Classic Audiobook Collection - Short Stories Of William Henry Harrison Murray by William Henry Harrison Murray ~ Full Audiobook [adventure]

Episode Date: December 18, 2023

Short Stories Of William Henry Harrison Murray by William Henry Harrison Murray audiobook. Genre: adventure Murray (1840-1904) was a sometime clergyman, journalist, and purveyor of the outdoor life. His books did much to popularize the virtues of outdoor experience, especially in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. Here are stories, some humorous some serious, of the out-of-doors, of love between man and woman, man and horse, man and dog, teacher and acolyte, of wisdom and foolishness. This recording is a selection of his short stories from 'The Busted Ex-Texan And Other Stories' (1889), 'How Deacon Tubman And Parson Whitney Kept New Years And Other Stories' (1888) and 'A Ride With A Mad Horse In A Freight-Car' (1898). For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:55:04) Chapter 02 (01:15:10) Chapter 03 (01:59:06) Chapter 04 (02:37:18) Chapter 05 (03:07:33) Chapter 06 (03:45:35) Chapter 07 (04:29:03) Chapter 08 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. Story 1. The Busted X. Texan We were camped amid the foothills on the trail which led up to kicking horse pass. The sun had already passed from sight beyond the white summits above us, and the shadow of the monstrous mountain range darkened the prairie to the east, to the horizon's rim. Our bivouac was made in a grove of lofty firs, six or eight in number, and a little rivulet, trickling from the upper slopes, fell with soft, lapsing sound within a few feet of our campfire.

We did not even pitch a tent, for the sky was mild, and above us the monstrous trees lifted their protecting canopy of stems. The hammocks were swung for the ladies, and each gentleman preempted the claim which suited him best by depositing his blanket and rifle upon it. The entire party were in the best of spirits, and nature responded to our happiness in its kindest mood. Laughter sounded pleasantly at intervals from the busy group,

each working at some self-appointed industry. The hum of cheerful conversation mingled with the murmurs of the brook, and now and then the snatch of some sweet song would break from tuneful lips, brief, spirited melodious as a bobble-links, dashing upward from the cloverheads, And before the mighty shadow lying gloomily on the Great Prairie Plain, which stretched eastward for a thousand miles, had grown to darkness, the active happy workers had given to the bivouac that look of designed orderliness which a trained party always give to any spot they select in which to make a camp or pass a night.

An hour before, there was nothing to distinguish that grove of trees or the ground beneath them from any other spot or hill within the reach of eye. But now it commanded the landscape, and had you been trailing over the vast plain, the bright firelight, the group of men and women moving to and fro, the picketed horses, the fluttering bits of color here and there, would have caught your gaze ten miles away. And were you tired or hungry, or even lonesome,

you would have naturally turned your horse's head toward that camp as toward a cheerful reception and a home. wherever is happy human life, to it all lonely life is drawn as by a magnet. And this was demonstrated by our experience then and there. For scarcely had we done with supper, and by this time the gloom had grown to darkness, and the half-light of the evening held the landscape, when out of the semi-gloom there came a call, the call of a man hailing a camp. Indeed, we were not sure he had not hailed several times before we heard him. For to To tell the truth, we were a very merry crowd, and as light of heart as if there was not

a worry or care in all the world, at least for us, and the smallest spark of a joke exploded us like a battery. Indeed, so rollicking was our mood that our laughter was nearly continuous, and it is quite possible that the stranger may have hailed us more than once without our hearing him. And this was the more likely because the man's voice was not of the loudest, nor was it positive in the energy of its appeal. Indeed, there was a certain feebleness or timidity in the stranger's hail, as if he was mistrustful that any good fortune could respond to him, and hence deprecated the necessity of the resort. But hear him we did, at last, and he was greeted

with a chorus of voices to, come in, come in, you're welcome. And partly because we had finished our repast, and partly from courtesy in the natural promptings of gentle folk to give a visitor courteous greeting, we all arose and received him standing. And certainly, had the kindly act been unusual with us, not one of our group would have regretted the extra condescension bestowed upon him at his coming, after he had entered the circle of our firelight, and we saw the expression of his features. What a mirror the human face is! Looking into it, how we behold the soul, the accidents that have befallen it, and the disappointments it has borne. Are not the faces of men as carved tablets on which we read the records of their

lives? The face of childhood is smoothly beautiful, like a white page on which neither with ink of red or black, has any pen drawn character. But as the years go on, the pen begins to move, and the fatal tracery to grow, that tracery which means and tells so much. And the face of this man, this waif, so to speak, this wave that had come to us from the stretch of the prairie, whose southern line is the southern gulf. This stranger, who had come so suddenly to the circle of our light, and so plaintively sought admission to its comfort and its cheer, was a face which one might read at a glance. Not one in our circle that did not instantly feel that he embodied some overwhelming calamity.

A look of sadness, of a mild, continuous sorrow overspread his face. There was a pitiful expression about the mouth as if brave determination had withdrawn its lines from it forever. From his eyes a certain mistrustfulness looked forth, not mistrustfulness of others, but of himself, as if confidence in his own powers had received an overwhelming shock. The man's appearance made an instant and unmistakable impression upon the entire company. The ladies, God bless their sweet and sympathetic natures, were profoundly moved at the pitiful aspect of our guest.

Their bosoms thrilled with sympathy for one upon whose devoted head evil fortune had so evidently emptied its quiver, nor were our less sensitive masculine natures untouched by his forlorn appearance. A target for evil fortune whispered Dick to the Major, a regular bullseye was the solemn response, a bull's eye by gad at the end of the score. It was not a poetic expression. I wish the reader to note that I do not record it as such.

I only preserve it as evidence of the Major's humanity and of the unaffected sympathy for the stranger which at that moment filled all hearts. Naturally, as it can well be imagined, the gaiety of our company had been utterly checked by the coming of our sad guest. In the presence of such a wreck of human happiness,

perhaps of human hope, what person of any sensibility could maintain a lightsome mood? Had it not been for one peculiarity, a peculiarity I am confident, all of us observed, the depression of our spirits would have been as profound as it was universal.

This peculiarity was the stranger's appetite. This fortunately had remained unimpaired, an oasis in the Sahara of his life. The one remnant left him from the wreck of his fortunes, whispered Dick, a perfect remnant, returned the major, sentitiously. For myself, acting as host to this appetite, and being naturally of a philosophic turn,

I watched its development with the keenest interest, not to say, with a growing curiosity. Here is something, I said to myself, that is unique, that fine law of recompense, which is kindly distributed through the universe, finds here, I reflected, a most instructive and conclusive demonstration. Robbed by an adverse fate of all that made life agreeable, this ban, this pilgrim of time, this wayfarer to eternity, this companion of mine on the road of life, has had bestowed upon him an extraordinary solace, has been permitted to retain a commensurate satisfaction. Surely life cannot have lost its attraction for one whose stomach still preserves such aspirations.

And prompted by the benevolence of my mood and the anticipations of a wise forecast, I collected in front of me whatever edibles remained on the table that, if the supply of our hospitality should prove insufficient, the exhibition of his spirit should at least be conclusive. But if the countenance of the stranger was of a most melancholy cast, there were not lacking hints that by nature he had been endowed with vivacity of spirit. For, as he continued with an industry which was remarkable to refresh him, himself, there were appearances which came to the eye in the corners of his mouth, which made the observer conclude that he was not lacking the sense of humor. And if his experience had been most unfortunate, there was in him an ability to appreciate the ludicrousness of its changeful situations.

Indeed, one could but conclude that originally he must have been of a buoyant, not to say, sanguine disposition. And if one could but prevail upon, him to narrate the incidents of his life they would be found to be most entertaining it was something like an hour before our melancholy-looking guest had fully improved the opportunity with which a benignant providence had supplied him a freak in which one might conclude she seldom indulged he ceased to eat and sat for a moment gazing pensively at the dishes it seemed to me but in this i may possibly be mistaken that a darker

shade of sadness possessed his face at the conclusion than the one that shadowed it so heavily at the beginning of the repast. The pleasures of hope, I said to myself, are evidently greater to my species than are those of recollection. Now that there is nothing left for my guest to anticipate, it is evident that memory ceases to excite. And I could but feel that had our provisions been more abundant, the stranger's appetite would not have been so easily appeased. With something of regret in my voice, I sought to divert his mind from that sense of disappointment which I judged from his countenance threatened to oppress his spirits. Friend, I said, I doubt not that you have trailed a goodly distance, and your fasting has been long.

I have not eaten a meal in two days, was the response. heavens exclaimed dick in an aside to the major is it credible that that man ate two days ago gad exclaimed the major the man's stomach is nothing but a pocket a pocket i should call it an unexplored cavern retorted dick the direction and reason of your long trail would be interesting i resumed and if not impertinent friend may i ask you whence you have come i have journeyed from texas replied the man and his voice nearly broke as he said it. Oh, exclaimed the ladies, and they sympathetically group themselves, anticipating, with true feminine sensitiveness, some terrible denouement. Texas, I ejaculated. Gad, said the Major.

The devil, said Dick. Yes, Texas, repeated the man, and he groaned. By this time, as any intelligent reader will easily divine, our whole group was in a condition of mild excitement. Several of us had resided in Texas, and we felt that we stood at the threshold of a history, a history with infinite possibilities in it. For myself, I knew not how to proceed.

My position as a host forbade me to interrogate. The sorrows of life are sacred, and my sensitiveness withheld me from thrusting myself within the enclosure of my guest's recollections, That his experiences, could we but be favored with a narration of them, would be entertaining, painfully entertaining, I keenly realized, but how to proceed I saw not. I remained silent. Yes, it was the stranger who broke the silence, I am a busted ex-Texan. The relief that came to me at the instant was indescribable. The path was made plain. We all felt that we were

not only on the threshold of a history, but of a narration of that history. The ladies fluttered into position for listening. I could but see it, and so I am bound to record, that I saw Dick irreverently punch the Major. It was a punch which carried with it the significance of an exclamation. The Major received it with the face of a Spartan, but with the grunt of a Chinook chief. Friend, I said, we are accustomed to beguile the evening hours. with entertaining descriptions of travels, often of personal incidents of the haps and hazards of life.

And if it would not be disagreeable to you, we would be vastly entertained beyond doubt by any narration with which you might favor us of your Texan experiences and of the fortunes which befell you there. For a few moments the silence remained unbroken, save by the crackle of the fire, and the soft movement in the great firs overhead, a movement which is to sound what dawn is to the day, not so much a sound as a feathery suggestion that sound might come. It was a genial hour, and the mood of the hour began to be felt in our own. The warmth of it evidently penetrated the bosom of our guest.

He had eaten, he was filled, appreciably so, at least, and that happy feeling, that comfortable sense of fullness, which characterizes the after-dinner hour, pervaded him with its genial glow. He loosened his belt, another tremendous nudge from Dick, and a look of contentment softened his features. Whatever storm had wrecked his life, he had now passed beyond its billows, and from the sure haven into which he had been blown, he could gaze with complacent resignation, if not with happiness, at the dangers through which he had passed. I am sure that we were all delighted at the brightening appearance of our guest, and felt that,

if the story he was to tell us was one which included disasters, it would at least be lightened by traces of humor and the calm acceptance of a philosophic mind. I was born in the state of Connecticut, so our guest began his narration. I came from a venturesome stock, and the instinct of commercial enterprise may be regarded as hereditary in my family. My grandfather was the first one to discover the tropical attributes of the beechwood tree. He first perceived that it contained within its fibers the pungency of the nutmeg. With a celerity which we remember with pride in our family, he availed himself of the commercial value of his discovery, and for years did a prosperous trade in the credulity of mankind.

He was a man of humor, a sense which has been to some extent transmitted to myself. He was a man of humor, and I have no doubt he enjoyed the joke he was practicing on people fully as much as the prophets which the practical embodiment of his humor brought to his pocket. My father was a deacon, a man of true piety and eminently respectable. He was engaged in the retail grocery business, a business which offers opportunities to a person of wit and of an inventive turn of mind. The butter that he sold was salted invariably by one rule, a rule which he discovered and applied in the cellar of the store himself. And the sugar which he sold, if it was sanded, was always sanded by a method which improved rather than detracted from its appearance. Our guest paused a moment as if enjoying the recollections of the virtues of his ancestors.

His face was as sober as ever, but his look was one of contentment, and I could but note the suggestion of merriment, the merriment of a happy memory, in his eye. How happy it is for an offspring to be able to recall the character of his forefathers with such liveliness of mind. The motive which impelled me towards Texas, he resumed, was one which was natural for me to feel, thus ancestrally connected. I had erred my father's business, the deacon who had died full of honors, ripe in years, and in perfect peace.

But the business did not prosper in my hands. Perhaps I had not erred with the business the deacon's ability, that accuracy of eye, that gravity of appearance, that deafness of touch, so to speak, which underlay his success. be that as it may the business did not pay and without hesitation i sold it and with a comfortable sum for investment i journeyed to texas it is proper for me to remark that the welcome i received was most cordial i chose a populous centre for a temporary residence and proceeded to look around me i found the texans to be a warm-hearted people much given to hospitality and willing with a charming disinterestedness to admit all newcomers with capital to the enormous profits of their various enterprises. For the first time in my life, I found myself among people who were successful in everything they

undertook. Their profits were simply enormous. No speculation could possibly fail. However, I invested my money, I was assured that I would speedily become a millionaire. Cotton was a certain crop. Corn was never known to fail. The Texan tobacco was rapidly, driving the Cuban out of the market. The Aboriginal grapes of the state, of which there were millions of acres waiting for the presses, yielded, as Europe confessed,

a wine superior to champagne. If I preferred herding, all I had to do was to purchase a few sheep and simply sit down. There was no section of the globe where sheep were so prolific, fleeces so thick, or the demands of market so clamorous.

And as for horses, I was assured that no one in Texas who knew the facts of the case would spend any time in raising them. The prairies were full of them, hundreds of thousands of them, all blooded stock, true descendants, sir, from the Moorish barb, distributed through the whole country at the Spanish invasion. I need do nothing but purchase 50,000 acres, fenced the territory in, and the enclosed herds would continue to propagate indefinitely. such were the delightful pictures which my entertainers presented to me captivated by the charming manners of my hosts my sanguine temperament kindled into heat at the touch of their enthusiasm where every venture was sure of successful issue there was no need for deliberation or selection i invested indiscriminately in all and waited buoyantly for the results here the stranger paused compelled perhaps by a slight interruption dick had retired closely followed by the major our guest certainly was not devoid of humor and i was convinced as i watched the play of his features that he apprehended and appreciated the reason for their retirement.

He lifted a plate from the table, inspected it closely, turned it over, gazed contemplatively at its reversed side, and poising it deftly upon the point of three fingers, quietly remarked, the gentleman, I believe, have been in Texas. They have, I replied,

we three were there together. Ah, it was all he said. I might add, it was all that could be said. At this point, Dick and the Major rejoined us. Their eyes showed traces of recent tears. They were still wiping their faces with their handkerchiefs. With that refinement, which is characteristic of true gentlemen, and which seeks concealment of any extraordinary emotion,

they had considerably retired to indulge their laughter. I am delighted, continued our guest, after Dick and the Major had resumed their seats, I am delighted to find myself in company with men of experience. I feel that you will not question the veracity of my story or fail to appreciate the outcome of my enterprises. At the end of two years, my property was distributed promiscuously throughout the state, and I was reduced to the necessity of making one final venture

to recoup myself for the losses, which, to the astonishment of the entire Texan community, I assured them I had met. I was the only man, as they asserted, that had ever failed to make a magnificent success in Texas. You can readily conceive, gentlemen, that I was determined to make no mistake in my final venture. There were other reasons, besides the one of caution,

which persuaded me to begin with a moderate investment, so I bought one cow. It was impossible for me to make a mistake from such a beginning. Every person in Texas that had rapidly risen to financial eminence had started with one cow. Many a time had a Texan ranchman swept his hand with a royal gesture over a landscape of flowers and mesquite brush, dotted with thousands of cattle, and exclaimed, "'Stanger, I started this year ranch with one cow!'

And then he would take out a piece of chalk and figure out to me on his saddle how that one cow had multiplied her itself into seven thousand five hundred and twenty-three other cows which had proceeded to promptly multiply themselves regular as the seasons come round sir at the same reckless manner until it was evident that the number of her progeny was actually curtailed by the size of the saddle and the lack of chalk now i was eager to possess a cow with such a multiplication table attachment and being unable to wait even ten years before I could tingle with the sensation of being a millionaire ranchman, I decided to shorten the propensionary stage by half, and so I purchased two cows. At this point Dick rolled over upon the grass, and the major was doubled up as with sudden pain.

As for myself, I confess, I could not restrain my emotions. I had been through the same experience as had fallen to my guest, and I appreciated the sanguine characteristics of his temperament, which prompted him to the investment and the humor of the situation. I laughed till my eyes flowed with tears, and the stillness of the foothills resounded with the unrestrained merriment of the entire camp. The humor of our guest was truly American, the humor of suggestive restraint, and exaggeration, both.

He narrated his experiences, which had resulted in the loss of his fortune, and the collapse of his hopes with a face like a deacons, and with a quaint and most charming sense of the ludicrousness of the position, a position of which he himself was the cause and central object. He fairly represented that type of men who combine in their composition, that which is most practical and imaginative alike, whose energy can subdue a continent, and whose boastfulness would awaken contempt

if it were not palliated by the magnitude, of their achievements, a humor that is often barbed, but which is most willingly directed against one's self. But whether directed against the humorist or his neighbor, carries no poison upon its point, and leaves no wound to rankle. My financial condition, said our guest, resuming, my financial condition at the time I made this final investment, contributed to the hopefulness of my mood, and made me feel the excitement of a reckless speculation. For though my two cows only cost me $17.50 each, nevertheless, when the purchase was concluded and the goods delivered, and I had made a careful inventory of my remaining

assets, a business proceeding which the average Texan found it necessary to go through about once in two weeks, in order that he might know what his financial standing was, or whether he had any standing at all, when I say the purchase was consummated and an inventory of my remaining assets made, I discovered that the two cows had swallowed up nearly my entire estate, and that a few dollars of farther expenditure would plunge me into bottomless insolvency. I must confess that this disclosure of my financial condition added zest to the undertaking and filled me with that fine excitement which accompanies a desperate speculation. I have always felt that another cow would have made a financier of me,

and that I could have taken my place among my brethren in Wall Street, without a tremor of the muscles or the least sense of inferiority. The cows were both black in color, so black that they would make a spot in the darkness of the blackest night that ever gloomed under the cypresses of the Guadalupe. If those cows, I said to myself as I looked over there, if those cows ever do bring forth calves at the rate that the texan of whom i purchased them figured out on his saddle they'll put the whole state under an eclipse i cannot say speaking with that restraint which i have always cultivated i cannot say ladies and gentlemen that i regarded either cow with any great affection there were peculiarities about them which checked the outgoing of my emotional nature they had a way of looking at me through the wire fence that made me feel grateful to the inventor of barbed wire. I cannot describe the look exactly. It was a direct, earnest, steady, intense inspection of my person that made me feel

out of place, as it were, and caused me to remember that I had duties at home, which required me to get there as rapidly as possible. One morning, seeing that the basis of my speculation was near the center of the field, and busily feeding on the bountiful growths of nature, I crept softly through the wires of the fence that I might gather some pican nuts under a big tree that stood some twenty rods away. I reached the tree in safety and proceeded to pick up the nuts. I had filled one pocket only when I heard a noise behind me, and looking up I saw that all the profits of my stock speculation and all my stock itself were coming towards. me on a jump. I was never more collected in my life. My mind instantly reached the conclusion

that the pecan crop that year was so large in Texas that it would not pay to pick up another nut under that tree, that the whole thing should stand over, as it were, until another fall, and that the sooner I retired from that field, the better it would be for me and the few pecanes I had with me. Acting in harmony with this conclusion, which to my mind carried with it the force of a demonstration, I started for the wire fence. I have no doubt, but that the line of my movement was absolutely straight. I assure you, gentlemen, that if cows had multiplied in my business connection

as rapidly as they did in my imagination during the next 60 seconds of time, I should have been in Texas to this day. The whole field was actually alive with cows. I reached the fence just one jump ahead of the old. oldest cow, and seeing no reason why I should take time to crawl through between the wires, I lifted myself over the airy construction in a manner that must have convinced that old animated bit of blackness that I had absolute ownership in every nut about me. This little episode supplied me with material for reflection for at least a week, and made me

realize that any northern man that enters into a speculation with Texas cows as a basis must keep his eyes open and not allow his thought to be diverted by any side issues like pecan nuts while the business is developing. The sixth morning after my speculation had arrived at the ranch, my profits began to roll in upon me, or to state it more practically and in a business-like manner, the oldest cow produced a calf. This raised my spirits and it made me feel that my business was fairly started. I went to my stockbook and promptly made an entry as follows, 7523-1. This meant that there were only 7,522 yet to realize on,

that is, if 7,522 calves should promptly come to time, seeing that one calf had already actually come to time, my herd would be complete. I think, gentlemen, you can readily understand, my feelings as I stood contemplating the first fruition of my hopes from behind a tree. The cow was securely tied, but still from habit I took my usual position when inspecting my stock. My mood was very hopeful. I felt, as every Texan felt in those days, when by some accident he found himself in possession of actual property.

There is a calf, I said. I've only had to wait six days for that calf to materialize. suppose another calf should materialize in six days. I extracted a pencil from my pocket and began to figure. I multiplied that calf by six. I mean that at the end of six days, I multiplied that calf by another calf. Every time I put down a new multiplier, I took a look at the calf,

and every time I looked at the calf, it multiplied itself, as it were, until I felt the full force of the Texan statement. Save that, the more I multiplied, the more I felt that 7,523 did not fairly represent the certainties of the speculation. That cow would surely make a millionaire of me yet, if nothing happened. But, gentlemen, something did happen, and it happened in this wise. You have doubtless by this concluded that the cow was a wild cow.

The man who sold her to me had not put it precisely that way. He had represented her to me as a cow of a cow of a cow. mild manners, thoroughly domesticated, of the sweetest possible temper, used to the women folks, playful with children, in short, a creature of such amiability that she actually longed to be petted. But I had already discovered that her manners were somewhat abrupt, and that either the man did not understand the nature of the cow, or I did not understand the man. I was convinced that if she had ever been domesticated it had been done by some family

every member of which had died in the process, or had suddenly moved out of the country only a short distance ahead of her, and that she had utterly forgotten her early training. Still, I had no doubt but that her amiability was there, although temporarily somewhat latent, and that the influences of a gentle spirit would revive the dormant sensibilities of her nature. The sight of a milk-pail, I said to myself, will surely awaken the remnant, the remnantationation of her early days, and of that sweet home life, which was hers, when she yielded at morn and at night, her glad contribution to the nourishment of a Christian family.

There was on my ranch a servitor of foreign extraction who did my cooking for what he could eat, Chin Fu by name, and to him I called to bring me the large tin pail which served the household, which, like most Texan households in the tertiary period, so to speak, of their fortunes, was conducted on economic principles, as a wash-tub, a chip-basket, a water-bucket, and a dinner-gomb. It also occurred to me, as I stood looking at the cow and caught the spirit of her expression, so to speak, that, as she had come to stay, was a permanent fixture of the establishment, as it were, Chin-Fu might as well do the milk-and-es-law. first as last. Moreover, as the Texan from whom I purchased her had assured me that she was

a kind of household pet, the children's friend, and took to women folks naturally, the case was a very clear one. For as Chin Fu had long hair, wore no hat, and dressed in the flowing drapery, the cow, unless she was more of a physiologist than I gave her credit for, would be in doubt somewhat as to the sex of the Chinaman. And before she had time to ruminate upon it and reach a dead sure conclusion, the milking would be over, and I would have scored the first point in the game if she was a cow of ability, had any trumps and was up to any tricks, as it were. So I told Jen Fu, as he approached with the pail in his hand, that the cow was a splendid milker, thoroughly domesticated, accustomed to Chinaman, and that he might have the honor of milking her first. I remarked, furthermore, that as everything about the place was new to her, and she was a little nervous, I would gently attract her attention in front while he proceeded to extract the delicious fluid.

I charged him, in addition, to remember that it was always the best policy to approach a cow of her temperament in a bold and indifferent manner, as if he had milked her all of his life and get down to business at once, and that any hesitation or show of nervousness on his part would tend to make her more nervous. I must say that Chin Fu acted in a highly creditable manner, considering he was in a strange land, and to my certain knowledge had no money laid by for funeral expenses. For while I was stirring the dust and flourishing my stick in a desultory manner in front of the cow to divert her mind and keep her thoughts from wandering backward too directly,

he fluttered boldly up to her and laid firmly hold of two teats with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. At this point of his narration, the stranger paused a moment. There was a sort of plaintive look on his face, and he gazed at the plates with an expression in his eyes of sorrowful recollection. I cannot say, he resumed, as one who speaks oppressed with a sense of uncertainty, exactly what did happen, for I never saw the Chinaman again until he alighted. I only know that when he came down he was practically inside the pail, and that he sat in it a moment with a kind of dreamy eastern look on his face,

as if he lived on the Isle of Patmos and had seen a vision. And when he had crawled out of the pail, he went directly into the house, saying, The Melican man is damnfully to try milky that, or words to that effect. But I did not agree with him. I reflected that the Chinese are only an imitative race and wholly lacking in original perception.

They never invent anything, I said, never study into causes, never get down to principles, as it were. It requires a purely occidental intellect to master the problem before me. This cow has a strong disinclination to be milk. Why? What is the motive of her conduct? if i could only answer that all at once it came to be came like a flash the reason was plain this cow was a mother the maternal instinct in her case is beautifully developed her reasoning faculties less so she has a calf

to her mind we are trying to rob her beloved offspring of its nourishment she naturally resents this injustice on our part beautiful development of maternity i apostrophize as i looked at the calf in the light of this new revelation. Thy instincts are those that sweeten the world and remind us of the benignity that plan the universe. I will bring thy calf to thee. I will show thee that I am not devoid of the spirit of equity, that I am ready to go shares and play fair as it were. Thy calf shall take one side of thee. I will take the other, and thy soul will come forth to me in gratitude.

I was delighted. I went directly to the pen and gazed benevolently at the calf. The little imp was blacker, if possible, than its mother. There was that same peculiar look also in its eyes. You're all hers, I joyfully cry. You are your mother's own child. I seized hold of the neckro. I opened the pen door, and I went out through that door quicker than a vagrant cat

ever got round a corner of a house where a Scotch Terrier boards. The calf went under the cow, and I struck her head on. But I had come to stay. I grabbed the pail with one hand and a teak with the other. I tugged it, pulled it, twisted it. Not a drop could I start. A suction pump of twenty horsepower would have found it drier than Sahara, and all the while the calf's mouth on the other side was actually running over with milk.

In two minutes he looked like a black watermelon. then the cow with a kind of back action suddenly reached out one foot and when i came to i found myself facing a mulberry tree with one leg on each side of it by this time i had reached a decision and i had the courage of my convictions i felt it to be my duty to milk that cow i reminded her in plain straightforward language that i was the son of a deacon and that she'd find it out before she got through with me I assured her that I understood the beauty of righteousness and that I held a strong hand, a straight flush, as it were. I was well aware that the metaphor was somewhat mixed, but it expressed my sentiments and relieved my feelings, and so I fired it at her, point blank.

She snorted and pawed and bellowed and swore at me in cow language, but I didn't care for that. So I shook the old battered milk pail in her face and told her, I was born in Connecticut and did business on spot cash principle, and that she would know more of the commandments than any cow of her color in Texas before we had our long farewell. By this time, the matter had attracted a good deal of attention, for I had carried on my conversation with the cow in the voice of a tragedian when the chief villain of the play has stolen his girl, and my next neighbor, an old sea captain from Madagorda Bay,

and his hired men had come over to assist me. They were of the nature of a reinforcement, which consisted of the captain, a Mexican, a Michigan man that stuttered, and two Negroes, Napoleon Bonaparte, de Neville Smith, and George Washington, Marlborough, John Singh, by name. Hence, we were six in all, and I decided to take the offensive at once. The captain was advanced in years and rheumatic, but a clear-headed man used to command.

and had boarded, as he expressed it, several of the crafts in his own waters. So I put him in charge of the marines, namely ourselves, and told him to fight the ship for all she was worth. He caught on to the thing at once, and swore he would sweep the old black Hulk, fore and apt, and send every mother's son to the bottom, or make her strike her colors. The vigor of the gallant old gentleman's language and the noble manner in which he shook his cane at the old pirate, put us all in good spirits,

and I verily believe that if he had at that fortunate moment given the word bored, we would niggers and all have gone over the bulwarks of that old cow with a rush. The captain's plan of action was proof of his courage, and in harmony with my own ideas of the matter. He said that our force was ample, every gun shot it, and the ports open,

that we had the windward gauge of her, and that the proper course was to send a boat in to cut her cable, and when she drifted down with the current, we would wear ship, lay up alongside, grapple, pass lashings aboard, and send the whole crew onto her deck with a rush. Assaulted in such a man-of-war style, he was confident she would become confused, be intimidated, and strike her colors without firing a gun. the brave and sonorous language with which our commanders set forth his plan of assault captured our imagination, and we all longed for the moment when the word of command would permit us to swarm up the sides and over the rail of the old bovine. Not only was the general plan thus agreed upon, but each man had his post of duty assigned to him.

When the cable was cut, that is, when the cow should find herself at liberty and bolt, as she would be sure to do, the Mexican was to lasso her and hang on. Napoleon Bonaparte de Navelle and George Washington Marlboro were to lay hold of her horns to port and starboard, as the captain insisted, while the Michigan man, who was over six feet tall and leggy, was to fasten with a good grip onto her tail that he might serve not only as a drag, as our commander phrased it, but as a pilot as well, if she should get to yawing or. or be suddenly taken aback and be unable to come up into the wind promptly, while I was held in reserve to guard against emergencies.

I did not quite like the position assigned to me, and so intimated to the captain, but he said no one could tell how it might go when we once got out of the harbor, and if any of the braces should part, or the sea get high, that he would have to send an additional man to the wheel, for, he added in a whisper, God knows that long-legged Michigan land lover

could never keep her to a straight course if she should once get running with a wind over her quarter and everything drawing through that cornfield. I saw the force of his reasoning and felt easier. So without further delay, we went into action. The old captain stood, knife and hand, ready to cut the lariat, which held the cow to the tree, but before he did so, he hailed,

All ready to cut cables! Forward de Lord Captain, shouted Napoleon de Neville, which is this year nigger, Guan, to do if it the utter nigger he lets go. Go way, darn, nigger, shouted George Washington Marlborough. What you takes this nigger for if you tinks I's going to let go, this old black cow? I'll give a silver dollar to the nigger that holds on the longest. I yelled, Well, answered, mate, sang out the old captain,

all ready to cut cables. Cut she is. The cow gave a bellow like the roar of a lion and made a rush with lowered horns at the captain. Now this was not the course laid down on his chart for her to take, and he and the rest of us were struck all aback as he afterwards expressed it, but he met the emergency with spirit.

He broke his big Spanish oak stick on the nose of the brute, and then the old mariner rolled in the dust. Lay aboard of her, men, shouted the old hero in a voice like a foghorn, flourishing the fragments of his stick. Lay aboard of the old cuss, I say. Cast your grappling's greaser, seize her helm, some of ye,

and throw it hard over to port. These orders were obeyed with alacrity, not a man flinched. The loop of the lasso settled over the polished horns to the roots, and on one San Diego set it tight with a twang. Napoleon Bonaparte and George Washington rushed headlong upon her, her and hung to horns and ears, while the man from Michigan fastened a grip on her lifted tail as she tore past him, which straightened him out like a lathe. As to myself, I could

only stand and gaze with solicitude upon the terrific contest, on the issue of which depended not only the chances of my speculation, but even the preservation of my self-esteem. The combat deepened and enlarged itself, as it were, a bulldog who was standing along the road in search of adventure and two foxhounds joined in the fight. The cat, the only one of the 7,523, I was ever destined to behold, broke from its pen and ran bellowing to its mother. The dogs bade, the niggers yelled, the Mexicans swore in his delightful tongue, and the stuttering Michigan, d'ur, remained silent, simply from his inability to pronounce the profanity of his feelings. Suddenly, the cow, which had been slowly working her way with her several

attachments clinging to her toward the road which ran along the front of the field, turned and started to pale-mell toward the river, which flowed wide and deep through the rushes at the rear of it. She left the path and took to the corn, and through the mass of growing stock, she swept like a whirlwind. Onward she came. I anticipated the awful catastrophe and stood riveted to the spot. The old captain still sat in the gravel, where the cow had bowled him, his hand grasping the shattered cane, and his game leg extended. He too foresaw the inevitable. Through the corn came the cow like a black Saturn attended by her satellites, but her career was too terrific for these to hold to their connection.

The laws of the universe forbade it. Napoleon Bonobard de Navelle lost his hold as she crashed into the saugum patch. George Washington Marlborough tripped over an irrigation ditch and soared away at a tangent like a sputtering remnant of a burnt-out world. Don Juan San Diego went the wrong side of a mulberry tree and the lasso parted with a snap. He never stopped until his momentum, carried him through the slats of the neighboring cowpen. Only the long-legged Michigander

kept his hold, and he looked like a pair of extended scissors. I stood aghast at the impending ruin of my hopes with my lower jaw dropped. The captain alone retained his presence of mind, as the black unit of my last Texan speculation shot by him, with Michigan elongated like a peninsula fastened to her tail, he rolled up to his knees and roared, Starboard your helm, boy, luff her up, love her up, for the love of God, or the colonel is busted. It is doubtful if the Michigan man ever heard the stentorian call of the captain, for sound travels only 1,300 feet to the second, and the cow was certainly going considerably faster than that. And besides, he was himself engaged with a terrific earnestness in a vain effort

to extricate a word out of his throat, which stuck like a wad in a smutty gun, a word of undoubted Saxon origin and of expressive force, and which has saved more blood vessels from bursting than the lancid of the phlebotomist. For, as he streamed past, there was left floating upon the air a long string of dees, thus do-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d. No one who did not hear them could ever conceive of the awful sputtering, hissing sound that they caused in the atmosphere as they came out of the mouth of the mad stuttering Michigander, and as he and the cow bore a hole through the reeds on the bank of the river, and hitting a cypress stump ricocheted into the water, that fiery string of dees, still hot and sputtering, reached half across the field. The splash of the two as they

struck the water brought the old captain to his feet, and in spite of his rumours, and, in spite of his dramatic leg, he rushed toward the river, crying, Man overboard, man overboard, gone clean over the forechains, lifeboats to Port and Starboard. With such a frightful catastrophe, gentlemen, the remembrance of which actually makes me nervous, my last speculation in Texas ended. Going over the whole matter with the captain that evening,

a process which took us well into the night, it was our united opinion that the speculation was a failure. This conviction was mused, and profound. The cow was not only gone, but she had shown such disinclination to be domesticated and such a misapprehension of the true purpose of life that the prospect was truly disheartening. Why, damn it, Colonel, said the captain, we've no evidence that the old cow wanted to be milked. To this discouraging conclusion of the captains, I was compelled to give a sorrowful assent. I recognized that my speculation was in arrears, as it were, and that it would never figure up a profit.

Therefore, next day, I divided my few personal effects between the captain and the noble men who had risked their lives for an idea, who had seen the tragedy played out, and the curtain rung down to my last appearance, as it were, and with the few dollars which alone remained of the fortune which I took with me to Texas, I mounted my horse and started northward to join that noble army of martyrs, that brotherhood of sufferers, that fraternity of the busted, whose members are legion and who are known as ex-Texans. The hilarity of the camp that evening under the foothills will never be forgotten by those of us who composed the happy number

and who listened with streaming eyes and aching sides to the narrative of our unfortunate. guest. He told his story with a directness and simplicity of narrative, with a gravity of countenance and plaintiveness of voice, which heightened the humor of the substance. Never did the stars, which have seen so much of human happiness, which have listened to so much of the rollicking humor of those who were fashioned for laughter, looked down upon a jollier camp. Long after our guest had ended his narrative and was apparently sleeping in happy, forgetful of his Texas speculation, succeeding pauses of silence would come roars of laughter. The remembrance of the humorous tale banished sleep, and even after slumber had fallen on

us all, Fun still held possession of our dreams, for Dick, starting from sleep in a nightmare of hilarity, roared out, "'Luff her up! "'Luffer up! Or the Colonel is busted!' "'Aye, I, thank God for laughter. Thank him heartily, and ever, dear friend, blow the winds, run the tides as they may. The sorrows of life may be many, and its griefs may be keen, and we who are frosted with years, and you who are blooming, have felt and will feel the sting of false friends and the burden of losses.

But lose what we may, or be pained as we have been and shall be, we are happy in this, we who know how to laugh, that we find wings for each burden, solace for pains, and return for all losses in our sweet sense of humor, thank heaven. So whether rich men or poor, healthy or sick, brown-headed or gray, we will go on like children with eyes for all beauty and hearts for all fun. Let lilies teach us, and of the birds of the air, let us learn. The day that is not shall not make us anxious, for of each day is the evil enough, and the morrow shall take care of itself." End of Story 1.

Story 2 of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. This Liber Fox recording is in the public domain. Story 2, The Leaf of Red Rose, the Old Trapper's Story. A story, why yes, if Henry there will translate it, and put it in verse and and print as he promised to do when it happened. Will he do it? I doubt. He dislikes to dabble with rhyme and with measure,

says that good honest prose is the best and the sweetest if the words be well chosen, short, Saxon, and Pithy, and that making a verse is the business of women, of green boys at school and of lovers when spooning. But try him, it may be he will, for a lesson is in it, and that makes it worth telling. the woods have their secrets and sorrows and struggles as well as the cities you can find in the woods many things if you look beside trees rocks and mountains jack wickham he said his name was though i doubted for the name on his bosom tattooed in purple didn't point quite that way but that doesn't matter one name in the woods is as good as another if a man answers to it and it's easily spoken so we called him jack

Whitcomb and asked nothing further. Brave? Why, of course he was brave. Men are not cowards. Cowards don't come to the woods. They stay in the cities, where policemen are thick, and the streets are all lighted. In the woods, men trail with their ears and eyes open and sleep when they sleep with their hands on their rifles. Why? Well, Panthers are plenty and cunning and quiet, and a man is a fool that goes carelessly stumbling under trees where they crouch.

under crags where they gather. Furthermore, with the saints now and then, there are sinners that live in the woods, and some half-breeds are wicked and know nothing of law unless taught by a bullet. I've done what I could to teach knaves the commandments. Yes, Jack Whitcomb was brave, brave as the bravest. His glance was as keen, and his mouth was as silent as the trailers should be, who looks and who listens by day and by night, having no one to talk to. His finger was quick when it handled the trigger, and his eye loved the sights as lightning loves rivers. I've seen him stand up when the odds were against him.

Stand up like a man who takes coolly the chances. That proves he was brave, as I understand it. One day we were boating on far Mistoceney. We were fetching the portage above the great rapids where they whirled, roaring down, fresh at full, at their widest. When we saw from a rock that stretched outward and over the wild hissing water as it swept on in thunder, a canoe coming down, rolling over and over, with a little papoose clinging tight to the lashings. And as it lanced by, Jack went in like an otter. How he did it, God knows, but at the foot of the rapids, half a mile farther

down, racing onward, I found him high and dry on the beach in a faint like a woman, with the little papoos pulling away at his jacket, and when he came too he put child to his shoulder, nor stopped till it lay in the arms of its mother. We were trailing, Henry and I, trailing and trapping in the land of the north, where fur was the thickest, and knaves were as plenty as mink or as otter. We took turns at sleeping and trailed our line double to keep our own skins if we didn't get others. It was folly to say where we were, and we knew it.

For the knaves they got thicker, and soon there was shooting, getting on pretty lively. But we held to the business and scouted the line once a week like true trappers, and no accident happened save some holes in our jackets, and my powder horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet. So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively. But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened around us each day, and we weren't quite decided to stand in for a fight and settle the matter, or pull up our traps and get out of the country when it settled itself,

and in this way it happened. We were scouting the lake on the west shore one morning, to find the knave's camp and how many were in it. When a short space ahead there came of a sudden, a crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen or 20 placed rifles had burst an ambushment. And then in an instant there sounded another. Two sharp twin reports and the death yells that followed told us as we listened where the lead had been driven. Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb. Do you think men who live by trapping and

shooting don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles? Jack was trailing. Jack was trailing. the lake to find our encampment. For far away in the south there had come to his cabin, a rumor that we in the Northland were holding our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting. So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing to give us the help of another good rifle. That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble, he was there by your side. You could always count on him with finger on trigger and both barrels loaded. So Henry and I both took to our covers right and left of the trail. Jack must take in retreating.

We didn't wait long, for the boy knew his business, and soon he came backward, loading and running, like a man who was busy but wouldn't be hurried beyond his own gate if he stopped there forever. As he passed our two covers, I piped him a whistle, and he stopped in his tracks, and with low, pleasant laughter, stood there in full view, coolly capping the nipples. I have shot on each gulf, both southern and northern.

I have trailed the long trail between either ocean. Brave men I have seen, both in good and in evil, but never a braver than the man called Jack Wickham. Well, why describe it? Call it scrimmage or battle. It was done in a minute, or it may be a dozen. It came like a whirlwind, and we three were in it as men are, in whirlwinds. It came like the thunder, with a crash and a roar and a long-running

rumble, dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded, and a few lucky knaves that fled wildly backward. And Henry and I, when it passed, were left standing by the body of him, whose name was Jack Wickham, who lay as he fell, when headlong he tumbled, his rifle still clenched and both barrels smoking. I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets and a good many gashes by spear points and arrows. I have learned in my trailing a good many simples which have power to keep men from crossing the river before the Lord calls with voice that is certain, and the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body, though ugly and deep, was not beyond curing. We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle with death for his life,

and we won. For Jack mended. We made a canoe, and we bore him far southward, a hundred good miles down the river we boated, till we came to his house of huge logs strongly builded, beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid, which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water. T'was a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled, if peace might be found this side of the silence which brings peace to all that no sorrow in living. Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids, his home, no, rather his house, let us call it. For how can a house be a home with naught in it? In house that is home must be love, warm and human, a voice that is sweet,

a heart that is gentle, a soul that is true, and besides these, a cradle that prattles and coos, and the quick-falling patter of little white feet that run hither and thither. To his house, and not to his home then we brought him, for certainly nothing and no one was in it. Save himself and a dog, a bed, and a table, some chairs, a few books, and a picture. And this was the story that he told us in dying. The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to, but he didn't. No motive, he said, and he had none, as we felt later on, when he told us his story. So he died without word or sign.

And in silence we stood and saw him go forth on his journey without speaking a word, without a hand lifted to hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain what was wisdom for one who went forth in such passion. Perhaps it was best he should go and be over with pain, loss, and trouble, forever and ever. Henry says, it were well we should all of us go when life has no aim and no hope, and no doing remains to be done. And days are but eating and drinking and breathing, only these and no more. But before he went forth he gave me a message. I loved her. So his story began. Henry, you remember the look on his face as he said it,

as he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the picture. She was strong, and she drew me as life draws the young, and as death draws the old. I could not resist her. She was vital with force to attract and to hold. she raised me a race for my life and she won it i was man not a boy and i loved as man loves when the forces of life are in him full-blooded as rivers and meadows when they flow to the sedges did she love me perhaps who can tell she was woman and hence she was dark as the night and as hidden who could find her who the depth of her nature might measure i tried but could not then both I spake, spake as man speaks but once unto woman.

True and straight did I say it man fashion. But she drew back, offended, she shrank from my praying, and with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me. Had a man shown a tithe of that look in his eye on his face, he or I would have died on the instant. But what can a man do when scorned by a woman? So I left her. I need not say more.

life, it was ended. It wasn't worth living. I am made in that fashion. So I came to the woods. Where else, when in trouble, can man go and find what he needs? Consolation. Go you down to her house in the city, John Norton, to the house where she lives and give her this message. Word for word, let her hear it. Say where you left me. There's gold in that box to pay your expenses. Word for word, as I tell you, nor say a word. further. Then he bade us goodbye and marched away bravely, as a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain, and under the pines on the bank of the rapids we buried the man whom the woods called Jack Wickham, and the picture he loved we placed on his bosom. I went down to her house in the city,

a cabin of stone, brown as Tamarack bark, trimmed with olive. It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain. The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern. At the door stood a man, rigged up like a soldier. His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners. He looked at me some, and I looked him all over. Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners, and told me to enter, and he would call madame. The room was as large as a townhouse, where settlers hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages. The walls were like caves in far Arizona. all covered with pictures of houses and battles of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean of children with wings pretty queer-looking creatures of men and of women and some were half-naked but the floor was of oak which gleamed like a polish and with mats thick as moss and with skins it was covered so i felt quite at home as there i stood looking and noting the size and signs of the cabin then all of a sudden there

came a soft rustle like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn, and down the wide stairway across the great hall to the door of the room in which I was standing, stately and swift, came a woman, and entered. Tall as the tallest, made firmly, knit firmly, both in form and in limb, but full and well-rounded. Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven, like the girls of Nevada, where lived the old races. whose blood is as fire and whose skin is of olive, whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens. Arms bare to the shoulders, neck and the bosom uncovered.

Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward and round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness. No ring on her hand nor in ear, not a circle of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver and one at her wrist, loosely clasped, small and slender. So she entered and stood, and looked me all over. Then slowly she spake, your name, sir, and business? Madame, I said, in the woods men call me John Norton, John Norton, the trapper. Then I stopped mighty sudden, for her face

it grew white to the lips and the chin, and she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper when he sinks his axe into the heart, and it totters and quivers. So I stopped, stopped quick, and stood looking. Then her dark face it lighted, and she said, speaking quickly, John Norton, I know you, I know you are honest, you live in the woods, you are good, I can trust you. All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble. Have you seen in the north?

Have you met in the woods? Has there come to your cabin, a man, tall as you, brave as you and as tender, a man like to this? And out of her gown from the folds on her bosom, she lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet, touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened, the face of the man I and Henry had buried. John Norton, she cried, and her eyes burned like fever.

Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble. Have you seen in the woods, man-like to this picture? Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble. For I did him wrong. I thought he held lightly my fair name and fame, held lightly my honor. I thought he meant evil, and my heart filled with anger,

dismissed him in scorn. But I learned. I learned later he was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven. Then I stood, and I looked and held my face steady, so it gave her no sign of what I was thinking. I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her, but my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying, to stand as I stood face to face with this woman in her house in that room and give her his message.

Decide not to know is far worse than the knowing at times, so I rallied and told her the message, word for word, as he charged the night he lay dying in his house on the bank above the swift rapids. madame i said i have seen a man like that picture face and form he was brave as you say he was tender he was true unto death and he loved you as heaven and these are the words that he sent you in dying i a man of the woods bring you this as last message from one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids of that northern river which pours its brown water to the lake of st john from far mistacinny tell her that John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living with a love that was true and with same love in dying.

Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner, for time now and time ever, that the one picture she gave me I kept living, dying, and after, that it lies on the breast of the man that you buried, on the breast of the man who living

did love her, and that there it will lie until it shall crumble with heart underneath it to dust. So tell her. And in proof that I tell her the truth, and I did tell it that night when we met, and I told her I loved her, give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening we met, and the evening we parted. Let her open and see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her, so say, and no more. Thus I spake, word for word, as he told me, I spake. I gave her the watch, and I said no word further.

I had done as I pledged. I had said as he charged me, so I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal. But she said not a word, nor made she a sign. The watch she took from me touched the spring, and it opened. And there, twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded, lay a leaf of red rose, one leaf, and no more. For a moment she stood,

stood and gazed at the leaf, her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled and shook like a white swan in dying, and then she cried, My God, I have killed him, my lover. And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet, she dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning. It was only last month that we, too, in trailing, trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids, for we wanted to see before going north. if evil had come to the grave of our comrade. But the grave lay untouched, by beasts or by human. The grass on the mound was well-rooted and growthful.

At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted was as high as my head, and the leaves of the roses lay as thick as red snowflakes on the mound that was under, and we knew that on breast as he slept was her picture. So we felt as we gazed it was well with Jack Whitcomb. But often at night, when alone in my cabin, I hear the low murmur of far northern rapids, and often I see the great house and its splendor, and wonder if death has helped the proud woman to lay off her grief and escape from her sorrow, and blazed a line through the dark valley of shadow,

and brought her in peace to the edge of the clearing, where I know she would see Jack Whitcomb stand waiting. So I say it again, and I say it with knowledge, that the woods have their sorrows as well as the cities, and he knows but little of this great northern forest who thinks there's not in it save trees, lakes, and mountains. End a story two. Story three of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray.

This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story three, how Deacon Tubman and Parsons Whitney kept New Year's. One. New Year's, ah? exclaimed Deacon Tubman, as he lifted himself to his elbow and peered through the fausty window-pane toward the east where the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight. New Year's, ah, he repeated, as he hitched himself into an upright position and straightened his nightcap that had somehow gone askew in his slumber. Bless my soul, how the years fly! But that's all right. Yes, that's all right. No one can expect them to stay, and why should we? There's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet.

And with this consolatory observation, the deacon rubbed his head energetically, while the bright, happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as the process proceeded. Yes, there's better fish in the net than we've taken out, he added gaily, and if there isn't, there's no use of crying about it. With this philosophical observation, he bounced merrily out of bed and into his trousers. I say Deacon Tubman bounced into his trousers, but to be exact, I should say that he bounced into half of them, and with the other half trailing behind him, he skipped to the window and putting his little plump round face almost against the pain, gazed out upon the world. Everything was bright, sparkling, and cold, for the earth was covered with snow, and the clear

gray of the early morning spread its rayless illumination over the great dome, in the fading blue of which a few starry points still gleamed. Bless me, what a morning, he exclaimed. Beautiful, beautiful, he repeated, as he stood with his eyes fastened upon the east, and balancing himself on one foot, felt around with the other for that half of the trousers not yet appropriated. Bless me, what a day! He ejaculated, as he saved himself by a quick upward wrench from falling from a trip he had inadvertently given himself in an abortive effort to insert his foot into the unfilled leg of his pantaloons.

Ah, that's a good one, he exclaimed. Trip yourself up and getting into your own trousers, will you, Deacon Tubman? And he laughed long and merrily to himself over his little joke. Ah, happy New Year to everybody, cried the deacon as he thrust his foot into a little. his stocking, for the floor of the good man's chamber was carpetless, and so cleanly white, that its cleanliness itself was enough to freeze one. Yes, a happy new year to everybody, high, low, rich, poor, south, north, east, and west, where'er they be, the world over, at home and abroad, amen. And the deacon, partly at the sweeping character of his benediction, and partly because he was feeling so jolly inside, he couldn't help it, but, and, and partly because he was feeling so jolly

inside, he couldn't help it, laughed merrily as he seized a boot, and thrust his foot vigorously into it. What's this? What's this? cried the deacon, as he tugged away at the straps until he was red in the face. This boot never went on hard before. What's the matter with the pesky thing? And he arose from his chair, and, standing on one foot, turned and twisted about, tugging all

the while at the straps. Bless my soul! exclaimed the deacon, disgusted with its strange. behavior. What is the matter with the pesky boot? Then he sat down upon the chair again, wrenched his foot out of the offending article, and held it up between both hands in front of him and shook it violently, when, with a bump and a bound, out rattled a package upon the floor and rolled halfway across the room. The deacon was after it in a jiffy, and, seizing it in his little fat hands, held it up before his eyes and read, A New Year's gift from Miranda. Now, Miranda was the deacon's housekeeper, Mrs. Tubman having peacefully departed this life some years before,

and speaking appreciatively of the sex, a more prim, prudent, particular member of it never existed. She had been initiated some ten years before into that amiable sisterhood commonly known as spinsters, and was it might be added a typical representative. Industrious? You may well say so. Her free. floors, stoves, dishes, linen? Well, if they weren't clean, nowhere on earth might you find clean ones. She hated dirt as she did original sin, and I've no doubt, but that in her own mind considered its existence in the world as the one certain, damning, and conclusive evidence of the fall. It was really an entertainment to see her looking about the house for a speck of dirt,

and the cold-blooded manner in which she would seize upon it, bear it away in the dustpan and removing the lid of the stove consign it to the flames was well what should I say yeah that's it was most edifying amiable yes after her way and a very noiseless sort of way it was too for though she had lived with the deacon for nearly a dozen years he had never known her to so far forget her propriety as to indulge in anything more hearty and hilarious than the most decorous of smiles. Which smile was such a kind of illumination to her face as a star of inconceivably small magnitude makes to the sky and trailing across it?

Of her personal appearance, I will say nothing. Sacred let it be to memory. If you ever saw her, or one like her, whether full front or profile, whether sideways or edgewise, the vision, I am ready to swear, remains with you vividly still. Let it suffice, then, when I observe that Miss Miranda was not physically stout, and that the deacon standing joke was by no means a bad one when he described her as not actually burdened with fat. Yes, she was very cleanly, very thin, very prudent, very particular person that never joined in any sports or amusements, never joked or participated in a happy events in a happy,

joyous fashion, but lived unobtrusively, and I may say coldly, in her own prim, cold, bloodless little world. Gracious me! exclaimed the deacon, as he looked at the package, gracious me, what has got into Mirandi, and he looked scrutinizingly at the little fine, thin, faintly. traced inscription on the package, as if the writer had begrudged the ink that must be expended on the letters, or from a subtle, animistic self-sempathy, had made the chirography, faint, delicate, and attenuated as her own self. Gracious me, reiterated Deacon Tubman, as he proceeded to untie the knot on the pale blue ribbon,

smoothly bound around the package. Whoever knew Mirandi to make a present before, and the deacon was so surprised, at what had taken place that for a moment he doubted the evidence of his own senses and put it in my boot too ha ha ha and the deacon stopped undoing the parcel and lying back in the chair roared at the thought of the prim modest particular miranda perpetrating such a joke and when the wrapping of the package was at last undone for every corner and crease of it was as carefully turned and as sharply edged as if the smoothing eye iron had passed over them. Will wonders ever cease at this startling world of ours, out-dropped a nightcap. Yes, a nightcap, delicately and deftly crocheted in warm woolen stuff of a rich cardinal color. Ha-ha, laughed the deacon, as he held the cap between his thumb and forefinger of one hand up before his eyes, while he rubbed his bald crown with the other. Good for Miranda.

And then, as a small slip of white paper fluttered to the floor, he seized it and read, A Happy New Year to Deacon Tubman from Miranda. A good girl, a good girl, said the deacon, not overburdened with fat, but a good girl. And with this rather equivocal compliment to the donor, with his boot in one hand and the cap in the other, he rushed impulsively to the stairway and shouted, a happy new year to you, Mirandi, God bless you, God bless you. And he swung the boot instead of the camp vigorously over his head, while his round rosy face beamed down the stairway into the cold hall below,

like a warm harvest moon over the autumnal stubble. In response to the deacon's hearty, and I may say somewhat uproarious greeting, the kitchen door timidly opened, and Miranda, who had been a stir for nearly an hour, and had the table already laid for breakfast, stepped into view, and with a smile on her face that actually broadened its thinness dangerously near to the proportions of a genial and happy reciprocation of the jovial greeting, dropped a curtsey, and said, Thank you, Deacon Dubman, I hope you may have many happy returns. A thousand to you, Mirandi, shouted the deacon in response,

a thousand to you and your children, and the little man swung his boot vehemently over his head and laughed like a boy at his own joke, while poor frightened, scandalized Miranda, turned and scutted like a patch of thin vapor blown by an unexpected gust of wind, through the door into the kitchen, with a face colored scarlet from an actual unmistakable blush, though whence the blood came that reddened the clean, cold white, over thin face, is a physiological mystery. In a moment the deacon was fully dressed, and he scuttled as merrily and noisily down the resounding stairway as a gust of autumn wind running through a patch of russet leaves. Through the hall and kitchen he bustled and out into the woodshed where he ran against old Towser,

the big Newfoundland watchdog who stood in the passage expectantly watching his coming. A happy New Year to you, Towser old boy, he cried, and seizing the huge dog by his shaggy coat, He wrestled with him like a merry-hearted boy. A happy New Year to you, old fellow, he repeated, as the dog broke into a series of joyful barks. Speak it right out, Towser. God made you as full of fun as he has the rest of us, and a good deal fuller than many of your kind, and mine too. And with this backhanded hid at the vinegar-visaged and asidulous-hearted of his own species, the deacon shuffled along the crisp, icy path toward the barn.

while Towser gambled through the deep snow and plunged into the huge fleecy drifts in as merry a mood as his merry master. A happy New Year to you, old Jack, he called out to his horse as he entered the barn, and Jack made a happy return, more expectant, perhaps, of his breakfast of oats, than appreciative of the greeting. And a happy New Year to you, you youngster, he shouted to the Colt, who, being at liberty to Rome at will, had already appropriated a section of the hamo to his own satisfaction. Ah, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue you, he cried, as he jumped aside to escape a kick that the bunch of equine mischief antically snapped at him. None of that, you little unconverted sinner you,

I barely believe the parson is right, and that in Adam's fall we send all, men and beasts, scolds, and children, all in one lot. And so, talking to himself and his cattle, the jolly little man, whose good-heartedness represented more genuine orthodoxy than the whole Westminster Catechism, bustled merrily about the barn and did his chores, while the cockerels crowed noisily from their perches overhead, the fat white pigs grunted in lazy contentment from their warm beds of straw, and the oxen, with their large luminous eyes, gazed benevolently at him, as he

crammed their mangers generously full with the fragrant hay that smelled sweetly of the flowers and odorous meadowlands, where in the warm summer sunshine it had ripened for the welcome scythe. How happy is life in whatever part of this great fragrant world of ours it is lived, when men live it happily, and how gloomy seems at sunshine even when seen through the shadows and darkness of our surly moods. What happy-hearted fairy was it that possessed the deacon's heart and home on this bright New Year's morn, I wonder? Surely some angel of fun and frolic had flown into the deacon's house with the opening of the year, and was filling it and the hearts within it, too, with mirthful moods. For the deacon laughed and joked as he buttered his

cakes and fired off his funny sayings at Miranda, as he had never joked and laughed before. until Miranda herself smiled and giggled. Yes, actually giggled behind the coffee urn at his merry squibs, as if the little imp above mentioned was mischievously tickling her. Yes, I will say it, her spinster ribs. Miranda, I'm going up to see the parson, exclaimed the deacon, when the morning devotions were over, and see if I can thaw him out a little. I've heard there used to be a lot of fun in him in his younger days,

but he's sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that the young folks are afraid of him, and the church do, but that won't do. No, that won't do, repeated the good man emphatically, for the minister ought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and everybody, and a church without young folks in it is like a family with no children in it. Yes, I'll go up and wish him a happy New Year anyway. Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the people,

and see the young folks at their fun. It'll do him good and them good and me good, and do everybody good." Saying which the deacon got inside his warm fur coat and started towards the barn to harness Jack into the worn old-fashioned sleigh, which sleigh was built high in the back and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a prancing horse in an impossible attitude done in bright vermilion on a blue-black, ground. 2. Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney, happy new year to you, cried the deacon from his sleigh to the parson who stood curled up and shivering in the doorway of the parsonage,

and may you live to enjoy a hundred. Come in, come in, cried Parson Whitney in response, I'm glad you've come, I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all the morning. And in the cordiality of his greeting he literally pulled the little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the stairway to his study in the chamber overhead. Thinking of me? Well, now, I never exclaimed the deacon, as assisted by the parson.

He twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a little too snugly filled for an easy exit. Thinking of me, and among all these books too, Bibles, Catechisms, tracks, theology, sermons. Well, well, that's funny. What made you think of me? Deacon Tubman, responded the parson, as he seated himself in his armchair, I want to talk with you about the church. The church, ejaculated the deacon in response. Nothing going wrong, I hope.

Yes, things are going wrong, deacon, responded the parson. The congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good, strong, biblical soul-satisfying sermons, I think. Good ones, good ones, answered the deacon promptly. never better, never better in the world. And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary, rejoined the parson solemnly, and the young people won't come to the sociables, and the little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon? And the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.

You have hit the nail on the head. Squares a hatchet, Parson, responded the deacon. The congregation is thinning. The young people don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you. "'What's the matter, Deacon?' cried the Parson in return. "'What is it?' he repeated earnestly. "'Speak it right out. Don't try to spare my feelings. "'I will listen to. I will do anything to win back my people's love.'

And the strong, old-fashioned, Calvinistic preacher said it in a voice that actually trembled. "'You can do it. You can do it in a week,' exclaimed the deacon, encouragingly. "'Don't worry about it, Parson. It'll be all right. It'll be all right. Your books are the trouble. Eh? Books, ejaculated the parson. What have they to do with it? Everything, replied the deacon stoutly.

You pour over them day in and day out. They keep you in this room here when you should be out among the people. Not making pastoral visits, I don't mean that, but going around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time. They would like it and you would like it. And as for the young folks, How old are you, Parson?

Sixty, next month, answered the Parson solemnly. Sixty next month. Thirty, thirty, that's all you are, Parson, or all you ought to be, cried the deacon. Thirty, twenty, sixteen. Let the figure slide down and up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher than thirty when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself, counting years, but I'm only sixteen. Sixteen this morning, that's all.

parson, and he rubbed his little round, plump hands together, looked at the parson, and winked. Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don't know but what you were right, answered the parson. Sixty? I don't know as I am sixty, and he began to rub his own hands and came within an ace of executing a wink at the deacon himself. Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age, responded the deacon deliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister. her over with a most comic imitation of seriousness. Not a day over twenty on my honor. And the deacon leaned forward toward the parson and gave him a punch with his thumb,

as one boy might deliver a punch at another. And then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as the deacon. Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with a jolly little deacon on the bright New Year's morning, and not to be affected by the happiness of his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun, and as full of frolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty years, and he was only sixteen. Only sixteen, parson, on my honour. But what can I do, queried the good man sobering down? I make my pastoral visits. Pastoral visits, responded Deacon Tubman. Oh, yes, and they are all

well enough for the old folks, but they aren't the kind of biscuit the young folks like, too heavy in the center and over hard in the crust for young teeth and parson. But what shall I do? What shall I do? Re-adheried into the parson somewhat despondently. Oh, put on your hat and gloves and warmest coat and come along with me. We will see what the young folks are doing and we'll make a day of it. Come, come, let the old books and catechisms and sermons and tracts have a respite for once, and will spend the day out of doors with the boys and girls and the people i'll do it exclaimed the parson deacon tubman you are right i keep to my study too closely i don't see enough of the world and what's going on in it

i was reading the testament this morning and i was impressed with the master's manner of living and teaching it is not certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his ministry on the earth and the children how much he loved the children and how the little ones loved him. And why shouldn't they love me, too? Why shouldn't they? I'll make them do it. The lambs of my flock shall love me. And with these brave words, Parson Whitney bundled himself up in his warmest garment

and followed the deacon downstairs. Tell the folks that you won't be back till night, called the deacon from the sleigh, for this is New Year's, and we're going to make a day of it. And he laughed away as heartily as might be, so heartily in my name. deed, that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came shuffling down the icy path toward him.

"'Bless me, how much younger I feel already,' said the good man, as he stood up in the sleigh, and, with a strong, long breath breathed the cool, pure air into his lungs. "'Bless me, how much younger I feel already,' he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old sleigh. "'Only sixteen to-day, e'-deacon,' and he nudged him with his eldest. That's right, that's all, Parson, answered the deacon gaily, as he nudged him vigorously back. That's all we are, either of us. And laughing as merrily as boys, the two glidered away in the sleigh. Well, perhaps they didn't have fun that day, those two old boys that had started out,

with the feeling that they were only sixteen and bound to make a day of it. And they did make a day of it, in fact, and such a day as neither had had for forty years. For first they went to Bartlett's hill, where the boys and girls were coasting, and coasted with them for a full hour, and then it was discovered by the younger portion of his flock that the parson was not an old, stiff, solemn, surly poke, as they had thought, but a pleasant, good-natured, kindly soul, who could take and give a joke, and steer a sled as well as the smartest boy in the ground. And when it came to snowballing, he could send a ball further than Bill Sykes himself, who could out throw any boy in town, and roll up a bigger block to the new snow-fork they

were building than any three boys among them. And how the parson enjoyed being a boy again, how exhilarating the slide down the steep hill, how invigorating the pure, cool air, how pleasant the noise of the chatting and joking going on around him, how bright, how bright bright and sweet the boys and girls looked with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. How the old parson's heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go and urged him to stay. And how little Alice Dorchester begged him with her little arms around his neck to just stay and give me one more slide. You never made such a pastoral call as that, parson, said the deacon, as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and good-byes

of the girls, while the former fired off a volley of snowballs in his honor, and the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them. God bless them, said the parson. They have lifted a great load from my heart and taught me the sweetness of life, of youth, and the wisdom of him who took the little ones in his arms and blessed them. Ah, deacon, he added, I've been a great fool, but I'll be so, thank God, no more. 3. Now, old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character and had a great history, but of this, none in that section, save the little deacon, knew a word. Dick Tubman, the deacon's

youngest, wildest, and a might add favorite son, had purchased him of an impecunious jockey at the close of a, to him, disastrous campaign that cleaned him completely out and left him in a strange city a thousand miles from home, with nothing but the horse, harness, and sulky, and a list of unpaid bills that must be met before he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes. Under such circumstances it was that Dick Tubman ran across the horse, and partly out of pity for his owner and partly out of admiration of the horse, whose failure to win at the race was more due to his lack of condition, and the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed,

bought him offhand and, having no use for him himself, shipped him as a present to the deacon, with whom he had now been for four years, with no harder work than ploughing out the good old man's corn in the summer and jogging along the country roads on the deacon's errands. Having said this much of the horse, perhaps I should more particularly describe him. He was in sooth,

animal of most unique and extraordinary appearance, for in the first place he was quite 17 hands in height and long in proportion. He was also the reverse of shapely in the fashion of his build, for his head was long and bony, and his hip bones sharp and protuberant. His tail was what is known among horsemen as a rat tail, being but scantily covered with hair, and his neck was even more scantily supplied with a mane. While in color, he could easily have taken any premium put up for homeliness, being an ashen roan, mottled with black, and patches of a diverse hue. But his legs were flat and corded, like erasers, his neck long and thin as a thoroughbreds, his nostrils large, his ears sharply

pointed and lively, while the white rings around his eyes hinted at a cross, somewhere in his pedigree, with Arabian blood. A huge, bony, homely-looking horse he was, as he drew the deacon and Miranda into the village on market days and Sundays, with a loose, shambling gait, making altogether an appearance so homely and peculiar that the smart village chaps, riding along in their jaunty turnouts, used to chaff the good deacon on the character of the steed, and satirically challenge him to a brush. The deacon always took the bad adage in good part, although he inwardly said, more than once, if I ever get a little bit of a a good chance when there ain't too many around, I'll go up to the turn of the road beyond the

church and let Jack out on them. For Dick had given him a hint of the horse's history and told him he could knock the swaths out of thirty, and wickedly urged the deacon to take the shine out of them airy chaps some of these days. Such was the horse then that the deacon had ahead of him and the old-fashioned sleigh when, with the parson alongside, he struck into the principal street of the village. New Year's Day is a lively day in many country villages, and on this bright one especially, as the slaying was perfect, everybody was out. Indeed, it had got noise abroad that certain trotters of local fame were to be on the street that afternoon, and as the boys worded it, there would be heaps of fun going on. So it happened that everybody

in town, and many who lived out of it, were on that particular street. and just at the hour, too, when the deacon came to the foot of it, so that the walk on either side was lined darkly with lookers-on, and the smooth snow-path between the two lines looked like a veritable home stretch on a race day. Now, when the deacon had reached the corner of the main street and turned into it, it was at that point where the course terminated, and the brushes were ended, and at the precise moment

when the dozen or 20 horses that had come flying, down were being pulled up preparatory to returning at a slow gate to the customary starting point at the head of the street a half mile away. So the old-fashioned sleigh was quickly surrounded by the light fancy cutters of the rival racers, and old Jack was shambling along in the midst of the high-spirited and smoking nags that had just come down the stretch. Hello, Deacon! shouted one of the boys who was driving a trim-looking bay, and who had crossed the line at the ending of the course second only to the pacer that could speed like lightning as the boy said well o deacon ain't you goin to shake out old chambal heels and show us fellows what speed is to-day and the merry-hearted chap son of the principal lawyer of the place laughed heartily at his challenge while the other drivers looked at the great angular steed that without check was walking carelessly along with his head held down ahead of the old sleigh and its churchly occupants i don't know but what i will answered the deacon good-naturedly i don't know but what i will if the parson don't object and you won't start off too quick to begin with for this is new years and a little extra fun won't hurt any of us i reckon

do it do it we'll hold up for you answered a dozen merry voices do it deacon it'll do old shambo heels good to go a ten mile an hour gate for once in his life and the parson needn't fear of being scandalized by any speed you'll get out of him either, and the merry-hearted chaps ha-hawed, as men and boys will, when everyone is jolly and fun flows fast. And so, with any amount of good-nature chafing from the drivers of the fastens, and for many that lined the roads too, and for the day gave greater liberty than usual to bantering speech, the speedy ones paced slowly up to the head of the street with old Jack, shambling demurely, in the midst of them. But the horse was a knowing old fellow, and had scored at too many races, not to know that the return was to be leisurely taken. And indeed, he was a horse of independence and of too even,

perhaps of too sluggish, a temperament, to waste himself in needless action. But he had the right stuff in him, and hadn't forgotten his early training either, for, for a little bit of a when he came to the turn, his head and tail came up, his eyes brightened, and with a playful movement of his huge body, without the least hint from the deacon, he swung himself and the cumbrous old sleigh into line, and began to straighten himself for the coming brush. Now Jack was, as I have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed steadying at the start. But the good deacon had no experience with the ribbons, and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving. And so it came about that old Jack was so confused at the

start that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off, being all mixed up, as the saying is, so much so that the crowd roared at his ungainly efforts and his flying rivals were 20 yards away before he had even got started. But at last he got his huge body in a straight line and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to his work, and with head and tail up, went off at so slashing a gate that it fairly took the deacon's breath away, and caused the crowd that had been hooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge of the old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the other.

What a pity, Mr. Longface, that God made horses as they are, and gave them such a little. grandeur of appearance and action, and put such an eagle-like spirit between their ribs, so that quitting the plotting motions of the ox they can fly like that noble bird, and come sweeping down the course as on wings of the wind. It was not my fault, nor the deacons, nor the Parsons, either, please remember then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking old Jack was thus suddenly transformed by the royalty of blood, of pride, and of the speed given him by his creator from what he ordinarily was into a magnificent spectacle of energetic velocity.

With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming straight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. yet so little was the pace to him that he fairly gambled in playfulness as he went slashing along until the deacon verily began to fear that the honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send his heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent and his action so free, spirited and playful as he came

sweeping onward, that the cheers such as, "'Good Heaven, see the Deacon's old horse. Look at him! Look at him! What a stride!' ran ahead of him. And old Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hangar-on at the village tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist

as he saw Jack come swinging down, and as he swept past with his open gate, powerful stroke and stifles playing well out, brought his hand down with a mighty slap against his thigh and said, I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old-timer. It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or they would surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh was of such size and strength the good deacons so unskilled at the reins, and Jack, who, was adding to his momentum with every stride going at so determined a pace that had he struck the rear line with no gap for him to go through something serious would surely have happened

but as it was the drivers saw the huge horse with the cumbrous old sleigh behind him bearing down on them at such a gate as made their own speed sharp as it was seem slow and pulled out in time to save themselves and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cluster of leaves but by this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed for old jack's was going nigh to a 30 clip, a frightful pace for an inexperienced driver to ride, and began to put a good, strong pressure upon the bit, not doubting that old Jack, ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to manage, would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the huge horse took the hint, it was in exactly the opposite manner that the deacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steady pull as an intimation that his driver was getting over his flurry, and beginning to treat him as a horse ought to

be treated in a race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead. And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the great animal felt himself steadied and assisted. And so the harder the good man tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed. and began to call upon the horse to stop, crying, Whoa, oh boy, I say, whoa, will you now?

That's a good fellow, and many other coaxing calls while he pulled away steadily at the reins. But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls as he had his pressure upon the reins, for the crowds on either side were yelling and hooting and swinging their caps so that the deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at best, and he interpreted his calls for him to stop, as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead and so with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood the crowds cheering him to the echo the steadying pull the encouraging cries of his driver in his ears

and his only rival the pacer whirling along only a few rods ahead of him the monstrous animal with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow led out another link and with such a burst of speed, as was never seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that within the distance of a dozen lengths he lay lapped upon him, and the two were going at nose and nose. What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment?

Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage? Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us that loves nothing so much as victory and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no sooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging him along with rain and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into the contest as two ungodly jockeys.

Deacon Tubman, said the parson, as he clutched more stoutly the rim of his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow-chips were pelting in showers, Deacon Tubman, do you think the pacer will beat us? Not if I can help it, not if I can help it, yelled the deacon in reply, as with something like a reinsman's skill, he lifted Jack to another spurt. Go it, old boy, he shouted encouragingly. Go along with you, I say. And the parson also, carried away by the whirl of the moment, cried,

Go along, oh boy, go along with you, I say. This was the very thing and the only thing that the huge horse whose blood was now fairly of flame, wanted to rally him for the final effort. And in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he gathered himself together for another burst of speed and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon, who had risen and was standing erect in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse rushed over the line amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before. Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and

remark, I may say favoring remark, than the parson who suddenly found himself the center of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely have been expected to participate in such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd. So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a happy new year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns, and everybody praised old Jack and rallied the deacon on his driving, and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the

change that had come over Parson Whitney. And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go with him and help eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage. And he did. At the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some reminiscences of his college days and the scrapes he got into and about a riot between town and gown when he carried the bullies club and the deacon returned by narrating his experiences with a certain deacon jones watermelon patch when he was a boy and over their tails and their nuts they laughed till they cried and roared so lustily at the

remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror. But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, the laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-bye, and jogged happily homeward. But more than once he laughed to himself and said, "'Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun in him.' And long the parson sat by the glowing grate, after the deacon had left him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that were in them, and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly, for he said, what a wild boy I was, and yet I meant no wrong, and the dear old

days were very happy. Aye, I, parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to thee, but to all of us, who following our son have faced westward so long that the light of the morning shows through the dim haze of memory but happier than even the old days will be the young ones i ween when following still westward we suddenly come to the gates of the east and the morning once more and there in the dawn of a day which is endless we find our lost youth and its loves to lose them and it No more forever. Thank God. End of Story 3. Story 4 of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray.

This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 4. The Old Beggers Dog. He was a tramp. That is all he was, at least when I knew him. What he had been before, I cannot say, as he never told me his history. Of course, every tramp has a history, even as every leaf that the wind blows over the fields has its history, and my old tramp, doubtless, had his, and God knows it must have been sad enough, judging by his looks, for he had the saddest face I ever looked at,

and I've seen a good many sad faces in my day. No, he was nothing but a tramp, old and gray-headed, and nearly worn out with his tramping. How long he had been going the rounds, I cannot say, but for nearly a dozen years, once each year, he made his appearance in the city, tarried a month, perhaps, and then quietly disappeared, and we saw him no more for a twelve month. Inoffensive, decidedly, as mild-mannered a man as ever asked Grace at a poor-house table. Indeed, the children were his best patrons, for he had a most winning way with them, and he could scarcely be seen on the street without the accompaniment of a dozen.

tagging at his heels and holding on to his hands and the skirts of his long coat. There's Dick there, six feet if he's an inch, and gone twenty last month. Well, many and many a time have I seen the strapping fellow when he was a little chap sitting astride the old vagabond's neck, with his little feet crooked in under his armpits, laughing and screaming uproariously as his human horse underneath him pranced and curvated along the pavement, and charged through the flock of childish, admirers around him, as if they were a hostile soldiery, and Dick was a very Henry of Navarre, whose white plume must always be found in the path to glory.

God bless the youngsters, who of us, with the burden of life's toil and care weighing us down, ever saw a frolicsome group of them happy in their freedom from trouble and care, and did not wish he might slip his shoulders from under the load of his fifty years and to be a boy again. What a pity it is that we must age and die in our wrinkles, leaving nothing better to gaze upon than a shrunken face, colorless of bloom, and written all over with the scraggy record of our griefs, our errors, and our pains. Why cannot death charm back the boyish vigor and girlish grace to our faces, when, with the invisible and fatal gesture, he sweeps his hands swiftly across them? The dog? Oh, certainly, but don't hurry me. I'm too old to tell a story in a straight line and at express speed.

I will get to the dog all in good time, and in order to feel as I do about the terrible thing that happened to him, you must know something about his master, for in an odd sort of way they supplemented each other. Indeed, they seemed to have entered into a kind of partnership to share each other's moods as they shared each other's fortune. And it was a strange, and I may say, a very touching sight, to see two creatures of different species so intimately attached to each other. And often as I have looked at the dog when he was gazing at his master, have I said to myself,

surely something or someone has blundered, and a human soul was put by mistake into that dog's body. For never, no, sir, I will not qualify it. Never have I seen a greater love look from human into human eyes than I have seen gazing devotedly up into the old, man's face from the eyes of that dog. How did he look? Queer enough, I assure you, for his cross, while an admirable one to yield wit and affection

both, was the worst possible one for beauty, for his father was a full-blooded shepherd and his mother a Scotch terrier without a taint in her blood. How well I remember the dog and his peculiar looks. I remember him now as plainly as if he were lying on the rug there this very minute. He had the size of his father and the bristly coat of his mother. His ears were like a terrier's and naturally pricked forward. His color was a dirty gray, a miserable color. His tail had been cropped and the remnant that remained, some four inches in length, stood stiffly

up with scarce a suggestion of a curve. He was homely, but not inferior-looking, for his head was such an one as Lansier would have loved to have translated from time and death to the immortality. immortality of his canvas. What a matchless front, and room enough in the cranium, to hold the brains of any two common dogs. But his eyes were the impressive and magnificent feature of his face, large, round, and warmly hazel in color, and so liquid clear that, looking into them, you seem to be gazing into transparent depths, not of water, but of intelligent being. What eyes they were! I remember what a young lady said once, apropos to them.

She was a bell herself, and nature spoke through her speech. She came into the office here one day when the dog was performing, for he was a great trick dog, and after watching him a moment, she exclaimed, Ah, if a woman only had those eyes, what might she not do? More fun could look out of that dog's head than of any other I ever saw, whether of dog or man. And though you may not credit it, yet, as true as I sit here, I have seen those eyes weep as large and honest tears as ever fell in sorrow from human orbs.

Laugh, too? You put that question incredulously, do you? Well, you needn't, for the dog could laugh. With his tail? No, any dog can do that, but he could laugh with his mouth. Why, sir, I have seen him sit bolt upright on his haunches there by that post, lean his back against it and laughed so heartily that his mouth would open and shut like a man's when goofawing, and you could see every tooth in his head, and he did it intelligently too, and laughed because

he was tickled and couldn't help it. Alas, poor dog, he came to a sad end at last, and died in so wretched a way that the recollection of his death puts a dark eclipse upon the unhappy memory of his life. Comfort to his master? You may well say that, and no man ever loved his child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog and well he might for he was his companion by day his guard by night and the means by which he eeked out the sometimes scant living that the fickle charity of the world flung to him how often have i seen the old man take him in his arms and hug him to his breast that had i fancy so many bitter memories in it and how often have i seen the dog lap with gentle and caressing tongue

tears as they rolled down the furrowed cheeks, when the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection. But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and not from the moving of the bitter waters that his aching heart found consolation. Tell you about the man? Why certainly, but there isn't much to tell. You see, no one knew much of him, for he seldom, if ever, spoke of himself. I suppose I knew him better than anyone on his beat here.

for I fell in love with his dog, and with himself too, for that matter, for in the first place he was old, and whoever saw a white head and didn't love it, and whoever looked upon a wrinkled face and didn't wish to kiss it if it was peaceful, and the old man's head was as white as snow is, and the peacefulness of a sleeping child hovered over the sadness of his face, albeit the shadow of a sorrowful past lay darkly resting upon it. But though I saw much as of him as he swung around on his annual visit, and though he looked upon me as his friend, as indeed I was, and proved myself to be such more than once, thank God. Still he never offered to tell me his history, and I certainly never questioned him about

it, for life is a secret thing, and each man holds the key to his own, and only once, if at all, may it be open, and even then only the father is gentle and forgiving enough to look upon the wheat and the chaff which we in our grief for joy keep closely locked from human eyes. No, I knew little of him, but occasionally, sitting by the fire here when a storm was heavy outside, for the coming of storms was always the prelude of these moods in him, he would begin to mutter to himself and to talk to his dog of days long gone. Of men and women he had once hated or loved, or who loved or hated him, God knows

which, and of deeds he had once done, but which were now deeply buried under the years. Perhaps he did not know that he was talking. Perhaps his soul, busy with the past, forgot the motion of the lips and ceased to keep its watch over the movements of that member, which, unless ceaselessly guarded, betrays us all so often. What did he mutter about? Well, the man is dead and gone, and what little there is to tell cannot pain him now. makes us indifferent to disclosure, and little do we care what the world says about us when

we lie sleeping in the grave, I ween. Yes, the man is dead and gone this many a year. God rest his soul, and I heartily hope he has found riches and rest, and his dog, ere now, as I feel certain he has, and what little I know can do no harm, if told to any. Well, as I was saying, when storms were brewing in the air and the sea, the uneasiness of the elements themselves seemed to take possession of his soul and agitated, for his very body would rock to and fro and sway in the chair when the fit was on him, and he would talk to his dog, and to men and women too, whom no one could see save himself,

and if what he said might be taken as the words of a sane man, he certainly had been rich and powerful one day, and loved and hated too, for that matter. For from his speech one could but learn that all that makes life worth the living was once his, and that he had lost it all. But whatever may have been his other losses, one there must have been in truth, for as to it his words were always the same. Gone, gone, he would say, gone! And the winds I hear coming blow over her grave,

but winds cannot reach her, for she lies warm and well covered deep down in her grave. and so he would sit muttering and swaying his body in the chair as the winds blew stormily out of the east and the boom of the waves rolled up from the bluff as they pounded heavily against the rocks and the shore why did i not make him settle down because he wouldn't i tried time and again to persuade him to it but he never would consent perhaps he was right in his impulse to roam to roam and loved the careless freedom of it and the solitude it gave him for if a man would hide himself from man he must keep on the move if he stops he becomes known but in travel he loses his identity and passes from place to place unknown and unnoted but it seemed pitiful to me that one so old and feeble should have no home and so i persuaded him to settle down for one winter at least and hired him a little house in a pleasant street and started him in his housekeeping experiment but alas Evil came of it, and I never did a deed I more profoundly regretted, for it led to the calamity I am about to tell you of, and brought upon the poor man the greatest grief that might befall him, even the death of his dog, and in a most cruel and painful fashion at that.

Ah, me, could we but see the end of things from their beginning, how little of our doing would be done at times, for the benevolent blundering of our lives is as often fruitful of harm as the evil we do in our malice and passion. It all happened in this way, and I will tell you as it was told me, partly by the old man himself, and partly by those who had knowledge of the dreadful event at the time, for I was out of the city the morning the occurrence took place, or it never would have happened.

I don't think anything of the kind ever before made so much talk or excited so much indignation. The legislature at its last session, not having wit or honesty enough to exercise itself over one of a dozen crying evils that were then vexing the people, got greatly excited over dogs. Some miserable curs, many affirmed they were wolves and no dogs at all, in a remote corner of the state, had killed a few sheep, and the farmers of that region got up a great scare and raised a hue and cry against the whole canine family. It is incredible how much noise was made over the killing of a few half-starved sheep that were browsing on those northern mountains.

You would have thought, judging by the clamor, that the fundamental interests of the Commonwealth were attacked and that the stately structure of government itself was on the point of falling to the ground. Well, when the legislature met the excitement was at its height and the gusts of popular foolishness converged all its forces at the Capitol. In due time, a bill was introduced, and an outrageous bill it was, too, for it not only put a heavy tax upon dogs in every section of the state, city as well as country, but provided that certain officers should be appointed to enforce the law,

whose duty it should be to kill every dog not duly registered on a certain date. Even this was not all, for it stimulated the enforcement of the law by enlisting the cupidity of men and boys alike, especially of the lower and hardened class by providing that whoever killed an unconstitutional, unregistered dog should be paid three dollars from the state treasury. It was a bad law in truth, for it was the outgrowth of senseless excitement and an attempt to tax the affections. Property, of course, can be taxed, and we all know that a dog is not property any more than a boy's pet rabbit or a child for that matter. A dog is a member of his master's family. He has connection with his heart, not with his pocket. He is a creature to

love and be loved by, and not to be bought and sold like a bit of land or a yoke of oxen, and any law aimed at the affections is an offense to the holiest impulse of the bosom, and as such should be resented. Yes, the law was a bad one. I did what I could to defeat it in its passage, and I broke it all I could after its passage, and that was some satisfaction to my feelings, which were in fact outraged by it. I saw not only the injustice of it, as viewed in the light of correct principle, but that it would bear heavily upon the poor and bring sorrow like the sorrow of death itself into

families. I saw, moreover, that it was a cruel law in its relation to children, whose pretty and harmless pets and playmates could be murdered before their very eyes. Many a sad case did I hear of the winter after the law was passed, but the saddest of all was that of my old friend, who was living peacefully and happily with his dog in the little house I had hired for him. He was sitting one evening in the comfortable quarters I had provided for him, playing with his companion and teaching him some new tricks to practice against my return, happy as he might be, when a loud rap was delivered upon his door, and at the same instant

it was pushed rudely open, and a man walked into the room, and without pausing to give or receive a greeting pointed to the dog and said, Is that your property, sir? I never think of him in that way, answered the old man mildly. He's been my companion. I may say my only companion these many years, and I love him as property is not love. No, sir, trusty is not property.

He is my companion and my friend. I didn't come here to listen to any of your crazy nonsense, but as an officer of the law, to see if you have registered your dog and paid your tax as it commands, and if you hadn't, to see that the penalty was put upon you as you deserve, you old begging low for you? I've broken no law that I know of, replied the beggar. I love my dog, that is all. I hope it breaks no law for a man to love his dog in this city, does it, friend?

If you don't know what the law is, you'd better find out, answered the fellow roughly. What right of you to own a dog anyway? Strikes me that it is about enough for you to sponge your own living out of the community without sponging another for a miserable wop of a dog like that. "'Trusty eats very little,' replied the old man respectfully, "'and he amuses people a great deal, especially the children, "'and besides he is a great comfort to me, "'and God knows that I have nothing else to comfort me in all the world.

"'Wealth, home, friends, and one dearer than all. "'All lost, and thou art all I have left, trusty, to comfort me.' and he looked affectionately at his companion, whose head was resting lovingly on his knee. Oh, I've heard the whining of your class before tonight, replied the fellow, and am not to be taken in by any of your sniffling, so you needn't try that trick on me. Law is law, and I shall see it enforced, and on you too, in spite of your shuffling, you miserable old sneak of a beggar, you? Friend, answered the old man with dignity, as he rose from the chair,

and looked the fellow calmly in the face, Better men than you, or I have begged their daily bread before now, and eaten it, too, with an honest conscience and a grateful heart, and more than once, when night has overtaken me, weary of journeying along inhospitable roads, I have been compelled to make my bed on the leaves under some hedge. I have remembered that the son of God, when on the earth, to teach us the sweet lesson of charity, had not where to lay his head. The lesson he came to teach, you certainly have not learned, or you would never have made my poverty and my misfortunes, the butt of your scoffings. The old man spoke with dignity, but the coarseness of the fellow's nature and the hardening

influence of the business he was engaged in prevented him from feeling either shame or sympathy, for he turned toward the door with an oath, saying, you'll hear from me in the morning, old chap, but I'll tell you this to chew on overnight, that if your tax money isn't ready when I come again, I'll teach you what it is to break the laws in this city, and insult the officers whose duty it is to see them in force, and against such white-headed old deadbeats as you. And with another oath he passed out of the door and shut it with a slam. I don't know how the old man passed the night, but little sleep, I warrant, came to his old eyes, for he was as timid as a child, and easily frightened, and a threat against his

own life would have disturbed him less than one against the life of his dog. But whether he slept or not, the hours of the night wheeled along their dark courses without stopping, and speedily brought the dreaded morning. I know not when he died or where, but well I know that the memory of that dreadful morning and the woe that came to him on it haunted him to the close of his life, and embittered the last hours of it. The morning came, as all mornings, whether they bring joy or grief to us, do come. The threat the fellow had uttered against his dog the evening before had naturally disturbed him, and the old man was nervous and excited, but he managed to cook his frugal breakfast and eat it with his companion. I can well imagine his thoughts and his worryment.

Law? What law? I can hear him say. I've broken no law. I've only loved and been loved by my dog. That's not wicked, surely. He said he come again, and if I didn't have the money ready, Money? What money? He knows I've no money. Tax? What tax? Do they tax a man's heart in this city? Can't a man love anything here unless he's rich? Kill my dog? I don't believe it. There isn't a man on the earth wicked enough to kill an old man's dog, an old man's harmless dog. No, he didn't. He couldn't mean that. He just said it to scare me. Yes, yes, I see now. He's been drinking, and he said it just to scare me. Thus, as I fancy, the poor old man sat muttering to himself, listening with dread to every passing step, listening and muttering to himself, while his old heart quaked in his bosom, and his soul, which had so little to cheer it, as it journeyed along its lonely path, was sorely tried and disquieted within him. The clock in a neighboring steeple was striking the ninth hour, and the old man paused in his muttering

and sat counting the strokes as the iron tongue peeled them forth, counting them in his fear as if each stroke was a knell, and so indeed to him it was, and many of the chimes we listened carelessly to would be nels to us if we knew what would happen twixt them and their next chiming. The vibration of the last stroke was swelling and sinking in the air when a heavy step sounded on the stair,

and without even the ceremony of knocking, the door was pushed suddenly open, and the fellow who had intruded upon him the evening before entered the room. In one hand he held a rope, and in the other a club. Well, old chap, he said. You see, I'm here as I told you I would be. I've given you a whole night to steady up the law. Law? What law? exclaimed the old man, interrupting him. I don't know that I broke an—come, come, old shuffler, none of your blarney, if you please. Broke in the fellow. You know, well enough, what law I mean? I mean the dog. law dog law dog law answered the man what law is that oh you don't pull a wool over my eyes

sneered the other you know what law i mean well enough but to jog your memory i'll say that the law i mean makes the owner of a dog pay a tax of three dollars and if the tax is a paid three dollars ejaculated the poor man three dollars when have i had so much money as that three dollars you might as well have asked me to pay three thousand as three very well very well exclaimed the other the law covers just such cases as yours covers them perfectly and he laughed a coarse cruel laugh out with the money or i take the dog take my dog screamed the old man take trusty what would you take him for you can't want him oh yes i do o fella retorted the other i want him very much indeed i know just what to do with him i'll see to that do with him cried the other whose mind perhaps because paralyzed by fear perhaps because of the enormity of the deed would not receive the horrible suggestion what would you do with trusty kill him damn you shouted the other kill em as i have hundred other curves this fall and pocket the money the law gives me for doing it do you understand that you'll dead beat for a moment the wretched man never spoke his lips pale to the color of ashes and shrivelled as if suddenly parched against the teeth and he clutched the back of a chair for support twice he assayed to the color of ashes

speak, his lips moved, but his tongue in its dryness clothed to the roof of his mouth. At last he gasped forth in the hoarse whisper of mortal terror, Kill my dog? Kill, trusty? It was a sorry sight, truly, and might well touch the hardest heart. But the officer of the law, God save the mark, remained unmoved. What was one dog more or less to him? Had he not already killed hundreds, as he said?

the sportsman's favorite hunter, a stray without his collar, the lady's pet, crying pitifully in the street, unable to find its mistress's door, the children's playmate, waiting in front of a schoolhouse for school to close, the poor man's help and comfort, his household's joy, guardian and friend, caught in the street on his return from his humble master to whom he carried his homely dinner. What was one dog more or less to him, hardened by the murderous habit of his office and eager to earn his wretched fee. What was one dog more or less to him? Come, come, he cried as he uncoiled the rope he held in his hand. Out with the money, or I'd take the dog.

How much is it? How much is it? cried the old man, fumbling in his pockets and bringing forth a few small pieces of silver and some pennies. Here, here, take it all. It's all I have. There's a ten-cent piece, isn't it? And there's two fives, and here, yes, God be praised. Here's a quarter of a dollar. trustee earned that yesterday let's see twenty-five that's the quarter and ten is thirty-five and two fives that makes forty-five and eight pennies that makes fifty-three cents won't that do it's every cent i have as god it's my witness it will do won't it and the old man seized one of the hands of the fellow and strove to put his little hoarding into it but the hard-hearted wretch drew his hand back with a jerk and seizing the dog by the neck slipped the rope over his head and saying the law allows me four times that for killing him opened the door and pulled the poor dog out after him into the street god of heaven screamed the poor old man as he rushed bareheaded as he was out of the door and hurried in

pursuit of the man who was pulling the dog along and walking as fast as he could while trusty struggled and cried and did all he could to get rid of the rope where is thy justice or thy mercy oh sir oh sir he shouted running after the man give me back my dog oh give him back to me good people, he cried, for his own cries and those of the dog, too, had already drawn a crowd to the scene. Could people tell him not to kill my dog? It was to the honor of the crowd that they hooted the officer roundly, and called on him and shouted, give the old man back his dog.

And greater honor yet to them that some of the boys pelted him with snowballs and junks of ice, as he hurried on, and one brawny chap, sitting on the seat of his cart, struck him a stinging blow with his black whip as he scuttled past with, damn you, take that for killing my dog. The officer shook his club at the honest fellow and said, I'll pay you for that, see if I don't. But he dared not stop to make the arrest, for the crowd was thickening and the air getting fuller of missiles,

and every door and window was hooting him as he passed. With the poor dog crying and moaning pitifully at his heels, even the women, God bless them, for the feeling against the law ran high in the city, opened the doors and lifted the windows of their houses, the ladies crying, Shame on you! Shame on you! And the cooks and chambermaids from one nader and zenith of their household worlds, with homelier and more piquant frays and saucier tongues,

scoffed him for the miserable work he was doing. But in spite of the popular uprising, now almost swelled to the dimensions of a mob, and the verbal uproar through the hoarse murmur of which the boy's jive, the woman's taunt and the strongman's curse came and smote upon him in volleys. Still, he clutched the rope and rushed along, threatening the crowd that was closing in ahead of him with his club, and so making headway on his dreadful errand, while the poor old man, unable to keep up with him, was filling the air with his cries, and, without knowing what he was saying, perhaps, kept calling on the people, saying, oh, good people, good people,

don't let him kill my dog. Indeed, his grief was piteous to see, for he was half distraught with fear, and like as a mother whose child had been snatched from her, and was being carried to death, so he, with tears, sobs, and screams, kept entreating one moment the crowd, and the next beseeching heaven, saying, Don't let him kill my dog! And being an old man in white-headed, and as his countenance and gestures were eloquent with the eloquence of true grief, the people were filled with pity for him, and their hearts melted with sympathy at the piteous spectacle they beheld then up spake the honest carter saying friends let's give the old man a lift for it's a shame that one so old should lose his dog

how much is it you lack of the tax he asked of the poor old gentleman as he came panting up but he was so confused and tremulous with terror that he could not answer and so being unable to do more he stretched his old shaken hands in which the money was still tightly clutched up to him, but the old hands shook so that the Carter could not count it until he had taken it into his own steady palm. Here's fifty cents and a few odd pennies, he shouted, and the law demands three dollars, two dollars and a half is wanted. Who'll help make up the three dollars and save the old man's dog? Here's fifty cents, he added, as he took a silver half dollar from his pocket, and dropped it into the hat. It's half ironed yesterday, and more than I'll earn today, perhaps, for times be dull, but the old man shall have it if Mary and I go without sugar and tea for a week. T'was a good speech and bravely said, and the crowd responded to it as bravely, for it fairly reigned

dimes and quarters and pennies, not only into the carter's hat until it sagged, but into his cart, too, until the bottom of it was speckled all over with copper and silver coin, and the honest fellow held up his hands for the crowd to give no more, crying, old, hold, here's enough, and more than enough. But he could scarcely make himself heard because of the cheering and the laughing and the rattling of the pieces as the crowd continued to rein them all the faster into his cart. Ah, me, what is that sweet something in human hearts, which in its response to human want, translates us like a flash from low to highest mood. I, which breaketh through all barriers of selfish abbot, and even the adamantine of foreign tongues, and pourth out its

rich largesse in a common tide to meet a brother's need, wheree'er that brother is, or whatever he may be. But the old man did not wait to gather up the offerings of the generous and sympathetic crowd, but snatching a handful of silver from the Carter's hat, pushed his way out of the jam, and holding the hand in which he clutched the silver high above his head, hurried on. after the officer, crying at the top of his voice, "'Here's the money, here's the money, oh, good people!' For the street was nearly blocked with those that swarmed thickly in the wake of the officer,

and he could make but slow progress through it. Tell him, I have the money, and I'm coming. Don't let him go any farther. I shall never catch him. Stop him, stop him, for the love of heaven, stop him, here's the money!' And thus, crying aloud, and calling with his thin, tremulous voice, upon the officer to stop, he ran frantically along the street, as fast as he could in pursuit.

But it is certain that the old man would not have caught up with the officer, had the latter been uninterrupted in his progress, for the street was filled with people, and he could not push his way with much speed because of his feebleness. But fortune, or perhaps I should say misfortune, favoured him, so that he shortly overtook the object of his pursuit and came up with the officer and the dog. But alas, his old heart got little gain thereby,

but a grievous loss, rather, for when he came to the spot, both lay stretched senseless on the ground, the man knocked flat to the earth by the fist of an indignant citizen, and the dog lying with his skull broken in by a brutal blow from the fellow's club. When the old man came to the spot where the dog and the officer lay, he stopped, and when he saw what had happened, the money he had brought with which to deliver his dog, fell rattling unheeded to the ground, and then he raised his palms toward heaven as if entreating the vengeance or the benignity of the skies, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he lifted up his voice and wept, saying, Oh, God, he's killed my dog! And then he sank down all in a heap,

as if he would die beside his dying dog, for the dog was not yet dead, but dying. This, his master soon, perceived, and heedless of the multitude who thronged the street from side to side, he lifted the dying dog into his lap, and laid his poor crushed head against his breast, and mourned over him as a mother, deserted by husband and friends, might mourn for an only babe, when, alone in a foreign land, it lay on her bosom dying. And the multitude, who by this, had knowledge of the dreadful deed, stood in silence while he mourned, trusty, trusty, he said, do you know me, trusty? And his tears fell fast into the dog's bristly coat.

The poor creature, now far gone in that unconsciousness, which deafens the ear to the voice of love itself, still faintly heard the familiar tones, for he lifted his eyes to his master's face and nestled closer into his bosom. It was a touching sight in truth, and those who stood close enough to see the moving spectacle wiped their own eyes divinely moist with the mist of sympathy. It was evident to all, and to the old man himself, that above and around and closing in upon them was the mystery which men called death,

a mystery as inscrutable as it hovers over the kennel and stable as when it enters the habitations of men, and that in a few moments the life still within the body of the poor animal, with all its powers of doing, of thinking and of loving, would depart the structure in which it had found so pleasant an abode and so facile the medium of expression. For a few moments nothing more was said. The old man continued to sob, and the life of his companion continued to ebb away. The brutal blow that caused his death had mercifully numbed the power of feeling,

so that whatever the gloomy journey he was about to take might mean to him, whether the same life he was leaving, or a larger, or none at all, he would move on through the darkness toward the one or the other, at least without pain. You and I have fared in company for many a year, said the old man at last, and bred, whether scant or plenty, and bed, whether hard or soft, we have shared together. Thou hast made the days brighter and the night shorter by thy presence as I suffered through them, and dark will the one be and long the other when I see thee no more. Would to God I could die with thee, my dog, my dog.

Did the dog indeed understand what he said, or did he merely sense the sorrow in the tones, and seek once more, as he had done so many times before, to comfort his disconsolate master? I know not. I only know that the poor animal, with dying strength, lifted his muzzle to his master's face, and twice he lapped it with his tongue. I lapped the salt tears tenderly from his master's wrinkled and pallid cheeks with his tongue. Only this, for no more could he do. My dog! cried the old man once more amid his dear, my dog, the God who made thee so loving

and worthy to be loved, and fill thee with such sweet feeling and the wish to comfort human woe, will not surely let thee perish. In his great universe there is, there must be, room for thee. I will not mourn thee as wholly lost. I cannot do it, for amid the false thou hast been true, and surely falsehood shall not live on, and sweet truth die. Tell me, my dog, give me some sign that we shall meet in the great hereafter. But in response to this appeal, the dog gave no motion, for indeed his strength, like a tide epping in the night, gliding silently and swiftly outward in the gloom, gliding outward and beyond all questioning and answering. But he opened wide his glorious eyes, and fixed them steadily on his master's face,

with such a great love in their depths that mortal might not doubt that in that love was hope and its sustaining evidence. And then the fatal dimness crept along their edges, the pure sweet light faded away in their clear depths, and the impenetrable shadow settled forever over the lustrous orbs. The lids at last gradually closed, as in sleep, and the beggar's dog, with his head on his master's neck and his body resting on his bosom lay dead. End of Story 4. Story 5 of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray.

This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 5. The Ball It was evening, dark, cool, and starry. The earth and water lay hidden in the dusky gloom. Above, the stars were at their brightest. They gleamed and glowed, flashed, and scintillated, like jewels fresh from the case. Their fires were many colored, orange, yellow, and red, and here and there a great diamond fashioned into the zone of night sent out its intense, colorless brilliancy.

Through all the air, silence reigned. The winds had died away, and the waters had settled to repose. No gurgle along the shore, no splash against the great logs that made the wharf, no bird of night calling to its mate. Outside all was still. Nature had drawn the curtains around her couch, and screened from sight, lay in profound repose. Within all was light and bustle and gaiety. From every window, lights streamed and flashed.

The large parlors were alive with moving forms. The piano, whose white keys were swept by whiter hands, tinkled and rang in liveliest measure. The dance was at its height, and the very floor seemed vibrant with the pressure of lively feet. The dancers advanced, retired, wheeled, and swayed in easy circles, swept up and down, and across the floor in graceful lines. Amid the happy scene, the old trapper stood, his stalwart frame erect as in his prime, while his great, strong face fairly beamed in benediction upon the dancers. For his nature had within its depths that fine capacity which enabled it to receive the brightness of surrounding happiness and reflected again.

It was a study to watch his face and mark the passage of changeful moods, Surprise, delight, and broad, warm-hearted humor as they came to and passed across the responsive features. The man of the woods, of the lonely shore, and of silence, seemed perfectly at home amid the noise and commotion of human merry-making. At last, the music died away. The dancers checked their feet. The lady who had been playing the piano rose wearily from the instrument and joined a group of friends. The music was not adequate. notes were too sharp, too isolate, and they did not flow together. There was no sweep and swing, nor suavity of connected progress in the strains. The instrument could not lift the

dancers up and swing them onward through the mazy motions. I tell you, Henry, said the old trapper as he turned to Herbert, who was standing by his side, the piano and the thing to dance by, for sarton, it tinkles and chippers too much, it rattles and clicks, it doesn't get old of the feelings, Henry. It don't start the blood in your veins, nor yet your skin tingling, nor make the feet dance again your will. It's good enough in its way, no doubt, but it certainly isn't the thing to lift the young folks up and swing them around. The fiddle is the thing. Yes, the fiddle is certainly the thing. I would give a good deal if we had a fiddle here tonight, or I see the boys and girls miss it. Lord and Massey,

how it would set them a-going if we only had a fiddle here. john norton said the lad who was sitting on a chair hidden away behind the trapper john norton and the lad took hold of the sleeve of his jacket and pulled the trapper's head down towards him would you like to hear a violin to-like to hear a fiddle lord bless you lad i guess i would like to hear a fiddle never seed at time i wouldn't give the best beaver hide in the lodge to hear the squeak o the bow on the strings what the matter with ye lad and he drew the old man's head still closer to him until his ear was within a few inches of his mouth i love to play the violin better than i love anything in the world and i've got one of the best ones you ever heard out there in the bow of the boat haven's at earth lad ejaculated the trapper did you say you could play to fiddle and that you had a good one out of the boat haven't at earth lad ejaculated the trapper did you say you could play to fiddle and that you had a good one out of the boat there in a boat look at a massy how do young folks will hop scoot out there and get it boy and henry and me will let the folks know that you've got what you can do the lad fairly flashed out of the room he was gone in an instant and in a few minutes he had returned bearing in his hands a bundle which he carried as carefully as a mother would carry her babe but brief as had been his absence

it had allowed sufficient time for herbert to communicate with the master of ceremonies and for him to announce to the company present that the great lack of the occasion had fortunately and unexpectedly been supplied. For the young man who was with Mr. Herbert and John Norton not only knew how to play the violin, but actually had one in his boat and had gone to get it, and would be back in a moment. The announcement was received with applause. White hands clapped and a hundred ejaculations of wonderment sounded forth the surprise and pleasure of the eager throng. and when the lad came stealing in, bearing his precious burden, he was received with a positive ovation. It was amusing to see the change which had come over the looks and actions of the company

at the mention and appearance of the violin. The faces that had shown indifference and the look of languid weariness freshened and became tense in all their lines, and on their heads again animation sat crowned. Those who were seated jumped to their feet. The conversationalists broke their circle and swung suddenly into line. Eyes sparkled. Little happy screams and miniature war-hoops from the boisterous youngsters rang through the parlor. In eye and look and voice, the popular tribute spoke in honor of the popular instrument,

an instrument whose strings can sound almost every passion forth. The quip and quirk of merriment, the mourners wail, the measure of, praise of solemn psalms, the lively beat of joy, the subtle charm of indolent moods, and the sweet ecstasy of youthful pleasure, when, with flying feet and in the abandon of delight, she swings, circles, and floats through the measures of the voluptuous waltz. In one corner of the parlor there was a platform, from which charades and private theatricals had been acted on some previous evening, and to this the lad was escorted, and strange to say his awkwardness had, had departed from him. His form was straight, his head was lifted, his shambling gate steadied itself

with firmest confidence. His long arm sought no longer feebly to hide themselves, but held the package that he carried in fond authority of gesture as a proud mother, whose pride had banished bashfulness, might carry a beautiful child. So the lad went toward the dais, and, seating himself in the chair proceeded with deliberate tenderness to uncover the instrument. An old, dark-looking one it was. The gloom of centuries darkened it. Their dusk had penetrated the very fiber of the wood. Its look suggested ancient times, far climbs, the hands long moldering in dust.

It was an instrument to quicken curiosity and elicit mental interrogation. What was its story? Where was it made? by whom and when? The lad did not know. It was his mother's gift, he said, and an old sea captain had given it to his mother. The old sea captain had found it on a wreck in the far-off Indian Ocean.

He found it in a trunk, a great sea-chest made of scented wood and banded with brazen ribs. And in the chest with it, it was rumored the old mariner had found silks and costly fabrics and gold and eastern gems. Gems that never had been cut, but lay in all their barbaric beauty, dull and swart as Cleopatra's face. Thus the violin had been found on the far seas, at the end of the world, as it were, and in companionship of gems and fabrics rich and rare, and in a chest whose mouth breathed odors. This was all the lad knew.

Henry, said the old trapper, the lad says the fiddle is so old that no one knows how old it is. and i conceit the boy speaks the truth it certainly looks as old as a squaw whose teeth is dropped out and his face is the color of tanned buckskin i tell you henry i believe it will burst if the lad draws the bow with any earnestness across it for there never was a glue made that would hold wood together for a thousand year and if that fiddle ain't a thousand-year old then john norton is no judge of appearances and can't judge the prongs on the horns of a buck at this instant the lad dropped the bow upon the strings Strong and round, mellow and sweet, the note swelled forth. Starting with the least filament of sound, it wove itself into a compact chord of sonorous resonance, filled the great parlors, passed through the doorway into the receptive stillness outside, charged it with throbbings, thus held the air a moment, reigned in it, then, calling its powers back to itself, drew in its vibrating tones,

checked its undulating force, and leaving the air by easy retirement, came back like a bird to its nest, and died away within the recesses of the dark, melodious shell from whence it started. When the bow first began its course across the strings, the old trapper's eyes were on it, and as the note grew and swelled, he seemed to grow with it. His great fingers shut into their palms as if an unseen power was pulling at the cords. His breast heaved, his mouth actually opened. It was as if the rising, swelling, pulsating sounds actually lifted him from off the floor on which he stood, and when the magnificent note ebbed and finally died away within the violin,

not only he but all the company stood breathless, charmed, surprised, astonished into silence at the wondrous note they had heard. The old trapper was the first to move. He brought his brawny hand down heavily upon Herbert's shoulder, and with a face actually on fire, with the fervor stirred within him, exclaimed, Lord, Matthew, Henry, did you ever hear a noise like that? I say, boy, did you ever hear a noise like that? Where on earth did it all come from?

Why, boy, it was as long and as solemn as a funeral, as arnest as the cry of a panther, and roared like a nest of hornets when you poke him with a stick. If that's a fiddle, I wonder what the other things be, that I've heard the half-breeds and the Frenchers play in the Clarence. Well, might the old trapper be astonished, the violin of unknown age and make was one among ten thousand. It was a concert to hear the lad tune it, which he did with a bold and skillful touch, and the exactness of an ear which nature had made exquisitely true to time and chord.

His bashfulness was gone, his timidity had departed, his awkwardness even, and went out of body and arm and fingers with the initial note. His soul had found its life with his mother's gift, and he who was so weak and hesitating in ordinary moments found courage and strength and the dignity of a master when he touched the strings. At last the instrument was ready, and with a flourish, bold and free,

he struck into the measures of a waltz that filled the parlor with circling noises and made the air throb and beat, swing and swell, as if it were liquid and unseen hands were moving it with measured undulations. There was no resisting and influence so sweet, subtle, and pervasive as flowed from that easy-going bow as it came and went over the resounding strings. Couple after couple swung off into the open space until the entire company were swinging and floating through the dreamy and bewitching measures. The god of music was actually in the

room, and his strong, passionate touch was on the souls of those who were floating hither and thither, as if blown by his invisible breath. The music took possession of the dancers. It banished the mortal heaviness from their frames, and made them buoyant so that their feet scarce touched the floor. Up and down and across from side to side and end to end, they whirled and floated. They moved as if a power which took the place of wings was in them. They did not seem to know that they were dancing. They did not dance. They floated, flowing like a current, moved by easy undulations.

Their hands were clasped, their faces nearly touched, their eyes were closed or glowing, and still the long bow came and went, and still the music rose and sank, swelled and ebbed as easy waves advance, retreat, and flood again, breaking in white and lazy murmurs at twilight on the dusky beach. Herbert stood still. His eyes were lifted, the gaze in them far away, and one foot beat the measure. Beside him stood the trapper. His arms were crossed.

His eyes were on the bow that the lad was drawing, and his body swayed, lifted, and sank in perfect harmony with the motions and the accompanying sound, with a grace which nature only reaches when the will, is utterly surrendered to a power that has charmed the stiffness and tension out of the frame and made it yielding and responsive. At last the music stopped, and with it stopped each form. Each foot was arrested at the point to which the sound had carried it when it paused. Each couple stood in perfect pose.

The motive power which moved them was withdrawn, and the limbs stood emotionless as if the soul that gave them animation had retired. They had been lifted to another world, a world of impulse and movement more airy in spirit life than the gross earth, and it took a moment for them to struggle back to ordinary life. But in a moment thought recalled them to themselves, and they realized the mastery of the power that had held them at its will, and the applause broke out in showers of happy tumult. They crowded around the lad, strong men, and and beautiful women, gazing at him in wonder, then broke up into knots, talking, and marveling. To the old trapper's face, as he gazed at the lad, a strange look came, the look of a man

to whose soul has come a revelation so pure and sweet that he is unable at first to compass it with his understanding. He came close to the lad, and sitting down on the edge of the platform, put his hand on the knee of the youth and said, I've heard most of the sweet and terrible noises that nature makes, boy. I've heard the thunder among the hills when the Lord was knocking again the earth until it charred. And I've heard the wind in the pines and the waves on the beaches when the darkness of night was on the woods, and nature was singing her evening song.

And there be no bird or beast the Lord is made whose cry, be it lively or solemn, I have not heard. And I have said that man had never made an instrument that could make so sweet as nature makes when the spirit of the universe speaks through her stillness. But ye have made sounds tonight, lad, sweeter than my ears have ever heard on hill or lake shore at noon or in the night season, and I certainly believe that the spirit of the Lord has been with you, boy, and give you the power to bring out such music as the books as the angels make in their happiness in the world above. I trust you be grateful, lad, for the gift the Lord has

given ye for though your tongue no leadle of speech yet your fingers can bring such sounds out of that fiddle as a man might wish to have in his ears when his body lies stiffening in his cabin and his spirit is standing on the edge of the great clearing yes lad you must certainly play for me when my eyes grow dim and my feet strike the trail that no man strikes but once nor travels both ways at this point the announcement of supper was made and the company streamed towards the tables the repast was of that bounteous character customary to the houses located in the woods in which the hardy provisions of the forest were brought into conjunction with and reinforced by the more light and fanciful cuisine of the wood the cities. Among the substantiae, fish and venison predominated. There was venison roast and venison spitted and venison broiled, venison steak and venison pie, trout broiled and baked and boiled, pancakes and rolls, ices and cream, pies and puddings, pickles and sauces of every conceivable character and make, ducks and partridges, coffee and tea whose nature I regret to say, was discernible only to the eye of faith.

In the midst of this abundance, the old trapper was entirely at home. He ate with the relish and heartiness of a man whose appetite was of the highest order and whose courage mounted to the occasion. "'I tell you, Henry,' said the old man, as he transferred a duck to his plate and proceeded to carve it, with the aptness of one who had practical knowledge of its anatomy,

I tell you, Henry, the birds be getting fat, and I certainly hope the flight this fall will be a good'n. Don't be bashful, lad, and you're eating,' he continued, as he transferred half of the bird to his companion's plate. You haven't got the thighs of some about the waist, but your length is in your favor, and if you will only straighten up and Henry don't get out, there'll be little left on this end of the table

when we have satisfied our hunger. I don't know when the craven of nature has been stronger within me than it is in this minute, and if nothing happens and you stand by me, the serenisers will remember our visit for days after we be gone it isn't often that i feed in the settlements or get a taste of their cooking but the man who basted these birds knowed what he was doing and the fire has given them just the right touch and the morsels actually melt in your mouth the trapper's feelings were evidently not peculiar to himself and the spirit of feasting was abroad the eating was such as would astonish the dwellers in cities wit flashed across the table in answer to wit. Murth rippled from end to end of the room. Laughter roared and rollicked down the hall. Jokes were cracked, fun exploded, plates rattled, cups and glasses touched and rang.

Even the waiters, as they came and went in their happy service, caught the infection of the surrounding happiness, and their laughter mingled with that of the guests. The great pine branches and the evergreens nailed against the corner posts and wreathed into festoons along the wall, shook and trembled in the uproar as to the passage of winds along their native hills and the huge bucks heads whose antlers were tied with rosettes and streaming ribbons lost the staring look of their great artificial eyes and seemed as they gazed out through the interlacing boughs of cedar and balsam as if life had returned to them and they once more were animate in about an hour the company streamed back into the parlor with a mood even livelier than that which had characterized the early hours of the occasion their minds were in the state of highest action and their bodies needed but the opportunity for rapid motion even the lad had caught the infection of the surrounding liveliness for his eyes and face glowed with the light of quickened animation eh you got any jigs in that fiddle lad said the trapper can you twist anything out of your instant that was at the feet of traveling.

It seems to me that the young folks here want shaken up a little, and a little of an old-fashioned dants will help them settle the biddles. Can you libbin up, lad, and give him a tomb that will set him whirling? The only reply of the lad was a motion of the bow,

but the motion was effective, for it sent a torrent of notes into the air, which thrilled through the body and tingled along the nerves like successive electric shocks. The old trapper fairly bounded into the air, and when he struck the floor his feet were flying nor was he alone the jig had started a dozen on the instant and the floor rattled and rang with the tap of toe and heel henry said the old trapper hold on to me or i shall certainly make a fool o myself the lad is tickling me from head the foot and my toes are snapping inside of the moccasins lord who'd a thought that the blood in the veins of a man whose head is whitening could be sought leapin as mine is doing at this minute by

the scraping of a fiddle. The lad was a picture to see. His bow flew like lightning, his long fingers drummed and slid along the strings of the violin with bewildering swiftness. The little instrument jetted and effervesce its melody. The continuous and resounding noise poured out of it in tuneful bubbles. The air was filled with tinkling fragments of sound. The lad's body swayed to and fro. His face glowed, his eyes flashed. The sweat stood in drops on his forehead but still the bow snapped and crinkled and the instrument continued to burst in the musical explosions while the floor shook the windows rattled and the lamps flared and fluttered as the dancers chased the music on evant and arth said the trap-eye stand this and breaking forth from the hole that herbert had on him whirled himself out to the centre of the floor and with his face aflame with excitement and his white hair flying a-briam broad, led the jig men off with a lightness of foot and quickness of stroke that forced

the music by half a beat. The effect was electric. The room burst into applause, and the lad fetched a stroke that seemed to rip the violin asunder. It was now a race between the violin and the dancers. One after another fell out of the circle as the moments passed until the trapper was left alone and was cutting it down in a fashion that both astonished and convulsed the convaled the company. More than one of the spectators went on to the floor in paroxysms of laughter.

Herbert bent over with his hands on his knees, was watching the trapper, with mouth stretched to its utmost, and streaming eyes. It is impossible to say, which would have triumph, had not an accident, decided the contest, and brought the jig to an abrupt termination. For even while the lad was in the midst of the swiftest execution, the hind legs of the chair in which it was sitting were whipped from their fastenings, his heels went into the air, he turned half a somersault backward, and the music stopped with a snap. It was minutes before a word could be heard. Roars and shrieks and screams of irrepressible and uncontrollable merriment shook the house from foundation to Garrett. The lad picked himself up, and for the first time since they met,

Herbert saw his placid countenance wrinkled and seemed with the contortions of uproarious mirth. The sluggishness of his temperament for once was thoroughly agitated, and the manhood, which never before had come to the surface, found in hilarity a visible and adequate expression. The trapper had spun to his side, and the two had joined their hands, and looking into each other's faces, were laughing with the boisterousness that fairly shook their frames and exploded in resounding peals. Gradually the uproar subsided, and the company settled by easy transition to a quieter mood. The hours of the night were passing, and the moment drawing nigh, when those who had mingled their merriment must part.

The old trapper had regained his gravity, and his countenance had settled to its customary repose. It seemed the general wish that the general wish that the momentary, the lad would favor them with a farewell peace, and in compliance with the request of many, the old man turned to him and said, The hours be drawing on, lad, and it's reasonable that we should break up, but before we go, the folks wish to hear you play a quiet sort of a piece that may be cheerful and pleasant, like for them to remember you by when we be gone. So, lad, if you have got anything in your hand that's soft and touching,

maybe that will sort of stay in the heart as the season come and go, I certainly hope you will play it for them. And as you say, you was born by the sea, and as you say, the instrument you hold in your hand was ginn you by your mother, it maybe you can play as something out of your memory that shall tell us of her goodness to you. Something I mean that shall tell us of the shore where you was born

and the love that you had afore you later to rest and came to the wood-seek of me. Can you play us something like that, lad? I can play you anything that has mother in it, said he, and a wistful, yearning, hungry look came into his eyes, and the edges of his lips quivered. The company seated themselves, and the boy drew his bow across the instrument. The brush of a painter could not have made the picture more perfect than the vision the lad brought forth as the bow played on the strings.

The picture of a sea, sunlighted and level, stretching out far. The picture of a curved shore. The shore of a quiet bay. with its beach of shining sand and noisy with a gurgle and splash of lapsing waves. The picture of a home, quiet and orderly, and filled with the tenderness of a gentle spirit, and then a heavier cord told of the coming of a darker hour when the mother lay dying. The violin fairly sobbed and groaned and wailed, as if the spirit of an inconsolable grief were tugging heavily at the strings.

Anon, a bell, told solemnly out of it, and its heavy knell clanged through the room. And then the music rested for a minute, and in the silence it seemed as if the grave came into sight as plainly as if the eyes of all were actually looking at its open mouth. Again the music sounded, and the sods, one after another, fell on the coffin, dull and heavy, changing to a grave-smothered sound as the grave filled. Once more it paused, and then a clear, sweet strain arose, sad, but pure and fine and hopeful, as voice of angels could have sung it, trustful and resigned. The bow stopped again.

For a moment the violin was silent, and then the lad lifted his face, and laying the bow softly upon the strings, began to play what all instinctively felt was a hymn to the spirit of his mother. Slowly, sweetly, softly, as the strains which the dying sometimes hear, the pure, clear, smooth notes stole out into the hushed air. It was playing, not such as mortal plays to mortal, but such as spirit plays to spirit and soul to soul, to night across the street of heaven. The lad still used an earthly instrument and touched its strings with mortal fingers, but never while they live, will those who heard that hymn believe that anything less than the spirit

of the boy drew from the instrument the notes that filled the room with their divine sweetness. Indeed, the lad did not act as if he were conscious of his body or of bodily presences around him. His face was lifted, and his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, were gazing upward, not as if into vacancy, but as if they saw the bright being that had, had passed within the veil, standing in all the beauty of her transfiguration before them. For a smile was on the boy's lips, even while the tears were rolling down his cheeks. And when at last the arm suspended its motion, when the sweet notes ceased to sound and the last cord had died away, the lad still kept his uplifted posture and his features held the same

rapt expression. The company sat motionless, their gaze fastened on the lad. Not an eye was without its tear. The cheeks of the old trapper were wet, and Herbert, touched by some memory or overcome by the pathos of the music, was actually sobbing. The old man, with a tread as light as a moccasined foot could make, stepped softly to the side of the lad,

and taking him by the arm, while the company rose, as one man, motioned to Henry with his hand, and then, without a word, the trapper and Herbert, and the man who didn't know much, passed out of the room, and taking boat, shoved off, and glided from sight in the blue darkness of the overhanging night, amid whose eastern gloom the great luminous, mellow-hearted stars of the morning were already aflame. End of Story 5. Story six of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain.

Story six, Who Was He? Part One. One. At the head of a stretch of swiftly running water, the river widened into a broad and deep pool. From the western bank, a huge ledge of rock sloped downward and outward into the water. On it stood the trapper, John Norton, with a look of both expectation and, anxiety on his face. For a moment he lifted his troubled eyes and gazed steadily through the treetops. And as his eyes fell to the level of the river, while the look of anxiety deepened on his countenance, he said, yes, the wind has changed and the fire becoming this way, and if it

gets into the balsam thick as this side of the mountain and the wind holds where it is, a buck and full jump could hardly outrun it. Is the smoke thickens? If I didn't know that the boy would act with judgment and that he's unusually circumspect i would certainly feel worried about him i hope he won't do anything risky for the sake of the pups if he can't get him he can't and i trust he won't rest the life of a man or a couple of dogs with these words the trapper relapsed into silence but every minute added to his anxiety for the smoke thickened in the air and even a few cinders began to pass him as they were blown onward with the smoke by the wind the fires is coming down the river he said and a boy has it behind him lord a massy hear it roar i know the boy is coming for i never knowed him to do a foolish thing in the woods and it would be downright madness for him to stay in the shanty or even go to the shanty if the fire had struck the balls and thick afore he made the landon lord if an oar blade should break but it won't break the lord a marcy won't let an oar that the boy is handling break when a fire is raised and behind him and he's coming back from an errand of mercy. I never feed a man deserted in a time like a report of a rifle rang out quick and sharp through

the smoke. God to be praised, said the trapper. It's the boy's own piece, and he let it off as he shot the rift the fourth bend above. Yes, the boy knows his danger, and he took the vantage of the rift to signal me with his peace, but oars couldn't help him in the rift, and the missing of a single stroke wouldn't count. I trust the boy got the pups out of her. added the old trapper, his mind instantly reverting to his loved companions the moment it was relieved from anxiety touching his comrade. It couldn't have been over five minutes after the report of a rifle had sounded before a boat swept suddenly around the bend above the rock and shot like an arrow through the haze toward the trapper.

Herbert was at the oars and the two hounds were sitting on their haunches at the stern. The stroke the oarsman was pulling was such as a man pulls when, in answer to some emergency, he is putting forth his whole strength. But though the stroke was an earnest one, there was no apparent hurry in it, for it was long and evenly pulled from dip to finish, and the recovery seemed a trifle leisurely done. The face of the trapper fairly shone with delight as he saw the boat and the occupants. Indeed, his happiness was too great to be enjoyed silently, and in accordance with his habit, when greatly interested, he broke into speech.

Look at that now, he exclaimed as if speaking to someone at his side, Look at that now. There's a stroke that's worth noting, and is a kind of education in itself. I almost think that it wasn't quite enough snapping it, but the boy knows what he's pulling for his life and the life of another man somewhere below him, not to speak of the pops, and he knows it's good seven miles to the rapids, and he's pulling every ounce that's in him to pull, and keep his stroke.

Now he's come five miles if he's come a rod, and I warrant he hasn't missed a stroke, save when in shooting the raft he let off his spece, and I know he's got seven miles more to pull, and he's set himself a 12-mile stroke. And there ain't many men that could do it with the roar of the fire a little way behind him. Yes, the boy has acted with judgment,

and has certainly coming along like a buck in full jump. I guess I better let him know where I be. hello here boy hi pups here i be on the pine of the rock as fresh as the buck ardor a morning drink ease away a little herbert in your stroke and move the pups forward a little and make room for a man and a paddle for the fire is arter you and then time has come to gine works the young man did as the trapper requested he intermitted to stroke and the hounds at a word moved into the middle of the boat and crouched obediently in the bottom but when whimpering in their gladness at hearing their master's voice again. The boat was under good headway when it passed the point of the ledge on which the trapper was standing, but as it glanced by, the old man leaped with practiced agility to his place in the stern, and had given a full and strong stroke to his paddle before he had fairly settled to his seat.

Now, Herbert, he began, ease yourself a bit, for you have had a tough pull, and it's good seven miles to the rapids. The fire is certainly coming in earnest, but the river runs nigh into straight till you get within sight of them, and I think we will be that I didn't feel certain that you had the Pups Herber, for I could see by the signs that you wouldn't have any time to spare. Was it a touch and go, boy? The fire was in the pines west of the shanty when I entered it, answered the young man, and the smoke was so thick that I couldn't see it from the river as I landed. I conceded as much, replied the trapper. I conceded as much. Yes, I knowed it would be a close shave if you got them, and I feared you would run a risk that you oughtn't to run in your love for the dogs. I didn't propose to leave the dogs to die, responded the young man.

I think I should have heard their cries in my ears for a year, had they been burned to death in the shanty where we left them. Yes, speak with right feeling, Herbert, replied the trapper. No, a hunter had no right to do. bizarre his dog when Diancher been there, for the creator has made him in their loves and their dangers alike. Did you save the powder and the bullets, boy? I did not, responded Herbert. The sparks were all around me, and the shanty was smoking while I was feeling around for the dog's leash. I heard the canister explode before I reached the first bend.

"'Twas a narrow rub, boy,' rejoined the trapper. "'Yeah, I can see. It was a narrow rub you had of it, and the holes in your shirt show that the sparks was fallen pretty thick and pretty hot too when you come out of the shanty how does the stroke tell on you boy continued the old man interrogatively you'll be pull on a slashing stroke you see and there's five mile more of it if there's a rod the stroke begins to tell on my left side answered herbert but if you were sitting where you could see what's coming down upon us as i can you would see it wasn't any time for us to take things leisurely lord boy rejoined the trapper. Do you think I haven't any ears? The fires at the fourth bend above us, and the pines on the ridge we passed five minutes ago ought to be blazing by this time. Ah, me, boy, this isn't the first time I've run a race with a fire of the devil's own kindling, alone and in company both, and my ears have measured the roar and the crackling, until I can tell to a rod in most how fur the red line be behind us. What do you think of our chances? queried

his companion, shall we get over the carry-in time? For I suppose we are making for the big pool, are we not? Yeah, we've been making for the pool, replied the trapper, or it's the only safe spot on the river. And as for the chances, I certainly doubt if we can unfetch the carry-in time. If the fire isn't there ahead of us, it will be on us before we can get to the pool at the other end. Why can't we run the rapids? asked Herbert promptly.

The rapids can be run, as you will. and me know responded the old man for we have both did it although they be unusually swift and there be spots where good judgment and a quick paddle is needed why exclaimed herbert the last time we went down we never took in a drop of water it's true as you think boy responded the trapper yes we certainly did as you say though few be the men that know the waters that would believe it why then exclaimed the young man can't we do it again the smoke boy the smoke was the sir the smoke will be there ahead of us and who can run a stretch of water like the one ahead yonder with his eyes blinded no boy we must get there ahead of the fire for we can't run the rapids in the smoke air he added yeah they pull in a murder and stroke and it's best that i spell you down with your pups down with you and lot still is a frozen otter while the boy comes over you with the celerity of long practice in boating the two men changed places and with such quickness was the change position effected, that the onrushing shell scarcely lessened its headway. The trapper seized the oars on the instant, while Herbert supported him with equal swiftness with the paddle, and the light craft raced along like a feather, blown by the gale. For several moments the

trapper, who by the change in his position, was brought face to face with the pursuing fire, said not a word. His stroke was long and sweeping and pulled with an energy, which only perfect skill and tremendous strength can put into action. He looked at the rolling flames with a face undisturbed in its calmness and with eyes that noted knowingly every sign of its progress. "'A fire is a hodden,' he said at length, "'and runs three feet to our two. "'We may get there ahead of it, for there isn't more than a mile further to go,

"'but, Lord!' exclaimed the trapper, "'how it roars, and it makes its own wind as it comes on. Don't break your paddle, Shap, boy, but the shaft is a good one, and you may put all the strength into it that you think it will stand. The spectacle on which the trapper was gazing was indeed a terrible one, and the peril of the two men was getting to be extreme. The valley, through the center of which the river ran, was perhaps a mile and width, at which distance a range of lofty hills on either side walled it in. Down this enclosed stretch, the fire was being driven by a wind, which sent the blazing evidence of its approach in advance of its terrible progress. The spectacle was indescribable.

The dreadful line of flame moved onward like a line of battle when it moves at a charge against a flying enemy. The hungry flames ate up the woods as a monster might eat food when starving. Grasses, shrubs, bushes, thickets of undergrowth and the great trees, which stood and groves over the level plain on either side of the stream, disappeared at its touch as if swallowed up. The evergreens crackled and flamed fiery hot. The smoke eddied up in rushing volumes. Overhead and far in advance of the onrolling line of fire, the air was darkened with black cinders amid whose somber masses, fiery sparks and blazing brands shone and

flashed like falling stars. A deer suddenly screamed. sprang from the bank into the river ahead of the boat, and frenzied with fear, swam boldly athwart its course. He was followed by another and another. Birds flew shrieking through the air. Even the river animals swam uneasily along the banks or peered out of their holes as if nature had communicated to them also the terrible alarm. While like the roar of a cataract, though heavy portentous, the wrath of the flames rolled ominous. through the air. Amid the sickening smoke, which was already rolling in volumes over the boat and the terrible

uproar and confusion of nature, Herbert and the trapper kept steadily to their task, but every moment the line of fire gained on them. The smoke was already at intervals stifling and the heat of the coming conflagration getting unbearable. Brands began to fall hissing into the water. Twice had Herbert flung a blazing fragment out of the boat. and so, in a race literally for life, with the flames chasing them and their lives in jeopardy, they turned the last bend above the carry, which began at the head of the rapids.

But it was too late. The fiery fragments blown ahead by the high wind had fallen in front of them, and the landing at the carry itself was actually enveloped in smoke and flame. The fire be ahead of us, boy! exclaimed the trapper, and death is certainly coming behind. The odds be against us to start with, for the smoke is thick, and the fire will be in the bins at least halfway down. But it's our only chance. We must run the rapids.

What about the dogs? The pups must jerk for themselves, answered the old man. I'm sorry, but the rabbits be swift and the water shower on the first half of the stretch. And the pups settle the boat half an inch if they settle it a hair. Yes, overboard with you, pups, overboard with you, commanded the trapper. You must use the gifts the Lord has. can you now or get singed. I advise you to keep with the current and come down, trailing the boat.

For man's reason is better than dog's reason. Tetch and currents and eddies, not to speak of falls, but take your own way for your lives be in jeopardy with your masters, and you ought for sartin to have the chance of dying as you like to, but your best chance is to follow the boat, as I judge. The trapper had continued to talk as if addressing members of the human and not the canine species, and long before he had finished his remarks, the hounds had taken to the water, and were swimming with all their power directly in the wake of the boat,

as if they had actually understood their master's injunction, and were indeed determined to shoot the rapids in his wake. The conflagration was now at its fiercest heat. The smoke whirled upward in mighty eddies or rolled along in huge convolutions. Through the fleecy rolls here and there, tongues of flame shot fiercely. the river steamed. The roar of the rushing flames was deafening. The tops of the huge pines that stood along the banks would wave and toss as the fiery line reached them and then burst into blaze as if they were but the mighty torches that lighted the path of the passing

destruction. In all his long and eventful life passed amid peril, it is doubtful if the trapper had ever been in a wilder scene. The rapids were ahead and the fire behind and, on either side. The great mass of flame had not yet rolled abreast the boat, but the blazing brands were already falling in advance. It was not a moment to hesitate, nor was he a man to falter when action was called for. By this time the boat had come nigh the upper rift of the rapids, and the motion of the downward suction was beginning to tell on its progress. The trapper shipped his oars, and, lifting his paddle, placed himself in a kneeling posture, gazing downstream. The fire was almost upon them, and the smoke too dense for sight.

But pressing, as was the emergency, neither man touched his paddle to the water, but let the boat go down with the quickening current to the verge of the rapids, where the rapid dip of the decline would send it flying. This be an uncertain venture, Henry, cried the trapper, shouting to his comrade from the smoke that now made it impossible for the young man even at only the boat's link to see his person. This be an uncertain venture, and the Lord only knows how it will be in. You know the waters as well as I do, and you know the points where things must be did right. We'll beat the smoke, order we make the first dip and get out of the thickets of it in the first half of the distance, unless something happens. Let her go with the current boy, until your sight

comes to you, but the current knows where it's going, and that's more than a mortal can tell, in this infarnal smoke. Here we go, boy, shouted the old man, as the boat balanced in its perilous flight on the sharp edge of the uppermost rift. Here we go, boy! He shouted out of the smoke and the rush of water, its utter and toffet where we be,

and it matters mighty little what meets us below. 2. To those who have had no experience in running rapids, no adequate conception can be given touching what can with truth be called one of the most exciting experiences that man can pass through. The very velocity with which the flight is made is enough of itself to make the sensation startling. The skill, which is required on the part of the boatman, is of the finest order. Eye and hand and readiest wit must work in swift connection.

Some who read these lines, perhaps, have, shall we say, enjoyed the sensation which we have always found impossible to describe in words. These at least will appreciate the difficulty of our task, and also the peril which surrounded the trapper and his companion. The first flight down which the boat glanced was a long one. The river bed sloped away in a straight direction for nigh on to 50 rods, and at an angle so steep that the water, although the bottom was rough, fairly flattened itself as it ran,

and the channel, where the current was the deepest, gave forth a serpentine sound as it whizzed downward. The smoke, which hum heavily over the stretch from shore to shore, was too dense for the eye to penetrate a yard. Amid the smoke, sparks floated and brands, crackling as they fell, plunged through it into the steaming water. Guidance of the frail craft was, as the trapper had predicted, out of the question. The two men could only keep their position. as they went streaming downward. They kept their seats like statues,

knowing well that their safety lay in allowing their light shell to follow without the least interruption, the pressure of the swift current. Half down the flight, the volume of smoke was parted by some freak of the wind from shore to shore,

and for a couple of rods, they saw the water, the blazing banks, the fiery treetops, and each other. The trapper turned his face, blackened and stained by the grimy cinders toward his companion and gave one glance in which humor and excitement were equally mingled. His mouth was open, but the words were lost in the roar of the flame and the rush of the water.

He had barely time to toss a hand upward as if, by gesture, he would make good the impossibility of speech before face and hand alike faded from Herbert's eyes as the boat plunged again into the smoke. the next instant the boat launched down the final pitch of the declivity and shot far out into the smooth water that eddied in a huge circle in the pool below the smoke was at this point less compact for through it the blazing pines on either flamed partially into view it's the devil's own work-boy for sarton cried the trapper and the fool or the knave that started the fire ought to be toasted i trust the pups will be reasonable and come down with the current at the fire touched you anywhere not much answered herbert a brand struck me on the shoulder and opened a hole in my shirt that's all how do you feel fried boy yes actually fried if this infernal heat lasts i'll be ready to turn afore we reach the second bend how goes the stream below asked herbert all clear for a while answered the trapper all clear for a while put your strength into the paddle till we come to the barge below for the fire be running fast and it's again reason for a more to stand this heat long shall we run out of the smoke at the next flight asked herbert i think so boy i think so answered the trapper the maples grow to the bank at the foot of the next dip and it isn't in the nature of hardwood to make smoke like a balsam he would have said more but his companion had nodded to him as he had ended the sentence for they had come to the last flight of the rapids and the great pool lay glimmering through the branches of the trees below

the old man knew what was meant and said i know it boy i know it take the east run for the water be deeper that way and the boat sets deep i won't trouble you for you know the way lord how the water biles now's your time boy to the right with you to the right sweep her round and let her go away and downward swept the boat the strong eddies caught it but the controlling paddle was stronger than the eddies and kept it to the line of its safest descent past rocks that stood in mid-current against which the swift-going water beat and dashed past mossy banks and shadowed curves where the great eddies whirled down over miniature falls into bubbles and froth the light craft swept and with a final plunge and a final plunge and a small plunge and the great eddies whirled down over miniature falls into bubbles and froth the light craft swept and with a final plunge and a leap, jumped the last cascade, and darting out into the Great Basin ran shoreward. It touched the beach, and the trapper and Herbert rose to their feet, but for a moment neither stirred, or in front of them, not thirty feet away, at the line where the sand and the green mosses met, and looking directly at them, stood a man and a girl. Who was he? The two men asked this question a thousand times, meant a man. in the next two months, and once afterward they asked it aloud, as they looked into each other's

eyes across a grave. But to the question, whether spoken or silent, no answer ever came. The world has its enigmas, and he was one. Amid the jabbering crowd we chaff and chatter with, we meet occasionally a man who never chaffs or chatters, a man who sees all things, perhaps because of this suffers all things, but says nothing at all. The sphinxes are still extant. The old-time ones were of stone and bronze, the modern ones are of flesh and blood. That's all the difference. Nay, not quite all, for the secrets that the ancients held smothered within the folds of their stony silence were only such as nature revealed to them from her desert posts, the secrets of sunrises and starry nights, and the sea moons that swept the sandy plain.

and of civilizations, the murmurs of whose rising and the crash of whose sudden overthrow they needs must hear. But the secrets that men hear today, and by hearing of which are made silent, are the secrets of lives being lived, of hearts being broken, of intention so noble and failures so bitter, as to make men skeptical whether God keeps watch over the passing events on the earth. Was he young? No. Was he old?

No again. How old was he? Forty, perhaps? It may be fifty. The two men who stood looking at him never thought of his age, neither then nor afterward. Never thought whether he was old or young. There are people who have no age to those who know them. Is it because their bodies so little represent them?

A friend has been away for years. He returns. Enter's your room. You shake his hand heartily and warm. welcome, and then you stand off and look at him. You look at his hair and note the gray in it, at the wrinkles in his face, the dozen at one marks that denote change and say, you've grown old, old boy, and so we judge most men, and so they should be judged. Why? Because they are not great and strong and so large enough to dwarf their bodies out of sight and dwindle

them into insignificance. But now and then you meet one who's mind represents him, whose soul is so gloriously finished that, as in the case of a great painting, you do not think of the frame around it, nor take notice of it at all. He is so strong vitally, so great in living force, in vital energies, in moving and persuading power, that he is to you like an immense, endless, all-conquering life, wholly independent of his embodiment, who might exist in any form. angel archangel spirit winged or wingless supernal or infernal and still in all forms in all places in all moral states would remain true to himself and be the same there are some i say who are like this who are not of the earth earthy nor of the body but of the spirit whether good or bad spiritual angel or demon always do you know one such no perhaps not for the body but of the spirit whether good or bad spiritual angel or demon always do you know one such no perhaps not for

They are rare, very rare, but some such there are, and if you do not know one or one like to such a one, I ask if you do not think of him as I have said, Body, what is body to such a man? What is a formation of clay deftly mingled in its chemistry round about such an indomitable dwelling spirit? Does the old rain-sodden nest photograph the bird, the swiftness and glory of whose wings lived in it once? What is age to such a one? What has he to do with the passing of years? Such a one is young and old both, from the beginning of his career forever onward. He has the freshness

of youth, the strength of manhood, and the sagacity of age, fixed permanently in his structure, as nature fixes her colors in the fiber of the ash and the oak. Such have no age. How silly! to ask how old he is. If you ask me, I should answer, Who can tell? Their earthly parents say they were born on such and such dates. Were they?

Or had they lived as Mary's son had ages before they took, for God's wise purpose, flesh? Who can tell? Heresy? I'm not writing a sermon. I'm writing a story, and I seek to make my readers think.

That would not be essential if I were sermonizing. Good people don't want. want that kind of preaching. But to return, was he young, was he old? Neither then, nor ever after, did Herbert and the Trapper think of him as having age, and yet he was with them, and his body had all the marks which revealed to the noticing eye the measure of man's days. This the young man's description of him. Tall, straight, and well-formed, large in size, but shapely, hair brown with grey in it, in all the face, a look of great power,

reserved but ready to act, eyes of changeable color that took the shade of the emotion that chance to come and look out of them, when unoccupied, cold, gray, and meaningless as a window pane, behind which no face is, and over all the countenance, the look of great gravity, divided by but the slightest line from sadness. So Herbert described him, but he always used to add, remember this was only his body, and therefore no description at all. The girl? Why, certainly, you shall know of her, and from the same authority. The girl that was with this strange man was not a girl merely, but both girl and woman, for she was at that age when the sweet simplicity of the one and the full charm of the other

come into union, and a time at least stand in attractive alliance. She was of me, medium height and perfectly formed. Her hair was brown, as were her eyes, that were large and mild of look. And overall her face was such an expression of gentleness and peace as I never saw on any other woman's face, and she loved the man with so great a love that it made her life and took it both. For a moment, Herbert and the Trapper stood looking at the man and girl who were standing on the edge of the beach, looking silently at the them. And then the trapper said, still standing in the boat, We would not renegan you so sudden like had we seed you, friend, and if our company be not pleasant

to you, we will move on and camp on some clump further down. And the old man placed his paddle against the beach as if he would depress the boat out into the pool. I beg you not to do so, answered the man on the beach. You have as good or right to this campground as we, and I dare say a better one, as we are but strangers to the woods, while you, old man, look as if you had made them your home for years. Yes, speak truth, friend, replied the trapper. Yes, the woods be my home, and if living in them gives a man a right, fuel would gainsay my claim.

Yes, it's thirty years of gone since I have done the first drought from this pool, and broiled him on the bank there, and a toothsome supper he made for me too. Lord, a massy boy, exclaimed the old man, after. turning toward his companion what a thing memory be dirty year and i've seen some wandering since then but i remember as though i'd eat him last night just now that trout tasted yarsartan friend that we weren't disturb you if we come ashore no no old man answered the other come ashore you and your companion our camp is the other side of the balsam thicket there and after you have built your own we will come down and pass an hour with you unless we should disturb you in your occupation or your pleasure. I be a man of the woods, as you see, replied the trapper, and Henry here be my companion,

and though his home be in the city, he has consorted with me so much that he's fallen into my habits, though it should be said to his credit that the Lord give him natural gifts in that direction, and when we be Roman, we take about little with us, and our camp be quickly made. No, no, we will have little to offer you and the lady, but if when the sun darkens back of the mountain there,

you will honor an old man by your coming, you shall taste some menacean that's waited three days for the mouth and is tender as it should be. And if the pool here will make its name good, you shall have a trout, cooked as the hunter cooks it, when the fire is hot and the wet moss plenty. We will certainly come, answered the man. I came into the woods to avoid men, not to meet them, but your face is honest and open as the day, old man, and your head is white as is the head of wisdom. I shall be glad to talk with you, and I doubt not your companion is as educated as you are knowing. I've seen the coming and I'm going at seventy years since I've been on the earth, answered the trapper, stroking his head with the peculiar motion of the aged when speaking of their age reflectively, and much have a seed of the passions of my kind, and many be the lessons that nature has learnt me, and if the converse of an old man who has lived little in the clearing would be pleasant to you,

your coming will be welcome yes yes boy i see it you had better joint your rod and i will start a fire you know the size you want and you'll find them out there where the bubbles make the letter s the two strangers retired toward their own camp and our friends set about their several tasks herbert proceeded to join his rod and the trapper to make a rude fireplace from the stones that lined the bank at the water's edge the preparations for the forthcoming repast went forward rapidly The pool kept its reputation good and yielded abundantly to the solicitation of Herbert's flies. The trout were large and in excellent condition and were quickly made ready for the trapper's treatment. A large piece of bark peeled from a giant spruce standing near and laid upon the ground served for the table, against the dark bark of which the tin dishes freshly scoured in the sand of the beach gleamed bright. The Benazin and trout were cooked as. as only one accustomed to the woods can do it, and the trapper contemplated the work of his skill

with pleased complacency. At each plate, Herbert had placed a bunch of checkerberries, and a small bouquet of small but exceedingly fragrant flowers adorned the center of the bark table. At this moment the man and girl drew near. I trust, said the man, as they approached, that we have not kept you waiting by our tardiness. "'Here, come and be true to a minute,' answered the trapper, glancing up at the western mountain the top of whose pines the lower edge of the sun had just touched they may be ready we certainly can't roast of the bark of the dishes he continued but the victuals be as good as nature allows and your welcome be hardy we could ask no more said the man courteously and one might almost think that the hand of woman had adorned the table the posies be the boys doin replied the trapper glancing at herbert he has a like em for the color and smell and i never knowed to eat without a green sprig or a bunch of bright moss or some such thing on the bark i am sure i do not like them any better than you do answered herbert smiling and looking pleasantly into the old man's face

they bea the lord's macon respond the trapper there be a the lord's macon and it be fit that mortals should love em as i concede i've lived a good deal alone he continued but i've never lived in a cabin yet that didn't have a few little flowers or a tuft of grass or a speck of green somewhere about it that sort of make company for a man in the winter evenings and keep his thoughts in cheerful directions. Your sentiments do honor to your nature, responded the other, and I am glad to meet with one of your age, who having lived among the beauties of nature has not allowed them to become commonplace and unworthy of notice. Many in the cities show less refinement. Ah, concede it is a good deal in the breeding, answered the trapper there'll be some that don't know good from evil in nature leastways they don't seem to have any eyes to note the difference and what isn't born in a man or a dog you can't educate into him the breedin settles more pints that the missioners dream as i judge but come friends the victuals be coolin and the mouth loves a warm morsel i am certain said the man as they were partaking of the repast that i never tasted a piece of venison so finely flavored before

i've cooked the meat for an eye on to sixty year answered the trapper and have learnt not to spoil the sweetness and nature by overdoing it it's a quick aim that brings the buck to the camp and a quick fire that puts the stake on to the plate ready for the mouth trust lady that you enjoy the victuals i do indeed answered the girl and if the cooking were less perfect i should count this as a feast yes yes i understand ye answered the old man the sound of the tumbler and water be pleasant and the good-and-and-y-and-y-present and the sound of the tumbler and the little water be pleasant and the the eye eats with the mouth, and he glanced at the green woods that stretched away, and the brightly colored clouds that hung like fleece of gold in the western sky. The barbarian eats from a trough, remarked Herbert, civilize him, and he erects a table, and as you adder to his refinement, he adorns that table until the furniture of it magnifies the feast, and the guests think more of the beauty of the adornments than of the food they swallow. And so with pleasant converse, the meal progressed.

Soon the sun declined and the darkness began to thicken in the pines. The table was moved to one side, the dishes cleansed, and the fire lighted for the evening. With the darkness, silence had fallen upon the group, not that silence which is awkward and oppressive, or which comes from lack of thought, but that fine silence, rather, which is only the thin shadow of the reflective mood, and because the thought is inward and over-full. And so the four sat in silence by the fire. Above, a few great stars shone warmly.

Here and there the rapids flashed white through the gloom. From a huge pine on the other side of the pool, a horned owl challenged the darkness with his ponderous call. Suddenly the man broke the silence, broke it with a question, which led to a remarkable conversation and a tragical result. And the question was this.

Friend, answer me this question. If a man take a life, should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed? End of Story 6, Part 1. Story 6 of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 6, Who Was He?

Part 2. Two. Three. If a man take a life, should he give his own life in atonement for the dreadful deed? Such was the question that the man asked. He was looking at the trapper at the time, looking at him steadily. But the sound of his voice, as he put the question, did not seem to give personal direction to the solemn interrogation.

It seemed rather the echo of a reflection, as if his own mind in its community, had come upon the terrible question, and the words without volition of his own, which framed it into speech, had passed out of his mouth. He was looking at the trapper, as we said, and the trapper was looking into the fire, the light of which that came and went in flashes brought distinctly out the settled gravity of the features and the rugged but grand proportions of the head. There is no better light in which to see an old man's face than the fitful firelight, and no better background than that which the darkness makes. One would have thought that the interrogation was not heard, for on the trapper's face there showed no line of change.

The girl remained looking steadfastly into the face of the questioner, and Herbert made no response. I ask you a question, old trapper, said the man, a question which reaches to the depths of human responsibility and points to the heights of human sacrifice. In the old days, the wisdom of the world was with those who lived with nature. Your head is white, and you tell me you have lived in the woods since you were a boy. You have seen war, have stood in battle, have slain your man, and made many graves of those you have slain.

Have you wisdom? Are you able to answer the question I have asked you?" I have, as you say, answered the trapper, been in wars, I've stood in battle, I've slain men, I've buried those I have slain. I know what it is to take a human creator's life, and I think I know where the right to do the deed stops and where it begins. Where does it begin? Ask the man, where does the right to take human life begin?

The words came forth slowly and heavily waited with meaning. It was evident that the question which the man asked was not asked as one interrogates, but as one puts a question that has personal application to himself. The trapper felt this, he looked into the man's face and studied his countenance a moment, noted the breadth of brow, the large deep-set eyes, the fine curvature of the chin and cheek, saw the beauty and splendor of it, saw what some might not have seen, both the beauty of its peaceful mood, and the terribleness of the wrath that might surge out of it, saw all this, and without answering the question, said simply, You have killed a man.

The stranger looked steadily back into the trapper's face and answered as simply, Yes, I am a murderer. Herbert started a trifle. The girl gave a slight exclamation and lifted her hand as if in protest. The trapper alone made reply. You certainly don't look like a murderer friend. He is none, he is none, exclaimed the girl. He had provocation, old man.

He had provocation. And then she turned toward the man and said, Why will you say such things? Why will you condemn yourself wrongly? why do you brood over a deed done in wrath and under the strain that few might resist, as it had been done in cold blood, and with a murderous malice and forethought of evil? The man listened to her gravely, with a kind of considerate patience in the look of his face, waited a moment, when she had finished, as one might wait from the habit of politeness,

and then without answering her, said, You have not answered my question, old trapper. I cannot answer it. I certainly can't answer it, friend, unless I know the circumstances of the killing. Whether it be killing, that'd be right, and there'd be killing, that'd be wrong. And unless I know the circumstances of the killing, my words would be like the words of a boy that talks in counsel without knowing what he's talking. If you killed a man, how did you kill him?

I killed him face to face, answered the man. He paused a moment and then repeated. repeated face to face why did you kill him asked the trapper had he done you wrong he was my friend said the man my friend true and tried had he done you a wrong persisted the trapper what is wrong asked the man i can't tell whether he had done me wrong nor nay i only know he had crossed my purpose stopped me from doing what i had set my heart on doing and what i set my heart on doing old man i can't tell whether he had done me to my purpose i had set my heart on doing old man i do. And the man's eyes darkened under the abundant brow, and the face tightened and contracted, as a rope when a strain is upon it. The man came between me and my purpose, he added. He stood up and faced me and said I should not do what I proposed to do, and should not have what I had sworn to have, and I killed him where he stood. It was astonishing how quietly the words were said, considering the tremendous energy of will which was charged into and through their quietness.

He had no right to do it, said the girl. He had no right to do it. It was none of his business, and you know it wasn't. And she spoke apparently to the man. Oh, sir, why do you not tell them that he was an intermeddler and meddled with what was none of his business? Kindled you to rage by his meddling and that you slew him in your wettler. rage thoughtlessly, unintentionally. Why do you not tell them these things? The man listened to her again, politely. There was a look of grave courtesy in his eye,

as he half turned his face and looked upon her as she was speaking. But beyond this, there was no recognition that he heard her. When she had finished, he turned his face again toward the trapper and said, "'Old trapper, you've not answered my question. a man a right to take life?" Certainly, answered the trapper. How? asked the man. In war, answered the trapper.

In any other way? queried the man. Yes, in self-defense. Any other cause? persisted the stranger. Not as a rule, answered the trapper. After this there was a silence. The girl's head dropped into her two palms, and for an instant her frame shook, as one contesting

the passage of a strong feeling that insists on expression. The three men made no motion, but sat silently gazing into the fire. For several minutes, the silence lasted. There are two living that will never forget that silence. Then the man lifted his face and said, Old Trapper, have you ever known remorse? I can't say I ever did, answered the Trapper, though I felt a lily-luny-eas-ard-de-le-in with the thiam-back. whose tracks I've found on the line of my traps. It has seemed to me sometimes in the evening and think on the matter over that perhaps a little less bullet and a little more scripture might have did just as well.

But a man is apt to be a little harsh in his anger. But I have an idea that the Lord makes some allowance for a man's doing when he's a good deal riled. That's where the mercy comes in. Yes, that's where the mercy comes in, isn't that boy? and the old man looked at Herbert. There is certainly where we need the mercy to come in, answered Herbert, but it were better that we acted so that the mercy need not be shown.

The man listened to Herbert's reply, with an expression of strong assent on his countenance, and then he turned to the trapper. You say, old man, that you never knew remorse. Happy has your life been because of it, and happy shall your life be to its close. I have known remorse. It is of fearful knowledge, as fearful as the knowledge of hell. Woe to the man that does an evil deed, that instant he is doomed, doomed to anguish.

His divinity punishes him. Within his bosom, the great tribunal, is instantly set up. The judge takes his seat, the witnesses are summoned, and the whole universe swarms to the trial. His memory is a torment, and all the forces of his mind suddenly concentrate in memory, the memory of one deed, or of many deeds, even as his sin has been soul or manifold. What torment, old man, is like the torment of one whose memory is confined wholly to his evil deeds? No one made any reply. The anguish of the man's speech made response impossible. Before I did the deed, he continued, after a pause, my memory took knowledge of all sweet things,

of all dear faces I have ever seen, of all generous and blessed deeds I had ever done. But after that, I could remember but one thing, the murderer, only one face, the face of him I killed, and all my life and the glory of it was thrown into black eclipse by that one terrible act. Before I did the deed, nature was a joy to me, but now in every star I see his countenance looking down upon me. In every flower I see his still cold face. The winds bear to me his voice, the water of those rapids, and the man stretched his hand out toward the flowing river, sounds to me like the rattle in his throat as he lay dying. How shall I find release, old man, how quit myself of this terrible curse? And the man's words ended in a groan.

The mercy of the Lord be great, replied the trapper, a greater than any deed a guilt did by mortal, great enough to cover you, friend, and your misdoing, as the mother covers the error of her child with her forgiveness. I know the mercy of the Lord is great, answered the man. I know his forgiveness covers all. But the old law, old as the world, old as guilt and justice, the law of life for life and blood for blood, has never been repealed. And this is the one comfort left for the noble, that however great the guilt, however wicked the deed, the atonement can be as great as the sin. He who dies pays all debts. He who has sent one to the grave, and goes to the grave voluntarily, goes into the arms of mercy.

I know not where else, with all his searching, man may surely find it. Again there was silence. Above, the stars shone warmly through the dusky gloom. The rapids roared, falling hoarsely through the darkness. A moaning ran along the pine-tops, the firelight flamed and flickered, and the flames flashed the four faces into sight that were grouped around the brands. At length the trapper said, What is it you having your heart to do, friend?

I took a life, answered the man, I must give one in return. I took a life, and my life is forfeited. This is my condemnation, and I pronounce it on myself. My judge is not above. My judge is within. In this the world finds protection, and in this the sinner finds release from sin. There is no other way, at least no other way. way so perfect. One man was great enough to die for the sins of others. They who would rise

to the level of his life must be great enough to lay down their life for their own sins. This is justice, and out of such true justice blooms the perfect mercy. To this, the man added thoughtfully, there is but one objection. What is the objection? asked Herbert. What is the objection, if one be great enough to make so great a sacrifice. The objection, answered the man, is found in this. It is so deep a sin to kill. It is so easy a thing to die.

For what is death? The ignorant dreaded because they do not analyze it. Their lack of thoughtfulness makes them cowardly, for death is going out of bondage into liberty. He who passes through the dark gate finds himself when he has passed, standing in the cloudless sunshine. In dying, the powerful become glad, the small become greater, and if they die rightly, the sinful becomes sinless.

If a great motive prompts us to death, it is the perfect regeneration. Entering thus the new life, man is born anew, and so in punishment the great law of mercy stands revealed, and sin leads up to sinlessness. In such travail of soul, he is born anew. He who suffers through suffering is satisfied. It is sublime philosophy, exclaimed Herbert, but few are great enough to practice it. Rather, sir, exclaimed the man, few are knowing enough to accept it. The eyes of men, through their ignorance, are blinded by fear, and they see not the delivering

gates, though they stand facing the open passage. Well, life is sweet. The words fell from the lips. of Herbert as if they spoke themselves. To the innocent, life is sweet, answered the man, but to the guilty, life is bitterness. The world was not made for the guilty, the beauties and glories of it, were not for them. The universe is not sustained for them. Only for the good do things exist.

The breasts of life are full, but their nourishment is not for guilty lips to draw. I have seen the time when life was sweet. I have lived to see the time when life is bitter. Through death I go out of bitterness into sweetness. This is the mercy that is unto all, and which all can take. Take freely. Some get it through another. All might get it through themselves.

Is a violent deed to kill oneself, said the trapper. You mistake, answered the man. There is a coarse, rude way. there is a fine, noble way. I have power, said the man, to lay down my life, and I have power to take it again. Do you not think, old trapper, that a man can die when he wills? I don't understand you, answered the trapper. The soul rules the body, replied the stranger.

The soul is not bound to the body. It lives in it as a man lives in his house. My body is only my environment. I can quit it at will. I can go out of it. Do you mean to say? asked Herbert, that we can leave our bodies through determination of purpose

and mental decision. There have been such cases, answered the man, and such cases there might be continually. If the relations between the soul and the body are recognized and the supreme authority of the one over the other

allowed full action, the soul can do anything it pleases. It can come and it can go. This is my faith. While the foregoing conversation was being conducted, the girl had remained silent. Herbert sat opposite to her, and as the firelight flamed her face into sight, he could not but note the expression of it. The look of her face was that of one who was listening to what she had heard before, perhaps many times before, and which, upon the hearing, she had combated and was determined to continue to combat. And at this point she suddenly spoke up. I think, sir, and she lifted her eyes to the face of the man, that the living should live for the living rather than die

for the dead. For the dead have no wants, neither of the body nor of the heart, neither of the mind nor the soul. For if they want, God feeds them. But the living want and crave and have deep needs, and God feeds not at all, unless through us who live. It is our duty to do and not to die. The words were clearly and slowly spoken, spoken in a quiet but determined tone. The old trapper raised his face and looked at the girl as if surprised at the wisdom of her speech. Herbert was already looking at her. The man slowly turned his face towards her and said, Mary, we have argued that point before. The tone in which he spoke was not one of rebuke, and yet it conveyed the idea that the point was settled and was not to be reopened.

The girl waited a moment respectfully, as if she felt profound deference for the other's character and would not willingly oppose his wish, and then she said, I know, sir, we have discussed it before, but it is not settled and never can be settled, for it sets in comparison the value of two lives, the one that was and the one that is, and I say that there are lives, of which yours is one, that belong to others and cannot be disposed of as if they were a selfish thing, and life is a truer atonement for sin than death. you owe more than one debt, and you have no right to pay the one, however great it is, if by the paying of that you leave the other unpaid.

Fran, said the trapper, the girl speaks wisdom. Leastways she brings matter into the council which men of gravity should not overlook. The liven certainly have claims. What can you say to her speech? For a moment the man made no reply, and then he said, my philosophy is based upon a sentiment, a sentiment born of conscience, and conscience makes duty for us all. There is no reasoning against conscience. It is the voice of God, the only God we have. My conscience tells me that there is but one atonement that I can make.

There is no election. I must do it. What good, said Herbert, addressing the man, what good will you do by dying? I shall satisfy myself, said the man. And what right have you to satisfy yourself in such a matter? exclaimed the girl. What right have any of us to satisfy ourselves? What right have we to be selfish in our death any more than in our life? Oh, sir, if you saw rightly, you would see that you had no right to satisfy yourself

in this dreadful way. You should satisfy others. They need you, even as the poor need the rich, as the weak need the strong, as those who are prone because they cannot lift themselves, need one who is strong enough to lift them. It is not heroic to die unless the full object of life is met by the dying. It is heroic to live, because it is harder than dying. Even death dedicated to atonement can be a greater sin than the deed which one would atone. i know not how the girl has such wisdom said the trapper for she be young and yet she certainly seems to me to have the right of it i know not who you be nor how many look to you for help but if you be one that can help and that there be many that need your help i certainly concede that you should live live to help him

you say right you say right old man exclaimed the girl his life is not a common life it represents such power and faculty and opportunity and I may say such devotion to the many that it does not belong to him, and may not therefore be disposed up as if he owned it himself and had the right to do with it as he pleased. I do not say, answered the man, that I own my life. I say, rather, that I do not own it. I owe it. There are debts you cannot pay by life. The laws of the whole world recognize this, nor do we do by living the greatest service. He who dies to uphold a righteous principle fulfills all righteousness. He who gives away a life in atonement for a life taken makes all life more sacred,

and so he serves the living beyond all other service he might do. She looks at individuals. I observe principles. She contemplates only the present. I forecast the future needs of man. Moreover, the highest service one can do man is to serve himself in the highest manner. He who ministers to his own sense of justice strengthens the judicial sense of the world. Men overvalue life when they suppose that there is nothing better.

To teach them that there is something better, to impress them by some signal event that there is something higher and nobler than mere living, is to fulfill all benevolence to their souls. How many the Savior could feed and heal and bless by avoiding Calvary, and yet he did not avoid it. He showed the object of life, which is service. I trust I have not wholly failed to show men that. He then showed the highest object of dying, which is service. Why should I not imitate him? Why should I not be a law unto myself, and bear the penalty voluntarily? The man rose to his feet, as he concluded, and looked at the trapper and Herbert, and said, Gentlemen, I thank you for your hospitality and courtesy.

And turning to the girl, he said, Mary, we will talk this matter over more fully by ourselves. And then he bowed to the group and turned away. Four. Long after the man and the girl had departed, the trapper and Herbert sat by their campfire, discussing the question which their guest had propounded. Their conversation was grave and deliberate, as became the theme, and they united in the opinion that if the deed had been done in anger elicited by provocation, the man should give himself

the favor which the law even would allow under similar circumstances. I tell you, Herbert, said the strapper. The girl said the man had cause, leastwise that the man whom he struck worried him to it, and that the blow was given in anger. Now, hot blood is hot blood, and cold blood is cold blood, and if a man killed another man in cold blood, it'd be murder. The law says so, and what is better, nature says so. But if a man kill another man in its anger, when his blood is up and he is strongly provoked to it, the law says there be a difference, and it isn't murder.

And I concede that the girl be right, that the man had no right in nature or law either to murder himself, because in his anger he murdered another man. and besides continued the old man after a moment's pause during which he had evidently made an effort at memory if there be any wrath in the case it belonged to the lord and not to man you may recall the verse henry vengeance is mine i will repay saith the lord such was the quotation herbert made certainly certainly answered the trapper that is it vengeance is the lord's and he is the one that can handle it rightly and the man had better leave it to the Lord. For several moments Herbert made no reply, and then, as if speaking to himself more than his companion, he said, How the girl loves him. You've headed, Henry, answered the trapper promptly. Yes, you've headed at the center, unnoted her face, the look in her eyes and the earnestness of her voice. There's no doubt about the matter of the loving. She is one of

the quiet kind, boy, and she has got the faculty of listening a long time, which is isn't natural to a woman, but when she speaks, you can see what she is. She has a quiet face, but a determined spirit of seeds several of the same sort, seed them afore the battle, and ardor the battle, and I know what's in the heart of the girl. Yes, I know what's in the heart of the girl, and the old man looked at his companion across the campfire. The young man returned his gaze and then said quietly, what is in the heart of the girl, John Norton? At the man dies, the girl dies too, answered the trapper,

and stooping, he pushed a brand into the center of the fire. It is awful to think so, replied the young man. It is awful to think that one so lovely should die so miserable. She belongs to the kind that does seem things, answered the shaper. But whether you can call her dying miserable, I certainly doubt, for there be some that can't die miserable owe into their feelings, and I've noted that them who die feel in a certain way die happy whenever they die,

but death means one thing to one and another thing to another. And the heart that has lost all is happy to go in search of it, even if it be along the trail that the sun never shines on. And so the two men sat and talked feeding the campfire with sticks occasionally as they talk, They wondered who the man was and whence he came, wondered if he would change his views, and if the girl could win him over to a rational way of looking at the deed that had been done, and the true way to atone for it, wondered if they could not assist her in her loving task when the morning came, talked and wondered and planned, and at last, wrapping their blankets around

them, they laid down to sleep. The last words spoken were by the trapper, and with, with these, we will be over in the morning, Herbert, and out the girl." And then they slept. Beyond the balsam thicket by another campfire, the girl and the man sat talking, talking of the deed that had been done, and the atonement demanded, and of the great future beyond this present life, the future that stretches away endlessly, the future of peace to some, perhaps to all. Who knows?

But there be some who think that the future that the future that. this life has in it such forces of education, such enlightenment to the understanding, such quickening to the conscience, such ripening of character, and that through its experiences, its trials, and its griefs, come such graces to the souls of those that leave it that when they pass they leave their worst self behind them, even as the germ leaves the shock out of which it sprouted, leaves the dull, damp ground, forever, while it groweth up into the sunlight in which it finds perfection. Mary, said the man, I have done with the past.

My mind turns wholly toward the future. I see it as the shipwrecked sailor sees the land, which if he can but reach, he will not only be beyond the storm that wrecks him, but beyond all storms forever. Companion of my joys and companion of my grief, companion in everything but in my sin, counsel with me with your eyes turned ahead you are innocent and innocence is prophetic what lies beyond this world and the life men live in it

what of good waits for him who gives up this life bravely and penitently and trusts himself to the decisions and the certainties of the great hereafter my master said the girl it is not for me to teach you you who are so much greater than i you who have been gifted with faculty and powers that have lifted you above men. What can I say to you save to repeat what you have said to me? Mary, he replied, talk to me from out your heart and not from out your mind. The prophecies that come to men from heaven, heaven has communicated through the emotions of the just and the pure, and not through the perceptions. Tell me of the faith of your heart, the heart which I know has been free of guile.

Tell me of the great hereafter, and what awaits me there." The hereafter," said the girl, and she lifted her eyes lovingly to the face of the man, the hereafter is the same as here, only larger, as things grown are larger than things ungrown. The future is to the present what the river is to the stream, what the stream is to the fountain. It is the flowing out and the flowing on, the widening and the deepening of what is. is there no gap no breakage no chasm or gulf between the here and the hereafter asked the man no said the girl there is no gap nor chasm nor gulf but continuity of progress and perfect sequence the connections between the known and the unknown are perfect the one does not end and the other begin time is the beginning of eternity and the brief time that men call a day is only a fraction of endlessness

There is no end to life, then, queried the man. End to life, exclaimed the girl. How can life in? Life changes its form, its embodiment, the location of its residence, but life is the breath of God, and when once breathed into the universe, and it has taken form and made for itself expression, who may annihilate it, who may take it out of existence? No, master, there is no end to life.

it is a sublime faith said the man and i have proclaimed it unto many but few have been great enough to receive the doctrine as a verity in theory they have received it but their superstition has robbed them of its mighty consolations but if we do not die but only pass forward as men go out of a city's gate along a road that has no end what fate befalls them does a change of nature come to them only such such a city's gate along a road that has no end what fate befalls them does a change of nature come to them only such as comes through growth, answered the girl. Shall I be just as I am when I have passed into the great future, he asked? You will be the same, answered the girl, only more abundantly yourself. We are all our life looking for ourselves, continued the girl, and few, if any, find themselves until they die. I don't understand, said the man.

I know the Lord is speaking through you, for you are uttering truth so great that at the utterance, they seem mysteries. Explain, as the teacher explains to the child she is trying to teach. I mean, answered the girl, that death is an enlightenment and a discovery. It will give us revelations of ourselves, for never do we find him save as we find him in his, and we are his. You will not know who and what you are, until you get far enough ahead, my master, to look back upon yourself. We must go up and go on a long way before we know what we are now. Here the conversation paused for a while, and nothing disturbed the profound silence, but the roar of the rapids, whose ceaseless sound swelled and sank in the silence like the

waves of the sea. At length the man said, have you thought of the land ahead? Is it real? And where is it? And what the life lived there? Why do you ask? ask me such questions answered the girl when you know that i have thought only as you have taught me to think am but repeating the faith i learned from your lips surely there is a land ahead or rather many lands lands and seas and blessed islands in the seas where the blessed live and loves and lovers and homes exquisitely and endlessly peaceful are there and men who have grown nobler than they were here and women far sweeter than their short life here might make them live and love in the lands ahead. The girl spoke low but earnestly, and her words sounded on the silent air like softly breathed music. So much did her sweet self possess her words. And the man listened as men listened to music when it comes softly and sweetly to their ears. Mary, said the man, you make the life ahead

seemed so sweet that I shrink from entering it, lest by so doing, I escape the punishment for my sin I would fain inflict upon myself. Oh, master! exclaimed the girl, you do mistake, for though I do believe all I have said and would trust myself to the far future as young eagles trust themselves to the warm air when they have grown equal to the joy of flight, yet the life of this earth is sweet, so sweet when the heart is satisfied that one might fear to exchange it for another as one fears to part with what fully satisfies, even though the promise of more abundant things is sure as God. It is sweet to breathe the heirs of the earth as health receives them. Tis sweet to live and love and serve in loving and find your happiness in giving it.

"'Tis sweet to teach and guide men up and on to wider knowledge and nobler living, "'to make them gentler and finer in their thoughts and happier-hearted. "'And, oh, my master, tis sweet to live with one you love. "'Be unto him a new life daily, and see him grow in your growth, matching it, "'and so go on in that perfect companionship that the future may give to us as the highest fortune, and having given has given its best and all. You shall live, answer the man, you shall live and have as you deserve, dear girl, and if I have taught you ought which being known as made or shall make your life on earth sweeter,

take it as my legacy to you. I had thought to leave you something more, perhaps something better, but that is past. I will not take your legacy and stay, answered the girl. I will rather take it and go with you, that where you are I may be with you. You have promised nothing, and I want no promise. I have only asked one thing, and only one thing now do I ask, and that you will not hold from me, for I have earned it, earned it by patient serving and by growth that you know came from you.

What is it that you ask? Tell me, replied the man, for you shall have it if it be in the power of my giving. companionship, answered the girl, the companionship of service. My mind must serve your mind, for only so may it find its growth for which it longs. You have led me from darkness to light, and into what future light you advance I must enter to. I love you as women love men, but I love you more than that. I love you for what you are, separated from what you can ever be to me. I love you as a mind.

I love you as a soul, I love you as a spirit, I love you with a purity, with an ambition, with a longing that men cannot interpret and earthly relations cannot express, but which God understands and which in His heaven I know there must be a name for, and a connection that is known through all the social life of heaven. It must not be, answered the man, I admit your claim, but it must not. not be. Why must it not be? asked the girl. The man hesitated a moment, and then he said, Because my future is uncertain. I dare not say what it will be. I care not what it is, answered the girl, whatever it is that I share, share because I cannot help it. It is not a question

of condition, but of presence. With you, I could bear all misery, yea, in the misery, find happiness. you, my heart could feel no joy throughout eternity. Master, my master, I love you so. And as she looked into the face of the man, there came to her countenance the expression of utter devotion, and in her large eyes, tears gathered, and having formed from them fell slowly. The man groaned aloud and said, alas, alas, my curse is doubled being brought on thee. There is no curse on on thee or me she answered you were but mortal and being sorely tempted did a wicked deed but no single deed can change the nature you are the same great man great in your goodness as you are great in power and my love too remains the same nay master it is greater you should stay and live and make atonement by living for you cannot live and not better men you can do deeds

that would wipe out the deadliest guilt but if you will not stay if to you it seems right to die and if only through death your sense of justice can be met and yourself find peace then neither will I stay but go go where thou goest yea I will sink or rise with thee go to this world or that I care not which or where if only I may go with thee and I pray pray thee not to think it hard for me to share thy journey. Why should I be left behind, and what might I have, thou being gone? What pleasure in all the world could I find, with thee out of it?

I have no home. Thy presence is my home. I have no kindred, and no loves await me anywhere. How could I have, loving thee? For in thee I have found father and mother, brother, and sister, and all sweet relationships. And so whither thou goest, let me go, and where thou stayest, let me stay. Do not resist me, but be persuaded and let me die with thee. So shall we, passing out of these mortal bodies in the selfsame hour, be together still.

The man made no response, but sat silently gazing at her face. In a moment the girl moved softly to his side and took his hand in hers, and so they sat together while the firelight died away, and the darkness enveloped them. But through the darkness the stars beamed mildly, as if they expressed the sweet mercy which the imaginations of men picture as throned above the azure, in whose blue field they stand suspended. What happened farther is known only to him whose eyes see through all darkness and to whom the night is as the day.

During the night the trapper started suddenly from his sleep. Was it a woman's cry he heard? Was it only such a sound as comes to us at times in dreams? He listened but heard nothing save the monotonous murmur of the rapids and the equally steady movement of the night breeze stirring through the pine tops. He listened and hearing nothing, lay down again and slept. The morning came, came as brightly and cheerfully,

as if the world knew no sorrow, and the men and women in it had no griefs. The morning came, but before it came, a wing darker than the shadow of the night, had passed over the world. For when the trapper and his companion visited the camp beyond the balsam thicket, they found the two lying side by side, the girl's head on the bosom of the man, and her right hand lying gently in his. No mark of violence on their bodies, no instrument of death near, lying as if they had fallen asleep, the man's countenance in grave repose, the girls blessedly peaceful, no name on either, no scrap of paper that might tell who they might be.

Perhaps the man's faith was true, perhaps the will has power to will itself, and all of life there is in us out of the body. Be this as it may, the trapper and his companion, only saw this. The unknown man in the prime of his strength, lying dead under the pines, and the girl in her loveliness lying dead by his side. End of Story 6. Story 7 of short stories of William Henry Harrison Murray. This liverbox recording is in the public domain.

Story 7, A Ride with a Mad Horse and a freight car by William Henry Harris Murray. It was at the Battle of Malvern Hill, a battle where the carnage was more frightful, as it seems to me, than in any this side of the Alleghenies during the whole war, that my story must begin. I was then serving as major in the Blankth Massachusetts Regiment, the old Blankth, as we used to call it, and a bloody time the boys had of it, too. About 2 p.m. we had been sent out to skirmish along the edge of the wood, in which, as our generals suspected, the rebs lay massing for a charge across the slope upon the crest of which our army was posted. We had barely entered the underbrush when we met the heavy formations of Magruder in the very act of

charging. Of course, our thin line of skirmishers was no impediment to those on rushing masses. They were on us and over us before we could get out of the way. I do not. not think that half of those running, screaming masses of men ever knew that they had passed over the remnants of as plucky a regiment as ever came out of the old Bay State. But many of the boys had good reason to remember that afternoon at the base of Malvern Hill, and I among the number. For when the last line of rebs had passed over me, I was left among the bushes, with the breath nearly trampled out of me, and an ugly bayonet gash through my thought. And mighty little consolation was it for me, at that moment, to see the fellow who ran me through,

lying stark dead at my side, with a bullet hole in his head, his shock of coarse black hair, matted with blood, and his stony eyes looking into mine. Well, I bandaged up my limb as best I might, and started to crawl away, for our batteries had opened, and the grape and canister that came hurtling down the slope passed but a few feet over my head. It was slow and painful work, as you can imagine, but at last, by dent of perseverance, I had dragged myself away to the left of the direct range of the batteries, and, creeping to the verge of the wood, looked off over the green slope. I understood by the crash and roar of the guns, the yells and cheers of the men, and that hoarse murmur,

which those who have been in battle know, but which I cannot describe in words, that there was hot work going on out there. But never have I seen. No, not in that three days desperate melee at the wilderness, nor at that terrific repulse we had at Cold Harbor, such absolute slaughter as I saw that afternoon on the green slope of Malvern Hill. The guns of the entire army were massed on the crest, and 30,000 of our infantry lay musket and hand in front. For 800 yards, the hill sank in easy to clench into the wood, and across this smooth expanse the Rebs must charge to reach our lines. It was nothing short of downright insanity to order men to charge that hill, and so his generals told Lee, but he would not listen to reason that day, and so he sent regiment

after regiment and brigade after brigade and division after division to certain death. Talk about Grant's disregard of human life, his efforts at Cold Harbor, and I ought to know, for I got a mini in my shoulder that day, was hopeful and easy work to what Lee laid on hills and Magruder's divisions at Malvern. It was at the close of the second charge, when the yelling mass reeled back from before the blaze of those 60 guns and 30,000 rifles, even as they began to break and fly backward toward the woods, that I saw from the spot where I lay a riderless horse

break out of the confused and flying mass, and, with mane and tail erect, and spreading nostril, came dashing obliquely down the slope. Overfallen steeds and heaps of the dead she leaped with emotion as airy as that of the flying fox, when fresh and unjaded, he leads away from the hounds, whose sudden cry has broken him off from hunting mice amid the bogs of the meadow. So this riderless horse came vaulting along. Now, from my earliest boyhood, I have had what horsemen call a weakness for horses. Only give me a colt of wild, irregular temper and fierce blood to tame, and I am perfectly happy. Never did lash of mine, singing with cruel sound through the air, fall on such a colt's soft hide. Never did yell or kick send his hot blood from heart to head,

deluging his sensitive brain with fiery currents, driving him into frenzy or blinding him with fear. But touches, soft and gentle as a woman's caressing words, and oats given from the open palm and unfailing kindness were the means I used to subjugate him. Sweet subjugation, both to him who subdues and to him who yields. The wild, unmanorly and unmanageable cult, the fear of horsemen the country round, finding in you not an enemy but a friend, receiving

his daily food from you, and all those little nothings which go as far with a horse as a woman, to win and retain affection, grows to look upon you as his protector and friend, and testifies in countless ways his fondness for you. So when I saw this horse with action so free and motion so graceful, amid that storm of bullets, my heart involuntarily went out to her and my feelings rose higher and higher at every leap she took from amid the whirlwind of fire and lead and as she plunged at last over a little hillock out of range and came careering toward me as only a riderless horse might come her head flung wildly from side to side her nostrils wildly spread her flank and shoulders flecked with foam her eyes dilating i forgot my wreaths my wreaths wound and all the wild roar of battle, and lifting myself involuntarily to a sitting posture as she swept grandly by, gave her a ringing cheer. Perhaps in the sound of a human voice of happy mood

amid the awful den, she recognized a resemblance to the voice of him whose blood moistened her shoulders, and was even yet dripping from saddle and housing. Be that as it may, no sooner had my voice sounded, then she flung her head with a proud upward movement into the air, swerved sharply to the left, neighed as she might do a master at morning from her stall, and came trotting directly up to where I lay, and pausing looked down upon me, as it were in compassion. I spoke again and stretched out my hand caressingly. She pricked her ears, took a step forward, and lowered her nose until it came in contact with my palm. Never did I fondle anything more tenderly.

Never did I see an animal which seemed so to court and appreciate human tenderness as that beautiful mare. I say beautiful. No other word might describe her. Never will her image fade from my memory while memory lasts. In weight she might have turned when well-conditioned, 950 pounds. In color she was a dark chestnut with a velvety depth and soft look about that. hair indescribably rich and elegant. Many a time have I heard ladies dispute the shade and

hue of her plush-like coat as they ran their white jeweled fingers through her silken hair. Her body was round in the barrel and perfectly symmetrical. She was wide in the haunches, without projection of the hip bones, upon which the shorter ribs seemed to lap. High in the withers as she was, the line of her back and neck perfectly curved, while her deep, over the deep, bleak shoulders and long, thick forearm, ridgy with swelling sinews, suggested the perfection of stride and power. Her knees across the pan were wide, the cannon bone below them, short and thin, the pasterns, long and sloping, her hoofs round, dark, shiny, and well set in. Her mane was a shade darker than her coat, fine and thin, as a thoroughbreds always is whose blood is without taint,

cross. Her ear was thin, sharply pointed, delicately curved, nearly black around the borders, and as tremulous as the leaves of an aspen. Her neck rose from the withers to the head imperfect curvature, hard, devoid of fat, and well cut up under the chops. Her nostrils were full, very full, and thin almost as parchment. The eyes from which tears might fall or fire flash, were well brought out, soft as a gazelles, almost human in their intelligence, while over the small bony head, ober neck and shoulders, yea, over the whole body, and cleaned down to the hoofs, the veins stood out as if the skin were but tissue paper, against which the warm blood pressed, and which it might at any moment burst asunder.

A perfect animal, I said to myself, as I lay looking her over, an animal. which might have been born from the wind and the sunshine so cheerful and so swift she seems an animal which a man would present as his choicest gift to the woman he loved and yet one which that woman wife or lady love would give him to ride when honour and life depended on bottom and speed all that afternoon the beautiful mare stood over me while away to the right of us the horse-tide of battle flowed and ebbed What charm, what delusion of memory, held her there? Was my face to her as the face of her dead master, sleeping asleep from which not even the wildest roar of battle, no, nor her cheerful nay at morning, would ever wake him? Or is there in animals some instinct answering to our intuition,

only more potent, which tells them whom to trust and whom to avoid? I know not, and yet some such sense, they may have, they must have, or else why should this mare so fearlessly attach herself to me? By what process of reason or instinct I know not, but there she chose me for her mastery, for when some of my men at dusk came searching and found me, and laying me on a stretcher started toward our lines, the mare, uncompelled, of her own free will, followed at my side, and all through that stormy night of wind and rain, as my men struggled along through the mud and mire toward Harrison's landing, the mare followed, and ever after, until she died, was with me, and was mine, and I, so far as man might be, was hers. I named her Goulner. As quickly as my wound permitted, I was transported to Washington, whither I took the mare with me. Her fondness for me grew daily, and soon became so marked as to cause universal comment.

I had her boarded while in Washington at the corner of Blank Street and Blank Avenue. The groom had instructions to lead her round to the window against which was my bed at the hospital twice every day, so that by opening the sash I might reach out my hand and pet her. But the second day, no sooner had she reached the street, then she broke suddenly from the groom and dashed away at full speed, I was lying, bolstered up in bed, reading, when I heard the rush of flying feet, and in an instant, with a loud, joyful neigh, she checked herself in front of my window.

And when the nurse lifted the sash, the beautiful creature thrust her head through the aperture and rubbed her nose against my shoulder like a dog. I am not ashamed to say that I put both my arms around her neck, and, burying my face in her silken mane, kissed her again and again. again. Wounded, weak, and away from home, with only strangers to wait upon me and scant service at that, the affection of this lovely creature for me, so tender and touching, seemed almost human, and my heart went out to her beyond any power of expression, as to the only being

of all the thousands around me who thought of me and loved me. Shortly after her appearance at my window, the groom who had divined where he would to find her, came into the yard, but she would not allow him to come near her, much less touch her. If he tried to approach, she would lash out at him with her heels most spitefully, and then, laying back her ears and opening her mouth savagely, would make a short dash at him, and as the terrified African disappeared around the corner of the hospital, she would wheel, and with a face bright as a happy child's come trotting to the window for me to pet her. I shouted to the groom to go back to the stable, for I had no doubt but that she would return to her stall when I closed the window.

Rejoiced at the permission, he departed. After some thirty minutes, the last ten of which she was standing with her slim, delicate head in my lap, while I braided her foretop and combed out her silken mane, I lifted her head and, patting her softly on either cheek, told her that she must go. I gently pushed her head out of the window and closed it, and then, holding up my hand with a palm turned toward her, charged her, making the appropriate motion to go away right straight back to her stable. For a moment she stood looking steadily at me with an indescribable expression of hesitation

and surprise in her clear, liquid eyes, and then, turning lingeringly, walked slowly out of the Yard. Twice a day, for nearly a month, while I lay in the hospital, did Golnir visit me. At the appointed hour, the groom would slip her head stall, and without a word of command, she would dart out of the stable, and, with her long leopard-like lobe, go sweeping down the street, and come dashing into the hospital yard, checking herself with the same glad-nay at my window. Nor did she ever once fail, at the closing of the sash, to return to her own. directly to her stall. The groom informed me that every morning and evening, when the hour of her visit drew near, she would begin to chafe and worry, and by pawing and pulling at the

halter, advertise him that it was time for her to be released. But of all exhibitions of happiness, either by beast or man, hers was the most positive on that afternoon when racing into the yard, she found me leaning on a crutch outside the hospital building. The whole core of nurses came to the door, and all the poor fellows that could move themselves, for Golnair had become a universal favorite, and the boys looked for her daily visits, nearly, if not quite as ardently, as I did.

Crawled to the windows to see her. What gladness was expressed in every movement! She would come prancing toward me, head and tail erect, and pausing rub her head against my shoulder while I patted her glossy neck. Then suddenly with a sidewise spring, she would break away and with her long tail elevated until her magnificent brush, fine and silken, as the golden hair of a blonde, fell in a great spray on either flank, and her head curved to its proudest arch, pace around me with that high action and springing step peculiar to the thoroughbred.

Then, like a flash, dropping her brush and laying back her ears, and stretching her nose straight out, she would speed away with that quick, nervous, low-lying action which marks the rush of racers. When side by side and nose-to-nose, lapping each other, with the roar of cheers on either hand, and along the seats above them, they come straining up the home stretch. Returning from one of these arrowy flights, she would come curvating, back, now pacing sideways, as on parade, now dashing her hind feet high into the air, and anon vaulting up and springing through the air, with legs well under her, as if in the act of taking a five-barred gate, and finally would approach and stand happy of her reward, my caress.

The war at last was over. Galner and I were in at the death with Charodon at the five forks. Together we had shared the pageant at Richmond and Washington, and never had I seen her in better spirits than on that day at the Capitol. It was a sight indeed to see her as she came down Pennsylvania Avenue. If the triumphant procession had been all in her honor and mind, she could not have moved with greater grace and pride. With dilating eye and tremulous ear, ceaselessly champing her bit, her heated blood bringing out the magnificent lacework of veins over her entire body now and then pausing and with a snort gathering herself back upon her haunches as for a mighty leap while she shook the froth from her bits she moved with a high

prancing step down the magnificent street they admired of all beholders cheer after cheer was given huzaa after huzaa rang out over her head from roofs and balcony bouquet after bouquet was launched by fair and enthusiastic admirers before her. And yet, amid the crash and swell of music, the cheering and tumult, so gentle and manageable was she, that, though I could feel her frame creep and tremble under me, as she moved through that whirlwind of excitement, no check or curb was needed, and the bridle lines, the same she wore when she came to me at Malvern Hill, lay unlifted on the pommel of the saddle, Never before had I seen her so grandly herself.

Never before had the fire and energy, the grace and gentleness of her blood, so revealed themselves. This was the day and the event she needed, and all the royalty of her ancestral breed, a race of equine kings, flowing as without taint or cross from him that was the pride and wealth of the whole tribe of desert rangers, expressed itself in her. I need not say that I shared her mood. I sympathized in her every step. I entered into her royal humors. I patted her neck and spoke loving and cheerful words to her.

I called her my beauty, my pride, my pet, and did she not understand me? Every word. Else why that listening ear turned back to catch my softest whisper, why the responsive quiver through the frame and the low happy nay. Well, I exclaimed, as I leaped from her back at the close of the review, Alas, that words spoken in lightest mood should portend so much, Well, Gunnar, if you should die, your life has had its triumph. The nation itself, through its admiring capital, has paid tribute to your beauty,

and death can never rob you of your fame. And I patted her moist neck and foam-flected shoulders, while the grooms were busy with head and loins. That night, our brigade made its bivouac just over a long bridge, almost on the identical spot, where four years before I had camped my company of three months volunteers. With what experiences of March and a battle were those four years filled? For three of these years, Gulnar had been my constant companion. With me, she had shared my tent and not rarely my rations, for an appetite she was truly human,

and my steward always counted her as one of our mess twice had she been wounded once at fredericksburg through the thigh and once at cold harbor where a piece of shell tore away a part of her scalp so completely did it stun her that for some months i thought her dead but to my great joy she shortly recovered her senses i had the wound carefully dressed by our brigade surgeon from whose care she came in a month with the edges of the wound so nicely united that the eye could with difficulty detect the scar this night as usual she lay up my side her head almost touching mine never before unless when on a raid and in face of the enemy, had I seen her so uneasy. Her movements during the night compelled wakefulness on my part. The sky was cloudless, and in the dim light I lay and watched her. Now she would stretch herself at full length and rub her head on the ground. Then she would start up, and, sitting on her haunches, like a dog,

lift one foreleg and paw her neck and ears. Anon she would rise to her feet and shake herself, walk off a few rods return and lie down again by my side. I did not know what to make of it, unless the excitement of the day had been too much for her sensitive nerves. I spoke to her kindly and petted her. In response, she would rub her nose against me and lick my hand with her tongue, a peculiar habit of hers, like a dog. As I was passing my hand over her head, I discovered that it was hot, and the thought of the old wound flashed into my mind, with a momentary fear that something might be wrong about her brain, but after thinking

it over, I dismissed it as incredible. Still I was alarmed. I knew that something was amiss, and I rejoiced at the thought that I should soon be at home where she could have quiet, and if need be, the rest of nursing. At length the morning dawned and the mare and I took our last meal together on southern soil, the last we ever took together. The brigade was formed in line for the last time, and as I rode down the front to review the boys, she moved with all her old battle, grace, and power. Only now and then, by a shake of the head,

was I reminded of her actions during the night. I said a few words of farewell to the men whom I had led so often to battle, with whom I had dared perils, not a few, and by whom, as I had reason to think, I was loved, and then gave him. with a voice slightly unsteady, the last order they would ever receive from me. Brigade, attention, ready to break ranks, break ranks. The order was obeyed, but ere they scattered, moved by a common impulse, they gave first three cheers for me, and then, with the same heartiness and even more power, three cheers for Goulnayr.

And she, standing there, looking with her bright, cheerful countenance, full at the men, pawing with her forefeet alternately the ground seemed to understand the compliment for no sooner had the cheering died away than she arched her neck to its proudest curve lifted her thin delicate head into the air and gave a short joyful my arrangements for transporting her had been made by a friend the day before a large roomy car had been secured its floor strewn with bright clean straw a bucket and a bag of oats provided and everything done for her comfort the car was to be attached to the through express in consideration of fifty dollars extra which i gladly paid because of the greater rapidity with which it enabled me to make my journey As the brigade broke up into groups, I glanced at my watch and saw that I had barely time to reach the cars before they started. I shook the reins upon her neck, and with a plunge, startled at the energy of my signal, away she flew. What a stride she had! What an elastic spring! She touched and left the earth as if her limbs were of spiral wire.

When I reached the car, my friend was standing in front of it, the gangplank was ready. I leaped from the saddle, and, running up the plank into the car, whistled to her, and she, timid and hesitating, yet unwilling to be separated from me, crept slowly and cautiously up the steep incline and stood beside me. Inside, I found a complete suit of flannel clothes with a blanket, and, better than all, a lunch basket. My friend explained that he had bought the clothes as he came down to the depot, thinking, as he said, that they would be much better than your regimentals,

and suggested that I'd doff the one and dawn the other. To this I assented the more readily as I reflected that I would have to pass one night at least in the car with no better bed than the straw under my feet. I had barely time to undress before the cars were coupled and started. I tossed the clothes to my friend with the injunction to pack them in my trunk and expressed them on to me and waved him my adieu. I arrayed myself in the nice, cool flannel and looked around.

The thoughtfulness of my friend had anticipated every want. An old cane-seated chair stood in one corner. The lunch basket was large and well supplied. Amid the oats I found a dozen oranges, some bananas, and a package of real Havana cigars. How I called down blessings on his thoughtful head, as I took the chair, enlighting one of the fine-flavored figaroes, gazed out on the fields, past which we were gliding, yet wet with morning dew.

As I sat dreamily admiring the beauty before me, Goulnar came, and resting her head upon my shoulder seemed to share my mood. As I stroked her fine-haired, satin-like nose, recollection quickened, and memories of our companionship in perils thronged into my mind. I rode again that midnight ride to Knoxville when Burnside lay entrenched, desperately holding his own, waiting for news from Chattanooga, of which I was the bearer, chosen by Grant himself because of the reputation of my mare. What writing that was! We started ten writers of us in all, each with the same message.

I parted company the first hour out with all save one, an iron-gray stallion of messenger blood. Jack Murdoch rode him, who learned his horsemanship from Buffalo and Indian huntings on the plains, not a bad school to graduate from. Ten miles out of Knoxville, the gray, his flanks dripping with blood, plunged up abreast of the mare's shoulders and fell dead, and Goulner and I passed through the lines alone. I had ridden the terrible race without whip or spur. With what scenes of blood and flight she would ever be associated.

And then I thought of home, unvisited for four long years, that home I left a stripling, but to which I was returning a bronzed and brawny man. I thought of mother and Bob, how they would admire her, of old Ben, the family groom, and of that one who shall be nameless, whose picture I had so often shown to Goner as the likeness of her future mistress. Had they not all heard of her, my beautiful mare, she who, who, came to me from the smoke and whirlwind, my battle gift. How they would pat her soft, smooth sides, and tie her mane with ribbons, and feed her with all sweet things from open and

caressing palm. And then I thought of one who might come after her to bear her name and repeat at least some portion of her beauty, a horse honored and renowned the country through because of the transmission of the mother's fame. About three o'clock in the afternoon, a change came over, Golnair. I had fallen asleep upon the straw, and she had come and wakened me with a touch of her nose. The moment I started up, I saw that something was the matter.

Her eyes were dull and heavy. Never before had I seen the light go out of them. The rocking of the car, as it went jumping and vibrating along, seemed to irritate her. She began to rub her head against the side of the car. Touching it, I found that the skin over the brain was hot as fire. Her breathing grew rapidly louder and louder. Each breath was drawn with a kind of gasping effort.

The lids with their silken fringe dropped wearily over the lustreless eyes. The head sank lower and lower until the nose almost touched the floor. The ears, naturally so lively and erect, hung lindex. and widely apart. The body was cold and senseless. A pinch elicited no motion. Even my voice was at last unheeded. To word and touch there came for the first time in all our intercourse, no response. I knew as the symptoms spread what was the matter. The signs bore all one way. She was in the first stages of frenitis or inflammation of the brain. In other words, my beautiful mayor was going mad. I was well versed in the anatomy of the horse, loving horses from my very

childhood. There was little in veterinary practice with which I was not familiar. Instinctively, as soon as the symptoms had developed themselves, and I saw under what frightful disorder Golnar was laboring, I put my hand into my pocket for my knife in order to open a vein. There was no knife there. Friends, I have met with many. surprises. More than once in battle and scout, have I been nigh death, but never did my blood desert my veins and settle so around my heart. Never did such a sickening sensation possessed me, as when standing in that car with my beautiful mare before me, marked with those horrible symptoms, I made that discovery. My knife, my sword, my pistols even, were with my suit in the care of

my friend, two hundred miles away. Hastily, and with trembling fingers, I searched my clothes, the lunch-basket, my linen. Not even a pin could I find. I shoved open the sliding door and swung my hat and shouted, hoping to attract some brakeman's attention. The train was thundering along at full speed, and none saw or heard me. I knew her stupor would not last long, a slight quivering of the lip, and a occasional spasm running through the frame, told me too plainly that the stage of frenzy

would soon begin. "'My God!' I exclaimed in despair, as I shut the door and turned toward her. Must I see you die, Golnair, when the opening of a vein would save you? Have you borne me, my pet, through all these years of peril, the icy chill of winter, the heat and torment of summer, and all the thronging dangers of a hundred bloody battles, only to die torn by fierce agonies when so near a peaceful home. But little time was given me to mourn. My life was soon to be in peril, and I must summon up the utmost power of eye and limb to escape the violence of my frenzied mare. Did you ever see a mad horse when his madness is on him? Take your stand with me in that car, and you shall see what suffering a dumb creature can endure before it dies. In no malady does a horse suffer more than in frenitis or inflammation of the brain.

Possibly in severe cases of colic, probably in rabies in its fiercest form, the pain is equally intense. These three are the most agonizing of all the diseases to which the noblest of animals is exposed. Had my pistols been with me, I should then and there, with whatever strength heaven granted, have taken my companion's life, that she might be spared the suffering which was so soon to rack and ring her sensitive frame. A horse laboring under an attack of frenitis is as violent as a horse can be. He is not ferocious as is one in a fit of rabies. He may kill his master, but he does it without design. There is in him no desire of mischief for its own sake,

no cruel cunning, no stratagem and malice. A rabid horse is conscious, in every act in motion. He recognizes the man he destroys. There is in him an insane desire to kill. Not so with the frenetic horse. He is unconscious of his violence. He sees and recognizes no one.

There is no method or purpose in his madness. He kills without knowing it. I knew what was coming. I could not jump out. That would be certain death. I must abide in the car and take my mind. chance of life. The car was fortunately high, long, and roomy. I took my position in front of my horse, watchful, and ready to spring. Suddenly, her lips, which had been closed, came open with

a snap as if an electric shock had passed through her, and the eyes, wild in their brightness, stared directly at me. And what eyes they were! The membrane grew red and redder until it was of the color of blood, standing out in frightful contrast with the transparency of the cornea. The pupil gradually dilated until it seemed about to burst out of the socket. The nostrils which had been sunken and motionless, quivered, swelled, and glowed. The respiration became short, quick and gasping. The limp and dripping ears stiffened and stood erect, pricked sharply forward as if to catch the slightest sound.

Spasms, as the car swerved and vibrated, ran along her frame. More horrid than all, the lips slowly contracted, and the white, sharp-edged teeth stood uncovered, giving an indescribable look of ferocity to the partially opened mouth. The car suddenly reeled as it dashed around a curve, swaying her almost off her feet, and as a contortion shook her, she recovered herself, and rearing upward as high as the car permitted, plunged directly at me.

I was expecting the movement and dodged. Then followed Exhibition of Pain which I pray God I may never see again. Time and again did she dash herself upon the floor and roll over and over, ladling out her feet in all directions. Pausing a moment, she would stretch her body to its extreme length, and lying upon her side, pound the floor with her head as if it were a mall. Then, like a flash, she would leap to her feet and whirl around and around, until, from very giddiness, she would stagger and fall.

She would lay hold of the straw with her teeth and shake it as a dog shakes a struggling woodchuck. Then, dashing it from her mouth, she would seize hold of her own sides and send herself. springing up, she would rush against the end of the car, falling all in a heap from the violence of the concussion. For some fifteen minutes without intermission, the frenzy lasted. I was nearly exhausted. My efforts to avoid her mad rushes, the terrible tension of my nervous system produced by the spectacle of such exquisite and prolonged suffering, were weakening me beyond what I should have thought it possible an hour before.

for anything to weaken me. In fact, I felt my strength leaving me. A terror such as I had never yet felt was taking possession of my mind. I sickened at the sight before me and at the thought of agonies yet to come. My God, I exclaimed, must I be killed by my own horse in this miserable car?

Even as I spoke, the end came. The mare raised herself until her shoulders touched the roof, then dashed her body upon the floor with a violence which threatened the stout frame beneath her. I leaned, panting and exhausted, against the side of the car. Goulner did not stir. She lay motionless, her breath coming and going in lessening respirations. I tottered toward her, and as I stood above her, my ear detected a low, gurgling sound.

I cannot describe the feeling that followed. Joy and grief contended within me. I knew the meaning of that sound. Golnar, in her frenzied violence, had broken a blood vessel and was bleeding internally. Pain and life were passing away together. I knelt down by her side. I laid my head upon her shoulders and sobbed aloud. Her body moved a little beneath me.

I crawled forward and lifted her beautiful head into my lap. Oh, for one more sign of recognition before she died. I smoothed the tangled masses of her mane. I wiped with a fragment of my coat, torn in the struggle, the blood which oozed from her nostril. I called her by name. My desire was granted. In a moment Golner opened her eyes.

The redness of frenzy had passed out of them. She saw and recognized me. I spoke again. Her eye lighted. a moment with the old and intelligent look of love. Her ear moved, her nostril quivered gently as she strove to neigh. The effort was in vain. Her love was greater than her strength. She moved her head a little, as if she would be nearer me, looked once more with her clear eyes into my face, breathed a long breath, straightened her shapely limbs, and died.

And there, holding the head of my dead mare in my lap, while the good one of my dearer in my lap, while the great warm tears fell one after another down my cheeks. I sat until the sun went down, the shadows darkened in the car, and night drew her mantle, colored like my grief, over the world. End of Story 7. End of Short Stories William Henry Harris Murray