-seven days, receiving in payment therefor as many
mulberry leaves as seven blue beetles could carry and stow in seven times
seven sunny days. At his side the elf prince wore a sword made of the
sting of a yellow-jacket, and the hilt of this sword was studded with the
eyes of unhatched dragon-flies, these brighter and more precious than the
most costly diamonds.

The elf prince sat beside the fairy queen. The other elves capered around
among the fairies. The dancing sward was very light, for a thousand and
ten glowworms came from the marsh and hung their beautiful lamps over the
spot where the little folk were assembled. If the moon and the stars were
jealous of that soft, mellow light, they had good reason to be.

The fairies and elves circled around in lively fashion. Their favorite
dance was the ring-round-a-rosey which many children nowadays dance. But
they had other measures, too, and they danced them very prettily.

"I wish," said the old poet, "I wish that I had my violin here, for then I
would make merry music for you."

The fairy queen laughed. "We have music of our own," she said, "and it is
much more beautiful than even you, dear old poet, could make."

Then, at the queen's command, each gentleman elf offered his arm to a lady
fairy, and each gentleman fairy offered his arm to a lady elf, and so, all
being provided with partners, these little people took their places for a
waltz. The fairy queen and the elf prince were the only ones that did not
dance; they sat side by side on the violet leaf and watched the others.
The hoptoad was floor manager; the green burdock badge on his breast
showed that.

"Mind where you go--don't jostle each other," cried the hoptoad, for he
was an exceedingly methodical fellow, despite his habit of jumping at
conclusions.

Then, when all was ready, the Seven Crickets went "chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," three times, and away flew that host of little
fairies and little elves in the daintiest waltz imaginable:--

[Illustration: Musical notation]

The old poet was delighted. Never before had he seen such a sight; never
before had he heard so sweet music. Round and round whirled the sprite
dancers; the thousand and ten glowworms caught the rhythm of the music
that floated up to them, and they swung their lamps to and fro in time
with the fairy waltz. The plumes in the hats of the cunning little ladies
nodded hither and thither, and the tiny swords of the cunning little
gentlemen bobbed this way and that as the throng of dancers swept now
here, now there. With one tiny foot, upon which she wore a lovely shoe
made of a tanned flea's hide, the fairy queen beat time, yet she heard
every word which the gallant elf prince said. So, with the fairy queen
blushing, the mellow lamps swaying, the elf prince wooing, and the throng
of little folk dancing hither and thither, the fairy music went on and
on:--

[Illustration: Musical notation]

"Tell me, my fairy queen," cried the old poet, "whence comes this fairy
music which I hear? The Seven Crickets in the hedge are still, the birds
sleep in their nests, the brook dreams of the mountain home it stole away
from yester morning. Tell me, therefore, whence comes this wondrous fairy
music, and show me the strange musicians that make it."

[Illustration: Musical notation]

"Look to the grass and the flowers," said the fairy queen. "In every blade
and in every bud lie hidden notes of fairy music. Each violet and daisy
and buttercup,--every modest wild-flower (no matter how hidden) gives glad
response to the tinkle of fairy feet. Dancing daintily over this quiet
sward where flowers dot the green, my little people strike here and there
and everywhere the keys which give forth the harmonies you hear."

Long marvelled the old poet. He forgot his sorrow, for the fairy music
stole into his heart and soothed the wound there. The fairy host swept
round and round, and the fairy music went on and on.

[Illustration: Musical Notation]

"Why may I not dance?" asked a piping voice. "Please, dear queen, may I
not dance, too?"

It was the little hunchback that spake,--the little hunchback fairy who,
with wistful eyes, had been watching the merry throng whirl round and
round.

"Dear child, thou canst not dance," said the fairy queen, tenderly; "thy
little limbs are weak. Come, sit thou at my feet, and let me smooth thy
fair curls and stroke thy pale cheeks."

"Believe me, dear queen," persisted the little hunchback, "I can dance,
and quite prettily, too. Many a time while the others made merry here I
have stolen away by myself to the brookside and danced alone in the
moonlight,--alone with my shadow. The violets are thickest there. 'Let thy
halting feet fall upon us, Little Sorrowful,' they whispered, 'and we
shall make music for thee.' So there I danced, and the violets sang their
songs for me. I could hear the others making merry far away, but I was
merry, too; for I, too, danced, and there was none to laugh."

"If you would like it, Little Sorrowful," said the elf prince, "I will
dance with you."

"No, brave prince," answered the little hunchback, "for that would weary
you. My crutch is stout, and it has danced with me before. You will say
that we dance very prettily,--my crutch and I,--and you will not laugh, I
know."

Then the queen smiled sadly; she loved the little hunchback and she pitied
her.

"It shall be as you wish," said the queen. The little hunchback was
overjoyed.

"I have to catch the time, you see," said she, and she tapped her crutch
and swung one little shrunken foot till her body fell into the rhythm of
the waltz.

Far daintier than the others did the little hunchback dance; now one tiny
foot and now the other tinkled on the flowers, and the point of the little
crutch fell here and there like a tear. And as she danced, there crept
into the fairy music a tenderer cadence, for (I know not why) the little
hunchback danced ever on the violets, and their responses were full of the
music of tears. There was a strange pathos in the little creature's grace;
she did not weary of the dance: her cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew
fuller, and there was a wondrous light in them. And as the little
hunchback danced, the others forgot her limp and felt only the heart-cry
in the little hunchback's merriment and in the music of the voiceful
violets.

[Illustration: Musical notation]

Now all this saw the old poet, and all this wondrously beautiful music he
heard. And as he heard and saw these things, he thought of the pale face,
the weary eyes, and the tired little body that slept forever now. He
thought of the voice that had tried to be cheerful for his sake, of the
thin, patient little hands that had loved to do his bidding, of the
halting little feet that had hastened to his calling.

"Is it thy spirit, O my love?" he wailed, "Is it thy spirit, O dear, dead
love?"

A mist came before his eyes, and his heart gave a great cry.

But the fairy dance went on and on. The others swept to and fro and round
and round, but the little hunchback danced always on the violets, and
through the other music there could be plainly heard, as it crept in and
out, the mournful cadence of those tenderer flowers.

And, with the music and the dancing, the night faded into morning. And all
at once the music ceased and the little folk could be seen no more. The
birds came from their nests, the brook began to bestir himself, and the
breath of the new-born day called upon all in that quiet valley to awaken.

So many years have passed since the old poet, sitting under the three
lindens half a league the other side of Pesth, saw the fairies dance and
heard the fairy music,--so many years have passed since then, that had the
old poet not left us an echo of that fairy waltz there would be none now
to believe the story I tell.

[Illustration: Musical notation]

Who knows but that this very night the elves and the fairies will dance in
the quiet valley; that Little Sorrowful will tinkle her maimed feet upon
the singing violets, and that the little folk will illustrate in their
revels, through which a tone of sadness steals, the comedy and pathos of
our lives? Perhaps no one shall see, perhaps no one else ever did see,
these fairy people dance their pretty dances; but we who have heard old
Robert Volkmann's waltz know full well that he at least saw that strange
sight and heard that wondrous music.

And you will know so, too, when you have read this true story and heard
old Volkmann's claim to immortality.

1887.





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