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Title: Kentucky in American Letters, v. 2 of 2 - 1784-1912
Author: Townsend, John Wilson, 1885-1968
Language: English
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  _Richard Hickman Menefee._ 1907
  _Kentuckians in History and Literature._ 1907
  _The Life of James Francis Leonard._ 1909
  _Kentucky: Mother of Governors._ 1910
  _Lore of the Meadowland._ 1911










_Of this edition one thousand sets have been printed, of which
this is number_



   Mary Katherine Bullitt
  Samuel Judson Roberts
   and to their memories


  JAMES N. BASKETT                                        1
    "I 'OVES 'OO BEST, 'TAUSE 'OO BEAT 'EM ALL"           2

  JAMES LANE ALLEN                                        4
    THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE                              13

  NANCY HUSTON BANKS                                     17
    ANVIL ROCK                                           18
    THE OLD FASHIONED FIDDLERS                           19

  WILLIAM B. SMITH                                       20
    THE MERMAN AND THE SERAPH                            24

  ANDERSON C. QUISENBERRY                                27
    THE DEATH OF CRITTENDEN                              27

  ROBERT BURNS WILSON                                    29
    LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER                     32
    WHEN EVENING COMETH ON                               32

  DANIEL HENRY HOLMES                                    36
    BELL HORSES                                          39
    MY LADY'S GARDEN                                     40
    LITTLE BLUE BETTY                                    42
    THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL                         44
    MARGERY DAW                                          45

  WILLIAM H. WOODS                                       47
    SYCAMORES                                            48

  ANDREW W. KELLEY                                       49
    THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY                          50
    LATE NEWS                                            52

  YOUNG E. ALLISON                                       53
    ON BOARD THE DERELICT                                54

  HESTER HIGBEE GEPPERT                                  57
    THE GARDENER AND THE GIRL                            58

  HENRY C. WOOD                                          60
    THE WEAVER                                           61

  WILLIAM E. CONNELLEY                                   63
    KANSAS HISTORY                                       65

  CHARLES T. DAZEY                                       67
    THE FAMOUS KNOT-HOLE                                 70

  JOHN P. FRUIT                                          72
    THE CLIMAX OF POE'S POETRY                           72

  HARRISON ROBERTSON                                     74
    TWO TRIOLETS                                         75
    STORY OF THE GATE                                    75

  INGRAM CROCKETT                                        77
    AUDUBON                                              78
    THE LONGING                                          79
    DEAREST                                              80

  ELIZA CALVERT OBENCHAIN                                81
    "SWEET DAY OF REST"                                  82

  KATE SLAUGHTER MCKINNEY                                85
    A LITTLE FACE                                        85

  CHARLES J. O'MALLEY                                    86
    ENCELADUS                                            88
    NOON IN KENTUCKY                                     90

  LANGDON SMITH                                          91
    EVOLUTION                                            92

  WILL J. LAMPTON                                        98
    THESE DAYS                                           98
    OUR CASTLES IN THE AIR                               99
    CHAMPAGNE                                           100

  MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO                              101
    LAZY LOUISVILLE                                     102

  MARY R. S. ANDREWS                                    104
    THE NEW SUPERINTENDENT                              106

  ELVIRA MILLER SLAUGHTER                               110
    THE SOUTH AND SONG                                  111
    SUNDOWN LANE                                        113

  JOSEPH S. COTTER                                      115
    NEGRO LOVE SONG                                     115

  ETHELBERT D. WARFIELD                                 116
    CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS                                117

  EVELYN S. BARNETT                                     119
    THE WILL                                            119

  JOHN PATTERSON                                        123
    A CLUSTER OF GRAPES                                 124
    CHORAL ODE FROM EURIPIDES                           125

  WILLIAM E. BARTON                                     126
    A WEARY WINTER                                      128

  BENJ. H. RIDGELY                                      129
    A KENTUCKY DIPLOMAT                                 131

  ZOE A. NORRIS                                         135
    THE CABARET SINGER                                  137
    IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS                            138

  LUCY CLEAVER MCELROY                                  139
    OLD ALEC HAMILTON                                   140

  MARY F. LEONARD                                       142
    GOODBY                                              143

  JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER                                   144
    THE CALL OF THE DRUM                                146

  OSCAR W. UNDERWOOD                                    150
    THE PROTECTION OF PROFITS                           151

  ELIZABETH ROBINS                                      156
    A PROMISING PLAYWRIGHT                              158

  ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE                                162
    MAN A PRODUCT OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE                163

  ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON                                165
    THE MAGIC KETTLE                                    167

  EVA A. MADDEN                                         170
    THE END OF "THE I CAN SCHOOL"                       170

  JOHN FOX, JR.                                         172
    THE CHRISTMAS TREE ON PIGEON                        176

  FANNIE C. MACAULAY                                    181
    APPROACHING JAPAN                                   183

  JAMES D. BRUNER                                       184
    THE FRENCH CLASSICAL DRAMA                          185

  MADISON CAWEIN                                        187
    CONCLUSION                                          191
    INDIAN SUMMER                                       192
    HOME                                                193
    LOVE AND A DAY                                      193
    IN A SHADOW GARDEN                                  195
    UNREQUITED                                          196
    A TWILIGHT MOTH                                     196

  GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN                                  198
    EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE                                199

  MARY ADDAMS BAYNE                                     202
    THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER                      203

  ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ                                205
    PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN                  207

  REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH                                 209

  CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT                                   211
    THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY                            213

  ABBIE CARTER GOODLOE                                  217
    A COUNTESS OF THE WEST                              218

  GEORGE LEE BURTON                                     222
    AFTER PRISON--HOME                                  223

  JAMES TANDY ELLIS                                     228
    YOUTHFUL LOVERS                                     229

  GEORGE HORACE LORIMER                                 230
    HIS SON'S SWEETHEART                                232

  SISTER IMELDA                                         233
    A JUNE IDYL                                         234
    HEART MEMORIES                                      235
    A NUN'S PRAYER                                      235

  HARRISON CONRAD                                       236
    IN OLD TUCSON                                       236
    A KENTUCKY SUNRISE                                  237
    A KENTUCKY SUNSET                                   237

  ALICE HEGAN RICE                                      238
    THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES                       239

  RICHARD H. WILSON                                     244
    SUSAN--VENUS OF CADIZ                               245

  LUCY FURMAN                                           247
    A MOUNTAIN COQUETTE                                 249

  BERT FINCK                                            254
    BEHIND THE SCENES                                   254

  OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN                                  255
    NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS                   258

  HARRY L. MARRINER                                     262
    WHEN MOTHER CUTS HIS HAIR                           263
    SIR GUMSHOO                                         264

  LUCIEN V. RULE                                        265
    WHAT RIGHT HAST THOU?                               265
    THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD                                  266

  EVA WILDER BRODHEAD                                   267
    THE RIVALS                                          269

  CORDIA GREER PETRIE                                   273
    ANGELINE JINES THE CHOIR                            274

  MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS                                279
    MRS. MOLLY MORALIZES                                281

  CALE YOUNG RICE                                       284
    PETRARCA AND SANCIA                                 285

  ROBERT M. MCELROY                                     289
    GEORGE ROGERS CLARK                                 290

  EDWIN D. SCHOONMAKER                                  293
    THE PHILANTHROPIST                                  294

  CREDO HARRIS                                          295
    BOLOGNA                                             295

  HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES                                  297
    THE BISHOP SPEAKS                                   298

  EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY                                  300
    THE RACE OF THE SWIFT                               301

  MILTON BRONNER                                        303
    MR. HEWLETT'S WOMEN                                 304

  A. S. MACKENZIE                                       305
   A KELTIC TALE                                        306

  LAURA SPENCER PORTOR                                  308
    THE LITTLE CHRIST                                   309
    BUT ONE LEADS SOUTH                                 310

  LEIGH GORDON GILTNER                                  311
    THE JESTING GODS                                    311

  MARGARET S. ANDERSON                                  318
    THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK                              318
    NOT THIS WORLD                                      319
    WHISTLER                                            320

  ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH                                    320
    UNREMEMBERING JUNE                                  321

  IRVIN S. COBB                                         323
    THE BELLED BUZZARD                                  327

  ISAAC F. MARCOSSON                                    343
    THE WAGON CIRCUS                                    344

  GERTRUDE KING TUFTS                                   345
    SHIPWRECKED                                         346

  CHARLES HANSON TOWNE                                  350
    SPRING                                              351
    SLOW PARTING                                        351
    OF DEATH                                            352

  WILLIAM E. WALLING                                    353
    RUSSIA AND AMERICA                                  354

  THOMPSON BUCHANAN                                     355
    THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP                         358

  WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT                                363
    AN ACTRESS'S HEART                                  364

  FRANK WALLER ALLEN                                    366
    A WOMAN ANSWERED                                    367

  VENITA SEIBERT                                        368
    THE ORIGIN OF BABIES                                369

  CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK                                  371
    THE DOCTRINE ACCORDING TO JONESY                    373

  GEORGE BINGHAM                                        375
    HOGWALLOW NEWS                                      377

  MABEL PORTER PITTS                                    379
    ON THE LITTLE SANDY                                 379

  MARION FORSTER GILMORE                                380
    THE CRADLE SONG                                     381

  APPENDIX                                              383

  MRS. AGNES B. MITCHELL                                385
    WHEN THE COWS COME HOME                             385



James Newton Baskett, novelist and scientist, was born near Carlisle,
Kentucky, November 1, 1849. He was taken to Missouri in early life by
his parents. He was graduated from the University of Missouri in 1872,
since which time he has devoted himself almost exclusively to fiction
and to comparative vertebrate anatomy, with ornithology as his
particular specialty. At the world's congress of ornithologists at the
Columbian Exposition in 1893, Mr. Baskett presented a paper on _Some
Hints at the Kinship of Birds as Shown by Their Eggs_, which won him the
respect of scientists from many lands. He has published three scientific
works and three novels: _The Story of the Birds_ (New York, 1896); _The
Story of the Fishes_ (New York, 1899); _The Story of the Amphibians and
Reptiles_ (New York, 1902); and his novels: _At You All's House_ (New
York, 1898); _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900); and his most recent
book, _Sweet Brier and Thistledown_ (Boston, 1902). Of this trio of
tales the first one, _At You All's House_, is the best and the best
known, Mr. Baskett's masterpiece hitherto. For the Texas Historical
Society he wrote, in 1907, a series of papers upon the _Early Spanish
Expedition in the South and Southwest_. With the exception of three
years spent in Colorado for the benefit of his health, Mr. Baskett has
resided at Mexico, Missouri, since leaving Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Athenaeum_ (July 28, 1900); _The Book Buyer_
    (October, 1900); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909,
    v. i).


[From _As the Light Led_ (New York, 1900)]

They had been boy and girl together, not schoolmates nor next-farm
neighbors, but their homes were in the same region. Her father's house
was far enough away to make the boy's visits not so frequent as to
foster the familiarity which breeds contempt, yet they gave him an
occasional little journey out of the humdrum of home lanes, and away
from the monotonous sweep of the prairie's flat horizon.

Hers was rather a timber farm, located on the other side of Flint
Creek, where the woods began to fringe out upon the treeless plain
again; but his was high out eastward upon the prairie swell, several
miles from water. From his place the wooded barrier between them
seemed only a brown level brush-stroke upon the sky's western margin.

Sometimes, when he was tired from his day's work afield, he watched the
sun sink behind this border, which the distance made so velvety; and, if
the day were clear, it looked to him as if the great glowing ball were
lying down upon a cushion for its comfort. If it set in a bank of cloud
or storm, it seemed to send up long streaming, reaching stripes, as if
it waved a farewell to the sky, and stretched a last grasp at the day as
it left it, or shot a rocket of distress as it sank.

When a child he had often sent her his good-will upon the westering
messenger, and he imagined that the beams, sometimes shot suddenly out
from beneath a low-hung cloudy curtain, were answers to his greetings.
Long after it was dreary at his place, he fancied the light was still
cuddling somewhere in the brush near her and that it was cheery yet
over there.

When he was seven and she was three, he was visiting at her house one
day. She was sitting on a bench in the old, long porch, shouting to
him, her elder brother, and some others, as they came toward her from
a romp out in the orchard. Suddenly Bent bantered the boys for a race
to the baby; and, swinging their limp wool hats in their hands, they
sped toward her. The child caught the jubilance of the race, and when
Bent dropped first beside her, she grabbed him about the neck, laid
the rose of her cheek against the tan of his, and said:

"I 'oves 'oo best, 'tause 'oo beat 'em all."

The act was an infant tribute to prowess, a bound here in babyhood of
the heart which wants but does not weigh; of the body which asks but
does not question. The boy felt his heart go to meet hers, so that the
little girl stood ever after as his idol. As time went on, his
reverence for her as a lisper grew as she became a lass; and though,
out of the dawning to them of what the years might bring, there came
eras of pure embarrassment, wherein their firmness and trust wavered a
little, yet confiding companionship came anew and stayed, till some
new revelation of each to self or other barred for a time again their
ease and intimacy. They were man and woman now, with a consciousness
of much that the grown-up state must finally mean to them, if this
continued. There was the freedom from embarrassment which experience
brings; but there came with all this a sort of proximity of hopes and
aims, which, burdened sweetly with its own importance, persisted with
a presage of a crisis down the line.

He could no longer ride up to her side as she left the stile at church,
and, without a previous engagement or the lubricant of a commonplace,
open a conversation right into the heart of things. When she responded
to him now it was with a shy sort of confidence which admits so much yet
defines so little. Yet never when they met did they fail to pick up the
thread, which tended to bind them closer and closer, and give it a
conscious snatch of greater strain, till, as either looked back at the
skein of incidents, there came a delightful feeling of hopeless
entanglement in this fibre of their fate. However, the ends of the
filament were free and floating yet, as the fray of a swirling gossamer
in the autumn wind. Day by day these two felt that these frayed ends
would meet sometime; and hold? or snap? and then? and then!

Nothing had ever strongly tried their attachment. Yet there was
creeping now into the heart of each a sort of heaviness--a wondering,
at least--if the other was still holding true to the childish troth; a
definite sort of mental distrust was abiding between them, along with
a readiness to be equal to anything which an emergency might bring.
But in their hearts they were lovers still.


[1] Copyright, 1900, by the Macmillan Company.


James Lane Allen, the foremost living American master of English
prose, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, December 21, 1849. His home
was situated some five miles from Lexington, on the old Parker's Mill
road, and it was burned to the ground more than thirty years ago. He
was the seventh and youngest child of Richard Allen, a Kentuckian, and
his wife, Helen Foster Allen, a native of Mississippi. Lane Allen, as
he was known in Kentucky until he became a distinguished figure in
contemporary letters, was interested in books and Nature when a boy
under his mother's tutelage. He was early at Kentucky University, now
rechristened with its ancient name, Transylvania. Mr. Allen was
valedictorian of the class of 1872; and five years later the degree of
Master of Arts was granted him, after an amusing quibble with the
faculty regarding the length of his oration, _The Survival of the
Fittest_. He began his career as teacher of the district school at the
rural village of Slickaway, which is now known as Fort Spring, about
two miles from his birthplace. He taught this school but one year,
when he went to Richmond, Missouri, to become instructor of Greek in
the high school there. A few years later he established a school for
boys at Lexington, Missouri. Mr. Allen returned to Kentucky to act as
tutor in a private family near Lexington; and in 1878, he was elected
principal of the Kentucky University Academy. He resigned this
position, in 1880, to accept the chair of Latin and English in Bethany
College, Bethany, West Virginia, which he occupied for two years, when
he returned once more to Lexington, Kentucky, to open a private school
for boys in the old Masonic Temple. In 1884 Mr. Allen discarded the
teacher's garb for that of a man of letters, and since that time he
has devoted his entire attention to literature.

While his kinsfolk and acquaintances regarded him with quiet wonder,
if not alarmed astonishment, he carefully arranged his traveling bags
and set his face toward the city of his dreams and thoughts--New York.
Once there he shortly discovered that it was a deal easier to get into
the kingdom of heaven than into the pages of the great periodicals,
yet he had come to the city to make a name for himself in literature
and he was not to be denied. His struggle was most severe, but his
victory has been so complete that the bitterness of those days has
been blown aside. The first seven or eight years of his life as a
writer, Mr. Allen divided between New York, Cincinnati, and Kentucky.
He finally quit Kentucky in 1893, and he has not been in the state
since 1898, at which time his _alma mater_ conferred the honorary
degree of LL. D. upon him. He now resides in New York.

Mr. Allen began with short essays for _The Critic_, _The Continent_,
_The Independent_, _The Manhattan_, and other periodicals; and he
contributed some strong and fine poems to _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The
Interior_, _Harper's Monthly_, _Lippincott's Magazine_, _The
Independent_, and elsewhere. But none of these represented the true
beginning of his work, of his career. His first short-story to attract
general attention was _Too Much Momentum_, published in _Harper's
Magazine_ for April, 1885. It, however, was naturally rather stiff, as
the author was then wielding the pen of a 'prentice. This was followed
by a charming essay, _The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky_, in
_Harper's_ for February, 1886, and which really pointed the path he
was to follow so wonderfully well through the coming years.

His first noteworthy story, _Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_, appeared in
_The Century Magazine_ for April, 1888. Then followed fast upon each
other's heels, _The White Cowl_; _King Solomon of Kentucky_, perhaps
the greatest short-story he has written; _Posthumous Fame_; _Flute
and Violin_; and _Sister Doloroso_, all of which were printed in the
order named, and in _The Century_, save _Flute and Violin_, which was
originally published in _Harper's Magazine_ for December, 1890. These
"Kentucky tales and romances" were issued as Mr. Allen's first book,
entitled _Flute and Violin_ (New York, 1891; Edinburgh, 1892, two
volumes). Many of the author's admirers have come to regard these
stories as the finest work he has done. As backgrounds for them he
wrote a series of descriptive and historical papers upon Kentucky,
originally published in _The Century_ and _Harper's_, and collected in
book form under the title of the first of them, _The Blue Grass Region
of Kentucky_ (New York, 1892). Up to this time Mr. Allen had written
nothing but short-stories, verses, and sketches. While living at
Cincinnati he wrote his first novelette, _John Gray_ (Philadelphia,
1893), which first appeared in _Lippincott's Magazine_ for June, 1892.
This is one of the author's strongest pieces of prose fiction, though
it has been well-nigh forgotten in its original form.

These three books fitted Mr. Allen for the writing of an American
classic, _A Kentucky Cardinal_ (New York, 1894), another novelette,
which was published in two parts in _Harper's Magazine_ for May and
June, 1894, prior to its appearance in book form. This, with its
sequel, _Aftermath_ (New York, 1895), is the most exquisite tale of
nature yet done by an American hand. It at once defies all praise, or
adverse criticism, being wrought out as perfectly as human hands can
well do. At the present time the two stories may be best read in the
large paper illustrated edition done by Mr. Hugh Thomson, the
celebrated English artist, to which Mr. Allen contributed a charming
introduction. _Summer in Arcady_ (New York, 1896), which passed
through the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ as _Butterflies_, was a rather
realistic story of love and Nature, and somewhat strongly drawn for
the tastes of many people. When his complete works appear in twelve
uniform volumes, in 1913 or 1914, this "tale of nature" will be
entitled _A Pair of Butterflies_.

_The Choir Invisible_ (New York, 1897), Mr. Allen's first really long
novel, was an augmented _John Gray_, and it placed him in the forefront
of American novelists. Mr. Orson Lowell's illustrated edition of this
work is most interesting; and it was dramatized in 1899, but produced
without success, as the author had prophesied. Later in the same year
_Two Gentlemen of Kentucky_ appeared as a bit of a book, and was
cordially received by those of the author's admirers who continued to
regard it as his masterpiece. _The Reign of Law_ (New York, 1900), a
tale of the Kentucky hemp-fields, of love, and evolution, was published
in London as _The Increasing Purpose_, because of the Duke of Argyll's
prior appropriation of that title for his scientific treatise. The
prologue upon Kentucky hemp strengthened Mr. Allen's reputation as one
of the greatest writers of descriptive prose ever born out of Europe. It
was widely read and discussed--in at least one quarter of the
country--with unnecessary bitterness, if not with blind bigotry.

_The Mettle of the Pasture_ (New York, 1903), which was first
announced as _Crypts of the Heart_, is a love story of great beauty,
saturated with the atmosphere of Kentucky to a wonderful degree, yet
it has not been sufficiently appreciated. For the five years following
the publication of _The Mettle_, Mr. Allen was silent; but he was
working harder than ever before in his life upon manuscripts which he
has come to regard as his most vital contributions to prose fiction.
In the autumn of 1908 his stirring speech at the unveiling of the
monument to remember his hero, King Solomon of Kentucky, was read; and
three months later _The Last Christmas Tree_, brief prelude to his
Christmas trilogy, appeared in _The Saturday Evening Post_. _The Bride
of the Mistletoe_ (New York, 1909), part first of the trilogy, is one
of the finest fragments of prose yet published in the United States.
It aroused criticism of various kinds in many quarters, one declaring
it to be one thing, and one another, but all agreeing that it was
something new and wonderful under our literary sun. The critics of
to-morrow may discover that _The Bride_ was the foundation-stone of
the now much-heralded _Chunk of Life School_ which has of late taken
London by the ears. Yet, between _The Bride_ and _The Widow of the Bye
Street_ a great gulf is fixed. Part two of the trilogy was first
announced as _A Brood of the Eagle_, but it was finally published as
_The Doctor's Christmas Eve_ (New York, 1910). This, one of Mr.
Allen's longest novels, was met by adverse criticism based on several
grounds, but upon none more pointedly than what was alleged to be the
unnatural precocity of the children, who do not appear to lightly flit
through the pages in a way that our old-fashioned conventions would
prescribe they should, but somewhat seem to clog the unfolding of the
tale. Whatever estimate one may place upon _The Doctor_, he can
scarcely be held to possess the subtile charm of _The Bride_. The
third and final part of this much-discussed trilogy will hardly be
published before 1914, or perhaps even subsequent to that date.

_The Heroine in Bronze_ (New York, 1912), is Mr. Allen's latest novel.
It is an American love story with all of the author's exquisite
mastery of language again ringing fine and true. For the first time
Mr. Allen largely abandons Kentucky as a landscape for his story, the
action being in New York. The phrase "my country," that recurs
throughout the book, succeeds the "Shield," which, in _The Bride of
the Mistletoe_, was the author's appellation for Kentucky. The sequel
to _The Heroine_--the story the boy wrote for the girl--is now

Twenty years ago Mr. Allen wrote, "Kentucky has little or no
literature;" and while he did not write, perhaps, with the whole
horizon of its range before him, there was substantial truth in the
statement. The splendid sequel to his declaration is his own
magnificent works. He pointed out the lack of merit in our literature,
but he did a far finer and more fitting thing: he at once set out upon
his distinguished career and has produced a literature for the state.
He has created Kentucky and Kentuckians as things apart from the
outside world, a miniature republic within a greater republic; and no
one knows the land and the people other than imperfectly if one cannot
see and feel that his conception is clear and sentient. With a light
but firm touch he has caught the shimmering atmosphere of his own
native uplands and the idiosyncrasies of their people with all the
fidelity with which the camera gives back a material outline.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Stories of James Lane Allen_, by L. W. Payne,
    Jr., in _The Sewanee Review_ (January, 1900); _James Lane Allen's
    Country_, by Arthur Bartlett, _The Bookman_ (October, 1900);
    _Famous Authors_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1901); _Authors of Our
    Day in Their Homes_, by F. W. Halsey (New York, 1902); _Social
    Historians_, by H. A. Toulmin, Jr. (Boston, 1911).


[From _The Outlook_ (December 19, 1908)]

We are witnessing at present a revival of conflict between two ideas
in our civilization that have already produced a colossal war; the
idea of the greatness of our Nation as the welded and indissoluble
greatness of the States, and the idea of the separate dignity and
isolated power of each sovereign commonwealth. The spirit of the
Nation reaches out more and more to absorb into itself its own parts,
and each part draws back more and more into its own Attic supremacy
and independence, feeling that its earlier struggles were its own
struggles, that its heroes were its own heroes, and that it has
memories which refuse to blend with any other memories. It will
willingly yield the luster of its daily life to the National sun, but
by night it must see its own lighthouses around its frontiers--beacons
for its own wandering mariner sons and a warning to the Nation itself
that such lights are sacred wherever they stand and burn.

But if the State more and more resists absorption into the Federal
life, then less and less can it expect the Nation to do what it
insists is its own peculiar work; the greater is the obligation
resting upon it to make known to the Nation its own peculiar past and
its own incommunicable greatness. Among the States of the Union none
belongs more wholly to herself and less to the Nation than does
Kentucky; none perhaps will resist more passionately the encroachments
of Federal control; and upon her rests the very highest obligation to
write her own history and make good her Attic aloofness.

But there is no nobler or more eloquent way in which a State can set
forth its annals than by memorializing its great dead. The flag of a
nation is its hope; its monuments are its memories. But it is also true
that the flag of a country is its memory, and that its monuments are its
hopes. And both are needed. Each calls aloud to the other. If you should
go into any land and see it covered with monuments and nowhere see its
flag, you would know that its flag had gone down into the dust and that
its hope was ended. If you should travel in a land and everywhere see
its flag and nowhere its monuments, you would ask yourself, Has this
people no past that it cares to speak of? and if it has, why does it not
speak of it? But when you visit a country where you see the flag proudly
flying and proud monuments standing everywhere, then you say, Here is a
people who are great in both their hopes and in their memories, and who
live doubly through the deeds of their dead.

Where are Kentucky's monuments for her battlefields? There are some;
where are the others? Where are her monuments for her heroes that she
insists were hers alone? Over her waves the flag of her hopes; where
are the monuments that are her memories?

This man whom you memorialize to-day was not, in station or
habiliment, one of Kentucky's higher heroes; his battlefield was the
battlefield of his own character; but the honor rightly heaped upon
him at last makes one remember how many a battlefield and how many a
hero remain forgotten. Not alone the fields and heroes of actual war,
but of civic and moral and scientific and artistic leadership. These
ceremonies--whom will they incite to kindred action elsewhere? What
other monuments will they build?

There is a second movement broader than any question of State or
National patriotism, in which these ceremonies also have their place.
It is the essential movement of our time in the direction of a new

No line of Shakespeare has ever been perhaps more quoted than this:
"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with
their bones." It is true that he put the words into the mouth of a
Roman of old; but they were true of the England of his time and they
remained true for centuries after his death. But within the last one
hundred years or less an entirely new spirit has been developed; a
radically new way of looking at human history and at human character
has superseded the old. The spirit and genius of our day calls for the
recasting of Shakespeare's lines: Let the evil that men do be buried
with them; let the good they did be found out and kept alive.

I wish to take one illustration of the truth of this from the history
of English literature.

Do you know when and where it was that satire virtually ceased to exist
in English literature? It was at the birthplace and with the birth of
Charles Darwin. From Darwin's time, from the peak on which he stood, a
long slope of English literature sinks backward and downward toward the
past; and on that shadowy slope stand somewhere the fierce satirists of
English letters. Last of them all, and standing near where Darwin stood,
is the great form of Thackeray. All his life he sought for perfection in
human character and never found it. He searched England from the throne
down for the gentleman and never found the gentleman. The life-long
quest sometimes left him bitter, always left him sad. For all of
Thackeray's work was done under the influence of the older point of
view, that the frailties of men should be scourged out of them and
could be. Over his imagination brooded the shadow of a vast myth--that
man had thrown away his own perfection, that he was a fallen angel, who
wantonly refused to regain his own paradise.

And now from the peak of the world's thought on which Darwin stood,
the other slope of English literature comes down to us and will pass
on into the future. And as marking the beginning of the modern spirit
working in literature, there on this side of Darwin, near to him as
Thackeray stood near to him on the other side, is the great form of
George Eliot. George Eliot saw the frailties of human nature as
clearly as Thackeray saw them; she loved perfection as greatly as he
loved perfection; but on her lips satire died and sympathy was born.
She was the first of England's great imaginative writers to breathe in
the spirit of modern life and of modern knowledge--that man himself is
a developing animal--a creature crawling slowly out of utter darkness
toward the light. You can satirize a fallen angel who willfully
refuses to regain his paradise; but you cannot satirize an animal who
is developing through millions of years his own will to be used
against his own instincts.

And this new spirit of charity not only pervades the new literature of
the world, but has made itself felt in every branch of human action.

It has affected the theatre and well-nigh driven the drama of satire
from the stage. Every judge knows that it goes with him to the bench;
every physician knows that it accompanies him into the sick-room;
every teacher knows that he must reckon with it as he tries to govern
and direct the young; every minister knows that it ascends with him
into his pulpit and takes wing with his prayer.

And thus we come back around a great circle of the world's endeavor to
the simple ceremony of this hour and place. There is but one thing to
be said; it is all that need be said; it is an attempt to burnish one
corner of a hero's dimmed shield.

It is autumn now, the season of scythe and sickle. Time, the Reaper,
long ago reaped from the field of this man's life its heroic deed; and
now after so many years it has come back to his grave and thrown down
the natural increase. On the day when King Solomon was laid here the
grass began to weave its seamless mantle across his frailties; but out
of his dust sprang what has since been growing--what no hostile hand can
pluck away, nor any wind blow down--the red flower of a man's passionate
service to his fellow-men when they were in direst need of him.

And so, long honor to his name! A new peace to his ashes!


[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, December 5, 1908)]

The stars burn out one by one like candles in too long a night.

Children, you love the snow. You play in it, you hunt in it; it brings
the tinkling of sleighbells, it gives white wings to the trees and new
robes to the world. Whenever it falls in your country, sooner or later
it vanishes: forever falling and rising, forming and falling and
melting and rising again--on and on through the ages.

If you should start from your homes and travel northward, after a
while you would find that everything is steadily changing: the air
grows colder, living things begin to be left behind, those that remain
begin to look white, the music of the earth begins to die out; you
think no more of color and joy and song. On you journey, and always
you are traveling toward the silent, the white, the dead. And at last
you come to the land of sunlessness and silence--the reign of snow.

If you should start from your homes and travel southward, as you crossed
land after land, in the same way you would begin to see that life was
failing, colors fading, the earth's harmonies being replaced by the
discords of Nature's lifeless forces, storming, crushing, grinding. And
at last you would reach the threshold of another world that you dared
not enter and that nothing alive ever faces--the home of the frost.

If you should rise straight into the air above your housetops, as
though you were climbing the side of an unseen mountain, you would
find at last that you had ascended to a height where the mountain
would be capped with snow. All round the earth, wherever its mountains
are high enough, their summits are capped with the one same snow; for
above us, everywhere, lies the upper land of eternal cold.

Some time in the future, we do not know when, but some time in the
future, the Spirit of the Cold at the north will move southward; the
Spirit of the Cold at the south will move northward; the Spirit of the
Cold in the upper air will move downward to meet the other two. When the
three meet there will be for the earth one whiteness and silence--rest.

       *       *       *       *       *

A great time had passed--how great no one knew; there was none to
measure it.

It was twilight and it was snowing. On a steep mountainside, near its
bald summit, thousands of feet above the line that any other living
thing had ever crossed, stood two glorious fir trees, strongest and last
of their race. They had climbed out of the valley below to this lone
height, and there had so rooted themselves in rock and soil that the
sturdiest gale had never been able to dislodge them; and now the twain
occupied that beetling rock as the final sentinels of mortal things.

They looked out toward the land on one side of the mountain; at the
foot of it lay a valley, and there, in old human times, a village had
thriven, church spires had risen, bridal candles had twinkled at
twilight. On the opposite side they looked toward the ocean--once the
rolling, blue ocean, singing its great song, but level now and white
and still at last--its voice hushed with all other voices--the roar of
its battleships ended long ago. One fir tree grew lower down than the
other, its head barely reached up to its comrade's breast. They had
long shared with each other the wordless wisdom of their race; and
now, as a slow, bitter wind wandered across the delicate green harps
of their leaves, they began to chant--harping like harpers of old who
never tired of the past.

The fir below, as the snowflakes fell on its locks and sifted closely
in about its throat, shook itself bravely and sang:

"Comrade, the end for us draws nigh; the snow is creeping up. To-night
it will place its cap upon my head. I shall close my eyes and follow
all things into their sleep."

"Yes," thrummed the fir above, "follow all things into their sleep.
If they were thus to sleep at last, why were they ever awakened? It is
a mystery."

The whirling wind caught the words and bore them to the right and to
the left over land and over sea:


Twilight deepened. The snow scarcely fell; the clouds trailed through
the trees so close and low that the flakes were formed amid the boughs
and rested where they were created. At intervals out of the clouds and
darkness the low musings went on:

"Where now is the Little Brother of the Trees--him of the long
thoughts and the brief shadow?"

"He thought that he alone of earthly things was immortal."

"Our people, the Evergreens, were thrust forth on the earth a million
ages before he appeared; and we are still here, a million ages since
he left, leaving not a trace of himself behind."

"The most fragile moss was born before he was born; and the moss
outlasted him."

"The frailest fern was not so perishable."

"Yet he believed he should have eternal youth."

"That his race would return to some Power who had sent it forth."

"That he was ever being borne onward to some far-off, divine event,
where there was justice."

"Yes, where there was justice."

"Of old it was their custom to heap white flowers above their dead."

"Now white flowers cover them--the frozen white flowers of the sky."

It was night now about the mountaintop--deep night above it. At
intervals the communing of the firs started up afresh:

"Had they known how alone in the universe they were, would they not
have turned to each other for happiness?"

"Would not all have helped each?"

"Would not each have helped all?"

"Would they have so mingled their wars with their prayers?"

"Would they not have thrown away their weapons and thrown their arms
around one another? It was all a mystery."


Once in the night they sounded in unison:

"And all the gods of earth--its many gods in many lands with many
faces--they sleep now in their ancient temples; on them has fallen at
last their unending dusk."

"And the shepherds who avowed that they were appointed by the Creator
of the universe to lead other men as their sheep--what difference is
there now between the sheep and the shepherds?"

"The shepherds lie with the sheep in the same white pastures."

"Still, what think you became of all that men did?"

"Whither did Science go? How could it come to naught?"

"And that seven-branched golden candlestick of inner light that was
his Art--was there no other sphere to which it could be transferred,
lovely and eternal?"

"And what became of Love?"

"What became of the woman who asked for nothing in life but love and

"What became of the man who was true?"

"Think you that all of them are not gathered elsewhere--strangely
changed, yet the same? Is some other quenchless star their safe

"What do we know; what did he know on earth? It was a mystery."

"It was all a mystery."

If there had been a clock to measure the hour it must now have been
near midnight. Suddenly the fir below harped most tenderly:

"The children! What became of the children? Where did the myriads of
them march to? What was the end of the march of the earth's children?"

"Be still!" whispered the fir above. "At that moment I felt the soft
fingers of a child searching my boughs. Was not this what in human
times they called Christmas Eve?"

"Hearken!" whispered the fir below. "Down in the valley elfin horns
are blowing and elfin drums are beating. Did you hear that--faint and
far away? It was the bells of the reindeer! It passed: it was the
wandering soul of Christmas."

Not long after this the fir below struck its green harp for the last

"Comrade, it is the end for me. Good-night!"

Silently the snow closed over it.

The other fir now stood alone. The snow crept higher and higher. It
bravely shook itself loose. Late in the long night it communed once
more, solitary:

"I, then, close the train of earthly things. And I was the emblem of
immortality; let the highest be the last to perish! Power, that put
forth all things for a purpose, you have fulfilled, without explaining
it, that purpose. I follow all things into their sleep."

In the morning there was no trace of it.

The sun rose clear on the mountaintops, white and cold and at peace.

The earth was dead.


[2] Copyright, 1908, by the Outlook Company.

[3] Copyright, 1908, by the Curtis Publishing Company.


Mrs. Nancy Huston Banks, novelist, was born at Morganfield, Kentucky,
about 1850. She is the daughter of the late Judge George Huston, who
for many years was an attorney and banker of her native town. When a
young woman Miss Huston was married to Mr. James N. Banks, now a
lawyer of Henderson, Kentucky. Mrs. Banks's first book, _Stairs of
Sand_ (Chicago, 1890), has been forgotten by author and public alike,
but shortly after its publication, she went to New York, and there she
resided at the Hotel St. James for many years. At the present time she
is living in London. She became a contributor to magazines, her
critical paper on Mr. James Lane Allen and his novels, which appeared
in _The Bookman_ for June, 1895, being her first work to attract
serious attention. A few years later Mrs. Banks dropped her magazine
work in order to write her charming novel of life in southern
Kentucky, _Oldfield_ (New York, 1902). This story was highly praised
in this country and in England, the critics of London coining a
descriptive phrase for it that has stuck--"the Kentucky Cranford." Her
next novel, _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903), was a worthy
follower of _Oldfield_. One reviewer called it "a blend of an
old-fashioned love story and an historical study." Mrs. Banks's most
recent novel is _The Little Hills_ (New York, 1905). The opening words
of this story: "The air was the breath of spice pinks," was seized
upon by the critics and set up as a sign-post for the book's tone.
Mrs. Banks has been a great traveler. She was sent to South Africa
during the Boer war by _Vanity Fair_ of London, and her letters to
that publication were most interesting. She knew Cecil Rhodes and
George W. Steevens, the war correspondent, and, with her beauty and
charm, she became a social "star" in the life about her. Mrs. Banks's
one eccentricity--according to the literary gossips of New York--is
her distaste for classical music; and that much of her success is due
to the fact that she knows how to handle editors and publishers, we
also learn from the same source. At least one of her contemporaries
once held--though he has since wholly relented and regretted
much--that, in a now exceedingly scarce first edition, she
out-ingramed Ingram! But, of course, that is another story.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1902); _The Nation_
    (February 5, 1903); _The Bookman_ (February, 1904).


[From _'Round Anvil Rock_ (New York, 1903)]

The courage and calmness which he had found in himself under this test,
heartened him and made him the more determined to control his wandering
fancy. Looking now neither to the right nor the left, he pressed on
through the clearing toward the buffalo track in the border of the
forest which would lead him into the Wilderness Road. Sternly setting
his thoughts on the errand that was taking him to the salt-works, he
began to think of the place in which they were situated, and to wonder
why so bare, so brown, and so desolate a spot should have been called
Green Lick. There was no greenness about it, and not the slightest sign
that there ever had been any verdure, although it still lay in the very
heart of an almost tropical forest. It must surely have been as it was
now since time immemorial. Myriads of wild beasts coming and going
through numberless centuries to drink the salt water, had trodden the
earth around it as hard as iron, and had worn it down far below the
surface of the surrounding country. The boy had seen it often, but
always by daylight, and never alone, so that he noted many things now
which he had not observed before. The huge bison must have gone over
that well-beaten track one by one, to judge by its narrowness. He could
see it dimly, running into the clearing like a black line beginning far
off between the bordering trees; but as he looked, the darkness
deepened, the mists thickened, and a look of unreality came over
familiar objects. And then through the wavering gloom there suddenly
towered a great dark mass topped by something which rose against the
wild dimness like a colossal blacksmith's anvil. It might have been
Vulcan's own forge, so strange and fabulous a thing it seemed! The boy's
heart leaped with his pony's leap. His imagination spread its swift
wings ere he could think; but in another instant he reminded himself.
This was not an awful apparition, but a real thing, wondrous and
unaccountable enough in its reality. It was Anvil Rock--a great,
solitary rock rising abruptly from the rockless loam of a level country,
and lifting its single peak, rudely shaped like a blacksmith's anvil,
straight up toward the clouds.


[From the same]

Those old-time country fiddlers--all of them, black or white--how
wonderful they were! They have always been the wonder and the despair
of all musicians who have played by rule and note. The very way that
the country fiddler held his fiddle against his chest and never
against his shoulder like the trained musician! The very way that the
country fiddler grasped his bow, firmly and squarely in the middle,
and never lightly at the end like a trained musician! The very way
that he let go and went off and kept on--the amazing, inimitable
spirit, the gayety, the rhythm, the swing! No trained musician ever
heard the music of the country fiddler without wondering at its power,
and longing in vain to know the secret of its charm. It would be worth
a good deal to know where and how they learned the tunes that they
played. Possibly these were handed down by ear from one to another;
some perhaps may have never been pent up in notes, and others may have
been given to the note reader under other names than those by which
the country fiddlers knew them. This is said to have been the case
with "Old Zip Coon," and the names of many of them would seem to prove
that they belonged to the time and the country. But there is a
delightful uncertainty about the origin and the history of almost all
of them--about "Leather Breeches" and "Sugar in the Gourd" and
"Wagoner" and "Cotton-eyed Joe," and so on through a long list.


[4] Copyright, 1903, by the Macmillan Company.


William Benjamin Smith, perhaps the greatest scholar ever born on
Kentucky soil, first saw the light at Stanford, Kentucky, October 26,
1850. Kentucky (Transylvania) University conferred the degree of
Master of Arts upon him in 1871; and the University of Göttengen
granted him his Doctor of Philosophy degree in 1879. Dr. Smith was
professor of mathematics in Central College, Missouri, from 1881 to
1885, when he accepted the chair of physics in the University of
Missouri. In 1888 he was transferred to the department of mathematics
in the same institution, which he held until 1893, when he resigned
to accept a similar position at Tulane University. In 1906 Dr. Smith
was elected head of the department of philosophy at Tulane, which
position he holds at the present time. He was a delegate of the United
States government to the first Pan-American Scientific Congress, held
at Santiago, Chile, in 1908. Dr. Smith is the author of the following
books, the very titles of which will show his amazing versatility:
_Co-ordinate Geometry_ (Boston, 1885); _Clew to Trigonometry_ (1889);
_Introductory Modern Geometry_ (New York, 1893); _Infinitesimal
Analysis_ (New York, 1898); _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905), a
stirring discussion of the Negro problem from a rather new
perspective; two theological works, written originally in German, _Der
Vorchristliche Jesus_ (Jena, Germany, 1906); and _Ecce Deus_ (Jena,
Germany, 1911), the English translation of which was issued at London
and Chicago in 1912. These two works upon proto-Christianity have
placed Dr. Smith among the foremost scholars of his day and generation
in America. Besides his books he wrote two pamphlets of more than
fifty pages each upon _Tariff for Protection_ (Columbia, Missouri,
1888); and _Tariff Reform_ (Columbia, Missouri, 1892). These show the
author at his best. And his biography of James Sidney Rollins, founder
of the University of Missouri, was published about this time. During
the month of October, 1896, Dr. Smith published six articles in the
Chicago _Record_, on the sliver question and in defense of the gold
standard, which were certainly the most thorough brought out by the
presidential campaign of that year. Among his many public addresses,
essays, and articles, _The Pauline Codices F and G_ may be mentioned,
as well as his articles on _Infinitesimal Calculus_ and _New Testament
Criticism_ in the _Encyclopaedia Americana_ (New York, 1906); and he
compiled the mathematical definitions for the _New International
Dictionary_ (New York, 1908). Dr. Smith's fine poem, _The Merman and
the Seraph_, was crowned in the _Poet Lore_ competition of 1906. As a
mathematician, philosopher, sociologist, New Testament critic,
publicist, poet, and alleged prototype of _David_, hero of Mr. James
Lane Allen's _The Reign of Law_--which he most certainly was not!--Dr.
Smith stands supreme among the sons of Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (June, 1905); _The Nation_
    (November 23, 1911).


[From _The Color Line_ (New York, 1905)]

It is idle to talk of education and civilization and the like as
corrective or compensative agencies. All are weak and beggarly as over
against the almightiness of heredity, the omniprepotence of the
transmitted germ-plasma. Let this be amerced of its ancient rights,
let it be shorn in some measure of its exceeding weight of ancestral
glory, let it be soiled in its millenial purity and integrity, and
nothing shall ever restore it; neither wealth, nor culture, nor
science, nor art, nor morality, nor religion--not even Christianity
itself. Here and there these may redeem some happy spontaneous
variation, some lucky freak of nature; but nothing more--they can
never redeem the race. If this be not true, then history and biology
are alike false; then Darwin and Spencer, Haeckel and Weismann, Mendel
and Pearson, have lived and laboured in vain.

Equally futile is the reply, so often made by our opponents, that
miscegenation has already progressed far in the Southland, as witness
millions of Mulattoes. Certainly; but do not such objectors know in
their hearts that their reply is no answer, but is utterly irrelevant?
We admit and deplore the fact that unchastity has poured a broad stream
of white blood into black veins; but we deny, and perhaps no one will
affirm, that it has poured even the slenderest appreciable rill of Negro
blood into the veins of the Whites. We have no excuse whatever to make
for these masculine incontinences; we abhor them as disgraceful and
almost bestial. But, however degrading and even unnatural, they in
nowise, not even in the slightest conceivable degree, defile the
Southern Caucasian blood. That blood to-day is absolutely pure; and it
is the inflexible resolution of the South to preserve that purity, no
matter how dear the cost. We repeat, then, it is not a question of
individual morality, nor even of self-respect. He who commerces with a
negress debases himself and dishonours his body, the temple of the
Spirit; but he does not impair, in anywise, the dignity or integrity of
his race; he may sin against himself and others, and even against his
God, but not against the germ-plasma of his kind.

Does some one reply that some Negroes are better than some Whites,
physically, mentally, morally? We do not deny it; but this fact,
again, is without pertinence. It may very well be that some dogs are
superior to some men. It is absurd to suppose that only the elect of
the Blacks would unite with only the non-elect of the Whites. Once
started, the _pamnixia_ would spread through all classes of society
and contaminate possibly or actually all. Even a little leaven may
leaven the whole lump.

Far more than this, however, even if only very superior Negroes formed
unions with non-superior Whites, the case would not be altered; for it
is a grievous error to suppose that the child is born of its proximate
parents only; it is born of all its ancestry; it is the child of its
race. The eternal past lays hand upon it and upon all its descendants.
However weak the White, behind him stands Europe; however strong the
Black, behind lies Africa.

Preposterous, indeed, is this doctrine that _personal excellence is
the true standard_, and that only such Negroes as attain a certain
grade of merit should or would be admitted to social equality. A
favourite evasion! _The Independent_, _The Nation_, _The Outlook_, the
whole North--all point admiringly to Mr. Washington, and exclaim: "But
only see what a noble man he is--so much better than his would-be
superiors!" So, too, a distinguished clergyman, when asked whether he
would let his daughter marry a Negro, replied: "We wish our daughters
to marry Christian gentlemen." Let, then, the major premise be, "All
Christian gentlemen are to be admitted to social equality;" and add,
if you will, any desired degree of refinement or education or
intellectual prowess as a condition. Does not every one see that any
such test would be wholly impracticable and nugatory? If Mr.
Washington be the social equal of Roosevelt and Eliot and Hadley, how
many others will be the social equals of the next circle, and the
next, and the next, in the long descent from the White House and
Harvard to the miner and the ragpicker? And shall we trust the hot,
unreasoning blood of youth to lay virtues and qualities so evenly in
the balance and decide just when some "olive-coloured suitor" is
enough a "Christian gentleman" to claim the hand of some
simple-hearted milk-maid or some school-ma'am "past her bloom?" The
notion is too ridiculous for refutation. If the best Negro in the land
is the social equal of the best Caucasian, then it will be hard to
prove that the lowest White is higher than the lowest Black; the
principle of division is lost, and complete social equality is
established. We seem to have read somewhere that, when the two ends of
one straight segment coincide with the two ends of another, the
segments coincide throughout their whole extent.


[From _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, 1906)]


       Deep the sunless seas amid,
       Far from Man, from Angel hid,
       Where the soundless tides are rolled
       Over Ocean's treasure-hold,
       With dragon eye and heart of stone,
       The ancient Merman mused alone.


       And aye his arrowed Thought he wings
       Straight at the inmost core of things--
       As mirrored in his magic glass
       The lightning-footed Ages pass--
       And knows nor joy nor Earth's distress,
       But broods on Everlastingness.

      "Thoughts that love not, thoughts that hate not,
       Thoughts that Age and Change await not,
               All unfeeling,
               All revealing,
       Scorning height's and depth's concealing,
       These be mine--and these alone!"--
       Saith the Merman's heart of stone.


       Flashed a radiance far and nigh
       As from the vortex of the sky--
       Lo! a maiden beauty-bright
       And mantled with mysterious might
       Of every power, below, above,
       That weaves resistless spell of Love.


       Through the weltering waters cold
       Shot the sheen of silken gold;
       Quick the frozen heart below
       Kindled in the amber glow;
       Trembling heavenward Nekkan yearned,
       Rose to where the Glory burned.

      "Deeper, bluer than the skies are,
       Dreaming meres of morn thine eyes are;
               All that brightens
               Smile or heightens
       Charm is thine, all life enlightens,
       Thou art all the soul's desire"--
       Sang the Merman's heart of fire.

      "Woe thee, Nekkan! Ne'er was given
       Thee to walk the ways of Heaven;
               Vain the vision,
               Fate's derision,
       Thee that raps to realms elysian,
       Fathomless profounds are thine"--
       Quired the answering voice divine.


       Came an echo from the West,
       Pierced the deep celestial breast;
       Summoned, far the Seraph fled,
       Trailing splendours overhead;
       Broad beneath her flying feet,
       Laughed the silvered ocean-street.


       On the Merman's mortal sight
       Instant fell the pall of Night;
       Sunk to the sea's profoundest floor
       He dreams the vanished vision o'er,
       Hears anew the starry chime,
       Ponders aye Eternal Time.

      "Thoughts that hope not, thoughts that fear not,
       Thoughts that Man and Demon veer not,
               Times unending
       Space and worlds of worlds transcending,
       These are mine--but these alone!"--
       Sighs the Merman's heart of stone.


[5] Copyright, 1905, by McClure, Phillips and Company.

[6] Copyright, 1906, by Richard G. Badger.


Anderson Chenault Quisenberry, historical writer, was born near
Winchester, Kentucky, October 26, 1850. He was educated at Georgetown
College, Georgetown, Kentucky. In 1870 Mr. Quisenberry engaged in
Kentucky journalism, being editor of several papers at different
periods, until 1889, when he went to Washington to accept a position
in the War Department; but he has continued his contributions to the
Kentucky press to the present time. His first volume was _The Life and
Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_ (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). This
was followed by his other works: _Revolutionary Soldiers in Kentucky_
(1896); _Genealogical Memoranda of the Quisenberry Family and Other
Families_ (Washington, D. C., 1897); _Memorials of the Quisenberry
Family in Germany, England, and America_ (Washington, D. C., 1900);
_Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-51_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906),
one of the most attractive of the Filson Club publications; and
_History by Illustration: General Zachary Taylor and the Mexican War_
(Frankfort, Kentucky, 1911), the most recent volume in the Kentucky
Historical Series of the State Historical Society. Mr. Quisenberry
resides at Hyattsville, Maryland, going into Washington every day for
his official duties.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Quisenberry to the present writer;
    _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba, 1850-1851_ (Louisville, Kentucky,

The victims, bound securely, were brought out of the boat twelve at a
time; of these, six were blindfolded and made to kneel down with their
backs to the soldiers, who stood some three or four paces from them.
These six executed, the other six were put through the same ghastly
ceremony; then twelve others were brought from the boat; and so on,
until the terrible and sickening tragedy was over. As each lot were
murdered their bodies were cast aside to make room for the next lot.

An eyewitness says of these martyrs to liberty: "They behaved with
firmness, evincing no hesitation or trepidation whatever." Among those
shot was a lad of fifteen who begged earnestly on his knees that some
one be sent to him who could speak English, but not the slightest
attention was paid to him. One handsome young man desired that his
watch be sent to his sweetheart. After the first discharge those who
were not instantly killed were beaten upon the head until life was
extinct. One poor fellow received three balls in his neck, and,
raising himself in the agonies of death, was struck by a soldier with
the butt of a musket and his brains dashed out.

Colonel Crittenden, as the leader of the party, was shot first, and
alone. One of the rabble pushed through the line of soldiers, and
rushed up to Crittenden and pulled his beard. The gallant Kentuckian,
with the utmost coolness, spit in the coward's face. He refused to
kneel or to be blindfolded, saying in a clear, ringing voice: "A
Kentuckian kneels to none except his God, and always dies facing his
enemy!"--an expression that became famous. Looking into the muzzles of
the muskets that were to slay him, standing heroically erect in the
very face of death, with his own hands, which had been unbound at his
request, he gave the signal for the fatal volley; and died, as he had
lived, "Strong in Heart." Captain Ker also refused to kneel. They
stood up, faced their enemies, were shot down, and their brains were
beaten out with clubbed muskets.


[7] Copyright, 1906, by the Filson Club.


Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a Pennsylvania
father and a Virginia mother, was born in his grandfather's house near
Washington, Pennsylvania, October 30, 1850. When a very small child he
was taken to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother died
when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened his
subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in the schools of Wheeling,
West Virginia, after which he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to
study art. When but nineteen he was painting portraits for a living.
In 1871 he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York artist,
chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river from Pittsburgh,
hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, Kentucky. They had hardly
reached the Kentucky shore, however, when they disagreed about
something or other, and young Alexander left him in the night and
returned to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his boat into a
bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in that county a year, when
he went up to Louisville. He gained more than a local reputation with
a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making
considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered by the late
Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, who persuaded him to remove to
that town. Mr. Wilson settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there
for the following twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors
are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions of that
interesting old town, for he was its "great man" for many years, and
its toast. As painter and poet he was heralded by the folk of
Frankfort until the outside world was attracted and nibbled at his
work. The first public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the
Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884.

Mr. Wilson's first poem, _A Wild Violet in November_, was followed by
the finest flower of his genius, _When Evening Cometh On_, which was
originally printed in _Harper's Magazine_ for October, 1885. This is the
only Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned in the
same breath with Gray's _Elegy_. Many of his poems and prose papers were
published in _Harper's_, _The Century_, and other periodicals. His first
book, _Life and Love_ (New York, 1887), contained the best work he has
ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of his mother were lovely;
and there are many more poems to be found in the volume that are very
fine. _Chant of a Woodland Spirit_ (New York, 1894), a long poem of more
than fifty pages, portions of which had originally appeared in
_Harper's_ and _The Century_, was dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom
Mr. Wilson was friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the
poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent collection of
lyrics, _The Shadows of the Trees_ (New York, 1898), was widely read and
warmly received by all true lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's
striking poem, _Remember the Maine_, provoked by the tragedy in Havana
harbor, was printed in _The New York Herald_; and another of his several
poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight that is remembered, _Such is
the Death the Soldier Dies_, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_. The
Kentucky poet's battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no
other American singer, unless it was by the late William Vaughn Moody.
Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a novel, _Until the Day Break_ (New
York, 1900), is unreadable as a story, but the passages of nature prose
are many and exquisite.

While he has always been a writing-man of very clear and definite gifts,
Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits and landscapes, working with equal
facility in oils, water-color, and crayon. He is held in esteem by many
competent critics as an artist of ability, but nearly all of his work in
any of three mediums indicated, is exceedingly moody and pessimistic;
and his water-colors, especially, are "muddy." It is greatly to be
regretted that he did not remain the poet he was born to be, instead of
drawing his dreams--many use a stronger word--in paints.

As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius of the town of
Frankfort during his life there; and he was a bachelor! Thereby hangs
a tale with a meaning and a moral. For many years the widows and the
other women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of the
mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, dash through a
field and over a fence, punching plants with his never-absent stick,
and return to town with a poem pounding in his pulses, and another
landscape in his brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of
it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious to
get him into their nets, they awoke one morning in 1901 to find that
little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, and daughter of a former
attorney-general of Kentucky, had married their heart's desire, that
their dreams were day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New
York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following year their
child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short time afterwards he removed to
New York, where he has lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions
have reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been prose
papers and lyrics in the magazines.

A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, the famous
Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: "The old man whose head has
grown gray in the service of the Muses, who is about to leave the
lists of poetry forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place
to twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among the
stars,' extends his hand to a younger brother of his art with an
earnest _Te moriturus saluto_." These charming words were elicited by
_June Days_, and _When Evening Cometh On_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Recent Movement in Southern Literature_, by C.
    W. Coleman, Jr. (_Harper's Magazine_, May, 1887); _Who's Who in
    America_ (1901-1902); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta,
    v. xv, 1910), an excellent study by Mrs. Ida W. Harrison.


[From _Life and Love. Poems_ (New York, 1887)]

        The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,
      And we were plucking violets--thou and I.
      A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;
        Thy fading strength seemed to return that day,
        And I was mad with hope that God would stay
      Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by!
      Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why
        Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.

        First loved; first lost; my mother:--time must still
      Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best
        In me, and in my art, is thine:--Me-seems,
      Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,
        My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams
      I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.

Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887.


[From the same]

          When evening cometh on,
        Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky
      The fane-like, purple-shadowed clouds arise;
        Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh;
      Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes
        The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly
      Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries
        His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands
        Of misty silence cross the far-off lands
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell,
      Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold,
        Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell
      In moveless waves against the shimmering gold.
        Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell
      Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold
        Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool
        Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool,
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Along their well-known paths with heavier tread
      The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return;
        The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led,
      Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn
        Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread;
      And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn;
        Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream,
        Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam,
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams,
      With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways,
        Their gearings glinted by the waning beams;
      Close by their heels the heedful collie strays;
        All slowly fading in a land of dreams,
      Transfigured specters of the shrouding haze.
        Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade,
        Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade,
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Across the dotted fields of gathered grain
      The soul of summer breathes a deep repose,
        Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain,
      And from the blurred and blended brake there flows
        The undulating echoes of some strain
      Once heard in paradise, perchance--who knows?
        But now the whispering memory sadly strays
        Along the dim rows of the rustling maize
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Anon there spreads upon the lingering air
      The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank,
        And odors from far fields, unseen but fair,
      With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank.
        O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there?
      Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank?
        Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair;
        Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest.
      The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream,
        The bars that lie along the smouldering west,
      The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem
        To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest
      This wavering flame, this agonizing dream,
        Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain,
        And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown,
      In darkness reaching out her sentient hands;
        Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown
      Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands,
        Close on the brink, unfearing and alone,
      And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands;
        Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears,
        So lonely and so sad the sound she hears
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought.
      All colors vanish when the sun goeth down.
        Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught
      No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown
        Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot.
      Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown.
        The fair enchantment of the golden day
        Far through the vale of shadows melts away
          When evening cometh on.

          When evening cometh on,
        Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul,
      And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow:
        The wounded heart Love only can console.
      Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now,
        So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll;
      Take then the portion which the gods allow.
          Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast
        Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest
          When evening cometh on?


[8] Copyright, 1887, by O. M. Dunham.


Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions of Theodore O'Hara
and Madison Cawein, the foremost lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully
claim, although he happened to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851;
and that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple title to
his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, was a native of
Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior,
settled at New Orleans when a young man as a merchant; but a year after
the birth of Daniel Henry Junior--as the future poet always signed
himself while his father lived--or in 1852, he purchased an old colonial
house back of Covington, Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and
called it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became a
warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and he spent the
following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning each fall to New Orleans
for the winter. When the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies
were entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where eight years
were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at the age of eighteen years,
Daniel Henry Junior, with his family, returned to the United States, and
entered his father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for
commercialism in any form became so great that his father wisely
permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which was then in charge of an
uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. In the same year that he returned
to Holmesdale (1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact
to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and Holmesdale became
the manor-place of his people for many years. Holmes was graduated in
law in 1872, and he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In
1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter of one of the
old and wealthy families of that city. He and his bride spent the year
of their marriage at Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad.

Holmes's first and finest book of poems, written at Covington, was
entitled _Under a Fool's Cap: Songs_ (London, 1884), and contained one
hundred and forty-four pages in an edition that did not exceed five
hundred copies. The poet whimsically placed his boyhood name of
"Daniel Henry Junior" upon the title-page. This little volume is one
of the most unique things ever done by an American hand. Holmes took
twenty-four old familiar nursery jingles, which are printed in
black-face type at the top of the lyrics relating to them, and he
worked them over and turned them over and did everything but parody
them; and in only one of them--_Margery Daw_--did he discard the
original metres. He employed "three methods of dealing with his
nursery rhymes; he either made them the basis of a story, or he took
them as an allegory and gave the 'modern instance,' or he simply
continued and amplified. The last method is, perhaps, the most
effective and successful of all," the poems done in this manner being
far and away the finest in the book. Holmes spent the seven years
subsequent to the appearance of _Under a Fool's Cap_, in France,
Italy, and Germany. In 1890 his father gave him Holmesdale. He
returned to Kentucky, and the remaining years of his life were spent
at Covington, save several winters abroad.

Holmes's second book of lyrics, _A Pedlar's Pack_ (New York, 1906),
which was largely written at Holmesdale, contained many exceedingly
clever and charming poems, but, with the exception of some fine
sonnets, _A Pedlar's Pack_ is verse, while _Under a Fool's Cap_ is
genuine poetry. Holmes was an accomplished musician, and his _Hempen
Homespun Songs_ (Cincinnati, 1906), mostly written in Dresden,
contained fourteen songs set to music, of which four had words by the
poet. Of the other ten songs, three were by W. M. Thackeray, two by
Alfred de Musset, and Austin Dobson, Henri Chenevers, W. E. Henley,
Edgar Allan Poe, and Alfred Tennyson were represented by having one of
their songs set to music. This was his only publication in the field
of music, and his third and final book. Holmes's last years were spent
at the old house in Covington, devoted to arranging his large library,
collected from the bookshops of the world, and to his music. His life
was one of endless ease, the universal pursuit of wealth being neither
necessary nor engaging. He had lived parts of more than forty years of
his life at Holmesdale when he left it for the last time in the fall
of 1908 to spend the winter at Hot Springs, Virginia, where he died
suddenly on December 14, 1908. He had hardly found his grave at
Cincinnati before lovers of poetry on both sides of the Atlantic arose
and demanded word of his life and works. This demand has been in part
supplied by Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, the Maine publisher, who has
exquisitely reprinted _Under a Fool's Cap_, and written this beautiful
tribute to the poet's memory:

    "One vital point of interest should be restated: the man who took
    these old tags of nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them some of
    the tenderest lyrics ever written was an American by birth and in
    the doing of this unique thing did it perfectly. That he never
    repeated these first fine careless raptures is nothing to his
    discredit. That he _did_ accomplish what he set himself to do with
    an originality and a proper regard to the quality of his work
    rather than its quantity is the essential fact; and in his ability
    to touch a vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have come
    across these lyrics we feel that the mission of Daniel Henry
    Holmes was fulfilled both in letter and in spirit."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_, edited by J. J. Piatt
    (Cincinnati, 1900); _The Cornhill Magazine_ (August, 1909), review
    of _Under a Fool's Cap_, by Norman Roe; _The Bibelot_ (May, 1910);
    _Under a Fool's Cap_ (Portland, Maine, 1910; 1911), lovely
    reprints of the 1884 edition, with Mr. Roe's review and foreword
    by Mr. Mosher; letters from Mrs. Holmes, the poet's widow, who has
    recently reopened Holmesdale.


[From _Under a Fool's Cap_ (London, 1884)]

        Bell horses, Bell horses,
          What time of day?
        One o'clock! Two o'clock!
          Three! and away.

      I shall wait by the gate
      To see you pass,
      Closely press'd, three abreast,
      Clanking with brass:

      With your smart red mail-cart
      Hard at your heels,
      Scarlet ground, fleck'd around
      With the Queen's seals.

      Up the hills, down the hills,
      Till the cart shrink
      To a faint dab of paint
      On the sky-brink,

      Never stop till you drop,
      On to the town,
      Bearing great news of state
      To Lords and Crown.

      And down deep in the keep
      Of your mail-cart,
      There's a note that I wrote
      To my sweetheart.

      I had no words that glow,
      No penman's skill,
      And high-born maids would scorn
      Spelling so ill;

      But what if it be stiff
      Of hand and thought,
      And ink-blots mark the spots
      Where kisses caught,

      He will read without heed
      Of phrases' worth,
      That I love him above
      All things on earth.

      I must wait here, till late
      Past Evensong,
      Ere you come tearing home--
      Days are so long!--

      But I'll watch, till I catch
      Your bell's chime clear ...
      If you'll bring _me_ something--
      Won't you please, dear?


[From the same]

          How does my Lady's garden grow?
          How does my Lady's garden grow?
          With silver bells, and cockle-shells,
          And pretty girls all in a row.

      All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair,
      And wholly unconscious they are so fair,
      With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep,
      And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air.

      They all have crowns and all have wings,
      Pale silver crowns and faint green wings,
      And each has a wand within her hand,
      And raiment about her that cleaves and clings.

      But what have my Lady's girls to do?
      What maiden toil or spinning to do?
      They swing and sway the live-long day
      While beams and dreams shift to and fro.

      And are so still that one forgets,
      So calm and restful, one forgets
      To think it strange they never change,
      Mistaking them for Margarets.

      But when night comes and Earth is dumb,
      When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb,
      The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse,
      For the time of their magic toil has come.

      They deck themselves in their bells and shells,
      Their silver bells and their cockle-shells,
      Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves
      And chaunting Runic hymns and spells,

      They spread their faint green wings abroad,
      Their wings and clinging robes abroad,
      And upward through the pathless blue
      They soar, like incense smoke, to God.

      Who gives them crystal dreams to hold,
      And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold,
      And laughter spun of beams of the sun,
      And tears that shine like molten-gold.

      And when their hands can hold no more,
      Their chaliced hands can hold no more,
      And when their bells, and cockle-shells,
      With holy gifts are brimming o'er,

      With swift glad wings they cleave the deep,
      As shafts of starlight cleave the deep,
      Through Space and Night they take their flight
      To where my Lady lies asleep;

      And there, they coil above her bed,--
      A fairy crown above her bed--
      While from their hands, like sifted sands,
      Falls their harvest winnowèd.

      And this is why my Lady grows,
      My own sweet Lady daily grows,
      In sorcery such, that at her touch,
      Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose.

      And this is what the pretty girls do,
      This is the toil appointed to do,
      With silver bells, and cockle-shells,
      Like Margarets all in a row.


[From the same]

            Little Blue Betty lived in a lane,
            She sold good ale to gentlemen.
            Gentlemen came every day,
            And little Blue Betty hopp'd away.

      A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove,"
      That Little Blue Betty was mistress of;
      But rarer still than its far-famed taps
      Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps.

      So gentlemen came every day--
      As much for the caps as the ale, they say--
      And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot:
      If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't;

      For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms
      Which come of inordinate singing of psalms,
      Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale,
      To freshen the lips and smarten the ale.

      So gallants came, by the dozen and score,
      To sit on the bench by the trellised door,
      From the full high noon till the shades grew long,
      With their pots of ale, and snatches of song.

      While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts,
      And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts,
      Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence,
      Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence.

      How well I remember! I used to sit down
      By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown
      Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,--
      Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be,

      Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug,
      Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug,
      And wheedle and coax my young vanity back,
      So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack.

      Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way,
      As I travell'd westward the other day,
      For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine,
      And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign.

      The inn was gone--to make room, alas!
      For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass,
      Where sat a proper young person in pink,
      Selling ale--which I hadn't the heart to drink.


[From the same]

          There was an old woman lived under the hill,
          And if she's not gone, she lives there still;
          Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies,
          And she's the old woman who never told lies.

      A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown,
      In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown,
      Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds,
      Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads.

      In winter or summer, come shine or come rain,
      When the bustles and beams into twilight wane,
      To the top of her hill, one can see her climb,
      To sit out her watch through the long night-time.

      The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell--
      As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well
      Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill
      When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still.

      She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair
      As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air,
      When under the hill--one fine evening--she met
      A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet:

      From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red,
      And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed;
      Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand,
      Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland.

      What befell her there no mortal can tell,
      But it must have been things indescribable,
      For when she returned, at last, alone,
      Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone.

      They gather'd about her: she shook her head
      --She had been through Hell--that was all she said
      In answer to whens, and hows, and whys;
      So they took her word, for she never told lies.

      And now, they say, when the sun goes down
      This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown
      Turns into a beautiful lass, once more,
      With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore,

      And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams
      Her beautiful fabulous lover comes,
      In scarlet doublet and red silken hose,
      To woo her again--till the Chanticleer crows.

      And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill
      Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill,
      And suffers in silence and patience alway,
      In the hope that God will forgive, some day.


[From the same]

          See-Saw! Margery Daw!
          Sold her bed to lie upon straw;
          Was she not a dirty slut
          To sell her bed, and live in dirt?

      And yet perchance, were the circumstance
      But known, of Margery's grim romance,
      As sacred a veil might cover her then
      As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen.

      It's a story told so often, so old,
      So drearily common, so wearily cold:
      A man's adventure,--a poor girl's fall--
      And a sinless scapegoat born--that's all.

      She was simple and young, and the song was sung
      With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue,
      That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song
      Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong.

      And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard,
      Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd,
      Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn--
      God pity the woman who falls before them!

      They closed the door for evermore
      On the contrite heart which repented sore,
      And she stood alone, in the outer night,
      To feed her baby as best she might.

      So she sold her bed, for its daily bread,
      The gown off her back, the shawl off her head,
      Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf,
      Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself.

      And so it came that Margery's name
      Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame,
      And Margery's face grew familiar in
      The market-place where they trade in sin.

      What use to dwell on this premature Hell?
      Suffice it to say that the child did well,
      Till one night that Margery prowled the town,
      Sickness was stalking, and struck her down.

      Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast
      In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last,
      Of all she had to be pawned or sold,
      To keep her darling from hunger and cold.

      So the baby pined, till Margery, blind
      With hunger of fever, in body and mind,
      At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand,
      Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand.

      Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw,
      And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw:
      Not a sparrow falls, they say--Oh well!
      God was not looking when Margery fell.

      With irons girt, in her felon's shirt,
      Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt,
      A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray,
      With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay.

      See-saw! Margery Daw!
      What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law!
      It makes all smooth--for she's out of her head,
      And her brat is provided for. It's dead.


William Hervey Woods, poet, was born near Greensburg, Kentucky,
November 17, 1852, the son of a clergyman. He was educated at
Hampden-Sidney College, in Virginia, after which he studied for the
church at Union Theological Seminary, Richmond, Virginia. Mr. Woods
was ordained to the ministry of the Southern Presbyterian church in
1878; and since 1887 he has been pastor of the Franklin Square church
at Baltimore. For the past several years he has contributed poems to
_Scribner's_, _Harper's_, _The Century_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The
Youth's Companion_, _The Independent_, and several other periodicals.
This verse was collected and published in a pleasing little volume of
some hundred and fifty pages under the title of _The Anteroom and
Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911). As is true of the purely literary
labors of most clergymen, a few of the poems are somewhat marred by
the homiletical tone--they simply must point a moral, even though that
moral does not adorn the tale. Several of the poems reveal the
author's love for his birthplace, Kentucky; and, taken as a whole, the
book is one of which any of our singers might be proud.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (January 16, 1912);
    _Scribner's Magazine_ (July; August, 1912).


[From _The Anteroom and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1911)]

      They love no crowded forest dark,
        They climb no mountains high,
      But ranged along the pleasant vale
        Where shining waters lie,
      Their brown coats curling open show
        A silvery undergleam,
      Like the white limbs of laughing boys
        Half ready for the stream.

      What if they yield no harvests sweet,
        Nor massive timbers sound,
      And all their summer leafage casts
        But scanty shade around;
      Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance,
        Their young leaves laugh in tune,
      And there's no lad in all the land
        Knows better when 'tis June.

      They come from groves of Arcady,
        Or some lost Land of Mirth,
      That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed
        May not possess the earth,
      And though they neither toil nor spin,
        Nor fruitful duties pay,
      They also serve, mayhap, who help
        The world keep holiday.


[9] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.


Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preëminent of life on a country
newspaper, was born in the state of New York about 1852. When twenty
years of age he left Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873
he settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder of his
life. He was associate editor of Opie Read's paper, _The Patriot_, for
some time, but when that sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post
until a kindly death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little
town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding
Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York girl, all things were
ready for the celebration of the ceremony, when the bride-to-be suddenly
changed her mind, and poor _Parmenas Mix_ was thus started in the
drunkard's path. He planned to go East for several years prior to his
death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he sat in his room and dreamed
his life away. Kelley died at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried
in the potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition was
wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place of his grave can
only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote many poems, nearly all of which
celebrated some phase of life on a country newspaper, but his
masterpiece is _The Old Scissors' Soliloquy_, which was originally
published in _Scribner's Monthly_--now _The Century Magazine_--for
April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac Department," illustrated
with a single tail-piece sketch of editorial scissors "lying at rest"
upon newspaper clippings, with "a whopping big rat in the paste." Many
of his other poems were also published in _Scribner's_. _The New
Doctor_, _Accepted and Will Appeal_, and _He Came to Pay_, done in the
manner of Bret Harte's _The Aged Stranger_, are exceedingly clever. A
slender collection of his poems could be easily made, and should be.
Opie Read wrote a tender tribute to the memory of his former friend, in
which his merits were thus summed up: "The country has surely produced
greater poets than 'Parmenas Mix,' but I doubt if we shall ever know a
truer lover of Nature's divine impulses. He lightened the heart and made
it tender, surely a noble mission; he talked to the lowly, he flashed
the diamond of his genius into many a dark recess. He preached the
gospel of good will; he sang a beautiful song."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
    (Louisville, 1892); _Poetry of American Wit and Humor_, by R. L.
    Paget (Boston, 1899).


[From _Scribner's Monthly_, April, 1876]

      I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,--
        The place is deserted and still,--
      To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white,
        To my left are the ink and the quill--
      Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint,
        And refuses to write with a pen;
      He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint,
        Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben.

      I love the old fellow--together for years
        We have managed the _Farmer's Gazette_,
      And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears
        And can crowd the compositors yet.
      But my duties are rather too heavy, I think,
        And I oftentimes envy the quill
      As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink
        While I'm slashing away with a will.

      But when I was new,--I remember it well,
        Though a score of long years have gone by,--
      The heaviest share of the editing fell
        On the quill, and I think with a sigh
      Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two
        From a neighboring editor's leader,
      Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew
        In behalf of the general reader.

      I am being paid off for my merriment then,
        For my master is wrinkled and gray,
      And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen
        Except when he wishes to say:
      "We are needing some money to run this machine,
        And subscribers will please to remit;"
      Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green,
        And so knotty it couldn't be split."

      He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind
        (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter),
      And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find
        Head or tale to the most of his matter.
      The compositors plague him whenever they see
        The result of a luckless endeavor,
      But the darling old rascal just lays it to me,
        And I make no remonstrance whatever.

      Yes, I shoulder the blame--very little I care
        For the jolly compositor's jest,
      For I think of a head with the silvery hair
        That will soon, very soon be at rest.
      He has labored full long for the true and the good
        'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us--
      His only emolument raiment and food,
        And--a pass, now and then, to the circus.

      Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright
        Of a lass with the freshness of clover
      Who used me to clip from her tresses one night
        A memorial lock for her lover.
      That dear little lock is still glossy and brown,
        But the lass is much older and fatter,
      And the youth--he's an editor here in the town--
        I'm employed on the staff of the latter.

      I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night--
        The place is deserted and still--
      The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight
        Through the trees on the brow of the hill.
      Clouds hurry along in undignified haste
        And the wind rushes by with a wail--
      Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste--
        How I'd like to shut down on his tail!


[From _Scribner's Monthly_, December, 1876]

          In the sanctum I was sitting,
          Engaged in thought befitting
      A gentleman of letters--dunning letters, by the way--
          When a seedy sort of fellow,
          Middle-aged and rather mellow,
      Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?"

          Then I smiled on him serenely--
          On the stranger dressed so meanly--
      And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate;
          And that the troops in Flanders,
          Both privates and commanders,
      Had been dealing very freely in profanity of late.

          Then the stranger, quite demurely,
          Said, "That's interesting, surely;
      Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear;
          Though excuse me, sir, for stating
          That the facts you've been narrating
      Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!"


Young Ewing Allison, one of the most versatile of the Kentucky writers
of the present school, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, December 23,
1853. He left school at an early age to become the "devil" in a
Henderson printing office. At seventeen years of age Mr. Allison was a
newspaper reporter. At different times he has been connected with _The
Journal_, of Evansville, Indiana; city and dramatic editor of _The
Courier-Journal_; editor of _The Louisville Commercial_; and from 1902
to 1905 he was editor of _The Louisville Herald_. Mr. Allison founded
_The Insurance Field_ at Louisville, in 1887, and has since edited it.
He has thus been a newspaper man for more than forty years; and though
always very busy, he has found time to write fiction, verse, literary
criticism, history, and librettos. In prose fiction Mr. Allison is best
known by three stories: _The Passing of Major Kilgore_, which was
published as a novelette in _Lippincott's Magazine_ in 1888; _The
Longworth Mystery_ (_Century Magazine_, October, 1889); and _Insurance
at Piney Woods_ (Louisville, 1896). In half-whimsical literary criticism
he has published two small volumes which are known in many parts of the
world: _The Delicious Vice_ (Cleveland, 1907, first series; Cleveland,
1909, second series). These papers are "pipe dreams and adventures of an
habitual novel-reader among some great books and their people." Mr.
Allison's libretto, _The Ogallallas_, a romantic opera, was produced by
the Bostonians Opera Company in 1894; and his _Brother Francisco_, a
libretto of tragic opera, was presented at the Royal Opera House,
Berlin, by order of Emperor William II. The music to both of these
operas was composed by Mr. Henry Waller, Liszt's distinguished pupil. In
history Mr. Allison has written _The City of Louisville and a Glimpse of
Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1887); and _Fire Underwriting_ (Louisville,
1907). Of his lyrics, _The Derelict_, a completion of the four famous
lines in Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_, has been printed by
almost every newspaper and magazine in the English-speaking world, set
to music by Mr. Waller, and an illustrated _edition de luxe_ has
recently appeared. _The Derelict_ and _The Delicious Vice_ have firmly
fixed Mr. Allison's fame.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter
    (Louisville, 1905); letter from Mr. Allison to the writer.


A Reminiscence of _Treasure Island_

[From a leaflet edition]

      _Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_
                --[_Cap'n Billy Bones his song_]

      Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike,
      The bos'n brained with a marlinspike,
      And the Cookey's throat was marked belike
          It had been gripped
            By fingers ten;
          And there they lay,
            All good dead men,
      Like break-o'-day in a boozin' ken--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

      Fifteen men of a whole ship's list--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Dead and bedamned, and the rest gone whist!
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      The skipper lay with his nob in gore
      Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore,
      And the scullion he was stabbed times four.
          And there they lay
            And the soggy skies
          Dreened all day long
            In up-staring eyes--
      At murk sunset and at foul sunrise--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

      Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Ten of the crew had the Murder mark--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead,
      Or a yawing hole in a battered head--
      And the scuppers glut with a rotting red.
          And there they lay--
            Aye, damn my eyes!--
          All lookouts clapped
            On paradise,
      All souls bound just the contra'wise--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

      Fifteen men of 'em good and true--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Every man Jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold,
      With a ton of plate in the middle hold,
      And the cabins riot of loot untold.
          And they lay there
            That had took the plum
          With sightless glare
            And their lips struck dumb,
      While we shared all by the rule of thumb--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

      _More was seen through the sternlight screen--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Chartings undoubt where a woman had been--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,
      With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot,
      And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.
          Or was she wench ...
            Or some shuddering maid...?
          That dared the knife
            And that took the blade?...
      By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_

      Fifteen men on the Dead Man's chest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      Drink and the devil had done for the rest--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
      We wrapp'd 'em all in a mains'l tight,
      With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight
      And we heaved 'em over and out of sight--
          With a yo-heave-ho!
            And a fare-you-well!
          And a sullen plunge
            In the sullen swell,
      Ten-fathoms deep on the road to hell--
          Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!


Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert ("Dolly Higbee"), newspaper woman and
novelist, was born near Edina, Missouri, March 12, 1854. She was the
daughter of James Parker Higbee, a Kentuckian, and his second wife,
Martha Lane (Galleher) Higbee, a woman of Virginian parentage. Both of
Miss Higbee's parents died before she was fourteen years old, and she
came to Lexington, Kentucky, to live in the family of Dr. Samuel H.
Chew, who had married her half-sister. Dr. Chew's farm was situated
some seven miles from Lexington, and there Miss Higbee lived for ten
years. She was educated in Midway, Kentucky, and then taught for
several years. She detested teaching and, "in January, 1878, while it
was still quite dark, I stole down stairs with five dollars in my
pocket and such luggage as I could carry in a handbag, tiptoed into
the drizzle and 'lit out.'" The flip of a nickle determined that her
new home should be Louisville, and to that city she went. Miss Higbee
was the first woman in Kentucky, if not in the South, to adopt
journalism as a profession. The following fourteen years of her life
were spent in the daily grind of newspaperdom, she having held almost
every position on _The Courier-Journal_, save that of editor-in-chief.
In the four hottest weeks of the year, and in the brief intervals of
leisure she could snatch from her daily duties, Miss Higbee wrote her
now famous novel, _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890). After the
Lippincotts had refused this manuscript, _Belford's Monthly Magazine_
accepted it by telegram, paying the author two hundred dollars for it,
and publishing it in the issue for November, 1889; and in the
following May the story appeared in book form. Colonel Henry Watterson
wrote a review of _In God's Country_ that was afterwards published as
an introduction for it, and this did much to bring the tale into wide
notice. Miss Higbee went to Chicago in 1893 to accept a position on
_The Tribune_. On April 4, 1894, she was married to Mr. William
Geppert of Atlanta, and the first five years of their married life
were spent at Atlanta. It was during this time that Mrs. Geppert's
best story was written, _Burton's Scoop_, one of the first American
stories written upon hypnotism and related phenomena. The opening
chapters of this appeared in the author's little literary magazine,
_The Autocrat_, which she conducted at Atlanta for about two years,
but it has never been published in book form. Two musical romances,
entitled _The Scherzo in B-Flat Minor_ (Atlanta, 1895), and _Un Ze
Studio_ (Atlanta, 1895), attracted considerable attention, and a third
was announced as _Side Lights_, but was never published. _In God's
Country_ was dramatized, with Miss Catherine Gray cast in the role of
_Lydia_, and opened at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, September
5, 1897, but the work of the playwright and actors was most
displeasing to the author. In 1900 Mr. Geppert became one of the
editors of the New York _Musical Courier_, and he and his wife have
since resided at Croton-on-the-Hudson. Mrs. Geppert has abandoned
literature, but _In God's Country_ has given her a permanent place
among the writers of Kentucky.[10]

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira M. Slaughter
    (Louisville, 1905); _Lexington Leader_ (July 25, 1909).


[From _In God's Country_ (New York, 1890)]

Her hair had come down and was tumbling about her neck; she whipped it
out and caught it back with a hairpin, took up the guitar, and
skirted the shadowy porch to the room over the kitchen. The window was
open and she could see Karl sitting in the middle of the room with his
head bowed upon his hands. She tapped lightly on the pane. He looked
up and saw her standing in the dim light with the guitar in her hand.

"Karl," she said, "I want you to sing me that song before you go--the
one you sung me that day for your dinner."

He came forward and took the instrument. He saw she had been crying, but
the experience of the summer had been so crushing, he was so subdued by
her past behavior, that he did not dream the tears were for him.

"You are grieved for someding," he said, with touching sympathy.

He opened the door and gave her a chair, and, sitting near her on the
sill of the window, began to sing the song with all the tenderness and
pathos his own yearning and bitter disappointment could put into it. It
brought back all the old tumult. She saw now, when it was too late, that
she had overestimated her strength. When he finished, she was sobbing;
and in an instant he was kneeling by her chair, raising to her a face
sad, searching, but shining with the tremulous glow of a hope just born.

"You weep. Liebchen, is it for me?"

She did not answer, but laid a hand gently on his head and looked at
him, with all the pent yearning of her full heart, all the agony of
that long, weary struggle, and all the pathos of defeat in her eyes.
It was no use. At that moment it seemed that there was nothing else in
the world but him. Everything else was remote, dim, and unreal.

He clasped her with a fierce, exultant joy.

"You love me in spite of dis?" he asked, looking down at his coarse
attire. "You love me in spite of dat I am your nigga?"

"In spite of all," she faltered.

It was out at last: the crest of victory sank in inglorious surrender.
Her humiliation was his triumph.

He looked at her with a face radiant, shining with a beauty not of

"Liebchen," he whispered, "it is divine."

"You vill gome mit me to mein gountry?" he asked presently.

She laid a finger on his lips. "Don't," she said; "I can't bear it."

"I vill not be a vagabond in mein own gountry; we vill be very happy.
Gome mit me, Liebchen."

He would not be a vagabond in his own country. The information that
would have been worth much to her once was worth nothing now. She
scarcely heard it.

"I can't do that," she said. "You must go, and I must stay here and do
as I have promised; but I wanted to tell you that I know I have been
very cruel, and that I am very sorry. It was hard for me, too, and I
could not trust myself to be kind."

It seemed but a moment she had been sitting there with his arms around
her and his head upon her breast, but the east was red and the sun was
almost up. Lydia rose wearily. The sense of defeat, that was more
fatiguing than the struggle, clung to her. "It's time you were gone,"
she said. He took her hands in his and asked, with searching

"If you love me, vy vill you not gome mit me?"

"I can't," she answered, too tired for explanation.

"Is it your fader?" he asked.

She nodded, and said good-bye, looking up at him with a tender glow on
her face. The hair streaming about her shoulders had caught the flame
of sunrise like a torch. He stooped and touched it with his lips as
reverently as he would have kissed the garment of a saint.


[10] Mrs. Geppert died at Scarsborough-on-the-Hudson, New York,
February 23, 1913. Her remains were not brought to Kentucky for

[11] Copyright, 1890, by the Belford Company.


Henry Cleveland Wood, novelist and verse-maker, was born at
Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in January, 1855. His mother was a writer of
local reputation. In 1874 Mr. Wood's poems and stories began to appear
in English and American magazines; and he has continued his work for
them until this day. Seven of his novels have been serialized by the
following publications: _Pretty Jack and_ _Ugly Carl_ (_The
Courier-Journal_); _Impress of Seal and Clay_ (_New York Ledger_, in
collaboration with his uncle, Henry W. Cleveland, author of a
biography of Alexander H. Stephens); _The Kentucky Outlaw_, and _Love
that Endured_ (_New York Ledger_); _Faint Heart and Fair Lady_ (_The
Designer_); _The Night-Riders_ (_Taylor-Trotwood Magazine_); and _Weed
and War_ (_The Home and Farm_). Of these only one has been issued in
book form, _The Night Riders_ (Chicago, 1908). This was a tale of love
and adventure, depicting the protest against the toll-gate system in
Kentucky years ago, with a brief inclusion of the more recent tobacco
troubles. Mr. Wood's verse has been printed in _Harper's Weekly_,
_Cosmopolitan_, _Ainslee's Magazine_, _The Smart Set_, _The Youth's
Companion_, and other periodicals. Two of his librettos, _The Sultan's
Gift_ and _Amor_, have been set to music; and at least one of his
plays has been produced, entitled _The Pretty Shakeress_. Mr. Wood
conducts a little bookshop in his native town of Harrodsburg.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
    (Louisville, 1892); _Illustrated Kentuckian_ (November, 1894).


[From _The Quiver_ (London, England)]

       The sun climbed up the eastern hills,
         And through the dewy land
       Shot gleams that fell athwart the rills
         That sang on every hand.

       Upon the wood and in the air
         There hung a mystic spell,
       And on the green sward, every where,
         Soft shadows lightly fell.

       And in a cottage where the bloom
         Of roses on the wall
       Filled all the air, there was a loom
         Well built of oak and tall.

       All through the fragrant summer day
         A maiden, blithe and fair,
       Sat at the loom and worked away,
         And hummed a simple air;--

      "Oh! idle not, ye leafy trees,
         Weave nets of yellow sun,
       And kiss me oft, O! balmy breeze,
         My task is but begun."

       Still higher in the hazy sky
         The sun climbed on and on,
       And autumn winds came rushing by,
         The summer's bloom was gone;

       Now sat a mother at the loom,
         The shuttle flew along,
       With whirr that filled the little room
         Together with her song;--

      "O! shuttle! faster, faster fly,
         For know ye not the sun
       Is climbing high across the sky,
         And yet my work's not done?"

       The sun shot gleams of amber light
         Along the barren ground,
       And shadows of the coming night
         Fell softly all around.

       And in the little cottage room
         From early dawn till night,
       A woman sat before the loom
         With hair of snowy white.

       The hands were palsied now that threw
         The shuttle to and fro,
       While as the fabric longer grew
         She sang both sweet and low;--

      "Half hidden in the rosy west
         I see the golden sun,
       And I shall soon begin my rest,
         My task is almost done!"

             *       *       *       *       *

       The spring again brought joy and bloom,
         And kissed each vale and hill;
       But in the little cottage room
         The oaken beam was still.

       The swaying boughs with rays of gold
         Wove nets of yellow sun,
       And cast them where a headstone told--
         The weaver's task was done.


William Elsey Connelley, historian and antiquarian, was born near
Paintsville, Kentucky, March 15, 1855, the son of a soldier. At the
age of seventeen he became a teacher in his native county of Johnson;
and for the following ten years he continued in that work. John C. C.
Mayo, the mountain millionaire, was one of his pupils. In April, 1881,
Mr. Connelley went to Kansas; and two years later he was elected clerk
of Wyandotte county, of which Kansas City, Kansas, is the county-seat.
In 1888 he engaged in the lumber business in Missouri; and four years
thereafter he surrendered that business in order to devote himself to
his banking interests, which have hitherto required a considerable
portion of his time. In 1905 Mr. Connelley wrote the call for the
first meeting of the oil men of Kansas, which resulted in the
organization of an association that began a crusade upon the Standard
Oil Company, and which subsequently resulted in the dissolution of
that corporation by the Supreme Court of the United States. This is
set down here because Mr. Connelley is, perhaps, prouder of it than of
of any other thing he has done. He is well-known by students of
Western history, but, of course, his fame as a writer has not reached
the general reader. He is a member of many historical societies and
associations, including the American, Nebraska, Missouri, Ohio, and
Kansas, of which he was president in 1912. Mr. Connelley has made
extensive investigations into the language and history of several of
the Indian tribes of Kansas, his vocabulary of the Wyandot tongue
being the first one ever written. He has many original documents
pertaining to the history of eastern Kentucky; and the future
historian of that section of the state cannot proceed far without
consulting his collection. The novelist of the mountains, John Fox,
Jr., has sat at the feet of the historian and learned of his people.
Mr. Connelley lives at Topeka, Kansas. A complete list of his works
is: _The Provisional Government of Nebraska Territory_ (Topeka, 1899);
_James Henry Lane, the Grim Chieftain of Kansas_ (Topeka, 1899);
_Wyandot Folk-Lore_ (Topeka, 1899); _Kansas Territorial Governors_
(Topeka, 1900); _John Brown--the Story of the Last of the Puritans_
(Topeka, 1900); _The Life of John J. Ingalls_ (Kansas City, Missouri,
1903); _Fifty Years in Kansas_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Heckewelder
Narrative_ (Cleveland, Ohio, 1907), being the narrative of John G. E.
Heckewelder (1743-1823), concerning the mission of the United Brethren
among the Delaware and Mohegan Indians from 1740 to the close of
1808, and the finest book ever issued by a Western publisher,
originally selling for twenty dollars a copy, but now out of print and
very scarce; _Doniphan's Expedition_ (Topeka, 1907); _The Ingalls of
Kansas: a Character Study_ (Topeka, 1909); _Quantrill and the Border
Wars_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), one of his best books; and _Eastern
Kentucky Papers_ (Cedar Rapids, 1910), "the founding of Harman's
Station, with an account of the Indian Captivity of Mrs. Jennie
Wiley." In 1911 Baker University conferred the honorary degree of A.
M. upon him. For the last three years Mr. Connelley has been preparing
a biography of Preston B. Plumb, United States Senator from Kansas for
a generation, which will be published in 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from Mr.
    Connelley to the writer.


[From _History as an Asset of the State_ (Topeka, Kansas, 1912)]

Kansas history is like that of no other State. The difference is
fundamental--not a dissimilarity in historical annals. This fact has
been long recognized. A quarter of a century ago Ware wrote that--

      Of all the States, but three will live in story:
        Old Massachusetts with her Plymouth Rock,
        And old Virginia with her noble stock,
      And sunny Kansas with her woes and glory.

The south line of Kansas is the modified line between free soil and
slave territory as those divisions existed down to the abolition of
slavery. For almost half a century it was the policy of the Government
to send here the remnants of the Indian tribes pushed west by our
occupation of their country. The purpose in this was to make the
Western prairies the Indian country of America and thus prevent its
settlement until the slave-power was ready to utilize it for its
peculiar institution. Many things occurred which had not been counted
on, and the country was forced open before the South was ready to
undertake its settlement. While the crisis was premature, the
slave-power entered upon the contest with confidence. It had never
lost a battle in its conflict with the free-soil portion of the Union,
and it expected to win in Kansas. The struggle was between the two
antagonistic predominant ideas developed in our westward expansion,
and ended in a war which involved the entire nation and threatened the
existence of the Union. Politically, Kansas was the rock about which
the troubled waters surged for ten years. The Republican party grew
largely out of the conditions and influence of Kansas. When
hostilities began the Kansans enlisted in the armies of the Union in
greater proportion to total population than did the people of any
other State. Here the war was extremely bitter, and in some instances
it became an effort for extermination. Kansas towns were sacked, and
non-combatants were ruthlessly butchered. The border embraced at that
time all the settled portion of the State, and it would be difficult
indeed to make the people of this day comprehend what occurred here.
Kansas was founded in and by a bloody struggle, which, within her
bounds, continued for ten years. No other State ever fought so well.
Kansas was for freedom. She won, and the glory of it is that the
victory gave liberty to America. That is why we maintain that Kansas
history stands alone in interest and importance in American annals.

The history of a State is a faithful account of the events of its
formation and development. If the account is set out in sufficient
detail there will be preserved the fine delineations of the emotions
which moved the people. These emotions arise out of the experiences of
the people. And the pioneers fix the lines of their experiences. They
lay the pattern and mark out the way the State is to go, and this way
can never be altered, and can, moreover, be but slightly modified for
all time. These emotions produce ideals which become universal and the
common aim of the State, and they wield a wonderful influence on its
progress, growth, and achievement. A people devoid of ideals can
scarcely be found, but ideals differ just as the experiences which
produced the emotions from which they result differed. If there be no
particular principle to be striven for in the founding of a State,
then no ideals will appear, and such as exist among the people will be
found to have come over the lines from other and older States. Or, if
by chance any be developed they will be commonplace and ordinary, and
will leave the people in lethargy and purposeless so far as the
originality of the thought of the State is concerned. The ideals
developed by a fierce struggle for great principles are lofty, sublime
in their conception and intent. The higher the ideals, the greater the
progress; the more eminent the achievement, the more marked the
individuality, the stronger the characteristics of the people.


Charles Turner Dazey, author of _In Old Kentucky_, was born at Lima,
Illinois, August 13, 1855, the son and grandson of Kentuckians. When a
lad the future dramatist was brought to Kentucky for a visit at the
home of his grandparents in Bourbon county, whom he was to visit again
before returning to Kentucky, in 1872, to enter the Agricultural and
Mechanical College of Kentucky University, where he studied for a
year. In the fall of 1873 young Dazey matriculated in the Arts College
of the University. Ill-health caused him to miss the following year,
but he returned in 1875 and remained a student in the University until
the summer of 1877. He was a member of the old Periclean Society, the
society of James Lane Allen and John Fox, Jr., while at the
University. When he left Lexington he lacked two years of graduation.
Mr. Dazey later went to Harvard University, where he was one of the
editors of the _Harvard Advocate_, and the poet of his class of 1881.
While a Senior at Cambridge he had begun dramatic composition, and
after leaving the University he became a full-fledged playwright. His
plays include: _An American King_; _That Girl from Texas_--first
called _A Little Maverick_--with Maggie Mitchell in the title-role;
_The War of Wealth_; _The Suburban_; _Home Folks_; _The Stranger_, in
which Wilton Lackaye played for two seasons; _The Old Flute-Player_;
and _Love Finds a Way_. In collaboration with Oscar Weil Mr. Dazey
wrote _In Mexico_, a comic opera, produced by The Bostonians; and with
George Broadhurst he wrote two plays: _An American Lord_, with William
H. Crane as the star; and _The Captain_, played by N. C. Goodwin.

The play by Mr. Dazey in which we are especially interested here, is,
of course, _In Old Kentucky_, a drama in four acts, first written to
order for Katie Putnam, a soubrette star, who was very popular a
quarter of a century ago. She, however, did not consider the play
suited to her, and it was then offered to several managers without
success, until it was finally accepted by Jacob Litt. When first
produced by Mr. Litt at St. Paul on August 4, 1892, it had a most
distinguished cast: Julia Arthur, the beautiful, appeared as _Barbara
Holton_; Louis James as _Col. Doolittle_; Frank Losee as _Joe Lorey_;
and Marion Elmore made a most alluring _Madge Brierly_. This was only
a trial production, and the play went into the store-house for a year,
when, in August, 1893, it began its first annual tour at the Bijou
Theatre (now the Lyceum), at Pittsburgh. In that first regular company
Bettina Gerard played _Madge_; Burt Clark, _Col. Doolittle_; George
Deyo, _Joe Lorey_; William McVey, _Horace Holton_; Harrison J. Wolfe,
_Frank Layson_; Charles K. French, _Uncle Neb_; Edith Athelston,
_Barbara_; and Lottie Winnett was _Aunt Alathea_. Mr. Litt and his
associate, A. W. Dingwall, have always mounted _In Old Kentucky_
handsomely, and this has been an important element in its great
success. For twenty years this drama of the bluegrass and the
mountains has held the boards, more than seven million people have
seen it, and even to-day it is being produced almost daily with no
signs of loss in popular interest. It is the only play Mr. Dazey has
written with a Kentucky background, and it would be "a hazard of new
fortunes" for him to attempt to do so; he could hardly improve upon
his masterpiece. In 1897 Mr. Litt had a small edition of _In Old
Kentucky_ privately printed from the prompt-books; and in 1910 Mr.
Dazey collaborated with Edward Marshall in a novelization of the play,
which was published as an attractive romance by the G. W. Dillingham
Company, of New York. With Mr. Marshall he also novelized _The Old
Flute-Player_ (New York, 1910). Mr. Dazey has recently dramatized
_Fran_, John Breckinridge Ellis's popular novel; and at the present
time he is engaged upon a new play, which he thinks, promises better
than anything he has so far written. Mr. Dazey was in Kentucky several
times between 1877 and 1898, the date of his most recent visit, at
which time he found John Fox, Jr., giving one of his inevitable
readings in Lexington, and James Lane Allen looking for the last time,
mayhap, upon the scenes of his books. He spent several weeks with
friends and relatives near Paris; and, like all good Kentuckians, he
"hopes to revisit the dear old state in the near future." Mr. Dazey
has an attractive home at Quincy, Illinois.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in the Theatre_, by John Porter (Boston,
    1912); letters from Mr. Dazey to the writer.


[From _In Old Kentucky_ (1897)]

_Act III, Scene IV. The exterior of the race-track. Fence, tree, etc._

    _Colonel._ (_Enter L._) I didn't go in. I kept my word, though it
    nearly finished me. (_Shouts heard._) They're bringing out the
    horses. (_Looks through knot-hole._) I can't see worth a cent.
    It's not hole enough for me. To Hades with dignity! I'll inspect
    that tree. (_Goes to tree; puts arm around it._)

[_Enter_ Alathea, _R._]

    _Alathea._ (_Pauses, R. C._) Everyone's at the races. I'm
    perfectly safe. There is that blessed knot-hole. (_Goes to hole;
    looks through._)

    _Col._ (_Comes from behind tree; sees Alathea._) A woman, by all
    that's wonderful--a woman at my knot-hole. (_Approaches._) Madam!
    (_Lays hand on her shoulder._)

    _Alathea._ (_Indignantly._) Sir! (_Turns._) Col. Sundusky

    _Col._ Miss Alathea Layson! (_Bus. bows._)

    _Alathea._ Colonel, what are you all doing here?

    _Col._ Madam, what are you all doing here?

    _Alathea._ Colonel, I couldn't wait to hear the result.

    _Col._ No more could I.

    _Alathea._ But I didn't enter the race-track.

    _Col._ I was equally firm.

    _Alathea._ Neb. told me of the knot-hole.

    _Col._ The rascal, he told me, too!

    _Alathea._ Colonel, we must forgive each other. If you really must
    look, there is the knot-hole.

    _Col._ No, Miss Lethe, I resign the knot-hole to you. I shall
    climb the tree.

    _Alathea._ (_As Colonel climbs tree._) Be careful, Colonel, don't
    break your neck, but get where you can see.

    _Col._ (_Up tree._) Ah, what a gallant sight! There's Catalpa,
    Evangeline--and there's Queen Bess! (_Shouts heard._)

    _Alathea._ What's that? (_To tree._)

    _Col._ A false start. They'll make it this time. (_Shouts heard._)
    They're off--off! Oh, what a splendid start!

    _Alathea._ Who's ahead? Who's ahead? (_To tree._)

    _Col._ Catalpa sets the pace, the others lying well back.

    _Alathea._ Why doesn't Queen Bess come to the front? Oh, if I were
    only on that mare. (_Back to fence._)

    _Col._ At the half, Evangeline takes the lead--Catalpa next--the
    rest bunched. Oh, great heavens!--(_Lethe to tree._)--there's a
    foul--a jam--and Queen Bess is left behind ten lengths! She hasn't
    the ghost of a show! Look! (_Lethe back to tree._) She's at it
    again. But she can't make it up. It's beyond anything mortal. And
    yet she's gaining--gaining!

    _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Keep it up--keep it up!

    _Col._ At the three quarters; she's only five lengths behind the
    leader, and gaining still!

    _Alathea._ (_Bus._) Oh, push!--push!--I can't stand it! I've got
    to see! (_Climbs tree._)

    _Col._ Coming up, Miss Lethe! All right, don't break your neck,
    but get where you can see. In the stretch. Her head's at Catalpa's
    crupper--now her saddle-bow, but she can't gain another inch! But
    look--look! she lifts her--and, Great Scott! she wins!

(_As he speaks, flats forming fence are drawn. Horses dash past, Queen
Bess in the lead. Drop at back shows grand stand, with fence in front
of same. Spectators back of fence._ Neb. _and_ Frank. _Band playing
"Dixie."_ Holton _standing near, chagrined._ Col. _waves hat and_
Alathea _handkerchief, in tree. Spectators shout._)

(_For second curtain_, Madge _returns on Queen Bess_. Col. _and_
Alathea _down from tree and passing near. Other horses enter as
curtain falls._)



[12] Copyright, 1897, by Jacob Litt.


John Phelps Fruit, the distinguished Poe scholar, was born at
Pembroke, Kentucky, November 22, 1855. He was graduated from Bethel
College, Russellville, Kentucky, in 1878, after which he became a
teacher. For two years Professor Fruit was president of Liberty
College, Glasgow, Kentucky; and from 1883 to 1897 he was professor of
English in his _alma mater_, Bethel College. In 1895 the University of
Leipzig granted him the Ph. D. degree; and three years later he was
elected to the chair of English in William Jewell College, Liberty,
Missouri, which he still occupies. Dr. Fruit's first work was an
edition of Milton's _Lycidas_ (Boston, 1894), and this was followed by
his edition of Coleridge's _The Ancient Mariner_ (Boston, 1899). Both
of these little volumes have been used in many schools and colleges.
Dr. Fruit devoted many years to the study of Edgar Allan Poe and his
works, and his researches he brought together in _The Mind and Art of
Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899). This book gave Dr. Fruit a foremost
place among the Poe scholars of his time. His work was officially
recognized by the University of Virginia, the poet's college, and it
has been widely and cordially reviewed. At the present time Dr. Fruit
is engaged in a comprehensive study of Nathaniel Hawthorne, his
pamphlet, entitled _Hawthorne's Immitigable_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n.
d.), having attracted a deal of attention.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913); letters from
    Prof. Fruit to the writer.


[From _The Mind and Art of Poe's Poetry_ (New York, 1899)]

Accustomed as we are, from infancy up, to so much "rhyme without
reason," in our nursery jingles and melodies, we associate some of
Poe's poetry, remotely, at first blush, with the negroes singing "in
the cotton and the corn." So much sound makes us suspicious of the
sense, but a little closer ear appreciates delicate and telling
onomatopoetic effects. Liquids and vowels join hands in sweetest
fellowship to unite "the hidden soul of harmony."

As if, at last, to give the world assurance that he had been trifling
with rhythm and rhyme, he wrote _The Bells_.

The secret of the charm resides in the humanizing of the tones of the
bells. It is not personification, but the speaking in person to our
souls. To appreciate this more full, observe how Ruskin humanizes the
sky for us. "Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful,
never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions,
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its
appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of
chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential."

Poe made so much of music in his doctrine of poetry, yet he never
humanized the notes of a musical instrument....

He took the common bells,--the more praise for his artistic
judgment,--and rang them through all the diapason of human sentiment.

If we have imagined a closer correspondence between expression and
conception, in the previously considered poems, than really exists,
there can be no doubt on that point, even to the mind of the wayfaring
man, in reading _The Bells_.

If it be thought that the poet could harp on only one theme, let the
variety of topic in _The Bells_ protest.

Again, Poe's doctrine of "rhythm and rhyme" finds its amplest
verification in _The Bells_. Reason and not "ecstatic intuition," led
him to conclude that English versification is exceedingly simple; that
"one-tenth of it, possibly, may be called ethereal; nine-tenths,
however, appertain to the mathematics; and the whole is included
within the limits of the commonest common-sense."

It must be believed that Poe appropriated, with the finest artistic
discernment, the vitalizing power of rhythm and rhyme, and nowhere
with more skill than in _The Bells_. It is the climax of his art on
its technical side.

Read the poem and think back over the course of the development of
poet's art-instincts.


[13] Copyright, 1899, by A. S. Barnes and Company.


Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a
well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January
16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which
he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker,
and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on _The
Courier-Journal_, being managing editor at the present time. He won
his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever
written, entitled _How the Derby Was Won_, which was originally
published in _Scribner's Magazine_ for August, 1889. Ten years later
his first long novel, _If I Were a Man_ (New York, 1899), "the story
of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by _Red Blood and
Blue_ (New York, 1900); _The Inlander_ (New York, 1901); _The
Opponents_ (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, _The Pink
Typhoon_ (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit.
In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very
cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has
ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and
the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a
charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson
changed literary steads, although his _How the Derby Was Won_ must not
be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the
daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another
poem or novel. More's the pity!

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (April, 1900; April, 1901);
    _Scribner's Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The Bookman_ (December,


[From _A Vers de Socíeté Anthology_, by Caroline Wells (New York,


                   What He Said:

      This kiss upon your fan I press--
        Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it?
      And may it from its soft recess--
      This kiss upon your fan I press--
      Be blown to you, a shy caress,
        By this white down, whene'er you use it.
      This kiss upon your fan I press--
        Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you _don't_ refuse it!


                  What She Thought:

      To kiss a fan!
        What a poky poet!
      The stupid man,
      To kiss a fan,
      When he knows that--he--can--
        Or ought to know it--
      To kiss a _fan_!
        What a poky poet!


[From the same]

      Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed,
      Under the maple, it was hinged--
        The little wooden gate;
      'Twas there within the quiet gloam,
      When I had strolled with Nelly home,
        I used to pause and wait.

      Before I said to her good-night
      Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite
        Within the garden's pale;
      And there, the gate between us two,
      We'd linger as all lovers do,
        And lean upon the rail.

      And face to face, eyes close to eyes,
      Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise,
        After a stealthy quest,--
      So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat,
      That I'd grow drunken from the sweet
        Tuebrose upon her breast.

      We'd talk--in fitful style, I ween--
      With many a meaning glance between
        The tender words and low;
      We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit,
      Some idle gossip we'd repeat,
        And then I'd move to go.

      "Good-night," I'd say; "good-night--good-by!"
      "Good-night"--from her with half a sigh--
        "Good-night!" "_Good_-night!" And then--
      And then I do _not_ go, but stand,
      Again lean on the railing, and--
        Begin it all again.

      Ah! that was many a day ago--
      That pleasant summer-time--although
        The gate is standing yet;
      A little cranky, it may be,
      A little weather-worn--like me--
        Who never can forget

      The happy--"End?" My cynic friend,
      Pray save your sneers--there was no "end."
        Watch yonder chubby thing!
      That is our youngest, hers and mine;
      See how he climbs, his legs to twine
        About the gate and swing.


[14] Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.


Ingram Crockett, whom a group of critics have hailed as one of the most
exquisite poets of Nature yet born in Kentucky, first saw the light at
Henderson, Kentucky, February 10, 1856. His father, John W. Crockett,
was a noted public speaker in his day and generation, and a member of
the Confederate Congress from Kentucky. Ingram Crockett was educated in
the schools of his native town, but he never went to college. For many
years past Mr. Crockett has been cashier of the Planters State Bank,
Henderson, but the jingle of the golden coins has not seared the spirit
of song within his soul. In 1888 he began his literary career by
editing, with the late Charles J. O'Malley, the Kentucky poet and
critic, _Ye Wassail Bowle_, a pamphlet anthology of Kentucky poems and
prose pieces. A small collection of Mr. Crockett's poems, entitled _The
Port of Pleasant Dreams_ (Henderson, 1892), was followed by a long poem,
_Rhoda, an Easter Idyl_. The first large collection of his lyrics was
_Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898). This volume won the poet
friends in all parts of the country, and proclaimed him a true
interpreter of many-mooded Nature. _A Year Book of Kentucky Woods and
Fields_ (Buffalo, New York, 1901), a prose-poem, contains some excellent
writing. A story of the Christiandelphians of western Kentucky, _A
Brother of Christ_ (New York, 1905), is Mr. Crockett's only novel, and
it was not overly successful. _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_
(Chicago, 1908), is his most recent volume of verse. "It contains poems
as big as the world," one enthusiastic critic exclaimed, but it has not
brought the author the larger recognition that he so richly deserves.
This work surely contains Mr. Crockett's best work so far. One does not
have to travel far in any direction in Kentucky in order to find many
persons declaring that Ingram Crockett is the finest poet living in the
state to-day. His latest book, _The Greeting and Goodbye of the Birds_
(New York, 1912), is a small volume of prose-pastels, somewhat after the
manner of his _Year Book_. It again reveals the author's close
companionship with Nature, and his exquisite expression of what it all
means to him.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
    (Louisville, 1892); _The Courier-Journal_ (August 3, 1912).


[From _Beneath Blue Skies and Gray_ (New York, 1898)]

      Not with clash of arms,
      Not 'midst war's alarms,
      Thy splendid work was done,
      Thy great victory won.

      Unknown, thro' field and brake,
      By calm or stormy lake,
      Lured by swift passing wings--
      Songs that a new world sings--

      Thou didst untiring go
      Led by thine ardor's glow,
      Cheered by thy kindling thought
      Beauty thy hand had wrought.

      Leaving thy matchless page
      Gift to a later age
      That would revere thy name--
      Build for thee, surely fame.

      O, to have been with thee,
      In that wild life and free,
      While all the birds passed by
      Under the new world sky!

      O, to have heard the song
      Of that glad-hearted throng,
      Ere yet the settlers came
      Giving the woods to flame!

      O, to have with thee gone
      Up the white steps of Dawn!
      Or where the burning west
      Crimsoned the wild drake's breast!

      Yet better than bays we bring
      Are the woods whispering
      When life and leaf are new
      Under the tender blue!

      Master, awake! for May
      Comes on her rainbowed way--
      Hear thou bird-song again
      Sweeter than praise of men!


[From _The Magic of the Woods and Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1908)]

      I am weary of thought, forever the world goes by
      With laughter and tears, and no one can tell me why--
      I am weary of thought and all it may ever bring--
        _But oh, for the light-loving fields where the meadow-larks sing!_

      I have toiled at the mills, I've known the grind and the roar
      Over and over again one day as the day before--
      And what does it all avail and the end of it--where?
        _But oh, for the clover in bloom and the breeze blowing there!_

      Fame? What is fame but a glimmering mote, earth cast,
      That e'en as we grasp it dulls--dust of the dust at last.
      For what have the ages to say of the myriad dead?
        _But oh, for the frost-silvered hills and the dawn breaking red!_

      Ah, God! the day is so short and the night comes so soon!
      And who will remember the time, or the wish, or the boon?
      And who can turn backward our feet from the destined place?
        _But oh, for the bobolink's cheer and the beauty of April's face!_


[From the same]

      Dearest, there is a scarlet leaf upon the blackgum tree,
      And in the corn the crickets chirp a ceaseless threnody--
      And scattered down the purple swales are clumps of marigold,
      And hazier are the distant fields in many a lilac fold.

      Dearest, the elder bloom is gone, and heavy, dark maroon,
      The elderberries bow beneath a mellow, ripening noon--
      And, shaking out its silver sail, the milkweed-down is blown
      Through deeps of dreamy amber air in search of ports unknown.

      Dearest, full many a flower now lies withered by the path,
      Their fragrance but a memory, the soul's sad aftermath--
      The birds are flown, save now and then some loiterer thrills the way
      With joyous bursts of lyric song born of the heart of May.

      Ah, dearest, it is good-bye time for Summer and her train,
      And many a golden hour will pass that ne'er shall come again--
      But, dearest, Love with us abides tho' all the rest should go,
      And in Love's garden, dearest one, there is no hint of snow.


[15] Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell.

[16] Copyright, 1908, by the Author.


Mrs. Eliza Calvert Obenchain, ("Eliza Calvert Hall"), creator of _Aunt
Jane of Kentucky_, was born at Bowling Green, Kentucky, February 11,
1856; and she has lived in that little city all her life. Miss Calvert
was educated in the private schools of her town, and then spent a year
at "The Western," a woman's college near Cincinnati, Ohio. Her first
poems appeared in the old _Scribner's_, when John G. Holland was the
editor; and her first prose papers were published in _Kate Field's
Washington_. She was married to Professor William A. Obenchain, of
Ogden College, Bowling Green, on July 8, 1885, and four children have
been born to them. _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907), the
memories of an old lady done into short stories, opens with one of the
best tales ever written by an American woman, entitled _Sally Ann's
Experience_. This charming prose idyl first appeared in the
_Cosmopolitan Magazine_, for July, 1898, since which time it has been
cordially commended by former President Roosevelt, has been reprinted
in _Cosmopolitan_, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and many other
magazines, read by many public speakers, and finally issued as a
single book in an illustrated _edition de luxe_ (Boston, 1910). Many
of the other stories in _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ are very fine, but
_Sally Ann_ is far and away superior to any of them. Mrs. Obenchain's
_The Land of Long Ago_ (Boston, 1909), was another collection of Aunt
Jane stories. _To Love and to Cherish_ (Boston, 1911), is the author's
first and latest novel. Upon these four volumes Mrs. Obenchain's fame
rests secure, but _Sally Ann's Experience_ will be read and enjoyed
when her other books have been forgotten. She struck a universal truth
in this little tale, and the world will not willingly let it die. Her
most recent work is a _A Book of Hand-Woven Coverlets_ (Boston,
1912), a large and delightful volume on coverlet collecting and the
study of coverlet making.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (July, 1908); _The Bookman_
    (October, 1910).


[From _Aunt Jane of Kentucky_ (Boston, 1907)]

"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin'
Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a long time, and
the church'd been takin' things easy, and finally they got a new
preacher from down in Tennessee, and the first thing he did was to
draw lines around 'em close and tight about keepin' Sunday. Some o'
the members had been in the habit o' havin' their wood chopped on
Sunday. Well, as soon as the new preacher come, he said that Sunday
wood-choppin' had to cease amongst his church-members or he'd have 'em
up before the session. I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd have
his wood chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' wood
carried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long in the
cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty soon they
got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread 'way out into
the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan was one o' the
first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, he told
about the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to be forgiven for breakin'
the Sabbath day.

"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone by
the town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on the Fourth
Commandment and all about that pore man that was stoned to death for
pickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. And Sam Amos, he says
after meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my opinion that that man was a
industrious, enterprisin' feller that was probably pickin' up
kindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, and,' says he, 'if they wanted
to stone anybody to death they better 'a' picked out some lazy,
triflin' feller that didn't have energy enough to work Sunday or any
other day.' Sam always would have his say, and nothin' pleased him
better'n to talk back to the preachers and git the better of 'em in a
argument. I ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the Mite
Society, and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrong
thing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intended
for anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for them to keep
the Sabbath day holy, but,' says she, 'the Lord don't rain down manna
in my yard. And,' says she, 'men can stop plowin' and plantin' on
Sunday, but they don't stop eatin', and as long as men have to eat on
Sunday, women'll have to work.'

"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and these very
preachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath day holy,
they'll walk down out of their pulpits and set down at some woman's
table and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits and corn bread and five
or six kinds o' vegetables, and never think about the work it took to
git the dinner, to say nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after.'

"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but Abram; I
reckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to own it, but"--here
her voice fell to a confessional key--"I never did like Sunday till I
begun to git old. And the way Sunday used to be kept, it looks to me
like anybody could 'a' been expected to like it but old folks and lazy
folks. You see, I never was one o' these folks that's born tired. I
loved to work. I never had need of any more rest than I got every
night when I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day's
work. I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishing' for rest, but, honey,
all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough to do it.'
And when a person looks at all the things there is to be done in this
world, they won't feel like restin' when they ain't tired.

"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself Sunday
and every other day; and I ricollect I used to be right glad when any
o' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and send for me to help nurse
'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' necessity, and mercy, too. And
then, child, the Lord don't ever rest. The Bible says He rested on the
seventh day when He got through makin' the world, and I reckon that
was rest enough for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundays
jest the same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, and
the wind blows and He does it all."

      "'For still the Lord is Lord of might;
        In deeds, in deeds He takes delight,'"

I said.

"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion in
restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight as

Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun was
sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting and
twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from a
huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky for
a moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly resting
place. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and the
poorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour.

Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days,
between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life,
his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth and
death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, what
glory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreams
and vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day be
more magnificent than life?

As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded.
The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in the
shadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peace
which "passeth all understanding."


[17] Copyright, 1907, by Little, Brown and Company.


Mrs. Kate Slaughter McKinney ("Katydid"), poet and novelist, was born
at London, Kentucky, February 6, 1857. She was graduated from
Daughters', now Beaumont, College, Harrodsburg, Kentucky, when John
Augustus Williams was president. On May 7, 1878, Miss Slaughter was
married at Richmond, Kentucky, to James I. McKinney, now
superintendent of the Louisville and Nashville railroad. Mrs.
McKinney's best work is to be found in her first book of verse,
_Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, 1887). This slender volume was
extravagantly praised by the late Charles J. O'Malley, but it did
contain several lyrics of much merit, especially "The Little Face," a
lovely bit of verse surely. Mrs. McKinney's first novel, _The Silent
Witness_ (New York, 1907), was followed by _The Weed by the Wall_
(Boston, 1911). Both of these works prove that the author's gift is of
the muses, and not of the gods of the "six best sellers." Neither of
her novels was overly successful, making one wish she had held fast to
her earlier love, verse-making. Besides these three volumes, Mrs.
McKinney has published a group of songs which have attracted
attention. She resides at Montgomery, Alabama.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
    (Louisville, 1892); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _Katydid's Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1887)]

      A little face to look at,
        A little face to kiss;
      Is there anything, I wonder,
        That's half so sweet as this?

      A little cheek to dimple
        When smiles begin to grow;
      A little mouth betraying
        Which way the kisses go.

      A slender little ringlet,
        A rosy little ear;
      A little chin to quiver
        When falls the little tear.

      A little face to look at,
        A little face to kiss;
      Is there anything, I wonder,
        That's half so sweet as this?

      A little hand so fragile
        All through the night to hold;
      Two little feet so tender
        To tuck in from the cold.

      Two eyes to watch the sunbeam
        That with the shadow plays--
      A darling little baby
        To kiss and love always.


[18] Copyright, 1887, by the Author.


Charles J. O'Malley, the George D. Prentice of modern Kentucky
literature, the praiser extraordinary and quite indiscriminately of
all things literary done by Kentucky hands, and withal a poet of
distinguished ability, was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, February
9, 1857. Through his father O'Malley was related to Father Abram J.
Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy; and his mother was of
Spanish descent. He was educated at Cecilian College, in Hardin
county, Kentucky, and at Spring Hill, a Jesuit institution near
Mobile, Alabama, from which he returned to Kentucky and made his home
for some years at Henderson. His contributions in prose and verse to
the newspapers of southwest Kentucky made him well-known in the State.
A series of prose papers included _Summer in Kentucky_, _By Marsh and
Pool_, and _The Poets and Poetry of Southwest Kentucky_, attracted
much favorable comment. His finest poem, _Enceladus_, appeared in _The
Century Magazine_ for February, 1892, and much of his subsequent work
was published in that periodical. In 1893 O'Malley removed to Mt.
Vernon, Indiana, to become editor of _The Advocate_, a Roman Catholic
periodical. His first and best known book, _The Building of the Moon
and Other Poems_ (Mt. Vernon, Indiana, 1894), brought together his
finest work in verse. From this time until his death he was an editor
of Roman Catholic publications and a contributor of poems to _The
Century_, _Cosmopolitan_, and other high-class magazines. For several
years O'Malley was editor of _The Midland Review_, of Louisville, and
this was the best periodical he ever edited. Many of the now
well-known writers of the South and West got their first things
printed in _The Review_. It did a real service for Kentucky authors
especially. During his later life O'Malley seemed to realize that he
had devoted far too much time in praising the literary labors of other
writers, and he turned most of his attention to creative work, which
was making him better known with the appearance of each new poem.
O'Malley may be ranked with John Boyle O'Reilly, the Boston editor and
poet, and he loses nothing by comparison with him. He was ever a Roman
Catholic poet, and his religion marred the beauty of much of his best
work. Besides _The Building of the Moon_, O'Malley published _The
Great White Shepherd of Christendom_ (Chicago, 1903), which was a
large life of Pope Leo XIII; and _Thistledrift_ (Chicago, 1909), a
little book of poems and prose pastels. For several years prior to his
passing, he planned a complete collection of his poems to be entitled
_Songs of Dawn_, but he did not live to finish this work. At the time
of his death, which occurred at Chicago, March 26, 1910, O'Malley was
editor of _The New World_, a Catholic weekly. Today he lies buried
near his Kentucky birthplace with no stone to mark the spot.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Century Magazine_ (October, 1907); _The New
    World_ (Chicago, April 2, 1910).


[From _The Building of the Moon and Other Poems_ (Mount Vernon,
Indiana, 1894)]

      I shall arise; I am not weak; I feel
      A strength within me worthy of the gods--
      A strength that will not pass in gray despair.

      Ten million years I have lain thus, supine,
      Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks,
      And the slow centuries have heard me groan
      In passing, and not one has pitied me;
      Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath
      This mighty horror fixed upon my chest,
      And have not eased me of a moment's pain.

      Oh, I will rise again--I will shake off
      This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove!
      Lo, prone in darkness I have gathered hope
      From the great waters walking speaking by!
      These unto me give mercy, thus forshown:

      "We are the servants of a mightier Lord
      Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee.
      We go forth at His bidding, laying bare
      The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms
      That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man,
      And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon
      The mighty base of unborn continents.
      The old earth, when it hath fulfilled His will,
      Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise
      And fuller life, and like unto God,
      Fills the new races struggling on the globe.

      "Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm,
      And mighty order from the deep breaks up
      In all her parts, and only Night remains
      With all her starts that minister to God,
      Who sits sublimely, shaping as He wills,
      Creating always." These things do they speak.
      "The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars,
      Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk
      To mournful cloisters of the under-world;
      And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self
      Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm."

      These things, and more, the waters say to me,
      How this old earth shall change, and its life pass
      And be renewed from fathomless within;
      How other forms, and likelier to God,
      Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud;
      How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes,
      In that far time, when He hath wrought His plan,
      Shall the new globe inherit, and like us
      Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of ours--
      Or of our dust again made animate.

      These things to me; yet still his curse remains,
      His burden presses on me. God! thou God!
      Who wast before the dawn, give ear to me!
      Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust
      This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me,
      When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven,
      And the earth crumbles, plunging to the void
      With all its shrieking peoples!--Let it fall!
      Let it be sown as ashes underneath
      The base of all the continents to be
      Forever, if so rent I shall be freed!

      Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope
      On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings?
      Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within
      Through all its massive frame, and know His hand
      Again doth labor shaping out His plan.
      Oh, I shall have all patience, trust and calm,
      Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring,
      On their broad wings, release from this deep hell,
      And that I shall have life yet upon earth,
      Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath,
      And meet the living races face to face.


[From the same]

      All day from the tulip-poplar boughs
      The chewink's voice like a gold-bell rings,
      The meadow-lark pipes to the drowsy cows,
      And the oriole like a red rose swings,
          And clings, and swings,
      Shaking the noon from his burning wings.

      A flash of purple within the brake
      The red-bud burns, where the spice-wood blows,
      And the brook laughs low where the white dews shake,
      Drinking the wild-haw's fragrant snows,
          And flows, and goes
      Under the feet of the wet, wood-rose.

      Odors of may-apples blossoming,
      And violets stirring and blue-bells shaken--
      Shadows that start from the thrush's wing
      And float on the pools, and swim and waken--
          Unslaken, untaken--
      Bronze wood-Naiads that wait forsaken.

      All day the lireodendron droops
      Over the thickets her moons of gold;
      All day the cumulous dogwood groups
      Flake the mosses with star-snows cold,
          While gold untold
      The oriole pours from his song-thatched hold!

      Carol of love, all day in the thickets,
      Redbird; warble, O thrush, of pain!
      Pipe me of pity, O raincrow, hidden
      Deep in the wood! and, lo! the refrain
          Of pain, again
      Shall out of the bosom of heaven bring rain!


[19] Copyright, 1894, by the Advocate Publishing Company.


Langdon ("Denver") Smith, maker of a very clever and learned poem, was
born in Kentucky, January 4, 1858. From 1864 to 1872 he attended the
public schools of Louisville. As a boy Smith served in the Comanche
and Apache Wars, and he was later a correspondent in the Sioux War. In
1894 Smith was married to Marie Antoinette Wright, whom he afterwards
memorialized in his famous poem, and who survived him but five weeks.
In the year following his marriage, he went to Cuba for _The New York
Herald_ to "cover" the conflict between Spain and Cuba; and three
years later he represented the New York _Journal_ during the
Spanish-American War. Smith was at the bombardment of Santiago and at
the battles of El Caney and San Juan. After the war he returned to New
York, in which city he died, April 8, 1908. He was the author of a
novel, called _On the Pan Handle_, and of many short stories, but his
poem, _Evolution_, made him famous. The first stanzas of this poem
were written in 1895; and four years later he wrote several more
stanzas. Then from time to time he added a line or more, until it was
completed. _Evolution_ first appeared in its entirety in the middle of
a page of want advertisements in the New York _Journal_. It attracted
immediate and wide notice, but copies of it were rather difficult to
obtain until it was reprinted in _The Scrap-Book_ for April, 1906, and
in _The Speaker_ for September, 1908.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909), is a
    beautiful and fitting setting for this famous poem. In the
    introduction to this edition Mr. Lewis Allen Browne brings
    together the facts of Langdon Smith's life and work with many fine
    words of criticism for the poem. In 1911 W. A. Wilde and Company,
    the Boston publishers, issued an exquisite edition of _Evolution_.
    Thus it will be seen that Smith and his masterpiece have received
    proper recognition from the publishers and the public; the
    judgment of posterity cannot be hurried; but that judgment can be
    anticipated, at least in part. That it will be favorable,
    characterizing _Evolution_ as one of the cleverest, smartest
    things done by a nineteenth century American poet, the present
    writer does not for a moment doubt.


[From _Evolution, a Fantasy_ (Boston, 1909)]


      When you were a tadpole and I was a fish,
        In the Paleozoic time.
      And side by side on the ebbing tide
        We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
      Or skittered with many a caudal flip
        Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
      My heart was rife with the joy of life,
        For I loved you even then.


      Mindless we lived and mindless we loved,
        And mindless at last we died;
      And deep in a rift of the Caradoc drift
        We slumbered side by side.
      The world turned on in the lathe of time,
        The hot lands heaved amain,
      Till we caught our breath from the womb of death,
        And crept into light again.


      We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed,
        And drab as a dead man's hand;
      We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees,
        Or trailed through the mud and sand,
      Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
        Writing a language dumb,
      With never a spark in the empty dark
        To hint at a life to come.


      Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,
        And happy we died once more;
      Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
        Of a Neocomian shore.
      The eons came, and the eons fled,
        And the sleep that wrapped us fast
      Was riven away in a newer day,
        And the night of death was past.


      Then light and swift through the jungle trees
        We swung in our airy flights,
      Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms,
        In the hush of the moonless nights.
      And oh! what beautiful years were these,
        When our hearts clung each to each;
      When life was filled, and our senses thrilled
        In the first faint dawn of speech.


      Thus life by life, and love by love,
        We passed through the cycles strange,
      And breath by breath, and death by death,
        We followed the chain of change.
      Till there came a time in the law of life
        When over the nursing sod
      The shadows broke, and the soul awoke
        In a strange, dim dream of God.


      I was thewed like an Auroch bull,
        And tusked like the great Cave Bear;
      And you, my sweet, from head to feet,
        Were gowned in your glorious hair.
      Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
        When the night fell o'er the plain,
      And the moon hung red o'er the river bed.
        We mumbled the bones of the slain.


      I flaked a flint to a cutting edge,
        And shaped it with brutish craft;
      I broke a shank from the woodland dank,
        And fitted it, head and haft.
      Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
        Where the Mammoth came to drink;--
      Through brawn and bone I drave the stone,
        And slew him upon the brink.


      Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
        Loud answered our kith and kin;
      From west and east to the crimson feast
        The clan came trooping in.
      O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof,
        We fought, and clawed and tore,
      And cheek by jowl, with many a growl,
        We talked the marvel o'er.


      I carved that fight on a reindeer bone,
        With rude and hairy hand,
      I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
        That men might understand.
      For we lived by blood, and the right of might,
        Ere human laws were drawn.
      And the Age of Sin did not begin
        Till our brutal tusks were gone.


      And that was a million years ago,
        In a time that no man knows;
      Yet here to-night in the mellow light,
        We sit at Delmonico's;
      Your eyes are as deep as the Devon springs,
        Your hair is as dark as jet,
      Your years are few, your life is new,
        Your soul untried, and yet--


      Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay,
        And the scarp of the Purbeck flags,
      We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones,
        And deep in the Coraline crags;
      Our love is old, our lives are old,
        And death shall come amain;
      Should it come to-day, what man may say
        We shall not live again?


      God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
        And furnished them wings to fly;
      He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
        And I know that it shall not die;
      Though cities have sprung above the graves
        Where the crook-boned men made war,
      And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves,
        Where the mummied mammoths are.


      Then as we linger at luncheon here,
        O'er many a dainty dish,
      Let us drink anew to the time when you
        Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.


[20] Copyright, 1909, by L. E. Bassett and Company.


William James Lampton ("Will J. Lampton"), founder of the "Yawp School
of Poetry," was born in Lawrence county, Ohio, May 27, 185-, within
sight of the Kentucky line. (Being a bachelor, like Henry Cleveland
Wood, he has hitherto declined to herald the exact date of his birth.)
His parents were Kentuckians and at the age of three years he was
brought to this State. His boyhood and youth was spent in the hills of
Kentucky. He was fitted at private schools in Ashland and Catletsburg,
Kentucky, for Ohio Wesleyan University, which he left for Marietta
College. In 1877 Mr. Lampton established the _Weekly Review_--spelled
either way!--at Ashland, Kentucky. Although he had had no prior
training in journalism, he wrote eleven columns for his first issue.
His was a Republican sheet, and the good Democrats of Boyd county saw
to it that it survived not longer than a year. From Ashland Mr.
Lampton went to Cincinnati and joined the staff of _The Times_. _The
Times_ was too rapid for him, however, and from Cincinnati he
journeyed to Steubenville, Ohio, to take a position on _The Herald_.
Mr. Lampton remained on that paper for three years, when he again came
to Kentucky to join the staff of the Louisville _Courier-Journal_.
Some time later his paper sent him to Cincinnati, which marked his
retirement from Kentucky journalism. It will thus be seen that he
"lapsed out of Kentucky for a time, and lapsed again at the close of
1882." Leaving Cincinnati he went to Washington and originated the now
well-known department of "Shooting Stars" for _The Evening Star_. For
some years past he has resided in New York, working as a "free-lance."
For a long time he contributed a poem almost every day to _The Sun_,
_The World_, or some other paper. In 1910 the governor of Kentucky
created the poet a real Kentucky colonel; and this momentous elevation
above earth's common mortals is heralded to-day upon his stationery.
Colonel Lampton, then, has published six books, the editions of three
of which are exhausted, and he is now happy to think that his works
are "rare, exceedingly scarce." The first of them, _Mrs. Brown's
Opinions_ (New York, 1886), was followed by his chief volume hitherto,
_Yawps and Other Things_ (Philadelphia, 1900). The "other things" were
poems, not yawps. Colonel Henry Watterson contributed a clever
introduction to the attractive volume; and another form of verse was
born and clothed. _The Confessions of a Husband_ (New York, 1903), was
a slight offset to Mary Adams's _The Confessions of a Wife_. Colonel
Lampton's other books are: _The Trolley Car and the Lady_ (Boston,
1908), being "a trolley trip from Manhattan to Maine;" _Jedge Waxem's
Pocket-Book of Politics_ (New York, 1908), which was "owned by Jedge
Wabash Q. Waxem, Member of Congress from Wayback," bound in the form
of an actual pocket-book; and his latest collection of cleverness,
_Tame Animals I Have Known_ (New York, 1912). The tall--and
bald!--Kentuckian lives at the French Y. M. C. A., New York, in order,
as he himself has said, "to give a Parisian tinge to his religion."
His "den" is a delight to Bohemians, a replica of many a country
newspaper office in Kentucky. He is one of the joys of life surely.
And though he has turned out almost as much as Miss Braddon, he can
recall but the four lines he wrote in 1900 upon Mr. James Lane Allen:

      "The Reign of Law"--
        Well, Allen, you're lucky;
      It's the first time it ever
        Rained law in Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (May,
    1902); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (November, 1907); _Lippincott's
    Magazine_ (August, 1911).


[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (April, 1907)]

      What is it to-day
      That it should be worse than the early days?
      Are the modern ways
      Darker for all the light
      That the years have shed?
      Is the right
      Under the wheels of progress
      By the side of the road to success,
      Bleeding and bruised and broken,
      Left in forgetfulness?
      Is truth
      Stronger in youth
      Than in age? Does it grow
      Feeble with years, and move slow
      On the path that leads
      To the world's needs?
      Does man reach up or down
      To take the victor's crown
      Of progress in science, art and commerce?
      In all the works that plan
      And purpose to accomplish
      The betterment of man?
      Does the soul narrow
      With the broadening of thought?
      Does the heart harden
      By what the hand has wrought?
      Who shall say
      That decay
      Marks the good of to-day?
      Who dares to state
      That God grows less as man grows great?


[From _Pearson's Magazine_ (September, 1908)]

      I builded a castle in the air,
        A magical, beautiful pile,
      As the wonderful temples of Karnak were,
        By the thirsty shores of the Nile.
      Its glittering towers emblazoned the blue,
        Its walls were of burnished gold,
      Which up from the caverns of ocean grew,
        Where pearls lay asleep in the cold.
      Its windows were gems with the glint and the gleam
        Of the sun and the moon and the stars.
      Like the eyes of a god in a Brahmin's dream
        Of the land of the deodars.
      It stood as the work of a master, alone,
        Whose marvelous genius had played
      The music of heaven in mortar and stone
        With the tools of his earthly trade.
      I builded a castle in the air,
        From its base to its turret crown;
      I stretched forth my hand to touch it there
        And the whole darn thing fell down.


[From _The Bohemian_]

      Gee whiz,
      You shine in our eyes
      Like the stars in the skies;
      You glint and gleam
      Like a jeweled dream;
      You sparkle and dance
      Like the soul of France,
      Your bubbles murmur
      And your deeps are gold,
      Warm is your spirit,
      And your body, cold;
      You dazzle the senses,
      Dispelling the dark;
      You are music and magic,
      The song of the lark;
      O'er all the ills of life victorious,
      You touch the night and make it glorious.
      But, say,
      The next day?
      Oh, go away!
      Go away
      And stay!
      Gee whiz,
      Fizz! ! !


[21] Copyright, 1907, by the Pearson Publishing Company, New York.

[22] Copyright, 1908, by the Pearson Publishing Co., New York.


Mrs. Mary Anderson de Navarro, the celebrated actress of the long ago,
and a writer of much ability, is a product of Kentucky, although she
happened to be born at Sacramento, California, July 28, 1859. When but
six months old she was brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and there her
girlhood days were spent. Miss Anderson was educated at the Ursuline
Convent and the Presentation Academy, two Roman Catholic institutions
of Louisville. At the age of seventeen years, or, on November 27,
1876, she made her _debut_ as _Juliet_ in "Romeo and Juliet," at
Macauley's Theatre, Louisville, and her "hit" was most decided, both
press and public agreeing that a brilliant career was before her. Miss
Anderson's superb figure, her glorious hair, her magnificent voice,
made her the great beauty she was, and thoroughly delightful. Leaving
Louisville for a tour of the principal cities of the country, she
finally arrived in New York, where she was seen in several
Shakespearian roles. Some time later she put on "Pygmalion and
Galatea," one of her greatest successes. In London Miss Anderson won
the hearts of the Britishers with "The Lady of Lyons," "Pygmalion and
Galatea," and other plays. Her second season on the stage saw a
gorgeous production of "Romeo and Juliet" in London, with the American
girl in her first role, _Juliet_. This "held the boards" for an
hundred nights. She returned to the United States, but she was soon
back in London, where "The Winter's Tale," her next play, ran for
nearly two hundred nights. Short engagements on the continent
followed, after which she came again to this country, and to her old
home, Louisville, which visit she has charmingly related in her
autobiography, _A Few Memories_ (London and New York, 1896), which
work Joseph Jefferson once declared would make permanent her stage
successes. From Louisville "Our Mary," as she was called by
Kentuckians, was seen in Cincinnati, from which city she went to
Washington, where she forever rang down the curtain upon her life as
an actress. That was in the spring of 1889, and in June of that year
she was married to Antonio F. de Navarro, since which event she has
resided in England. In recent years Mary Anderson, that was, has
visited in New York, but she has not journeyed out to Kentucky. In
1911 she collaborated in the dramatization of Robert Hichens's novel,
_The Garden of Allah_, and she was in New York for its _premier_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Few Memories_ is delightfully set down, and,
    though the author made no especial claims as a writer, her book
    will keep her fame green for many years; _McClure's Magazine_
    (July, 1908); _Harper's Weekly_ (January 9, 1909); _Century
    Magazine_ (March, 1910).


[From _A Few Memories_ (London, 1896)]

After visiting many of the principal States, I was delighted to find
myself again in quaint, charming Louisville, Kentucky. Everything goes
along so quietly and lazily there that no one seems to change or grow
older. Having no rehearsals I used my first free time since I had left
the city soon after my _debut_ to see the places I liked best. Many of
my childhood's haunts were visited with our old nurse "Lou." At the
Ursuline Convent, with its high walls, where music had first cast a
veritable spell, and made a willing slave of me for life, most of the
nuns looked much the same, though I had not seen them in nineteen
years. The little window of the den where I had first resolved to go
upon the stage, was as bright and shining as ever; and I wondered, in
passing the old house, whether some other young and hopeful creature
were dreaming and toiling there as I had done so many years before. At
the Presentation Academy I found the latticed summer-house (where, as
a child, I had reacted for my companions every play seen at the
Saturday matinées, instead of eating my lunch) looking just as cool
and inviting as it did then. My little desk, the dunce-stool,
everything seemed to have a friendly greeting for me. Mother Eulalia
was still the Superioress, and in looking into her kind face and
finding so little change there, it seemed that the vortex I had lived
in since those early years was but a restless dream, and that I must
be a little child again under her gentle care. No one was changed but
myself. I seemed to have lived a hundred years since leaving the old
places and kindly faces, and to have suddenly come back again into
their midst (unlike Rip Van Winkle) to find them as I had left them.

Many episodes, memorable to me, occurred in Louisville. Not the least
pleasant was Father Boucher's acknowledgment (after disapproving of my
profession for years) that my private life had not fallen under the
evils which, at the beginning, he feared to be inevitable from contact
with the theatre. Father Boucher was a dear old Frenchman, who had
known and instructed me in matters religious since my childhood. My
respect and affection for him had always been deep. When he condemned
my resolution to go upon the stage quite as bitterly as did my
venerated guardian, Pater Anton, my cup of unhappiness overflowed. All
my early successes were clouded by the alienation of such unique
friends. My satisfaction and delight may be imagined when, after years
of estrangement, Father Boucher met me with the same trust with which
he had honoured me as a child, and heartily gave me his blessing.

It was also at Louisville that the highly complimentary "resolutions"
passed by the Senate of Kentucky, and unanimously adopted by that
body, were presented to me. They were the State's crowning expression
of goodwill to their grateful, though unworthy, country-woman.


[23] Copyright, 1896, by Osgood, McIlvaine and Company, London.


Mrs. Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews, short-story writer and novelist,
was born at Mobile, Alabama, in 1860, but she was brought to
Lexington, Kentucky, in September, 1861, when her father, Rev. Jacob
S. Shipman, an Episcopal clergyman, was chosen rector of Christ
Church. When six years old she was sent to Christ Church Seminary, the
church's school, conducted by Rev. Silas Totten and his daughters. One
of these daughters tells with a smile to-day that "May" Shipman's
first story, written at the age of seven, was upon her dog, "Shep."
When thirteen years of age she discovered that the older girls in the
school were studying French, when she was not, and she went to her
father with the request that she be permitted to join the class. But
the rector's question, "May, would you put in your furniture before
you built your walls?" sent her back to her Latin and mathematics
without further protest. She attended the school for eleven years, and
at it received her education, never having attended any other
institution. On November 26, 1877, when the future writer was
seventeen years of age, her father accepted the rectorship of Christ
Church, New York, and the family shortly afterwards removed to that
city. She has been in Kentucky but twice since: five years after her
departure, and about ten years ago. But that she has not forgotten her
Kentucky home is evinced in the signed copies of her books which have
found their way to the Blue Grass country and in her letters to
former friends. On the last day of December, 1884, Miss Shipman
married William Shankland Andrews, now associate justice of the
supreme court of New York. Mrs. Andrews spends her summers in the
Canadian woods, and the winters at her home in Syracuse, New York. Her
first novel, _Vive L'Empereur_ (New York, 1902), a story of the king
of Rome, was followed by _A Kidnapped Colony_ (New York, 1903), with
Bermuda as the background. _Bob and the Guides_ (New York, 1906), was
the experiences of a boy, "Bob," with the French guides of the
Canadian woods who pursue caribou. _A Good Samaritan_ (New York,
1906), has been called the best story ever printed in _McClure's
Magazine_, in which form it first appeared. _The Perfect Tribute_ (New
York, 1906), a quasi-true story of Lincoln and the lack of enthusiasm
with which the crowd received his Gettysburg speech, adorned with a
love episode at the end, is Mrs. Andrews's finest thing so far. This
little tale has made her famous, and stamped her as one of the best
American writers of the short-story. It was originally printed in
_Scribner's Magazine_ for July, 1906. Her other books are: _The
Militants_ (New York, 1907), a collection of stories, several of which
are set in Kentucky, and all of them inscribed to her father in
beautiful words; _The Better Treasure_ (Indianapolis, 1908), is a
charming Christmas story, with a moral attached; _The Enchanted Forest
and Other Stories_ (New York, 1909), a group of stories first told to
her son and afterwards set down for other people's sons; _The Lifted
Bandage_ (New York, 1910), a most unpleasant, disagreeable tale as may
well be imagined; _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911), a
yarn of Yale and her ways, one of the author's cleverest things; _The
Counsel Assigned_ (New York, 1912), another story of Lincoln, this
time as the young lawyer, is not greatly inferior to _The Perfect_
_Tribute_. Mrs. Andrews's latest volume, _The Marshal_ (Indianapolis,
1912), is her first really long novel. It is a story of France,
somewhat in the manner of her first book _Vive L'Empereur_, but, of
course, much finer than that work of her 'prentice years. It has been
highly praised in some quarters, and rather severely criticized in
others. At any rate it has not displaced _The Perfect Tribute_ as her
masterpiece. That little story, with _A Good Samaritan_, _The Courage
of the Commonplace_, and _Crowned with Glory and Honor_, fairly
entitle Mrs. Andrews to the first and highest place among Kentucky
women writers of the short-story. She has attained a higher note in a
most difficult art than any other woman Kentucky has produced; and it
is only right and just that her proper position be allotted her in
order that she may occupy it; which she will do with a consensus of
opinion when her Kentucky life is more widely heralded.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _American Magazine_ (May, 1909); _Scribner's
    Magazine_ (September, 1911; August, 1912).


[From _The Courage of the Commonplace_ (New York, 1911)]

Three years later the boy graduated from the Boston "Tech." As his
class poured from Huntington Hall, he saw his father waiting for him.
He noted with pride, as he always did, the tall figure, topped with a
wonderful head--a mane of gray hair, a face carved in iron, squared
and cut down to the marrow of brains and force--a man to be seen in
any crowd. With that, as his own met the keen eyes behind the
spectacles, he was aware of a look which startled him. The boy had
graduated at the very head of his class; that light in his father's
eyes all at once made two years of work a small thing.

"I didn't know you were coming, sir. That's mighty nice of you," he
said, as they walked down Boylston Street together, and his father
waited a moment and then spoke in his usual incisive tone.

"I wouldn't have liked to miss it, Johnny," he said. "I don't remember
that anything in my life has ever made me as satisfied as you have

With a gasp of astonishment the young man looked at him, looked away,
looked at the tops of the houses, and did not find a word anywhere.
His father had never spoken to him so; never before, perhaps, had he
said anything as intimate to any of his sons. They knew that the cold
manner of the great engineer covered depths, but they never expected
to see the depths uncovered. But here he was, talking of what he felt,
of character, and honor, and effort.

"I've appreciated what you have been doing," the even voice went on.
"I talk little about personal affairs. But I'm not uninterested; I
watch. I was anxious about you. You were a more uncertain quantity
than Ted and Harry. Your first three years at Yale were not
satisfactory. I was afraid you lacked manliness. Then came--a
disappointment. It was a blow to us--to family pride. I watched you
more closely, and I saw before that year ended that you were taking
your medicine rightly. I wanted to tell you of my contentment, but
being slow of speech, I--couldn't. So"--the iron face broke for a
second time into a whimsical grin--"so I offered you a motor. And you
wouldn't take it. I knew, though you didn't explain, that you feared
it would interfere with your studies. I was right?" Johnny nodded.
"Yes. And your last year at college was--was all I could wish. I see
now that you needed a blow in the face to wake you up--and you got it.
And you waked." The great engineer smiled with clean pleasure. "I have
had"--he hesitated--"I have had always a feeling of responsibility to
your mother for you--more than for the others. You were so young when
she died that you seem more her child. I was afraid I had not treated
you right well--that it was my fault if you failed." The boy made a
gesture--he could not very well speak. His father went on: "So when
you refused the motor, when you went into engineers' camp that first
summer, instead of going abroad, I was pleased. Your course here has
been a satisfaction, without a drawback--keener, certainly, because I
am an engineer, and could appreciate, step by step, how well you were
doing, how much you were giving up to do it, how much power you were
gaining by that long sacrifice. I've respected you through these years
of commonplace, and I've known how much more courage it meant in a
pleasure-loving lad such as you than it would have meant in a serious
person such as I am--such as Ted and Harry are, to an extent, also."
The older man, proud and strong and reserved, turned on his son such a
shining face as the boy had never seen. "That boyish failure isn't
wiped out, Johnny, for I shall remember it as the corner-stone of your
career, already built over with an honorable record. You've made good.
I congratulate and I honor you."

The boy never knew how he got home. He knocked his shins badly on a
quite visible railing, and it was out of the question to say a single
word. But if he staggered, it was with an overload of happiness, and
if he was speechless and blind, the stricken faculties were paralyzed
with joy. His father walked beside him and they understood each other.
He reeled up the streets contented.

That night there was a family dinner, and with the coffee his father
turned and ordered fresh champagne opened.

"We must have a new explosion to drink to the new superintendent of
the Oriel mine," he said. Johnny looked at him, surprised, and then at
the others, and the faces were bright with the same look of something
which they knew and he did not.

"What's up?" asked Johnny. "Who's the superintendent of the Oriel
mine? Why do we drink to him? What are you all grinning about,
anyway?" The cork flew up to the ceiling, and the butler poured gold
bubbles into the glasses, all but his own.

"Can't I drink to the beggar, too, whoever he is?" asked Johnny, and
moved his glass and glanced up at Mullins. But his father was beaming
at Mullins in a most unusual way, and Johnny got no wine. With that
Ted, the oldest brother, pushed back his chair and stood and lifted
his glass.

"We'll drink," he said, and bowed formally to Johnny, "to the
gentleman who is covering us all with glory, to the new superintendent
of the Oriel mine, Mr. John Archer McLean," and they stood and drank
the toast. Johnny, more or less dizzy, more or less scarlet, crammed
his hands in his pockets and stared and turned redder, and brought out
interrogations in the nervous English which is acquired at our great
institutions of learning.

"Gosh! are you all gone dotty?" he asked. And "is this a merry jape?"
And "Why, for cat's sake, can't you tell a fellow what's up your
sleeve?" While the family sipped champagne and regarded him.

"Now, if I've squirmed for you enough, I wish you'd explain--father,
tell me!" the boy begged.

And the tale was told by the family, in chorus, without politeness,
interrupting freely. It seemed that the president of the big mine
needed a superintendent, and wishing young blood and the latest ideas,
had written to the head of the Mining Department in the School of
Technology, to ask if he would give him the name of the ablest man in
the graduating class--a man to be relied on for character as much as
brains, he specified, for the rough army of miners needed a general at
their head almost more than a scientist. Was there such a combination
to be found, he asked, in a youngster of twenty-three or twenty-four,
such as would be graduating at the "Tech?" If possible, he wanted a
very young man--he wanted the enthusiasm, he wanted the athletic
tendency, he wanted the plus-strength, he wanted the unmade reputation
which would look for its making to hard work in the mine. The letter
was produced and read to the shamefaced Johnny. "Gosh!" he remarked at
intervals, and remarked practically nothing else. There was no need.
They were so proud and so glad that it was almost too much for the boy
who had been a failure three years ago.

On the urgent insistence of every one, he made a speech. He got to his
six-feet-two slowly, and his hand went into his trousers as usual. "Holy
mackerel," he began--"I don't call it decent to knock the wind out of a
man and then hold him up for remarks. They all said in college that I
talked the darnedest hash in the class, anyway. But you will have it,
will you? I haven't got anything to say, so's you'd notice it, except
that I'll be blamed if I see how this is true. Of course I'm keen for
it--Keen! I should say I was! And what makes me keenest, I believe, is
that I know it's satisfactory to Henry McLean." He turned his bright
face to his father. "Any little plugging I've done seems like thirty
cents compared to that. You're all peaches to take such an interest, and
I thank you a lot. Me, the superintendent of the Oriel mine! Holy
mackerel!" gasped Johnny, and sat down.


[24] Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons.


Mrs. Elvira (Sydnor) Miller Slaughter, the "Tatler" of _The Louisville
Times_ in the old days, and a verse-writer of considerable reputation,
was born at Wytheville, Virginia, October 12, 1860. When a child Miss
Miller was brought to Kentucky, as her mother had inherited money
which made necessary her removal to this State in order to obtain it.
She was educated at the Presentation Academy, in Louisville, by the
same nuns that had instructed Mary Anderson de Navarro, the famous
actress. She was subsequently gold medalist at a private finishing
school, but she still clings to the Catholicism instilled at the
Presentation Academy. Shortly after having left school Miss Miller
published her first and only book of poems, _Songs of the Heart_
(Louisville, 1885), with a prologue by Douglass Sherley.[25] About
this time her parents lost their fortune, and she secured a position
on _The Louisville Times_, where she was trained by Mr. Robert W.
Brown, the present managing editor of that paper. After three years
of general reporting, Miss Miller became editor of "The Tatler
Column," and this she conducted for fourteen years with cleverness and
success, only resigning on the day of her marriage to Mr. W. H.
Slaughter, Jr. Her second book, _The Tiger's Daughter and Other
Stories_ (Louisville, 1889), is a group of fairy tales, several of
which are entertaining. _The Confessions of a Tatler_ (Louisville,
1905), is a booklet of the best things she did for her department on
_The Times_. She surely handled some men, women, books, and things in
this brochure in a manner that even he who runs may read
and--understand! From 1909 to 1912 she lived at Camp Dennison, near
Cincinnati, Ohio, but at the present time she is again at Louisville,
engaged in literary work.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey
    (Louisville, 1892); _Dear Old Kentucky_, by G. M. Spears
    (Cincinnati, 1900).


[From _The Midland Review_ (Louisville, Kentucky)]

                         I.--THE SOUTH

              Spirit, whose touch of fire
              Wakens the sleeping lyre--
      Thou, who dost flood with music heaven's dominions,
              Where hast thou taken flight--
              Thou comfort, thou delight?
      In what blest regions furled thy gloomy pinions,
      Since from the cold North voices call to me:
      "Thou South, thou South! Song hath abandoned thee!"


              We cry out on the air:
              Thy palace halls are bare,
      Shorn of the glory of the dream-gods' faces:
              Thy sweetest strain were sung
              When thy proud heart was young;
      Fame hath no crowns, nay, nor no vacant places--
      So, all in vain, thy poet-songs awaken:
      Thou serenadest casements long forsaken.

              Thy rivers proudly flow,
              As in the long ago.
      Like kings who lead their rushing hosts to battle:
              Thy sails make white the seas--
              They fly before the breeze,
      As o'er the wide plains fly storm-drifted cattle:
      Laughter and light make beautiful thy portals,
      Spurned by the bright feet of the lost immortals.

              What gavest thou to him
              Whose fame no years may dim,
      Song's great archangel, glorious, yet despairing--
              Who, o'er earth's warring noises
              Heard Heaven's and Hell's great voices--
      Who, from his shoulders the rude mantle tearing,
      Wrapt the thin folds about his dying wife,
      The angel and the May-time of his life?

              And what to him whose name
              Is consecrate to Fame--
      Whose songs before the winds of war were driven--
              Who swept his lute to mourn
              That banner soiled and torn,
      For which a million valiant hearts had striven--
      Who set God's cross high o'er the battling horde,
      And sheltered neath its arms the lyre and sword?

              What gav'st thou that true heart
              That shrined its dreams apart,
      From want and care and sorrow evermore--
              Him, who mid dews and damp,
              Burned out life's feeble lamp,
      Striving to keep the wolf from out his door,
      And while the land was ringing with his praise,
      Slumbered in Georgia, tired and full of days?

              And what to him whose lyre,
              Prometheus-like, stole fire
      From heaven; whom sea and air gave fancies tender--
              Whose song, winged like the lark,
              Died out in death's great dark;
      Whose soul, like some bright star, clothed on in splendor,
      Went trembling down the viewless fields of air,
      Wafted by music and the breath of prayer?

              What gav'st thou these? A crust:
              A coffin for their dust:
      Neglect, and idle praise and swift forgetting--
              Stones when they asked for bread:
              Green bays when they were dead--
      Who sang of thee from dawn till life's sun-setting,
      And whose tired eyes, thank God! could never see
      Thy shallow tears, thy niggard charity.

              Yet fair as is a night,
              O strong, O darkly bright!
      Thou shinest ever radiant and tender,
              Drawing all hearts to thee,
              As from the vassal sea
      The waves are lifted by the moon's white splendor:
      So poet strains awake, and fancies gleam
      Like winds and summer lightning through thy dream.


[From _The Louisville Times_]

      Through a little lane at sundown in the days that used to be,
      When the summer-time and roses lit the land,
      My sweetheart would come singing down that leafy way to me
      With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.
      Oh, I threw my arms about her as we met beside the way,
      And her darling, curly head lay on my breast,
      While she told me that she loved me in her simple, girlish way,
      And then kisses that she gave me told the rest;
      For a kiss is all the language that you wish from your sweetheart,
      When you meet her in the gloaming there, so lonely and apart,
      And she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me
      In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.

      Through a little lane at sundown we went walking hand in hand,
      'Mid the summer-time and roses long ago,
      And the path that we were treading seemed to lead to fairyland,
      The place where happy lovers long to go;
      Oh, we talked about our marriage in the quiet, evening hush,
      And I bent to whisper love words in her ear,
      And her dainty pink sunbonnet was no pinker than her blush
      For she thought the birds and flowers all might hear;
      Oh, that dainty pink sunbonnet, bright in memory still it glows,
      It hid her smiles and blushes as the young leaves veil the rose,
      When she set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me,
      In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.

      Through a little lane at sundown I go roaming all forlorn,
      Though the summer-time once more smiles o'er the land,
      And the roses seem to ask me where their sister rose has gone
      With her dainty pink sunbonnet in her hand.
      But false friends came between us and I found out to my cost,
      When I learned too late her sweetness and her truth,
      That the love we hold the dearest is the love that we have lost,
      With the roses and the fairyland of youth.
      Now the flowers all bend above her through the long, bright
               summer day,
      And my heart grows homesick for her as she dreams the hours away,
      She who set my life to music and made heaven on earth for me
      In that little lane at sundown in the days that used to be.


[25] (George) Douglass Sherley, born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 27,
1857; educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and University
of Virginia; joined staff of the old Louisville _Commercial_; made
lecture tour with James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet; now resides
near Lexington, Kentucky. Author of: _The Inner Sisterhood_
(Louisville, 1884); _The Valley of Unrest_ (New York, 1884); _Love
Perpetuated_ (Louisville, 1884); _The Story of a Picture_ (Louisville,
1884). Mr. Sherley has done much occasional writing since his four
books were published, which has appeared in the form of calendars,
leaflets, and in newspapers.


Joseph Seaman Cotter, Kentucky's only negro writer of real creative
ability, was born near Bardstown, Kentucky, February 2, 1861. From his
hard day-labor, he went to night school in Louisville, and he has
educated himself so successfully that he is at the present time
principal of the Tenth Ward colored school, Louisville. Cotter has
published three volumes of verse, the first of which was _Links of
Friendship_ (Louisville, 1898), a book of short lyrics. This was
followed by a four-act verse drama, entitled _Caleb, the Degenerate_
(Louisville, 1903). His latest book of verse is _A White Song and a
Black One_ (Louisville, 1909). Cotter's response to Paul Lawrence
Dunbar's _After a Visit_ to Kentucky, was exceedingly well done, but
his _Negro Love Song_ is the cleverest thing he has written hitherto.
His work has been praised by Alfred Austin, Israel Zangwill, Madison
Cawein, Charles J. O'Malley, and other excellent judges of poetry.
Cotter is a great credit to his race, and he has won, by his quiet,
unassuming life and literary labors, the respect of many of
Louisville's most prominent citizens. One of his admirers has ranked
his work above Dunbar's, but this rating is much too high for any
thing he has done so far. In the last year or two he has turned his
attention to the short-story, and his first collection of them has
just appeared, entitled _Negro Tales_ (New York, 1912).

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (November 14, 1909); _Lore of the
    Meadowland_, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky, 1911).


[From _A White Song and a Black One_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1909)]

      I lobes your hands, gal; yes I do.
        (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
      I lobes your earnings thro' an' thro'.
        (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
      Now, heah de truf. I'se mos' nigh broke;
      I wants ter take you fer my yoke;
        So let's go wed ter-morro'.

      Now, don't look shy, an' don't say no.
        (I'se gwine ter wed ter-morro'.)
      I hope you don't expects er sho'
        When we two weds ter-morro'.
      I needs er licends--you know I do--
      I'll borrow de price ob de same frum you,
        An' den we weds ter-morro'.

      How pay you back? In de reg'ler way.
        When you becomes my honey
      You'll habe myself fer de princ'pal pay,
        An' my faults fer de inter's' money.
      Dat suits you well? Dis cash is right.
      So we two weds ter-morro' night,
        An' you wuks all de ter-morro's.


[26] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.


Ethelbert Dudley Warfield, historical writer, was born at Lexington,
Kentucky, March 16, 1861, the brother of Dr. Benjamin Breckinridge
Warfield, the distinguished professor in Princeton Theological Seminary.
President Warfield was graduated from Princeton, continued his studies
at the University of Oxford, and was graduated in law from Columbia
University, in 1885. He practiced law at Lexington, Kentucky, for two
years, when he abandoned the profession for the presidency of Miami
University, Oxford, Ohio. In 1891 he left Miami for the presidency of
LaFayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, where he has remained ever
since. In 1899 Dr. Warfield was ordained to the Presbyterian ministry.
He teaches history at LaFayette. Besides several interesting pamphlets
upon historical subjects, Dr. Warfield has published three books, the
first of which was _The Kentucky Resolutions of 1798: an Historical
Study_ (New York, 1887), his most important work so far. _At the Evening
Hour_ (Philadelphia, 1898), is a little book of talks upon religious
subjects; and his most recent volume, _Joseph Cabell Breckinridge,
Junior_ (New York, 1898), is the pathetic tale of the years of an early
hero of the Spanish-American war, graphically related.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (August, 1901); _The
    Independent_ (December 25, 1902); _The Independent_ (July 13,


[From _The Presbyterian and Reformed Review_ (April, 1892)]

Columbus is one of the few men who have profoundly changed the course
of history. He occupies a unique and commanding position, seeming to
stand out of contemporary history, and to be a force separate and
apart. He is the gateway to the New World. His career made a new
civilization possible. His achievement conditions the expansion and
development of human liberty. His position is simple but certain. His
figure is as constant and as inexorable as the ice floes which girdle
and guard the pole are to us, or as the sea of darkness which he
spanned was to his predecessors. He inserted a known quantity into the
hitherto unsolvable problem of geography, and not only rendered it
solvable, but afforded a key to a vast number of problems dependent
upon it, problems not merely geographical, but economical,
sociological and governmental as well.

Yet in all this there mingles an element of error. Great events do not
come unanticipated and unheralded.

      "Wass Gott thut, das ist wohl gethan,"

sang Luther, knowing well that God hath foreordained from the
foundation of the world whatsoever cometh to pass. "In the fullness of
time" God does all things in His benign philosophy. In the fullness of
time man was set in the midst of his creation; in the fullness of time
Christ came; in the fullness of time God opened the portals of the west.

If the Welsh were driven on our shores under Madoc, if the Norsemen came
and sought to found here "Vinland, the good," they did not light upon
the fullness of time. God had no splendid purpose for the Welsh; the
Northland force was needed to make bold the hearts of England, France,
and Italy, to unify the world with fellow-service in the Orient, to
break the bonds of feudalism, and to wing the sandals of liberty. As
Isaac Newton sat watching the apple fall in his garden, he was but
resting from the labor of gathering into his mind the labors of men who
had in this or that anticipated his discovery of the law of gravitation.
In all scientific advance many gather facts. One comes at length and in
a far-reaching synthesis arranges the facts of many predecessors around
some central truth and rises to some great principle. So generalizations
follow generalizations, and the field of truth expands in ever-widening
circles from the central fact of God's establishment. Columbus is not
like Melchisedec. He had antecedents--antecedents many and obvious. The
highest tribute we can pay him is to say that he fixed upon one of the
world's great problems, studied it in all its relations, embraced clear
and definite views upon it, and staked his all upon the issue; and that
not in a spirit of mere adventure, but of dedication to a noble purpose.
He gave to a speculative question reality, and thereby gave a hemisphere
to Christendom.

But like the girl who admitted the Gauls to the Capitol at Rome in
return for "what they wore on their left arms," Columbus was
overwhelmed by the reward which he demanded for his services. Without
natural ability to command, and without experience, he demanded and
obtained a fatal authority.


Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, a novelist of strength and promise, was
born at Louisville, Kentucky, June 9, 1861, the daughter of Charles
Scott Snead. On June 8, 1886, Miss Snead became the wife of Mr. Ira
Sayre Barnett, a Louisville business man. Mrs. Barnett was literary
editor of _The Courier-Journal_ for seven years, and her Saturday page
upon "Books and Their Writers" was carefully edited. She did a real
service for Kentucky letters in that she never omitted comment and
criticism upon the latest books of our authors, with an occasional
word upon the writers of the long ago. She was succeeded by the
present editor, Miss Anna Blanche Magill. Mrs. Barnett's first story,
entitled _Mrs. Delire's Euchre Party and Other Tales_ (Franklin, Ohio,
1895), the "other tales" being three in number, was followed by
_Jerry's Reward_ (Boston, 1902). These novelettes made clear the path
for the author's big novel, _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909), now in its
second edition. This is a great mystery story, one reviewer ranking it
with the best detective tales of the present-day school. The American
trusts and the hearts of women furnish the setting for _The Dragnet_,
which is bigger in promise than in achievement, and which bespeaks
even greater merit for Mrs. Barnett's new novel, now in preparation.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentuckians in History and Literature_, by J. W.
    Townsend (New York, 1907); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Dragnet_ (New York, 1909)]

Soon after their return, the Alexanders were forced to move to town.
Charles needed the time he had to spend on the road going to and fro,
and he was unwilling to put unnecessary hours of work on Trezevant,
who not only bore his share during the day, but was sleeping with one
eye open in a dingy corner of the shops. As the Dinsmore was
expensive, they rented a modern flat, with tiny rooms, but plenty of
sunlight. Constance knew they could save here, especially as Diana
still wished to make her home with them.

Finally, the last day at Hillside came.

Charles drove Diana and Lawson to town, to get things ready there,
leaving Constance to see the last load off, and to make sure that
everything was in good shape for the Clarks, who intended to take
possession in the spring. Constance went into every room, list in
hand, checking the things the new owners had purchased. Then she tried
the window bolts, and snapped the key in the lock of the front door.
She blew the horn for the brougham. The coachman came up. In a
business-like, everyday manner, she ordered him to drive to town, and,
getting in, without one look from the window, she left Hillside.

When she arrived at the new home, she was pleased to find that Diana
and Lawson had arranged the furniture in the small rooms, and had a
dainty little luncheon awaiting. As she was sitting down to enjoy it,
her first visitor rang the bell--Aunt Sarah, just returned from the
East and the latest fashions, looking younger than ever, and with a
torrent of society gossip that was almost Sanscrit to Constance,
occupied so long with the realities.

"What was your idea, Constance, in coming to this tiny place?" she
asked, when she had given a full account of the delights of her

Constance hesitated, but only for a moment. "Economy," she said,

Aunt Sarah looked anxious. "My dear child, has your husband been
preaching? Don't let him fool you; they all try it. It's a trick.
Every now and then they think it their duty to cry hard times, when it
is no such thing. You go to scrimping and saving, like an obedient
wife, and the first thing you know he buys an automobile or a yacht,
or wants you to give a ball."

Constance smiled. "But this is real, Aunt Sarah. You know we are
fighting a big trust, and while, eventually, we expect to win, we have
to be content with little or no profits for a few years."

"Trusts! Profits! What difference do they make as long as you have a
steady income of your own?"

Constance was debating with herself whether she ought to speak plainly
and have it out with the Parker pride then and there, or wait until
she were not quite so tired and unstrung, when she was happily spared
a decision by her aunt's switching off to another track.

"Talking of money reminds me that I heard a piece of news to-day," she
said, lowering her voice in deference to Diana's presence behind thin
walls. "I heard that Horace Vendire made a will shortly after his
engagement to ---- and has left her millions."

"Oh, aunt! I wonder if it is true! How dreadful it would be!"

Aunt Sarah put up her jeweled lorgnette. "Constance Parker, what on
earth is the matter with you to-day? You seem to be getting everything
distorted, looking at the world upside down. It's that country
business--" she continued emphatically; "the very moment you developed a
fondness for that sort of life, I knew you were bound to grow careless
and indifferent in thoughts, ways, and opinions. People who love the
country always seem to think they have to sneer at civilization."

Constance was too tired to argue, and too disturbed over the last
piece of gossip to explain; so she said weakly that she supposed she
had changed, and let the rest of the visit pass in banalities.

The next day a little lawyer sprang a sensation by notifying those
whom it concerned that he held the last Will and Testament of Horace
Vendire, duly signed, attested, and sealed in his presence, a month
before the disappearance.

Charles came to tell the two women.

"No, no!" cried Diana: "It's a mistake! He did not intend it to stand!"

"You surmise the contents of the will?"

"If it was made only a month before he disappeared. Had he lived, he
would have altered it. I begged him to. Must I go to the meeting of
the heirs?"

"I think it is best. Cheer up; there are many things worse than money.
Constance and I will go with you. Mr. James is back, and has asked us."

So Diana went, and she could not have looked more terrified had she
been listening to the last trump, instead of to the smooth voice of a
young lawyer reading the bequests of her dead lover.

The will was dated, July 26th, 1900. By it, Horace Vendire's life
insurance was left to his brother James, an annuity of five thousand
dollars to his mother, and an income of only three thousand a year to
his fiancée, Diana Frewe, as long as she remained unmarried. It was
evident to Charles that Vendire did not wish to give her enough to
help her friends. The residue, and, eventually, the principal, were to
be used in building and endowing the Horace Vendire Public Library in
the city of New York.

In a codicil, he directed that his stock in the American Blade and
Trigger Company should be sold, the directors of that company being
given the option of buying it at par before it was offered elsewhere.

Mr. James Vendire was the first to congratulate Diana.

"Oh, don't!" she cried, shrinking from his proffered hand. "I cannot
bear it. It is yours; you must take it." She grew almost incoherent.

Constance petted and soothed. "Be still, dear. Remember you are weak
and unstrung. We will go home now, and see what can be done later."


[27] Copyright, 1909, by B. W. Huebsch and Company.


John Patterson, "a Greek prophet not without honor in his own American
land," was born near Lexington, Kentucky, June 10, 1861. He was
graduated from Kentucky State University in 1882; and the following
year Harvard granted him the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He took his
Master's degree from Kentucky University in 1886. The late Professor
John Henry Neville, one of Kentucky's greatest classical scholars,
first taught John Patterson Greek; and to his old professor he is
indebted for much of his success as a teacher of Greek and a
translator and critic of its literature. Professor Patterson's first
school after leaving Harvard was a private one for boys near Midway,
Kentucky; and he was for several years principal of the high school at
Versailles, Kentucky. His first book, _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati,
1893), is his only really creative work so far. It contains several
fine poems and was widely admired at the time of its appearance. In
1894 Professor Patterson was made instructor of Greek in the
Louisville High School, which position he held for seven years. His
first published translation was _The Medea of Euripides_ (Louisville,
1894), which he edited with an introduction and notes. This was
followed by _The Cyclops of Euripides_ (London, 1900), perhaps his
finest work hitherto. In 1901 Kentucky University conferred the
honorary degree of Master of Literature upon Professor Patterson; and
in the same year he helped to establish the Patterson-Davenport school
of Louisville. In 1907 he became professor of Greek in the University
of Louisville; and since September, 1908, he has been Dean of the
College of Arts and Sciences of the University with full executive
powers, practically president. His institution granted him the
honorary degree of LL. D. in 1909. Doctor Patterson's latest work is a
translation into English of _Bion's Lament for Adonis_ (Louisville,
1909). At the present time he is engaged upon a critical edition of
the Greek text of the _Lament_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909), v.
    ix; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From. _Lyric Touches_ (Cincinnati, 1893)]

          Misty-purple globes,
      Beads which brown autumn strings
          Upon her robes,
      Like amethyst ear-rings
      Behind a bridal veil
      Your veils of bloom their gems reveal.

          Mellow, sunny-sweet,
      Ye lure the banded bee
          To juicier treat,
      Aiding his tipsy spree
      With more dulcet wine
      Than clover white or wild woodbine.

          Dripping rosy dreams
      To me of happy hall
          Where laughter trims
      The lamps till swallow-call;
      Of flowery cup and throng
      Of men made gods in wit and song.

          Holding purer days
      Your luscious fruitfulness,
          When prayer and praise
      The bleeding ruby bless,
      And memory sees the blood
      Of Christ, the Savior, God and good.

          Monks of lazy hills,
      Stilling the rich sunshine
          Within your cells,
      Teach me to have such wine
      Within my breast as this,
      Of faith, of song, of happiness.


[From the same]

      The loves in excess bring nor virtue nor fame,
      But if Cypris gently should come,
      No goddess of heaven so pleasing a dame:
      Yet never, O mistress, in sure passion steeped,
      Aim at me thy gold bow's barbed flame.

      May temperance watch o'er me, best gift of the gods,
      May ne'er to wild wrangling and strifes
      Dread Cypris impel me soul-pierced with strange lust;
      But with favoring eye on the quarrelless couch
      Spread she wisely the love-beds of wives!

          Oh fatherland! Oh native home!
              Never city-less
          May I tread the weary path of want
              Ever pitiless
              And full of doom;
          But on that day to death, to death be slave!
          Without a country's worse than in a grave.

          Mine eye hath seen, nor do I muse
              On other's history.
          Nor home nor friend bewails thy nameless pangs.--
              Perish dismally
              The fiend who fails
          To cherish friends, turning the guileless key
          Of candor's gate! Such friend be far from me!


[28] Copyright, 1893, by Robert Clarke and Company.


William Eleazar Barton, novelist and theologian, was born at Sublette,
Illinois, June 28, 1861. He reached Kentucky for the first time on
Christmas Day of 1880, and matriculated as a student in Berea College,
where he spent the remainder of the college year of 1880-1881, and four
additional years. During two summers and autumns he taught school in
Knox county, Kentucky, then without a railroad, taking long rides to
Cumberland Gap, Cumberland Falls and other places which have since
appeared in his stories. The two remaining vacations he spent in travel
through the mountains, journeying by Ohio river steamer along the
northern counties, and by horseback far into the Kentucky hills in
various directions. In 1885 Mr. Barton graduated from Berea with the B.
S. degree; and three years later the same institution granted him M. S.,
and, in 1890, A. M. He was ordained to the Congregational ministry at
Berea, Kentucky, June 6, 1885, and he preached for two years in southern
Kentucky and in the adjacent hills of east Tennessee, living at Robbins,
Tennessee. Mr. Barton's first book was a Kentucky mountain sketch,
called _The Wind-Up of the Big Meetin' on No Bus'ness_ (1887), now out
of print. This was followed by _Life in the Hills of Kentucky_ (1889),
depicting actual conditions. He became pastor of a church at Wellington,
Ohio, in 1890, and his next two works were church histories. Berea
College conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity upon Mr.
Barton in 1895; and he has been a trustee of the college for the last
several years. He was pastor of a church in Boston for six years, but
since 1899, he has been in charge of the First Congregational Church of
Oak Park, Illinois. Dr. Barton's other books are: _A Hero in Homespun_
(New York, 1897), a Kentucky story, the first of his books that was
widely read and reviewed; _Sim Galloway's_ _Daughter-in-Law_ (Boston,
1897), the Kentucky mountains again, which reappear in _The Truth About
the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897); _The Story of a Pumpkin Pie_
(Boston, 1898); _The Psalms and Their Story_ (Boston, 1898); _Old
Plantation Hymns_ (1899); _When Boston Braved the King_ (Boston, 1899);
_The Improvement of Perfection_ (1900); _The Prairie Schooner_ (Boston,
1900); _Pine Knot_ (New York, 1900), his best known and, perhaps, his
finest tale of Kentucky; _Lieut. Wm. Barton_ (1900); _What Has Brought
Us Out of Egypt_ (1900); _Faith as Related to Health_ (1901);
_Consolation_ (1901); _I Go A-Fishing_ (New York, 1901); _The First
Church of Oak Park_ (1901); _The Continuous Creation_ (1902); _The Fine
Art of Forgetting_ (1902); _An Elementary Catechism_ (1902); _The Old
World in the New Century_ (1902); _The Gospel of the Autumn Leaf_
(1903); _Jesus of Nazareth_ (1904); _Four Weeks of Family Worship_
(1906); _The Sweetest Story Ever Told_ (1907); with Sydney Strong and
Theo. G. Soares, _His Last Week, His Life, His Friends, His Great
Apostle_ (1906-07); _The Week of Our Lord's Passion_ (1907); _The
Samaritan Pentateuch_ (1906); _The History and Religion of the
Samaritans_ (1906); _The Messianic Hope of the Samaritans_ (1907); _The
Life of Joseph E. Roy_ (1908); _Acorns From an Oak Park Pulpit_ (1910);
_Pocket Congregational Manual_ (1910); _Rules of Order for
Ecclesiastical Assemblies_ (1910); _Bible Classics_ (1911); and _Into
All the World_ (1911). Since 1900 Dr. Barton has been on the editorial
staff of _The Youth's Companion_. The _locale_ of his novels was down on
the Kentucky-Tennessee border, amid ignorance and poverty--a background
upon which no other writer has painted.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_
    (November, 1900); _The Independent_ (July 7, 1910).


[From _The Truth About the Trouble at Roundstone_ (Boston, 1897)]

The winter came and went, and the breach only widened with the
progress of the months. The men dropped all pretense of religious
observance. They grew more and more taciturn and sullen in their
homes. They cared less and less for the society of their neighbors,
and as they grew more miserable they grew more uncompromising. When
little Ike was sick and Jane going to the spring just before dinner
found a gourd of chicken broth, so fresh and hot that it had evidently
been left but a few minutes before, she knew how it had come there,
and hastened to the house with it. But Larkin saw the gourd and at a
glance understood it, and asked,--

"Whar'd ye git that ar gourd? Whose gourd is that?" and snatching it
from her, he took it to the door and flung it with all his might.
Little Ike cried, for the odor of the broth had already tempted his
fickle appetite, and Larkin bribed him to stop crying with promises of
candy and all other injurious sweetmeats known to children of the
Holler. But when the illness proved to be a sort of winter cholera
terminating in flux, he was glad to maintain official ignorance of a
bottle of blackberry cordial which also was left at the spring, and
which proved of material benefit in the slow convalescence of Ike.

It was thought, at first, that Captain Jack Casey would be able to
effect a reconciliation between the men. He was respected in the
Holler, and was often useful in adjusting differences between
neighbors. He was a justice of the peace, for that matter, and had the
law behind him. But his military title and his reputation for fair
dealing gave him added authority.

He was the friend of both men, and had known them both in the army. He
was Eph's brother-in-law, beside, and their wives' friendship, like
their own, dated from that prehistoric period, "before the war."

But even Captain Jack failed to move either of the two enraged

Brother Manus made several ineffectual attempts at a reconciliation,
but at last gave up all hope.

"I'll pray fur 'em," he said, "but I cyant do no more."

Great was his professed faith in prayer; it may be doubted whether
this admission did not indicate in his mind a desperate condition of

But there was one person who could never be brought to recognize the
breach between the families. Shoog made her frequent visits back and
forth unhindered. To be sure, Ephraim tried to prevent her. He scolded
her; he explained to her, and once he even whipped her. But while she
seemed to understand the words he spoke, and grieved sorely over her
punishments, she could not get through her mind the idea of an
estrangement, and at length they gave up trying to have her
understand. So, almost daily, when the weather permitted, Shoog
crossed the foot log, and wended her way across the bottoms to Uncle
Lark's. Larkin at first attempted to ignore her presence, but the
attempt failed, and she was soon as much in his arms and heart as she
had ever been; and many prayers and good wishes went with her back and
forth, as Jane and Martha saw her come and go, and often went a piece
with her, though true to their unspoken parole of honor to their
husbands, speaking no word to each other.


[29] Copyright, 1897, by the Author.


Benjamin Howard Ridgely, short-story writer, was born at Ridgely,
Maryland, July 13, 1861. In early childhood he was brought to Woodford
county, Kentucky, where he grew to manhood. He was educated in private
schools and at Henry Academy. He studied law but abandoned it for
journalism. Ridgely removed to Louisville in 1877 to accept a position
on _The Daily Commercial_, which later became _The Herald_. He went with
_The Courier-Journal_ and in a short time he was made city editor.
Ridgely left _The Courier-Journal_ to establish _The Sunday Truth_, of
which he was editor, with his friend, Mr. Young E. Allison, as
associate editor. President Cleveland, urged by Col. Henry Watterson and
other leading Democrats, appointed Ridgely consul to Geneva,
Switzerland, on June 20, 1892, which post he held for eight years. Being
able to speak French and Spanish fluently, he was well fitted for the
consular service. On May 8, 1900, President McKinley transferred Ridgely
to Malaga, Spain, where he remained for two years, when he was again
transferred, this time going to Nantes, France, where he also staid for
two years. President Roosevelt sent Ridgely to Barcelona, Spain, on
November 3, 1904, as consul-general. He resided at that delightful place
until March, 1908, when he was made consul-general to Mexico, with his
residence at Mexico City. Ridgely died very suddenly at Monterey,
Mexico, on October 9, 1908. His body was brought back to Kentucky and
interred in Cave Hill cemetery, Louisville; and there he sleeps to-day
with no stone to mark the spot. Ridgely's reports to the state
department are now recognized as papers of importance, but is upon his
short-stories and essays that he is entitled to a place in literature.
His stories of consular life, set amid the changing scenes of his
diplomatic career, appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Harper's
Magazine_, _The Century_, _McClure's_, _Scribner's_, _The Strand_, _The
Pall Mall Magazine_, and elsewhere. Writing a miniature autobiography in
1907 he set himself down as the author of a volume of short-stories,
which, he said, bore the imprint of The Century Company, New York, were
entitled _The Comedies of a Consulate_, and, strangest thing of all,
were published two years prior to the time he was writing, or, in 1905!
It is indeed too bad that his alleged publishers fail to remember having
issued his book, for one would be worth while. What a castle in Spain
for this spinner of consular yarns!

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Who's Who in America_ (1908-1909); _The
    Courier-Journal_ (Louisville, October 10, 1908).


[From _The Man the Consul Protected_ (_Century Magazine_, January,

Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield of Kentucky was an amiable and
kindly man of fifty, with the fluent speech and genial good breeding
of a typical Blue-grass gentleman. In appearance and dress he was
still an ante-bellum Kentuckian, with a weakness for high-heeled
boots, long frock-coats, and immaculate linen. When he said, "Yes,
sah," or "No, sah," it was like a breath right off the old plantation.
It should be added that he was a bachelor and a Mugwump.

Being a Kentuckian, he was naturally a colonel; though, as a matter of
fact, it was due solely to the courtesy of the press and the amiable
custom of the proud old commonwealth that he possessed his military
title. Nor had the genial colonel been otherwise a brilliant success
in life. Indeed, I am pained to recite that he had achieved in his
varied professional career only a sort of panorama of failures. He had
failed at the bar, failed in journalism, failed as a real-estate
broker, and, having finally taken the last step, had failed as a
life-insurance agent. In this emergency his relatives and friends
hesitated as to whether they should run him for Congress or unload him
on the consular service. His younger brother, who was something of a
cynic, insisted that Gillespie was fitted by intelligence to be only a
family physician; but it was finally decided at a domestic council
that he would particularly ornament the consular service. In pursuance
of this happy conclusion, an organized onslaught was made upon the
White House. The President yielded, and one day the news came that
Colonel Gillespie Witherspoon Warfield had been appointed consul of
the United States to Esperanza.

It is needless to suggest that Colonel Warfield took himself very
seriously in his new official capacity. It had not occurred to him,
however, that his consular mission was rather a commercial than a
patriotic one: he believed that he was going abroad to see that the
flag of his country was treated with respect, and to protect those of
his fellow-countrymen who in any emergency might have need of the
services of an astute and fearless diplomat. In fact, the feeling
that his chief official function was to be that of a sort of
diplomatic protecting angel took such possession of him that he
assumed a paternal attitude toward the whole country. Thus, bursting
with patriotism, he set sail one day from New York for Gibraltar, and
was careful during the voyage to let it be understood on shipboard
that if anybody needed protection he stood ready to run up the flag
and make the eagle scream violently.

Esperanza lies just around the corner from Gibraltar, and nowhere along
all the Iberian littoral of the Mediterranean is the sky fairer or the
sun more genial. The fertile _vega_ stretches back to the foot-hills of
the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Across the blue-sea way lies Morocco. It
is a picturesque and beautiful spot, and if the consul be a dreamer, he
may find golden hours for reverie. But I fear that neither the poetry
nor the picturesqueness of the entourage appealed to Consul Warfield as
he reached Esperanza that blazing September morning. He was more
impressed with the shrill noises of the foul and shabby streets; with
the dust that was upon everything, giving even to the palm-trees in the
_parque_ a gray and dreary look; with the flies that seemed to be
hunting their prey in swarms like miniature vultures; with the
uncompromising mosquitos singing shrilly for blood, and the bold, busy
fleas that held no portion of his official person sacred.

The colonel was a buoyant man, but his exuberant soul felt a certain
sinking that hot morning. It was a busy moment at Esperanza, and not
much attention was paid to the new consul at the crowded Fonda
Cervantes, whither, after a turbulent effort, he had persuaded his
_cochero_ to conduct him. He had been much disappointed that the
vice-consul was not on hand to receive him at the railway station. The
fact is, the consul had thought rather earnestly of a committee and a
brass band at the depot, and the complete lack of anything akin to a
reception had been something of a shock to his official and personal
vanity. However, he was not easily discouraged, and after having
convinced the proprietor of the fonda that he was the new American
consul, and therefore entitled to superior consideration, he set out
to find the consulate.

He found it in a narrow little street that went twisting back from
the quay toward the great dingy cathedral, and certainly it was not
what his imagination had fondly pictured it. He had thought of a fine
old Moorish-castle sort of house, with a great carved door opening
into a spacious _patio_, splendid with Arabic columns, and in the
background a broad marble staircase leading up to the consulate. He
had expected to see the flag of his country flying in honor of his
arrival, and a uniformed soldier on duty at the entrance, ready to
present arms and stand at attention when the new consul appeared.

As a matter of fact, there was a very narrow little door opening into
a very narrow little hallway that ran through the center of a very
narrow, squalid little house. Over the doorway was perched the
consular coat of arms. It was the poorest, dingiest, dustiest little
escutcheon that ever bore so pretentious a device.

The dingy gilt letters were almost invisible, but the colonel managed
to make them out. He could also see that the figure in the center of
the shield was intended to represent a proud and haughty eagle-bird in
the act of screaming; but the poor old eagle had been so rained upon
and so shone upon, and the dust had gathered so heavily upon him, that
he looked like a mere low-spirited reminiscence of the famous
_Haliaëtus leucocephalus_ which he was originally meant to represent.

Colonel Warfield of Kentucky was not discouraged. Being, as I have
said, a buoyant man, he simply remarked to himself: "I'll have that
disreputable-looking fowl taken down and painted." Then he walked on
into the squalid little consulate.

An old man with shifty little blue eyes; a thin, keen face; long,
straggling gray hair; and a long, thin tuft of gray beard, which
looked all the more straggling and wretched because of the absence of
an accompanying mustache, sat at a table reading a Spanish newspaper.
This was Mr. Richard Brown of Maine, "clerk and messenger" to the
United States consulate, who drew the allowance of four hundred
dollars a year, and was the recognized bulwark of official Americanism
at Esperanza. For forty years, during all the vicissitudes of war and
politics, Richard Brown had sat at his desk in the shabby little
consulate, watching the procession of American consuls come and go,
doing nearly all the clerical work of the office himself, and
contemplating with cynical delight the tortuous efforts of the
various untrained new officers to acquaint themselves with their
duties and the language of the post.

In his affiliations he had become entirely Spanish, having acquired a
fluent knowledge of the language and a wide acquaintance with the
people and their ways. None the less, in his speech and appearance he
remained a typical down-east Yankee, and it is said at Esperanza that
his one conceit was to look like the popular caricature of Uncle Sam.
In this it is not to be denied that he succeeded. The "billy-goat"
beard; the lantern-jaw; the thin, long hair; the thin, long arms; and
the thin, long legs--these he had as if modeled from the caricature.
And the nasal twang and the down-east dialect--alas! it would have
filled the average melodramatic English novelist's devoted soul with
untold satisfaction and delight to hear Richard Brown say "Wal" and "I
gaiss," and otherwise mutilate the English language.

To the Spaniards he was known as Don Ricardo. The small Anglo-American
colony at Esperanza referred to him as "old Dick Brown." He was a
cynical, crusty, sour old man, who had become a sort of consular
heirloom at Esperanza, and without whose knowledge and assistance no
new American consul could at the outset have performed the simplest
official duty. Knowing this, Richard Brown felt a very well-developed
sense of his own importance, and looked upon each of his newly arrived
superiors with ill-concealed contempt.

There was also a vice-consul at Esperanza; but as he was a busy
merchant, who could find time to sign only such papers as old Brown
presented to him in the absence of the consul, he was seen little at
the consulate. He generally knew when a new consul was coming along or
an old consul going away, but in this instance Brown had failed to
advise him either of Major Ransom's departure or of Colonel Warfield's
arrival. Thus it happened that only the amiable Mr. Brown was on hand
when Colonel Warfield came perspiring upon the scene on the warm
morning in September of which we write.

"Come in," he said sharply, as the consul hesitated upon the
threshold. "What's your business?"

Colonel Warfield gave Mr. Brown a look that would have completely
withered an ordinary person, but which was entirely lost upon the old
man in question, and with magnificent dignity handed him the following

     Consul of the United States of America.

Mr. Richard Brown looked the card over carefully.

"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a major; the
one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' but soldiers to
send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? Are you a real colonel or
jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a colonel on the governor's
staff? There's your office over there on the other side of the hall.
Kin you speak Spanish?"


[30] Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company.


Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born at
Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. Henry T.
Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky towns. She was
graduated from Daughters, now Beaumont, College, when she was
seventeen years of age, or in 1878; and two days later she married
Spencer W. Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, to
live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband and went to
New York to make a name for herself in literature. She began with a
Western story, _Georgiana's Mother_, which appeared in George W.
Cable's magazine, _The Symposium_. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris
went to England--"like an idiot," as she now puts it. In London she
"got swamped among the million thieving magazines, threw up the whole
job," and traveled for two years on the Continent, writing for
American periodicals. When she returned to New York she again wrote
for _McClure's_, _Cosmopolitan_, _The Smart Set_, _Everybody's_, and
several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's first novel, _The Quest of
Polly Locke_ (New York, 1902) was a story of the poor of Italy. It was
followed by her best known novel, _The Color of His Soul_ (New York,
1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, and suppressed
two weeks after its publication because of the earnest objections of a
young Socialist, who had permitted the author to make a type of him,
and, when the story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was
not sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, and
withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other publishers, and
she could not find any one to print her writings. A short time later
Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped dying as a charity patient in a New York
hospital. When she did recover she worked for two years on _The Sun_,
_The Post_, _The Press_, and several other newspapers in Manhattan.
_Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories_ (New York, 1905), which were
originally printed in _The Sun_, "describing scenes and incidents in a
Kentucky Colonel's life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by
Phil B. Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The stories have
enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to issue another set of them
shortly. Being badly treated by a well-known magazine, she became so
infuriated that she decided to establish--at the suggestion of Marion
Mills Miller--a magazine of her own. Thus _The East Side_, a little
thing not so large--speaking of its physical size--as Elbert Hubbard's
_The Philistine_, was born. That was early in 1909; and it has been
issued every other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not
original; her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The
four bound volumes of _The East Side_ lie before me now, and they are
almost bursting with love, sympathy, and understanding for the poor of
New York. She has been and is everything from printer's "devil" to
editor-in-chief, but she has made a success of the work. Her one
eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested all her
life. For the last seven years she has lived among them; and among
them she hopes to spend the remainder of her days. Her one best friend
has been William Oberhardt, the artist, who has illustrated _The East
Side_ from its inception until the present time. To celebrate the
little periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded--at the
suggestion of Will J. Lampton--The Ragged Edge Klub, which is composed
of her friends and subscribers, and which gave her an opportunity to
meet all of her "distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's
dinners delight the diners--and the newspapers! Mrs. Norris's latest
novel, _The Way of the Wind_ (New York, 1911), is a story of the
sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, and is generally regarded as her
finest work. So long as _Zoe's Magazine_--which is the sub-title of
_The East Side_--continues to come from the press, the pushcart
people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood
women, the homeless of New York's great East Side will have a voice in
the world worth having.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (September, 1909);
    _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1910).


[From _The East Side_ (September, 1912)]

For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and violin,
held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret singer
stepped out upon the soft, red carpet.

Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap with his
wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring glances at the

She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her long, soft
glance, selecting her victim for the chorus.

She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband, pressed her
rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to sing.

The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in this
delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret singer, leaving
him, went from one to the other of the men, some bald, some young,
singing the chorus of "Daddy."

The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed the

"Shall we go home?" she asked presently.

"Not yet!" he implored.

"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying
for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home."

The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw
herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began
to cry softly.

The negress patted her white shoulder.

"What's de mattah, honey," she purred.

"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am
sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to
go home!"


[From the same]

      I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life,
        I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife,
      I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain,
        If I could go back and be little again,
                                     I'd like it.

      I'm tired of the day that must end in the night,
        I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light,
      I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain,
        If I could be rocked in a cradle again,
                                     I'd like it.

      But tired or not, we must keep up the fight,
        We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night,
      Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain,
        Be brave in the dark and endure the pain;
        For we'll never, never be little again,
      And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again,
                        Tho we'd most of us like it.


[31] Copyright, 1912, by the Author.


Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very
characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on
Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W.
Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the
schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married
to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs.
McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to
become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a
success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to _The
Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and other
newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, _Answered_
(Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics.
The first book she published that won a wide reading was _Juletty_ (New
York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners,
fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with
"whiskey-colored eyes," make the _motif_. _Juletty_ was followed by _The
Silent Pioneer_ (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent
pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out
of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy
died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she
called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (May, 1901); _Library of Southern
    Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).


[From _Juletty_ (New York, 1901)]

"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a
curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts.

"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle
at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the
brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a
dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect
it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and
snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion
they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of
some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of
college training and after association with negroes and illiterate
neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities,
and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my
grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had
expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm--three thousand
broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres
always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the
heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever
flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession
for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit
as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little
natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead
a few weeks and--well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of
conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was
not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was
midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes,
outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly:

"'Who are you?'

"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly.

"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered.

"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his
lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing
daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news:

"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!'

"'What yer want here?'

"'Why, I've come to see you, grandfather,' I answered quiveringly.

"'Well, dam yer, take er look an' go home!' he roared.

"'I will!' I shouted indignantly, and more deeply hurt than ever
before or since, I turned and ran from him.

"Then almost before I knew it he had me in his great, strong arms, his
tears and kisses beating softly down like raindrops on my face, while
he mumbled through his sobs:

"'Why, my boy, don't you know your old grandfather's ways? Eliza's
son! First-born of my first-born, you are more welcome than sunshine
after a storm. Never mind what grandfather says, little man; just
always remember he loves you like a son.'

"He had by that time carried me back to his door; there all at once
his whole manner changed, and putting me on my feet, he cried: 'Thar,
yer damned lazy little rascal, yer expec' me ter carry yer eround like
er nigger? Use yer own legs and find yer grandmother.'

"But he could not frighten me then nor ever any more; I had seen his
heart, and it was the heart of a poet, a lover, a gentleman, do what
he might to hide it."

The doctor had allowed me to have my head, and talk in my rambling,
reminiscent fashion, and agreed in my estimate of my grandsire.

"Yessir, just like him for the world!" he cried.

"I was at his house one day when the ugliest man in Warren County came
out; he did not wait to greet him, but shouted, 'My God, man, don't
you wish ugliness was above par? You'd be er Croesus.'"


[32] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.


Miss Mary Finley Leonard, maker of many tales for girls, was born at
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 11, 1862, but she was brought to
Louisville, Kentucky, when but a few months old. Louisville has been her
home ever since. Miss Leonard was educated in private schools, and at
once entered upon her literary labors. She has published ten books for
girls from fourteen to sixteen years of age, but several of them may be
read by "grown-ups." The style of all of them is delightfully simple and
direct. _The Story of the Big Front Door_ (New York, 1898), was her
first story, and this was followed by _Half a Dozen Thinking Caps_ (New
York, 1900); _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901); _The Spectacle
Man_ (Boston, 1901); _Mr. Pat's Little Girl_ (Boston, 1902); _How the
Two Ends Met_ (New York, 1903); _The Pleasant Street Partnership_
(Boston, 1903); _It All Came True_ (New York, 1904); _On Hyacinth Hill_
(Boston, 1904); and her most recent book, _Everyday Susan_ (New York,
1912). These books have brought joy and good cheer to girls in many
lands, and they have been read by many mothers and fathers with pleasure
and profit. Miss Leonard has made for herself a secure place in the
literature of Kentucky, a place that is peculiarly her own. She has a
novel of mature life in manuscript, which is said to be the finest thing
she has done so far, and which will be published in 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Munsey's Magazine_ (March, 1900); _Who's Who in
    America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Candle and the Cat_ (New York, 1901)]

Trolley sat on the gate-post. If possible he was handsomer than ever,
for the frosty weather had made his coat thick and fluffy, besides
this he wore his new collar. His eyes were wide open to-day, and he
looked out on the world with a solemn questioning gaze.

He had been decidedly upset in his mind that morning at finding an
open trunk in Caro's room, and clothes scattered about on chairs and
on the bed. Of course he did not know what this meant, but to the cat
mind anything unusual is objectionable, and it made him unhappy.
Finally he stretched himself in the tray, where Caro found him.

"You darling pussie!" she cried, "Mamma do look at him. I believe he
wants to go home with us. I wish we could take him."

But Mrs Holland said one little girl was all the traveling companion
she cared for. "It wouldn't do dear, he would be unhappy on the
train," she added.

"I don't know what I should have done without him. He and my candle
were my greatest comforts--except grandpa," and Caro put her cheek
down on Trolley's soft fur.

"What am I to do without my little candle?" her grandfather asked.

"Why, you can have the cat," Caro answered merrily.

No wonder Trolley's mind was disturbed that morning with such a coming
and going as went on,--people running in to say goodby, and Aunt
Charlotte thinking every few minutes of something new for the traveler's
lunch, tickling his nose with tantalizing odors of tongue and chicken.

It was over at last, trunks and bags were sent off, Aunt Charlotte was
hugged and kissed and then Trolley had his turn, and the procession
moved, headed by the president.

"Goodby Trolley; don't forget me!" Caro called, walking backwards and
waving her handkerchief.

When they were out of sight Trolley went and sat on the gate-post and
thought about it. After a while he jumped down and trotted across the
campus with a businesslike air as if he had come to an important
decision. He took his way through the Barrows orchard to the Grayson
garden where there was now a well-trodden path through the snow.

Miss Grayson and her brother were sitting in the library. They had
been talking about Caro when Walter glancing toward the window saw a
pair of golden eyes peering in at him. "There is Trolley," he said,
and called Thompson to let him in.

Trolley entered as if he was sure of a welcome, and walking straight
to Miss Elizabeth, sprang into her lap; and from this on he became a
frequent visitor at the Graysons' dividing his time in fact about
evenly between his two homes.

And thus an unfortunate quarrel which had disturbed the peaceful
atmosphere of Charmington and separated old friends, was forgotten,
and as the president often remarked, it was all owing to the candle
and the cat.


[33] Copyright, 1901, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.


Joseph Alexander Altsheler, the most prolific historical novelist
Kentucky has produced, was born at Three Springs, Kentucky, April 29,
1862. He was educated at Liberty College, Glasgow, Kentucky, and at
Vanderbilt University. His father's death compelled him to leave
Vanderbilt without his degree, and he entered journalism at Louisville,
Kentucky. Mr. Altsheler was on the Louisville _Evening Post_ for a year,
when he went with _The Courier-Journal_, with which paper his remained
for seven years. During his years on _The Courier-Journal_ he filled
almost every position except editor-in-chief. He later went to New York,
and, since 1892, has been editor of the tri-weekly edition of _The
World_. Mr. Altsheler was married, in 1888, to Miss Sara Boles of
Glasgow, Kentucky, and they have an attractive home in New York. He
began his literary career with a pair of "shilling shockers," entitled
_The Rainbow of Gold_ (New York, 1895), and _The Hidden Mine_ (New York,
1896), neither of which did more than start him upon his real work. The
full list of his tales hitherto is: _The Sun of Saratoga_ (New York,
1897); _A Soldier of Manhattan_ (New York, 1897); _A Herald of the West_
(New York, 1898); _The Last Rebel_ (Philadelphia, 1899); _In Circling
Camps_ (New York, 1900), a story of the Civil War and his best work so
far; _In Hostile Red_ (New York, 1900), the basis of which was first
published in _Lippincott's Magazine_ as "A Knight of Philadelphia;" _The
Wilderness Road_ (New York, 1901); _My Captive_ (New York, 1902);
_Guthrie of the Times_ (New York, 1904), a Kentucky newspaper story of
success, one of Mr. Altsheler's finest tales; _The Candidate_ (New York,
1905), a political romance. The year 1906 witnessed no book from the
author's hand, but in the following year he began the publication of a
series of books for boys, as well as several other novels. His six
stories for young readers are: _The Young Trailers_ (New York, 1907);
_The Forest Runners_ (New York, 1908); _The Free Rangers_ (New York,
1909); _The Riflemen of the Ohio_ (New York, 1910); _The Scouts of the
Valley_ (New York, 1911); and _The Border Watch_ (New York, 1912). "All
the six volumes deal with the fortunes and adventures of two boys, Henry
Ware and Paul Cotter, and their friends, Shif'less Sol Hyde, Silent Tom
Ross and Long Jim Hart, in the early days of Kentucky." Mr. Altsheler's
latest historical novels are: _The Recovery_ (New York, 1908); _The Last
of the Chiefs_ (New York, 1909); _The Horsemen of the Plains_ (New York,
1910); and _The Quest of the Four_ (New York, 1911). He is at the
present time engaged upon a trilogy dealing with the Texan struggle for
independence against Mexico, the first of which has recently appeared,
_The Texan Star_ (New York, 1912). This tale, with the other two that
are to be issued in 1913, to be entitled, _The Texan Scouts_, and _The
Texan Triumph_, are written chiefly for the young. He will also publish
in 1913 a story to be called _Apache Gold_. "Joseph A. Altsheler has
made a fictional tour of American history," one of his keenest critics
has well said; and his work has been linked with James Fenimore Cooper's
by no less a judge of literary productions than the late Richard Henry

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Independent_ (August 9, 1900); _The Book Buyer_
    (September, 1900); _The Bookman_ (February, 1903).


[From _In Circling Camps_ (New York, 1900)]

Then I listened to the call of the drum.

Fort Sumter was fired upon, and the first cannon shot there set this
war drum to beating in every village; it was never silent; its steady
roll day after day was calling men up to the cannon mouth; it was
persistent, unsatisfied, always crying for more.

Its beat was heard throughout a vast area, over regions whose people
knew of each other as part of the same nation but had never met, calling
above this line to the North, calling below it to the South, summoning
up the legions for a struggle in which old jealousies and old quarrels,
breeding since the birth of the Union, were to be settled.

The drum beat its martial note in the great cities of the Atlantic,
calling the men away from the forges and the shops and the
wharves--clerks, moulders, longshoremen, the same call for all; it
passed on, and its steady beat resounded among the hills and mountains
of the North, calling to the long-limbed farmer boys to drop the
plough and take up the rifle, sending them on to join the moulders,
and clerks, and longshoremen, and putting upon all one stamp, the
stamp of the soldier, food for the cannon--and this food supply was to
be the largest of its time, though few yet dreamed it.

The roll of the drum went on, through the fields, along the rivers,
by the shores of the Great Lakes, out upon the plains, where the
American yet fought with the Indian for a foothold, and into the
interminable forests whose shades hid the pioneers; over levels and
acres and curves of thousands of miles, calling up the deep-chested
Western farmers, men of iron muscles and no pleasures, to whom
unbroken hardship was the natural course of life, and sending them to
join their Eastern brethren at the cannon mouth.

It was an insistent drum, beating through all the day and night, over
the mountains, through the sunless woods and on the burnt prairies,
never resting, never weary. The opportunity was the greatest of the
time, and the drum did not neglect a moment; it was without
conscience, and had no use for mercy, calling, always calling.

Another drum and yet the same was beating in the South, and those who
came at its call differed in little from the others who were marching
to the Northern beat, only the clerks and the mill hands were much
fewer; the same long-limbed and deep-chested race, spare alike of
figure and speech, brown-faced men from the shores of the Gulf, men of
South Carolina in whom the original drop of French blood still
tinctured the whole; brethren of theirs from Louisiana, gigantic
Tennesseans, half-wild horsemen from the Texas plains--all burning
with enthusiasm for a cause that they believed to be right.

This merciless drum rolling out its ironical chuckle noted that these
Northern and Southern countrymen gathering to their standards were alike
in their lack of pleasure; they were a serious race; life had always
been a hard problem for them, a fight, in fact, and this fight into
which they were going was merely another kind of battle, with some
advantages of novelty and change and comradeship that made it
attractive, especially to the younger, the boys. They had been hewers of
wood and drawers of water in every sense of the word, though for
themselves; generations of them had fought Indians, some suffering
torture and death; they had endured bitter cold and burning heat, eaten
at scanty tables, and lived far-away and lonely lives in the wilderness.
They were a rough and hard-handed race, taught to work and not to be
afraid, knowing no masters, accustomed to no splendours either in
themselves or others, holding themselves as good as anybody and thinking
it, according to Nature; their faults those of newness and never of
decay. These were the men who had grown up apart from the Old World, and
all its traditions, far even from the influence which the Atlantic
seaboard felt through constant communication. This life of eternal
combat in one form or another left no opportunity for softness; the
dances, the sports, and all the gaieties which even the lowest in Europe
had were unknown to them, and they invented none to take their place.

They knew the full freedom of speech; what they wished to say they
said, and they said it when and where they pleased. But on the whole
they were taciturn, especially in the hour of trouble; then they made
no complaints, suffering in silence. They imbibed the stoicism of the
Indians from whom they won the land, and they learned to endure much
and long before they cried out. This left one characteristic patent
and decisive, and that characteristic was strength. These men had
passed through a school of hardship, one of many grades; it had
roughened them, but it gave them bodies of iron and an unconquerable
spirit for the struggle they were about to begin.

Another characteristic of those who came at the call of the drum was
unselfishness. They were willing to do much and ask little for it.
They were poor bargain-drivers when selling their own flesh and bones,
and their answer to the call was spontaneous and without price.

They came in thousands, and scores of thousands. The long roll
rumbling from the sea to the Rocky Mountains and beyond cleared
everything; the doubts and the doubters were gone; no more committees;
an end to compromises! The sword must decide, and the two halves of
the nation, which yet did not understand their own strength, swung
forward to meet the issue, glad that it was obvious at last.

There came an exultant note into the call of the drum, as if it
rejoiced at the prospects of a contest that took so wide a sweep. Here
was long and happy work for it to do; it could call to many battles,
and its note as it passed from village to village was resounding and
defiant; it was cheerful too, and had in it a trick; it told the
long-legged boys who came out of the woods of victories and glory, of
an end for a while to the toil which never before had been broken, of
new lands and of cities; all making a great holiday with the final
finish of excitement and reasonable risk. It was no wonder that the
drum called so effectively when it mingled such enticements with the
demands of patriotism. Most of those who heard were no strangers to
danger, and those who did not know it themselves were familiar with it
in the traditions of their fathers and forefathers; every inch of the
land which now swept back from the sea three thousand miles had been
won at the cost of suffering and death, with two weapons, the rifle
and the axe, and they were not going to shun the present trial, which
was merely one in a long series.

The drum was calling to men who understood its note; the nation had
been founded as a peaceful republic, but it had gone already through
the ordeal of many wars, and behind it stretched five generations of
colonial life, an unbroken chain of combats. They had fought
everybody; they had measured the valour of the Englishman, the
Frenchman, the Spaniard, the Hessian, the Mexican, and the red man.
Much gunpowder had been burned within the borders of the Union, and
also its people had burned much beyond them. Those who followed the
call of the drum were flocking to no new trade. By a country with the
shadow of a standing army very many battles had been fought.

They came too, without regard to blood or origin; the Anglo-Saxon
predominated; he gave his characteristics to North and South alike,
all spoke his tongue, but every race in Europe had descendants there,
and many of them--English, Irish, Scotch, French, German, Spanish, and
so on through the list--their blood fused and intermingled, until no
one could tell how much he had of this and how much of that.

The untiring drumbeat was heard through all the winter and summer, and
the response still rolled up from vast areas; it was to be no common
struggle--great armies were to be formed where no armies at all
existed before, and the preparations on a fitting scale went on. The
forces of the North and South gathered along a two-thousand-mile line,
and those trying to look far ahead saw the nature of the struggle.

The preliminary battles and skirmishes began, and then the two
gathered themselves for their mightiest efforts.


[34] Copyright, 1900, by D. Appleton and Company.


Oscar Wilder Underwood, orator and magazine writer, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, May 6, 1862. He is the grandson of Joseph Rogers
Underwood, a celebrated Kentucky statesman of the old _regime_. Mr.
Underwood was prepared for the University of Virginia at the Rugby
School of Louisville. In 1884 he was admitted to the bar and entered
upon the practice of his profession at Birmingham, Alabama, his
present home. He was prominent in Alabama politics prior to his
election to the lower house of Congress, in 1895, as the
representative of the Ninth Alabama district; and he has been
regularly returned to that body ever since. Mr. Underwood is chairman
of the committee on ways and means of the Sixty-second Congress, as
well as majority leader of the House. In the Democratic pre-convention
presidential campaign of 1912, the South almost unanimously endorsed
Mr. Underwood for the nomination. Led by Alabama he was hailed in many
quarters as the first really constructive statesman the South has sent
to Congress in more than twenty years; further, his friends said, he
has devoted his life to the study of the tariff and is now the
foremost exponent of the subject living; his tariff policy is simply
this: stop protecting the profits of the manufacturers; and that
Underwood is Democracy's best asset. Earlier in the year, Mr.
Underwood had been attacked by William J. Bryan, and his retorts in
the House were so severe and unanswerable, he being the only man up to
that time able to cope with the Colonel, that, of course, he had that
distinguished gentleman's influence against him at the Baltimore
convention. Nevertheless, every roll-call found him in third place,
just behind Champ Clark, who was also born in Kentucky, and Woodrow
Wilson, governor of New Jersey. He was running so strong as the
convention neared its close, that at least one Kentucky editor came
home and wrote a long editorial calling upon the Kentucky delegation
to change its vote from Clark to Underwood; but on the following day
the governor of New Jersey was nominated. A few of Mr. Underwood's
contributions to periodicals may be pointed out: two articles in _The
Forum_ on "The Negro Problem in the South;" "The Corrupting Power of
Public Patronage;" "What About the Tariff?" (_The World To-day_,
January, 1912); "The Right and Wrong of the Tariff Question" (_The
Independent_, February 1, 1912); and "High Tariff and American Trade
Abroad" (_The Century_, May, 1912). By friend and foe alike Mr.
Underwood is admitted to be the greatest living student of the tariff;
and his speeches in Congress and out of it on this subject have given
him a national reputation.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The World's Work_ (March, 1912); _Harper's Weekly_
    (June 1, 1912); _North American Review_ (June, 1912).


[Delivered before the Southern Society of New York City (December 16,

The kaleidoscope of political issues must and will continually change
with the changing conditions of our Republic but there is one question
that was with us in the beginning and will be in the end, and that is
the most effective, efficient and fairest way of equalizing the
burdens of taxation that are levied by the National Government. Of all
the great powers that were yielded to the Federal Government by the
States when they adopted the Constitution of our country, the one
indispensable to the administration of public affairs is the right to
levy and collect taxes. Without the exercise of that power we could
not maintain an army and navy; we could not establish the courts of
the land; the government would fail to perform its function if the
power to tax were taken away from it. The power to tax carries with it
the power to destroy, and it is, therefore, a most dangerous
governmental power as well as a most necessary one.

There is a very clear and marked distinction between the position of
the two great political parties of America as to how power to tax
should be exercised in the levying of revenue at the custom houses.

The Republican party has maintained the doctrine that taxes should not
only be levied for the purpose of revenue, but also for the purpose of
protecting the home manufacturer from foreign competition. Of
necessity protection from competition carries with it a guarantee of
profits. In the last Republican platform this position of the party
was distinctly recognized when they declared that they were not only
in favor of the protection of the difference in cost at home and
abroad but also a reasonable profit to American industries.

The Democratic party favors the policy of raising its taxes at the
custom house by a tariff that is levied for revenue only, which clearly
excludes the idea of protecting the manufacturer's profits. In my
opinion, the dividing line between the positions of the two great
parties on this question is very clear and easily ascertained in theory.
Where the tariff rates balance the difference in cost at home and
abroad, including an allowance for the difference in freight rates, the
tariff must be competitive, and from that point downward to the lowest
tariff that can be levied it will continue to be competitive to a
greater or less extent. Where competition is not interfered with by
levying the tax above the highest competitive point, the profits of the
manufacturer are not protected. On the other hand, when the duties
levied at the custom house equalizes the difference in cost at home and
abroad and in addition thereto they are high enough to allow the
American manufacturer to make a profit before his competitor can enter
the field, we have invaded the domain of the protection of profits. Some
men assert that the protection of reasonable profits to the home
manufacturer should be commended instead of being condemned, but in my
judgment, the protection of any profit must of necessity have a tendency
to destroy competition and create monopoly, whether the profit protected
is reasonable or unreasonable.

You should bear in mind that to establish a business in a foreign
country requires a vast outlay both in time and capital. Should the
foreigner manufacturer attempt to establish himself in this country he
must advertise his goods, establish selling agencies and points of
distribution before he can successfully conduct his business. After he
has done so, if the home producer is protected by a law that not only
equals the difference in cost at home and abroad, but also protects a
reasonable or unreasonable profit, it is only necessary for him to
drop his prices slightly below the point that the law has fixed to
protect his profits and his competitor must retire from the country or
become a bankrupt, because he would then have to sell his goods at a
loss and not a profit, if he continued to compete. The foreign
competitor having retired, the home producer could raise his prices to
any level that home competition would allow him and it is not probable
that the foreigner who had already been driven out of the country
would again return, no matter how inviting the field, as long as the
law remained on the Statute Books that would enable his competitor to
again put him out of business.

Thirty or forty years ago, when we had numbers of small manufacturers,
when there was honest competition without an attempt being made to
restrict trade and the home market was more than able to consume the
production of our mills and factories, the danger and the injury to the
consumer of the country was not so great or apparent as it is to-day,
when the control of many great industries has been concentrated in the
hands of a few men or a few corporations, because domestic competition
was prohibited. When we cease to have competition at home and the law
prohibits competition from abroad by protecting profits, there is no
relief for the consumer except to cry out for government regulation. To
my mind, there is no more reason or justice in the government attempting
to protect the profits of the manufacturers and producers of this
country than here would be to protect the profits of the merchant or the
lawyer, the banker or the farmer, or the wages of the laboring man. In
almost every line of industry in the United States we have as great
natural resources to develop as that of any country in the world. It is
admitted by all that our machinery and methods of doing business are in
advance of the other nations. By reason of the efficient use of American
machinery by American labor, in most of the manufactures of this
country, the labor cost per unit of production is no greater here than
abroad. It is admitted, of course, that the actual wage of the American
laborer is in excess of European countries, but as to most articles we
manufacture the labor cost in this country is not more than double the
labor cost abroad. When we consider that the average _ad valorem_ rate
of duty levied at the custom house on manufactures of cotton goods is
53% of the value of the article imported and the total labor cost of the
production of cotton goods in this country is only 21% of the factory
value of the product, that the difference in labor cost at home and
abroad is only about as one is to two, and that ten or eleven per cent
of the value of the product levied at the custom house would equal the
difference in the labor wage, it is apparent that our present tariff
laws exceed the point where they equalize the difference in cost at home
and abroad, and we realize how far they have entered into the domain of
protecting profits for the home manufacturer. This is not only true of
the manufacture of cotton goods, but of almost every schedule in the
tariff bill. To protect profits of necessity means to protect
inefficiency. It does not stimulate industry because a manufacturer
standing behind a tariff wall that is protecting his profits is not
driven to develop his business along the lines of greatest efficiency
and greatest economy. This is clearly illustrated in a comparison of the
wool and the iron and steel industries. Wool has had a specific duty
that when worked out to an _ad valorem_ basis amounts to a tax of about
90% of the average value of all woolen goods imported into the United
States, and the duties imposed have remained practically unchanged for
forty years. During that time the wool industry has made comparatively
little progress in cheapening the cost of its product and improving its
business methods. On the other hand, in the iron and steel industry the
tariff rate has been cut every time a tariff bill has been written.
Forty years ago the tax on steel rails amounted to $17.50 a ton, to-day
it amounts to $3.92. Forty years ago the tax on pig iron was $13.60 a
ton, to-day it is $2.50. The same is true of most of the other articles
in the iron and steel schedule, and yet the iron and steel industry has
not languished; it has not been destroyed and it has not gone to the
wall. It is the most compact, virile, fighting force of all the
industries of America to-day. It has long ago expanded its productive
capacity beyond the power of the American people to consume its output
and is to-day facing out towards the markets of the world, battling for
a part of the trade of foreign lands, where it must meet free
competition, or, as is often the case, pay adverse tariff rates to enter
the industrial fields of its competitor.

Which course is the wiser for our government to take? The one that
demands the protection of profits the continued policy of hot-house
growth for our industries? The stagnation of development that follows
where competition ceases, or, on the other hand, the gradual and
insistent reduction of our tariff laws to a basis where the American
manufacturer must meet honest competition, where he must develop his
business along the best and most economic lines, where when he fights
at home to control his market he is forging the way in the economic
development of his business to extend his trade in the markets of the
world. In my judgment, the future growth of our great industries lies
beyond the seas. A just equalization of the burdens of taxation and
honest competition, in my judgment, are economic truths; they are not
permitted to-day by the laws of our country; we must face toward them,
and not away from them.

What I have said does not mean that I am in favor of going to free
trade conditions or of being so radical in our legislation as to
injure legitimate business, but I do mean that the period of exclusion
has passed and the era of honest competition is here.

Let us approach the solution of the problem involved with the
determination to do what is right, what is safe, and what is reasonable.


Mrs. Elizabeth Robins Parkes, the well-known novelist of the
psychological school, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, August 6,
1862. She was taken from Louisville as a young child by her parents
for the reason that her father had built a house on Staten Island,
where she lived until her eleventh year, when she went to her
grandmother's at Zanesville, Ohio, to attend Putnam Female Seminary,
an institution of some renown, where her aunts on both sides of the
house had received their training. _Mrs. Gano_, the one fine character
of Miss Robins's first successful novel, _The Open Question_, is none
other than her own grandmother, Jane Hussey Robins, to whom she
dedicated the story; and the house in which she lived is faithfully
described in that story. In 1874, when she was twelve years of age,
Miss Robins made her first visit to Kentucky since having left the
State some years before; and she has been back many times since, her
latest visit being made in 1912. Her mother and many of her kinsfolk
are buried in Cave Hill cemetery; and her brother, uncle, and other
relatives, including Charles Neville Buck, the young Kentucky
novelist, reside at Louisville. She is, therefore, a Kentuckian to the
core. On January 12, 1885, she was married to George Richmond Parkes,
of Boston, who died some years ago. While passing through London, in
1889, Mrs. Parkes decided it was the most pleasing city she had seen,
and she established herself there. She now maintains Backset Town
Farm, Henfield, Sussex; and a winter home at Chinsegut, Florida. Mrs.
Parkes won her first fame as an actress, appearing in several of
Ibsen's plays, and attracting wide attention for her work in _The
Master Builder_, especially. While on the stage she began to write
under the pen-name of "C. E. Raimond," so as not to confuse the public
mind with her work as an actress; and this name served her well until
_The Open Question_ appeared, at which time it became generally
understood that the actress and author were one and the same person.
She soon after began to write under her maiden name of Elizabeth
Robins--and thus confounded herself with the wife of Joseph Pennell,
the celebrated American etcher. With her long line of novels Miss
Robins takes her place as one of the foremost writers Kentucky has
produced. A full list of them is: _George Mandeville's Husband_ (New
York, 1894); _The New Moon_ (New York, 1895); _Below the Salt_
(London, 1896), a collection of short-stories, containing, among
others, _The Fatal Gift of Beauty_, which was the title of the
American edition (Chicago, 1896); _The Open Question_ (New York,
1898). Miss Robins was friendly with Whistler, the great artist, and
he designed the covers for _Below the Salt_ and _The Open Question_, a
morbid but powerful novel. She has been especially fortunate in
seizing upon a subject of vital, timely importance against which to
build her books; and that is one of the real reasons for her success.
What the public wants is what she wants to give them. When gold was
discovered in the Klondike, and all the world was making a mad rush
for those fields, Miss Robins wrote _The Magnetic North_ (New York,
1904). That fascinating story was followed by _A Dark Lantern_ (New
York, 1905), "a story with a prologue;" _The Convert_ (New York,
1907), a novel based upon the suffragette movement in London, with
which the author has been identified for seven years, and for which
she has written more, perhaps, than any one else; _Under the Southern
Cross_ (New York, 1907); _Woman's Secret_ (London, 1907); _Votes for
Women: A Play in Three Acts_ (London, n. d. [1908]), a dramatization
of _The Convert_, produced by Granville Barker at the Court Theatre,
London, with great success. The title of this play, if not the
contents, has gone into the remotest corners of the world as the
accepted slogan of the suffragette cause. _Come and Find Me!_ (New
York, 1908), another story of the Alaska country, originally
serialized in _The Century Magazine_; _The Mills of the Gods_ (New
York, 1908); _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909); _Under His Roof_
(London, n. d. [1910]), yet another short-story of the suffragette
struggle in London, printed in an exceedingly slender pamphlet; and
_Why?_ (London, 1912), a brochure of questions and answers concerning
her darling suffragettes. Upon these books Elizabeth Robins has taken
a high place in contemporary letters. Her very latest story is _My
Little Sister_, based upon a background of the white slave traffic in
London, the shortened version of which appeared in _McClure's
Magazine_ for December, 1912, concluded in the issue for January,
1913, after which it will be published in book form in America under
the original title; but the English edition will bear this legend,
"Where Are You Going To?" When the first part of this strong story was
printed in _McClure's_ it attracted immediate and very wide attention,
and again illustrated the ancient fact concerning the author's novels:
her ability to make use of one of the big questions of the day as a
scene for her story. Another book on woman's fight for the ballot, to
be entitled _Way Stations_ may be published in March, 1913. Miss
Robins is the ablest woman novelist Kentucky has produced; but her
short-stories are not comparable to Mrs. Andrew's.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1904); _The Bookman_ (November,
    1907); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1910); _Harper's Magazine_
    (August, 1911).


[From _The Florentine Frame_ (New York, 1909)]

Mrs. Roscoe invoked the right manager. _The Man at the Wheel_ was not
only accepted, it was announced for early production. Special scenery
was being painted. The rehearsals were speedily in full swing. The play
had been slightly altered in council--one scene had been rewritten.

Generously, Keith made his acknowledgements. "I should not have gone
at it again, but for you," he told Mrs. Roscoe. "It had got stale--I
hated it, till that day I read it to you."

She smiled. "Nobody needs an audience so much as a dramatist. I was

"You brought the fresh eye, you saw how the _scène à faire_ could be
made more poignant. Do you know," he said in that way he was getting
into, re-envisaging with this companion some old outlook, "I sometimes
feel the only difference between the poor thing and the good thing is
that in one, the hand fell away too soon, and in the other it was able
to give the screw just one more turn. You practically helped me to
give the final turn that screwed the thing into shape."

She shook her head, and then he told her that after a dozen rebuffs he
had made up his mind to abandon the play that very day he and the
Professor had talked of cinque cento ivories.

It was not unnatural that the scant cordiality of Mrs. Mathew,
whenever Keith encountered that lady at her sister's house, was
insufficient to make him fail in what he acknowledged to Fanshawe as a
sort of duty. This was: keeping Mrs. Roscoe fully informed of all the
various stages in the contract-negotiation, the cast decisions, and
the checkered fortunes of rehearsal.

It is only fair to Mrs. Mathew to admit that she had one reason more
cogent even than she quite realized for objecting to the new addition
to a circle that had, as Genie complained, grown very circumscribed
during the days of mourning.

If keeping Mrs. Roscoe _au courant_ with the fortunes of the play had
appeared to Keith in the light of an obligation imposed by common
gratitude, Mrs. Mathew conceived it as no less her duty not to allow
dislike of the new friend's presence to interfere with the sisterly
relation--a relation which on the older woman's part had always had in
it a touch of the maternal. If that young man was "getting himself
accepted upon an intimate footing"--all the more important that
Isabella's elder sister should be there at least as much as usual, if
only to prevent the curious from "talking."

In pursuance to this conception of her duty, one evening during the
later rehearsals, Mrs. Mathew stood just inside the door of the cloak
room that opened out of the famous gray and white marble entrance hall
of the Roscoe house. Engaged in the homely occupation of depositing
her "artics" in a corner where they would not be mixed up with other
people's, Mrs. Mathew was arrested by a slight noise. Upon putting out
her head she descried Miss Genie creeping down the stairs with a
highly conspiratorial air. The girl, betraying every evidence of
suppressed excitement, came to a halt before the closed doors of the
drawing-room. The sound of Keith's voice reading aloud came softened
through the heavy panels, and seemed to reassure the eavesdropper. She
ran on noiseless feet to the low seat, where a man's hat showed black
against the soft tone of the marble. She lifted the hat and appeared
to be fumbling with the coat that was lying underneath.

Suddenly the flash of a small square envelope on its way to the
recesses of the visitor's overcoat!

"What are you doing?" demanded Aunt Josephine, coming down the hall.

"Oh! How you startled me! I'm not doing anything in particular--just
waiting about till that blessed reading's over." She left the letter
concealed in the folds of the coat, and for an instant she held the
hat in front of her perturbed face: "Don't men's things have a nice
Russia-leathery smell?" she remarked airily.

"Genie Roscoe, what pranks are you playing?" As Mrs. Mathew took hold
of the coat, the girl's self-possession failed her a little. She clung
to the garment, sending anxious glances toward the door, whispering
her nervous remonstrances and begging Aunt Josephine not to talk so
loud. "You'll interrupt them."

"What is going on?" demanded Aunt Josephine, relaxing her hold on the

"He's reading."

"Your poor mother!"

"Oh, she likes it."

"Humph! And that young man--does he never get tired of his own works?"

"It isn't _his_ works that he's reading. It's other people's--to make
him forget the way they murder the play at rehearsal. It's French
things they read, usually." Genie hurried on with a nervous attempt to
be diverting. "There's a new poet, did you know? I like the new ones
best, don't you? What I can't stand is when they are so ancient, that
they're like that decayed old Ronsard--"

The form Mrs. Mathew's literary criticism took was a violent shake of
the visitor's coat. Out of the folds dropped a note. It was addressed
in Genie's hand to Mr. Chester Keith.

"What foolishness is this--"

"Don't tell mother," prayed the girl, trying in vain to recover the

Mrs. Mathew's face grew graver as she took in the girl's feverish

"Dear Aunt Josephine!" Genie slipped her hand coaxingly through the
arm of the forbidding-looking lady. "I know you wouldn't be so unkind.
For all mother seems so gentle and you sometimes look so severe,
you're ten times as forgiving, really, as mother is. You're more
broadminded," said the unblushing flatterer.

"Oh, really"--Mrs. Mathew smiled a little grimly--but she had ere now
proved herself as accessible to coaxing as the cast-iron seeming
people often are. They betray, on occasion, a touching gratitude at
not being taken at their own grim word.

"Why should I hesitate to tell what you don't hesitate to do?"

But Genie's arm was round her. "Oh, _you_ know why. Mother has such
extravagantly high ideas about what people ought to do."

In the other hand Mrs. Mathew still held the note, out of the girl's
reach. "You make a practice of this?"

"No, no. It's the first time, and I'll never do it again, if you'll
promise not to tell on me."

Mrs. Mathew hesitated.

"Dearest auntie, _be nice_! If you tell," the girl protested, "I'll have
no character to keep up and I'll write him real--well, real letters."

"What do you mean? Isn't this a real letter?"

"No. It doesn't say half. It's _nothing_ to what I could--"

"Very well, if it's nothing--" Mrs. Mathew tore open the note.

Before she could so much as unfold it, Genie had plucked it out of her
hand and fled upstairs.

Half way to the top she leaned over the bannisters. "If you tell I'll
remember it all my life. If you don't I'll love you for ever and ever."

"You're a very silly child. And I'm not at all sure I won't speak to
your mother."

"But I am!" the coppery head was hung ingratiatingly over the hand rail.

Aunt Josephine was already thinking of matters more important than a
school girl's foolishness. "How long has that man been here?"

"Oh, hours and hours!" said Genie, accepting the diversion with due
gratitude. "He stays longer and longer."

"Humph! that's what I think!" Aunt Josephine stalked into the


[35] Copyright, 1909, by the Macmillan Company.


Miss Ellen Churchill Semple, Kentucky's distinguished
anthropo-geographer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, in 1863. Vassar
College conferred the degree of Bachelor of Arts upon her in 1882, and
the Master of Arts in 1891. She then studied for two years at the
University of Leipzig. Miss Semple has devoted herself to the new
science of anthropo-geography, which is the study of the influence of
geographic conditions upon the development of mankind. Since 1897 she
has contributed articles upon her subject to the New York _Journal of
Geography_, the London _Geographical Journal_, and to other scientific
publications. Miss Semple's first book, entitled _American History and
Its Geographic Conditions_ (Boston, 1903), proclaimed her as the
foremost student of the new science in the United States. A special
edition of this work was published for the Indiana State Teachers'
Association, which is said to be the largest reading circle in the
world. In 1901 Miss Semple prepared an interesting study of _The
Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains_, which was issued in 1910 as a
bulletin of the American Geographical Society. Miss Semple's latest
work is an enormous volume, entitled _Influences of Geographic
Environment on the Basis of Ratzel's System of Anthropo-Geography_
(New York, 1911). This required seven long years of untiring research
to prepare, and with its publication she came into her own position,
which is quite unique in the whole range of American literature.
Although scientific to the last degree, her writings have the real
literary flavor, which is seldom found in such work. Miss Semple
lectured at Oxford University in 1912, and in the late autumn of that
year she discussed Japan, in which country she had experienced much of
value and interest, before the Royal British Geographical Society in
London, and later before the Royal Scottish Geographical Society in
Edinburgh. Between various lectures in Scotland and England she
continued her researches in the London libraries, returning to the
United States as the year closed.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (December 31, 1903); _Political Science
    Quarterly_ (September, 1904).


[From _Influences of Geographic Environment_ (New York, 1911)]

Man is a product of the earth's surface. This means not merely that he
is a child of the earth, dust of her dust; but that the earth has
mothered him, fed him, set him tasks, directed his thoughts,
confronted him with difficulties that have strengthened his body and
sharpened his wits, given him his problems of navigation or
irrigation, and at the same time whispered hints for their solution.
She has entered into his bone and tissue, into his mind and soul. On
the mountains she has given him leg muscles of iron to climb the
slope; along the coast she has left these weak and flabby, but given
him instead vigorous development of chest and arm to handle his paddle
or oar. In the river valley she attaches him to the fertile soil,
circumscribes his ideas and ambitions by a dull round of calm,
exacting duties, narrows his outlook to the cramped horizon of his
farm. Up on the windswept plateaus, in the boundless stretch of the
grasslands and the waterless tracts of the desert, where he roams with
his flocks from pasture to pasture and oasis to oasis, where life
knows much hardship but escapes the grind of drudgery, where the
watching of grazing herds gives him leisure for contemplation, and the
wide-ranging life a big horizon, his ideas take on a certain gigantic
simplicity; religion becomes monotheism, God becomes one, unrivalled
like the sand of the desert, and the grass of the steppe, stretching
on and on without break or change. Chewing over and over the cud of
his simple belief as the one food of his unfed mind, his faith becomes
fanaticism; his big spacial ideas, born of that ceaseless regular
wandering, outgrow the land that bred them and bear their legitimate
fruit in wide imperial conquests.

Man can no more be scientifically studied apart from the ground which
he tills, or the lands over which he travels, or the seas over which
he trades, than polar bear or desert cactus can be understood apart
from its habitat. Man's relation to his environment are infinitely
more numerous and complex than those of the most highly organized
plant or animal. So complex are they that they constitute a legitimate
and necessary object of special study. The investigation which they
receive in anthropology, ethnology, sociology and history is piecemeal
and partial, limited as to the race, cultural development, epoch,
country or variety of geographic conditions taken into account. Hence
all these sciences, together with history so far as history undertakes
to explain the causes of events, fail to reach a satisfactory solution
of their problems, largely because the geographic factor which enters
into them all has not been thoroughly analyzed. Man has been so noisy
about the way he has "conquered Nature," and Nature has been so silent
in her persistent influence over man, that the geographic factor in
the equation of human development has been overlooked.


[36] Copyright, 1911, by Henry Holt and Company.


Mrs. Annie Fellows Johnston, creator of the famous "Little Colonel
Series," was born at Evansville, Indiana, May 15, 1863, the daughter
of a clergyman. Miss Fellows was educated in the public schools of
Evansville, and then spent the year of 1881-1882 at the State
University of Iowa. She was married at Evansville, in 1888, to William
L. Johnston, who died four years later, leaving her a son and
daughter. Mrs. Johnston's first arrival in Kentucky as a resident
(though not as a visitor), was in 1898, and then she stayed only three
years. Her son's quest of health led her first to Walton, New York,
then to Arizona, where they spent a winter on the desert in sight of
Camelback mountain, which suggested the legend of _In the Desert of
Waiting_. From Arizona they went to California and then, in 1903,
decided to try the climate of Texas, up in the hill country, north of
San Antonio. Mrs. Johnston called her home "Penacres," and she lived
there until her son's death in the fall of 1910. She and her daughter
returned to Pewee Valley, Kentucky, in April, 1911, and purchased "The
Beeches," the old home of Mrs. Henry W. Lawton, the widow of the
famous American general. The house is situated in a six acre grove of
magnificent beech-trees, and is a place often mentioned in "The Little
Colonel" stories. Mrs. Johnston's books are: _Big Brother_ (Boston,
1893); _The Little Colonel_ (Boston, 1895); _Joel: A Boy of Galilee_
(Boston, 1895; Italian translation, 1900); _In League with Israel_
(Cincinnati, 1896), the second and last of Mrs. Johnston's books that
was not issued by L. C. Page and Company, Boston; _Ole Mammy's
Torment_ (1897); _Songs Ysame_ (1897), a book of poems, written with
her sister, Mrs. Albion Fellows Bacon, the social reformer of
Evansville, Indiana; _The Gate of the Giant Scissors_ (1898); _Two
Little Knights of Kentucky_ (1899), written in Kentucky; _The Little
Colonel's House Party_ (1900); _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (1901);
_The Little Colonel's Hero_ (1902); _Cicely_ (1902); _Asa Holmes, or
At the Crossroads_ (1902); _Flip's Islands of Providence_ (1903); _The
Little Colonel at Boarding-School_ (1903), the children's "Order of
Hildegarde" was founded on the story of _The Three Weavers_ in this
volume; _The Little Colonel in Arizona_ (1904); _The Quilt that Jack
Built_ (1904); _The Colonel's Christmas Vacation_ (1905); _In the
Desert of Waiting_ (1905; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1906); _The
Three Weavers_ (1905), a special edition of this famous story;
_Mildred's Inheritance_ (1906); _The Little Colonel, Maid of Honor_
(1906); _The Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding_ (1907); _Mary Ware_
(1908); _The Legend of the Bleeding Heart_ (1908); _Keeping Tryst_
(1908); _The Rescue of the Princess Winsome_ (1908); _The Jester's
Sword_ (1909; Japanese translation, Tokio, 1910); _The Little
Colonel's Good Times Book_ (1909); _Mary Ware in Texas_ (1910); and
_Travellers Five_ (1911), a collection of short-stories for grown
people, previously published in magazines, with a foreword by Bliss
Carman. The little Kentucky girl--called the "Little Colonel" because
of her resemblance to a Southern gentleman of the old school--has had
Mrs. Johnston's attention for seventeen years, and she has recently
announced that she is at work upon the twelfth and final volume of the
"Little Colonel Series," as she feels that work for grown-ups is more
worth her while. This last story of the series was published in the
fall of 1912, entitled _Mary Ware's Promised Land_; and needless to
say her "promised land" is Kentucky. There are "Little Colonel Clubs"
all over the world, as Mrs. Johnston has learned from thousands of
letters from children, and when she rings down the curtain upon her
heroine many girls and boys in this and other countries will be sad.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (April, 1901); _The Century_
    (September, 1903).


[From _The Little Colonel's Holidays_ (Boston, 1901)]

Once upon a time, so the story goes (you may read it yourself in the
dear old tales of Hans Christian Andersen), there was a prince who
disguised himself as a swineherd. It was to gain admittance to a
beautiful princess that he thus came in disguise to her father's
palace, and to attract her attention he made a magic caldron, hung
around with strings of silver bells. Whenever the water in the caldron
boiled and bubbled, the bells rang a little tune to remind her of him.

      "Oh, thou dear Augustine,
       All is lost and gone,"

they sang. Such was the power of the magic kettle, that when the water
bubbled hard enough to set the bells a-tinkling, any one holding his
hand in the steam could smell what was cooking in every kitchen in the

It has been many a year since the swineherd's kettle was set a-boiling
and its string of bells a-jingling to satisfy the curiosity of a
princess, but a time has come for it to be used again. Not that
anybody nowadays cares to know what his neighbor is going to have for
dinner, but all the little princes and princesses in the kingdom want
to know what happened next.

"What happened after the Little Colonel's house party?" they demand,
and they send letters to the Valley by the score, asking "Did Betty
go blind?" "Did the two little Knights of Kentucky ever meet Joyce
again or find the Gate of the Giant Scissors?" "Did the Little Colonel
ever have any more good times at Locust, or did Eugenia ever forget
that she too had started out to build a Road of the Loving Heart?"

It would be impossible to answer all these questions through the
post-office, so that is why the magic kettle has been dragged from its
hiding-place after all these years, and set a-boiling once more.
Gather in a ring around it, all you who want to know, and pass your
curious fingers through its wreaths of rising steam. Now you shall see
the Little Colonel and her guests of the house party in turn, and the
bells shall ring for each a different song.

But before they begin, for the sake of some who may happen to be in
your midst for the first time, and do not know what it is all about,
let the kettle give them a glimpse into the past, that they may be
able to understand all that is about to be shown to you. Those who
already know the story need not put their fingers into the steam,
until the bells have rung this explanation in parenthesis.

(In Lloydsboro Valley stands an old Southern mansion, known as "Locust."
The place is named for a long avenue of giant locust-trees stretching a
quarter of a mile from house to entrance gate in a great arch of green.
Here for years an old Confederate colonel lived all alone save for the
negro servants. His only child, Elizabeth, had married a Northern man
against his wishes, and gone away. From that day he would not allow her
name to be spoken in his presence. But she came back to the Valley when
her little daughter Lloyd was five years old. People began calling the
child the Little Colonel because she seemed to have inherited so many of
her grandfather's lordly ways as well as a goodly share of his high
temper. The military title seemed to suit her better than her own name
for in her fearless baby fashion she won her way into the old man's
heart and he made a complete surrender.

Afterward when she and her mother and "Papa Jack" went to live with
him at Locust, one of her favorite games was playing soldier. The old
man never tired of watching her march through the wide halls with his
spurs strapped to her tiny slipper heels, and her dark eyes flashing
out fearlessly from under the little Napoleon cap she wore.

She was eleven when she gave her house party. One of the guests was
Joyce Ware, whom some of you have met, perhaps, in "The Gate of the
Giant Scissors," a bright thirteen-year-old girl from the West.
Eugenia Forbes was another. She was a distant cousin of Lloyd's, who
had no home-life like other girls. Her winters were spent in a
fashionable New York boarding-school, and her summers at the
Waldorf-Astoria, except the few weeks when her busy father could find
time to take her to some seaside resort.

The third guest, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, or Betty, as every one lovingly
called her, was Mrs. Sherman's little god-daughter. She was an orphan,
boarding on a backwoods farm on Green River. She had never been on the
cars until Lloyd's invitation found its way to the Cuckoo's Nest. Only
these three came to stay in the house, but Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre
(the two little Knights of Kentucky) were there nearly every day. So was
Rob Moore, one of the Little Colonel's summer neighbors.

The four Bobs were four little foxterrier puppies named for Rob, who
had given one to each of the girls. They were so much alike they could
only be distinguished by the colour of the ribbons tied around their
necks. Tarbaby was the Little Colonel's pony, and Lad the one that
Betty rode during her visit.

After six weeks of picnics and parties, and all sorts of surprises and
good times, the house party came to a close with a grand feast of
lanterns. Joyce regretfully went home to the little brown house in
Plainsville, Kansas, taking her Bob with her. Eugenia and her father
went to New York, but not until they had promised to come back for
Betty in the fall, and take her abroad with them. It was on account of
something that had happened at the house party, but which is too long
a tale to repeat here.

Betty stayed on at Locust until the end of the summer in the House
Beautiful, as she called her god-mother's home, and here on the long
vine-covered porch, with its stately white pillars, you shall see them
first through the steam of the magic caldron).

Listen! Now the kettle boils and the bells begin the story!


[37] Copyright, 1901, by L. C. Page and Company.


Miss Eva Anne Madden, author of a group of popular stories for children,
was born near Bedford, Kentucky, October 26, 1863, the elder sister of
Mrs. George Madden Martin, creator of _Emmy Lou_. Miss Madden was
educated in the public schools of Louisville, Kentucky, after which she
took a normal course. At the mature age of fourteen she was writing for
_The Courier-Journal_; two years later she was doing book reviews for
_The Evening Post_; and when eighteen years of age she became a teacher
in the public schools. Miss Madden taught for more than ten years, or
until 1892, when she went to New York and engaged in newspaper work. Her
first book, _Stephen, or the Little Crusaders_ (New York, 1901), was
published only a few months before she sailed for Europe, where she has
resided for the last eleven years. Miss Madden's _The I Can School_ (New
York, 1902), was followed by her other books, _The Little Queen_
(Boston, 1903); _The Soldiers of the Duke_ (Boston, 1904); and her most
recent story, _Two Royal Foes_ (New York, 1907). Miss Madden has been
the Italian representative of a London firm since 1907; and since 1908
she has been the correspondent of the Paris edition of the _New York
Herald_ for the city in which she lives, Florence, Italy. She had a very
good short-story in _The Century_ for February, 1911, entitled _The
Interrupted Pen_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
    xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The I Can School_ (New York, 1902)]

"Good-bye, Miss Ellison," she said, putting up her little mouth to be
kissed. "I'm sorry that it's the end of the 'I Can School.'"

Then Miss Ellison was all smiles.

"You sweet little thing," she said, which was exactly what she had
done ten months before.

How long ago that seemed to Virginia. How stupid she had been about
learning to spell that easy "cat."

Now she could read a whole page about a black cat which got into the
nest of a white hen, and she could add numbers, and "write vertical."
She had painted in a book, and modeled a lovely half-apple, made real
by a stem and the seeds of a russet she had had for lunch one day. She
knew the name of all the birds about Fairview, and she could tell
about the wild flowers.

Altogether she felt very learned and scornful of a certain small
person who had thought Kentucky the name of a little girl, and who had
known nothing of George Washington, and who had called C-A-T

Virginia's mamma was very proud of all her little girl knew. She did
not wait for Virginia to get her work from the janitor. She took it
all carefully home to show her husband.

"Papa," said Virginia, the moment Mr. Barton entered the house that
evening, "it's vacation!"

"Vacation!" said her father. "My! my! I remember that there was a
time, Miss Barton, when I loved it better than school; do you?"

Virginia hesitated.

"Ten months," she said at last, "is a lot of school. Lucretia and
Catherine seem just as tired, papa. Their lessons don't interest them
now that it's so hot. I love the 'I Can School,' papa; but it's nice
to stay at home and play 'Lady come to see.'"

This was a very long speech for Virginia, the longest that she ever
had made.

Her papa laughed.

"Miss Barton," he said, "profound student that you are, I see that in
some things you are not altogether different from your parent. But let
me remind you, Miss Barton, when you feel at times a little tired of
vacation, that the 'I Can' will begin again on the tenth of

"And Miss Ellison will be so glad to see me!" said Virginia

Her papa laughed.

"As for that, Miss Barton--"

"Now don't, Edward," interrupted his wife. "I am sure, Virginia, that
Miss Ellison will be glad to see you in the fall. If I were you I
would write her a little letter in the vacation. I have her address."

"And I'll tell Billy and Carter and Harry and all the children, and
we'll all write so that she won't forget us. And she'll answer them,
mamma, won't she?"

"I think she will," answered her mother. "It will be very nice for you
to write to her."

But her husband said in a low voice, "Poor Miss Ellison."

"Good Miss Ellison, papa," said Virginia. "She's nice and I love her."


[38] Copyright, 1902, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.


John Fox, Junior, Kentucky's master maker of mountain myths, was born
at Stony Point, near Paris, Kentucky, December 16, 1863, the son of a
schoolmaster. He was christened "John William Fox, Junior," but he
early discarded his middle name. By his father he was largely fitted
for Kentucky, now Transylvania, University, which institution he
entered at the age of fifteen, spending the two years of 1878-1880
there, when he left and went to Harvard. Mr. Fox was graduated from
Harvard in 1883, the youngest man in his class. Though he had written
nothing during his collegiate career, upon quitting Cambridge he
joined the staff of the New York _Sun_ and later entered Columbia Law
School. He soon abandoned law and went with the _New York Times_,
where he remained several months, when illness--blind and blessed
goddess in disguise!--compelled him to go south in search of health.
At length he found himself high up in the Cumberland Mountains,
associated with his father and brother in a mining venture. He also
taught school for a time, but the mountaineers of Kentucky were upon
him, and he began to weave romances about them. Mr. Fox's first story,
_A Mountain Europa_ (New York, 1894), originally appeared in two parts
in _The Century Magazine_ for September and October, 1892. It was
dedicated to James Lane Allen, whom its author had to thank for
encouragement when he stood most in need of it. _On Hell-fer-Sartain
Creek_, which followed fast upon the heels of his first book, made Mr.
Fox famous in a fortnight. Written in a day and a half, _Harper's
Weekly_ paid him the munificent sum of six dollars for it, and printed
it back with the advertisements in the issue for November 24, 1894.
The ending was transposed just a bit and a word or two discarded for
apter words before it was published in book form; and these revisions
were very fine, greatly improving the tale. In its most recent dress
it counts less than five small pages; and it may be read in as many
minutes. The mountain dialect prevails throughout. It "admits an epic
breadth," the biggest thing Mr. Fox has done hitherto, and now
generally regarded as a very great short-story.

_A Cumberland Vendetta and Other Stories_ (New York, 1895), contained,
besides the title-story, first published in _The Century_, a
reprinting of _A Mountain Europa_--which made the third time it had
been printed in three years--_The Last Stetson_, and _On
Hell-fer-Sartain Creek_. This volume was followed by Mr. Fox's finest
work, entitled _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_ (New York, 1897).
Of the ten stories in this little volume but four of them are in
correct English, the others, the best ones, being in dialect. The last
and longest story, _A Purple Rhododendron_, originally appeared in
_The Southern Magazine_, a now defunct periodical of Louisville,
Kentucky. _The Kentuckians_ (New York, 1897), was published a short
time after _Hell-fer-Sartain and Other Stories_. This novelette
pitted a man of the Blue Grass against a man of the Kentucky hills,
and the struggle was not overly severe; the reading world did little
more than remark its appearance and its passing.

When the Spanish-American war was declared Mr. Fox went to Cuba as a
Rough Rider, but left that organization to act as correspondent for
_Harper's Weekly_. He witnessed the fiercest fighting from the firing
lines, and his own experiences were largely written into his first
long novel, entitled _Crittenden_ (New York, 1900). This tale of love
with war entwined was well told; and its concluding clause: "God was
good that Christmas!" has become one of his most famous expressions.
After the war Mr. Fox returned to the South. _Bluegrass and
Rhododendron_ (New York, 1901), was a series of descriptive essays
upon life in the Kentucky mountains, in which Mr. Fox did for the
hillsmen what Mr. Allen had done for the customs and traditions of his
own section of the state in _The Bluegrass Region of Kentucky_. It
also embodied his own personal experiences as a member of the police
guard in Kentucky and Virginia. The word "rhododendron" is Mr. Fox's
shibboleth, and he seemingly never tires of writing it.

_The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come_ (New York, 1903), is his best long
novel so far. The boy, Chad, is, perhaps, his one character-contribution
to American fiction; and the boy's dog, "Jack," stands second to the
little hero in the hearts of the thousands who read the book. The
opening chapters are especially fine. The love story of _The Little
Shepherd_ is most attractive; and the Civil War is presented in a manner
not wholly laborious. After _Hell-fer-Sartain_ this novel is far and
away the best thing Mr. Fox has done.

_Christmas Eve on Lonesome and Other Stories_ (New York, 1904),
contained the title-story and five others, including _The Last
Stetson_, which had appeared many years before in _Harper's Weekly_,
and later in _A Cumberland Vendetta_. Mr. Fox attempted to reach the
theatre of the Russian-Japanese War, as a correspondent for
_Scribner's Magazine_, but he was not allowed to join the ever
advancing armies. His experiences may be read in _Following the
Sun-Flag_ (New York, 1905), with its tell-tale sub-title: "a vain
pursuit through Manchuria." His next work was a novelette, _A Knight
of the Cumberland_ (New York, 1906), first published as a serial in
_Scribner's Magazine_. It was well done and rather interesting.

Mr. Fox spent the greater part of the year of 1907 in work upon _The
Trail of the Lonesome Pine_ (New York, 1908), a story that must be
placed beside _The Little Shepherd_ when any classification of the
author's work is made. The heroine, June, is none other than Chad in
feminine garb. The book contains some of the most excellent writing
Mr. Fox has done, the descriptions being especially fine. It was
dramatized by Eugene Walter and successfully produced. A few months
after the publication of _The Trail_, the author married Fritzi
Scheff, the operatic star, to whom he had inscribed his story. They
have a home at Big Stone Gap, in the Virginia mountains.

In April, 1912, Mr. Fox's most recent novel, _The Heart of the Hills_,
began as a serial in _Scribner's_, to be concluded in the issue for
March, 1913. It is red with recent happenings in Kentucky, happenings
which are, at the present time, too hackneyed to be of very great
interest to the people of that state.[39] It must be remembered always
that Mr. Fox is a story-teller pure and simple, and that he seemingly
makes little effort to arrive at the stage of perfection in the mere
matter of writing that characterizes the work of a group of his
contemporaries. That he is a wonderful maker of short-stories in the
mountain dialect is certain; but that he is a great novelist is yet to
be established.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature Magazine_ (New York, September,
    1903); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have Written Famous
    Books_, by E. F. Harkins, (Boston, 1903, Second Series); _Library
    of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. iv).


[From _Collier's Weekly_ (December 11, 1909)]

The sun of Christmas poured golden blessings on the head of the valley
first; it shot winged shafts of yellow light through the great Gap and
into the month of Pigeon; it darted awakening arrows into the coves
and hollows on the Head of Pigeon, between Brushy Ridge and Black
Mountain; and one searching ray flashed through the open door of the
little log schoolhouse at the forks of Pigeon and played like a smile
over the waiting cedar that stood within--alone.

Down at the mines below, the young doctor had not waited the coming of
that sun. He had sprung from his bed at dawn, had built his own fire,
had dressed hurriedly, and gone hurriedly on his rounds, leaving a
pill here, a powder there, and a word of good cheer everywhere. That
was his Christmas tree, the cedar in the little schoolhouse--his and
_hers_. And _she_ was coming up from the Gap that day to dress that
tree and spread the joy of Christmas among mountain folks, to whom the
joy of Christmas was quite unknown.

An hour later the passing mail-carrier, from over Black Mountain,
stopped with switch uplifted at his office door.

"Them fellers over the Ridge air comin' over to shoot up yo' Christmas
tree," he drawled.

The switch fell and he was gone. The young doctor dropped by his
fire--stunned; for just that thing had happened ten years before to the
only Christmas tree that had ever been heard of in those hills except
his own. From that very schoolhouse some vandals from the Crab Orchard
and from over Black Mountain had driven the Pigeon Creek people after a
short fight, and while the surprised men, frightened women and children,
and the terrified teacher scurried to safety behind rocks and trees, had
shot the tree to pieces. That was ten years before, but even now, though
there were some old men and a few old women who knew the Bible from end
to end, many grown people and nearly all of the children had never heard
of the Book, or of Christ, or knew that there was a day known as
Christmas Day. That such things were so had hurt the doctor to the
heart, and that was why, as Christmas drew near, he had gone through the
out-of-the-way hollows at the Head of Pigeon, and got the names and ages
of all the mountain children; why for a few days before Christmas there
had been such a dressing of dolls in the sweetheart's house down in the
Gap as there had not been since she herself was a little girl; and why
now the cedar tree stood in the little log schoolhouse at the forks of
Pigeon. Moreover, there was as yet enmity between the mountaineers of
Pigeon and the mountaineers over the Ridge and Black Mountain, who were
jealous and scornful of any signs of the foreign influence but recently
come into the hills. The meeting-house, courthouse, and the schoolhouse
were yet favorite places for fights among the mountaineers. There was
yet no reverence at all for Christmas, and the same vandals might yet
regard a Christmas tree as an imported frivolity to be sternly rebuked.
The news was not only not incredible, it probably was true; and with
this conclusion some very unpleasant lines came into the young doctor's
kindly face and he sprang from his horse.

Two hours later he had a burly mountaineer with a Winchester posted on
the road leading to the Crab Orchard, another on the mountainside
overlooking the little valley, several more similarly armed below,
while he and two friends, with revolvers, buckled on, waited for the
coming party, with their horses hitched in front of his office door.
This Christmas tree was to be.

It was almost noon when the doctor heard gay voices and happy
laughter high on the ridge, and he soon saw a big spring wagon drawn
by a pair of powerful bays--Major, the colored coachman, on the seat,
the radiant faces of the Christmas-giving party behind him, and a big
English setter playing in the snow alongside.

Up Pigeon then the wagon went with the doctor and his three friends on
horseback beside it, past the long batteries of coke-ovens with
grinning darkies, coke-pullers, and loaders idling about them, up the
rough road through lanes of snow-covered rhododendrons winding among
tall oaks, chestnuts, and hemlocks, and through circles and arrows of
gold with which the sun splashed the white earth--every cabin that
they passed tenantless, for the inmates had gone ahead long ago--and
on to the little schoolhouse that sat on a tiny plateau in a small
clearing, with snow-tufted bushes of laurel on every side and snowy
mountains rising on either hand.

The door was wide open and smoke was curling from the chimney. A few
horses and mules were hitched to the bushes near by. Men, boys, and
dogs were gathered around a big fire in front of the building; and in
a minute women, children, and more dogs poured out of the schoolhouse
to watch the coming cavalcade.

Since sunrise the motley group had been waiting there: the women
thinly clad in dresses of worsted or dark calico, and a shawl or short
jacket or man's coat, with a sunbonnet or "fascinator" on their heads,
and men's shoes on their feet--the older ones stooped and thin, the
younger ones carrying babies, and all with weather-beaten faces and
bare hands; the men and boys without overcoats, their coarse shirts
unbuttoned, their necks and upper chests bared to the biting cold,
their hands thrust in their pockets as they stood about the fire, and
below their short coat sleeves their wrists showing chapped and red;
while to the little boys and girls had fallen only such odds and ends
of clothing as the older ones could spare. Quickly the doctor got his
party indoors and to work on the Christmas tree. Not one did he tell
of the impending danger, and the Colt's .45 bulging under this man's
shoulder or on that man's hip, and the Winchester in the hollow of an
arm here and there were sights too common in these hills to arouse
suspicion in anybody's mind. The cedar tree, shorn of its branches at
the base and banked with mosses, towered to the angle of the roof.
There were no desks in the room except the one table used by the
teacher. Long, crude wooden benches with low backs faced the tree,
with an aisle leading from the door between them. Lap-robes were hung
over the windows, and soon a gorgeous figure of Santa Claus was
smiling down from the very tiptop of the tree. Ropes of gold and
silver tinsel were swiftly draped around and up and down; enmeshed in
these were little red Santas, gaily colored paper horns, filled with
candy, colored balls, white and yellow birds, little colored candles
with holders to match, and other glittering things; while over the
whole tree a glistening powder was sprinkled like a mist of shining
snow. Many presents were tied to the tree, and under it were the rest
of the labeled ones in a big pile. In a semicircle about the base sat
the dolls in pink, yellow, and blue, and looking down the aisle to the
door. Packages of candy in colored Japanese napkins and tied with a
narrow red ribbon were in another pile, with a pyramid of oranges at
its foot. And yet there was still another pile for unexpected
children, that the heart of none should be sore. Then the candles were
lighted and the door flung open to the eager waiting crowd outside. In
a moment every seat was silently filled by the women and children, and
the men, stolid but expectant, lined the wall. The like of that tree
no soul of them had ever seen before. Only a few of the older ones had
ever seen a Christmas tree of any kind and they but once; and they had
lost that in a free-for-all fight. And yet only the eyes of them
showed surprise or pleasure. There was no word--no smile, only
unwavering eyes mesmerically fixed on the wonderful tree.

The young doctor rose, and only the sweetheart saw that he was nervous,
restless, and pale. As best he could he told them what Christmas was and
what it meant to the world; and he had scarcely finished when a hand
beckoned to him from the door. Leaving one of his friends to distribute
the presents, he went outside to discover that one vandal had come on
ahead, drunk and boisterous. Promptly the doctor tied him to a tree,
shouldered a Winchester, and himself took up a lonely vigil on the
mountainside. Within, Christmas went on. When a name was called a child
came forward silently, usually shoved to the front by some relative,
took what was handed to it, and, dumb with delight, but too shy even to
murmur a word of thanks, silently returned to its seat with the presents
hugged to its breast--presents that were simple, but not to those
mountain mites; colored pictures and illustrated books they were, red
plush albums, simple games, fascinators and mittens for the girls;
pocket-knives, balls, firecrackers, and horns, mittens, caps, and
mufflers for the boys; a doll dressed in everything a doll should wear
for each little girl, no one of whom had ever seen a doll before, except
what was home-made from an old dress or apron tied in several knots to
make the head and body. Twice only was the silence broken. One boy quite
forgot himself when given a pocket-knife. He looked at it suspiciously
and incredulously, turned it over in his hand, opened it and felt the
edge of the blade, and, panting with excitement, cried: "Hit's a shore
'nough knife!"

And again when, to make sure that nobody had been left out, though all
the presents were gone, the master of ceremonies asked if there was any
other little boy or girl who had received nothing, there arose a bent,
toothless old woman in a calico dress and baggy black coat, her gray
hair straggling from under her black sunbonnet, and her hands gnarled
and knotted from work and rheumatism. Simply as a child, she spoke:

"I hain't got nothin'."

Gravely the giver of the gifts asked her to come forward, and,
nonplussed, searched the tree for the most glittering thing he could
find. Then all the women pressed forward and then the men, until all
the ornaments were gone, even the half-burned candles with their
colored holders, which the men took eagerly and fastened in their
coats, clasping the holders to their lapels or fastening the bent wire
in their button-holes, and pieces of tinsel rope, which they threw
over their shoulders--so that the tree stood at last just as it was
when brought from the wild woods outside.

Straightway then the young doctor hurried the departure of the
merry-makers from the Gap. Already the horses stood hitched, and,
while the laprobes were being carried out, a mountaineer, who had
brought along a sack of apples, lined up the men and boys, and at a
given word started running down the road, pouring out the apples as he
ran, while the men and boys scrambled for them, rolling and tussling
in the snow. As the party moved away, the mountaineers waved their
hands and shouted good-by to the doctor, too shy still to pay much
heed to the other "furriners" in the wagon. The doctor looked back
once with a grateful sigh of relief but no one in the wagon knew that
there had been any danger that day. How great the danger had been not
even the doctor knew then. For the coming vandals had got as far as
the top of the Dividing Ridge, had there quarreled and fought among
themselves, so that, as the party drove away, one invader was at that
minute cursing his captors, who were setting him free, and high upon
the ridge another lay dead in the snow.

In time there was a wedding at the Gap, and long afterward the doctor,
riding by the little schoolhouse, stopped at the door, and from his
horse shoved it open. The Christmas tree stood just as he had left it
on Christmas Day, only, like the evergreens on the wall and over the
windows, it, too, was brown, withered and dry. Gently he closed the
door and rode on.


[39] When Mr. Fox followed the trail of the Goebel tragedy he was
poaching upon the especial preserves of Miss Eleanor Talbot Kinkead,
whose romance of the "autocrat," _The Courage of Blackburn Blair_ (New
York, 1907), was widely read and reviewed. Miss Kinkead was born in
Kentucky, and, besides the story mentioned above, is the author of
_'Gainst Wind and Tide_ (Chicago, 1892); _Young Greer of Kentucky_
(Chicago, 1895); _Florida Alexander_ (Chicago, 1898); and _The
Invisible Bond_ (New York, 1906).

[40] Copyright, 1909, by P. F. Collier and Son.


Mrs. Fannie Caldwell Macaulay ("Frances Little"), "the lady of the
Decoration," was born at Shelbyville; Kentucky, November 22, 1863, the
daughter of a jurist. She was educated at Science Hill Academy,
Shelbyville, a noted school for girls. Miss Caldwell was married to
James Macaulay of Liverpool, England, but her marriage proved unhappy.
From 1899 to 1902 Mrs. Macaulay was a kindergarten teacher in
Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1902 to 1907 she was engaged as
supervisor of kindergarten work at Hiroshima, Japan. From Japan she
wrote letters home which were so charming and clever that her niece,
Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, the Louisville novelist, insisted that she make
them into a book. The result was _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York,
1906), for more than a year the most popular book in America. This
little epistolary tale of heroic struggle for one's work and one's love,
was read in all parts of the English-speaking world. It set the
high-water mark, probably, for even the "six best sellers." Mrs.
Macaulay's second book, _Little Sister Snow_ (New York, 1909), was the
tender love story of a young American and a Japanese girl. The lad
sailed away to his American sweetheart, leaving "Little Sister Snow"
blowing him kisses from her native shore. Mrs. Macaulay's latest story,
_The Lady and Sada San_ (New York, 1912), was published in London under
the title of _The Lady Married_, which was clearer, as it is the sequel
to _The Lady of the Decoration_. The Lady's husband, Jack, sails away to
China in pursuit of his scientific duties, leaving her lonely in
Kentucky. She decides to make another journey to Japan; and on the way
over she falls in with a charming young American-Japanese girl, Sada
San, whom she subsequently saves from a most cruel fate. She then finds
her husband, ill and exhausted with his long trip, and returns with him
to Kentucky. The descriptions of the countries through which she passes
are very fine: the best writing the author has shown hitherto. The
little volume was reported as the best selling book in America at
Christmas time of 1912. Mrs. Macaulay has spent much of her life during
the last several years in Japan, but her home is at Louisville. She is a
prominent club woman, and a charming lecturer upon the beauties of

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (June, 1906); _Who's Who in America_


[From _The Lady of the Decoration_ (New York, 1906)]

                                     Still on Board. August 18th.


I am writing this in my berth with the curtains drawn. No I am not a
bit sea-sick, just popular. One of the old ladies is teaching me to
knit, the short-haired missionary reads aloud to me, the girl from
South Dakota keeps my feet covered up, and Dear Pa and Little Germany
assist me to eat.

The captain has had a big bathing tank rigged up for the ladies, and I
take a cold plunge every morning. It makes me think of our old days at
the cottage up at the Cape. Didn't we have a royal time that summer
and weren't we young and foolish? It was the last good time I had for
many a long day--but there, none of that!

Last night I had an adventure, at least it was next door to one. I was
sitting up on deck when Dear Pa came by and asked me to walk with him.
After several rounds we sat down on the pilot house steps. The moon
was as big as a wagon wheel and the whole sea flooded with silver,
while the flying fishes played hide and seek in the shadows. I forgot
all about Dear Pa and was doing a lot of thinking on my own account
when he leaned over and said:

"I hope you don't mind talking to me. I am very, very lonely." Now I
thought I recognized a grave symptom, and when he began to tell me
about his dear departed, I knew it was time to be going.

"You have passed through it," he said. "You can sympathize."

I crossed my fingers in the dark. "We are both seeking a life work in
a foreign field--" he began again, but just here the purser passed. He
almost stumbled over us in the dark and when he saw me and my elderly
friend, he actually smiled!

Don't you dare tell Jack about this, I should never hear the last of it.

Can you realize that I am three whole weeks from home! I do, every
second of it. Sometimes when I stop to think what I am doing my heart
almost bursts! But then I am so used to the heartache that I might be
lonesome without it; who knows?

If I can only do what is expected of me, if I can only pick up the
pieces of this smashed-up life of mine and patch them into a decent
whole that you will not be ashamed of, then I will be content.

The first foreign word I have learned is "Alohaoe," I think it means
"my dearest love to you." Anyhow I send it laden with the tenderest
meaning. God bless and keep you all, and bring me back to you a wiser
and a gladder woman.


[41] Copyright, 1906, by the Century Company.


James Dowden Bruner, editor of many masterpieces of French literature,
as well as an original critic of that literature, was born near
Leitchfield, Kentucky, May 19, 1864. He was graduated from Franklin
College, Franklin, Indiana, in 1888, and then taught French and German
at Franklin for two years. Professor Bruner studied a year in Paris
and Florence and, on his return to this country, in 1893, he was
elected professor of Romance languages in the University of Illinois.
Johns Hopkins University conferred the degree of Ph. D. upon him, in
1894, his dissertation being _The Phonology of the Pistojese Dialect_
(Baltimore, 1894, a brochure). From 1895 to 1899 Dr. Bruner was
professor of Romance languages and literatures in the University of
Chicago; from 1901 to 1909 he held a similar chair in the University
of North Carolina; and since 1909 he has been president of Chowan
College, Murfreesboro, North Carolina. Dr. Bruner has edited, with
introductions and critical notes, _Les Adventures du Dernier
Abencerage_, par Chateaubriand (New York, 1903); _Le Roman d'un Jeune
Homme Pauvre_, par Octave Feuillet (Boston, 1904); _Hernani_, par
Victor Hugo (New York, 1906); and _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New
York, 1908), his finest critical edition of any French classic
hitherto. His _Studies in Victor Hugo's Dramatic Characters_ (Boston,
1908), announced the advent of a new critic of the great Frenchman's
plays. It is an excellent piece of work.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
    xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _Le Cid_, par Pierre Corneille (New York, 1908)]

Corneille in the _Cid_ founded the French classical drama. Before the
appearance of this masterpiece, a transition drama containing
characteristics of the tragi-comedy as well as of the regular
classical tragedy, of which Corneille's next three plays, _Horace_,
_Cinna_, and _Polyeucte_, were to be perfect examples, the
tragi-comedy prevailed in France. This tragi-comedy, or irregular
drama, was a Renaissance product, having a history and characteristics
of its own, being largely influenced by the tragedies of Seneca. Its
most important characteristics are non-historic subjects, serious or
tragic plots, the mixture of comic and tragic elements or tones, the
high rank of the leading characters, the _style noble_, looseness of
structure, the disregard of the minor or Italian unities of time and
place, the classical form of verse and number of acts, romanesque
elements, and a happy ending.

The most striking characteristic of the French classical drama of the
seventeenth century, as of the modern short story, is that of
compression. This statement is true both as to its form and its
content. The accidental accessories of splendid decorations,
magnificent costumes, subsidiary plots, and secondary characters that
might detract from the main situation or obscure the general
impression, are, as far as possible, sacrificed to the essential or
necessary interests of dramatic art. Improbable and irrational
elements are reduced to a minimum. Digressions, episodes, long
soliloquies, oratorical tirades, minute descriptions of external
nature, and complicated machinery that would encumber the plot or
destroy proportion, are largely eliminated. The classical dramatist is
too sensitive to the beautiful, the sublime, the essential, and the
universal to admit into his conception of fine art either moral and
physical deformity or the accidental and particular aspects of life.
Classical tragedy is furthermore narrow in its choice of subject and
form, in its number and range of characters, in its representation of
material and physical action on the stage, and in its number of
events, incidents, and actions. Its subjects and materials are taken
almost wholly from ancient classical and Hebrew sources. Mediaeval,
national, and modern foreign raw material, whether life, history,
legend, or literature, is seldom utilized. Its manners and ideas are
those of the court and the _salons_, and its religion is pagan. Its
language is general, cold, regular, and conventional, and its
versification is confined to rimed Alexandrine couplets, with the
immovable caesura and little _enjambement_.

The Frenchman's love of proportion, symmetry, restraint, and logical
order led him to the cult of form. In striving after perfection of form,
he naturally adopted compression as the best method of expressing this
innate artistic reserve. This compactness and concentration of form,
this compressed brevity, which the Frenchman inherited from the Latins,
is well illustrated by the following lines from Wordsworth:

      To see a world in a grain of sand,
      And a heaven in a wild flower;
      Hold infinity in the palm of hand,
      And eternity in an hour.


[42] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.


Madison Cawein, whom English critics name the greatest living American
poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865. He was
christened "Madison Julius Cawein," but he had not gotten far in the
literary lane before his middle name was dropped, though the "J." may be
found upon the title-pages of his earlier books. After some preparatory
work he entered the Louisville Male High School, in 1881, at the age of
sixteen years. At high school Madison Cawein began to write rhymes which
he read to the students and teachers upon stated occasions, and he was
hailed by them as a true maker of song. He was graduated in 1886 in a
class of thirteen members. Being poor in purse, Mr. Cawein accepted a
position in a Louisville business house, and he is one of the few
American poets who wrote in the midst of such commercialism. His was the
singing heart, not to be crushed by conditions or environment of any
kind. The year after his graduation he collected the best of his school
verse and published them as his first book, _Blooms of the Berry_
(Louisville, 1887). In some way William Dean Howells and Thomas Bailey
Aldrich saw this volume, praised it, and fixed the future poet in his
right path. _The Triumph of Music_ (Louisville, 1888), sounded after
_The Blooms of the Berry_, and since that time hardly a year has passed
without the poet putting forth a slender volume. The next few years saw
the publication of his _Accolon of Gaul_ (Louisville, 1889); _Lyrics and
Idyls_ (Louisville, 1890); _Days and Dreams_ (New York, 1891); _Moods
and Memories_ (New York, 1892); _Red Leaves and Roses_ (New York, 1893);
_Poems of Nature and Love_ (New York, 1893); _Intimations of the
Beautiful_ (New York, 1894), one of his longest poems; _The White Snake_
(Louisville, 1895), metrical translations from the German poets;
_Undertones_ (Boston, 1896), which contained some of the finest lyrics
he has done so far; _The Garden of Dreams_ (Louisville, 1896); _Shapes
and Shadows_ (New York, 1898); _Idyllic Monologues_ (Louisville, 1898);
_Myth and Romance_ (New York, 1899); _One Day and Another_ (Boston,
1901), a lyrical eclogue; _Weeds by the Wall_ (Louisville, 1901); _A
Voice on the Wind_ (Louisville, 1902). A glance at these titles,
following fast upon each other, convinces the reader that Mr. Cawein was
writing and publishing far too much, that he was not sufficiently
critical of his work. Edmund Gosse, the famous English critic, has
always been one of Mr. Cawein's most ardent admirers, and, in 1903, he
selected the best of his poems, wrote a delightful introduction for
them, and they were published in London under the title of _Kentucky
Poems_. This volume brought the poet many new friends, as it assembled
the best of his work from volumes long out of print and rather difficult
to procure. _The Vale of Tempe_ (New York, 1905), contained the best of
Mr. Cawein's work written since the publication of _Weeds by the Wall_
in 1901. _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906), a collection
of poems and prose-pastels, was especially notable for the fact that it
contained the first and only short-story the poet has written, entitled
"Woman or--What?"

_The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, five volumes),
charmingly illustrated by Mr. Eric Pape, the Boston artist, with Mr.
Gosse's introduction, brought together all of Mr. Cawein's work that
he cared to rescue from many widely scattered volumes. He made many
revisions in the poems, some of which (in the judgment of the writer)
tend to mar their original beauty. But it is a work of which any poet
may be proud; and it is not surpassed in quality or quantity by any
living American.

Mr. Cawein's _Ode in Commemoration of the Founding of the
Massachusetts Bay Colony_ (Louisville, 1908), which he read at
Gloucester in August, 1907, was rather lengthy, but it contained many
strong and fine lines; and a group of New England sonnets, some of the
best he has done, appeared at the end of the ode. His _New Poems_
(London, 1909), was followed by _The Giant and the Star_ (Boston,
1909), a small collection of children's verse, dedicated to his little
son, who furnished their inspiration. _Let Us Do the Best that We Can_
(Chicago, 1909), was a beautiful brochure; and _The Shadow Garden and
Other Plays_ (New York, 1910), was four chamber-dramas which have been
highly praised, and which contain some of the most delicate work the
poet has done. _So Many Ways_ (Chicago, 1911), was another
pamphlet-poem; and it was followed by _Poems_ (New York, 1911),
selected from the whole range of his work by himself, with a foreword
by William Dean Howells. Mr. Cawein's latest volume is entitled _The
Poet, the Fool and the Faeries_ (Boston, 1912). It brings together his
work of the last two or three years, both in the field of the lyric
and of the drama. And from the mechanical aspect it is his most
beautiful book. The poet will publish two books through a Cincinnati
firm in 1913, to be entitled _The Republic--a Little Book of Homespun
Verse_, and _Minions of the Moon_.

In March, 1912, literary Louisville celebrated the twenty-fifth
anniversary of the publication of _Blooms of the Berry_, and the
forty-seventh birthday of its author, Madison Cawein, the city's most
distinguished man of letters. This was the first public recognition Mr.
Cawein has received in the land of his birth, though it is now proposed
to place a bust of him in the public library of Louisville. He is better
known in New York or London than he is in Kentucky, but it will not be
long before the people of his own land realize that they have been
entertaining a world-poet, possibly, unawares. He is so far removed from
any Kentucky poet of the present school that to mention him in the same
breath with any of them is to make one's self absurd. Looking backward
to the beginnings of our literature and coming carefully down the slope
to this time, but two poets rise out of the mist of yesterday to greet
Cawein and challenge him for the laureateship of Kentucky makers of
song: Theodore O'Hara with his immortal elegy, and Daniel Henry Holmes
with his sheaf of tender lyrics. These three are the nearest approach to
the ineffable poets--who left the earth with the passing of
Tennyson--yet nurtured upon Kentucky soil.

Mr. Cawein is, of course, a poet of Nature, a landscape poet in
particular who paints every color on the palette into his work. Had he
been an artist he would have exhausted all colors conceived thus far
by man, and would fain have originated new ones. There are literally
hundreds of his poems in which every line is as surely a stroke as if
done with the brush of a painter. Color, color, is his
shibboleth-scheme, and he who would woo Nature in her richest robes
may read Cawein and be content.

Amazing as it may seem Mr. Cawein has thirty-four volumes to his
credit--almost one for every year of his life. This statement stamps
him as one of the most prolific poets of modern times, if not, indeed,
of all time. And that it is not all quantity, may be seen in the
recent declaration of _The Poetry Review_ of London: "He appears quite
the biggest figure among American poets; his _return to nature_ has no
tinge of affectation; it is genuine to the smallest detail. If he
suffers from fatigue, it is in him, at least, not through that
desperate satiety of town life which with so many recent poets has
ended in impressionism and death."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poets of the Younger Generation_, by William Archer
    (London, 1901); _The Younger American Poets_, by Jessie B.
    Rittenhouse (Boston, 1904); _History of American_ _Literature_,
    by R. P. Halleck (New York, 1911); _The Poetry Review_ (London,
    October, 1912).


[From _Undertones_ (Boston, 1896)]

      The songs Love sang to us are dead:
      Yet shall he sing to us again,
      When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
      And the red woodland drips with rain.

      The lily of our love is gone,
      That touched our spring with golden scent;
      Now in the garden low upon
      The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.

      Our rose of dreams is passed away,
      That lit our summer with sweet fire;
      The storm beats bare each thorny spray,
      And its dead leaves are trod in mire.

      The songs Love sang to us are dead;
      Yet shall he sing to us again,
      When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
      And the red woodland drips with rain.

      The marigold of memory
      Shall fill our autumn then with glow;
      Haply its bitterness will be
      Sweeter than love of long ago.

      The cypress of forgetfulness
      Shall haunt our winter with its hue;
      The apathy to us not less
      Dear than the dreams our summer knew.


[From _Kentucky Poems_ (London, 1903)]

      The dawn is warp of fever,
        The eve is woof of fire;
      And the month is a singing weaver
        Weaving a red desire.

      With stars Dawn dices with Even
        For the rosy gold they heap
      On the blue of the day's deep heaven,
        On the black of the night's far deep.

      It's--'Reins to the blood!' and 'Marry!'--
        The season's a prince who burns
      With the teasing lusts that harry
        His heart for a wench who spurns.

      It's--'Crown us a beaker with sherry,
        To drink to the doxy's heels;
      A tankard of wine o' the berry,
        To lips like a cloven peel's.

      ''S death! if a king be saddened,
        Right so let a fool laugh lies:
      But wine! when a king is gladdened,
        And a woman's waist and her eyes.'

      He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,
        And left but a leaf that flits,
      He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever
        Of mist and of frost is its.

      He hath tippled the buxom beauty,
        And gotten her hug and her kiss--
      The wide world's royal booty
        To pile at her feet for this.


[From _Nature-Notes and Impressions_ (New York, 1906)]

      A distant river glimpsed through deep-leaved trees.
      A field of fragment flint, blue, gray, and red.
      Rocks overgrown with twigs of trailing vines
      Thick-hung with clusters of the green wild-grape.
      Old chestnut groves the haunt of drowsy cows,
      Full-uddered kine chewing a sleepy cud;
      Or, at the gate, around the dripping trough,
      Docile and lowing, waiting the milking-time.
      Lanes where the wild-rose blooms, murmurous with bees,
      The bumble-bee tumbling their frowsy heads,
      Rumbling and raging in the bell-flower's bells,
      Drunken with honey, singing himself asleep.
      Old in romance a shadowy belt of woods.
      A house, wide-porched, before which sweeps a lawn
      Gray-boled with beeches and where elder blooms.
      And on the lawn, whiter of hand than milk,
      And sweeter of breath than is the elder bloom,
      A woman with a wild-rose in her hair.


[From _The Poems of Madison Cawein_ (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)]


      In girandoles and gladioles
        The day had kindled flame;
      And Heaven a door of gold and pearl
      Unclosed, whence Morning,--like a girl,
      A red rose twisted in a curl,--
        Down sapphire stairways came.

      Said I to Love: "What must I do?
      What shall I do? what can I do?"
      Said I to Love: "What must I do,
        All on a summer's morning?"

      Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."
        Said Love to me: "Go woo.
      If she be milking, follow, O!
      And in the clover hollow, O!
      While through the dew the bells clang clear,
      Just whisper it into her ear,
        All on a summer's morning."


      Of honey and heat and weed and wheat
        The day had made perfume;
      And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,
      Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed--
      A sunflower withering at her waist--
        Within a crystal room.

      Said I to Love: "What must I do?
      What shall I do? what can I do?"
      Said I to Love: "What must I do,
        All in the summer nooning?"

      Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."
        Said Love to me: "Go woo.
      If she be 'mid the rakers, O!
      Among the harvest acres, O!
      While every breeze brings scents of hay,
      Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,'
        All in the summer nooning."


      With song and sigh and cricket cry
        The day had mingled rest;
      And Heaven a casement opened wide
      Of opal, whence, like some young bride,
      The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed,
        A moonflower on her breast.

      Said I to Love: "What must I do?
      What shall I do? what can I do?"
      Said I to Love: "What must I do,
        All in the summer gloaming?"

      Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."
        Said Love to me: "Go woo.
      Go meet her at the trysting, O!
      And 'spite of her resisting, O!
      Beneath the stars and afterglow,
      Just clasp her close and kiss her--so,
        All in the summer gloaming."


[From _The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays_ (New York, 1910)]

      Shadow of the Man: Elfins haunt these walks.
      The place is most propitious and the time.--
      See how they trip it!--There one rides a snail.
      And here another teases at a bee.--
      In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.--
      Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon,
      'Tis manifest to me 'tis you we see.--
      We never knew, or cared, once.--Would we had!--
      Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy,
      That comes with beautiful belief in everything
      That makes for childhood, had then touched us young
      And kept us young forever; young in heart--
      The only youth man has. But man believes
      In only what he contacts; what he sees;
      Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch
      And vision are his all. The loveliness,
      That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts,
      Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams
      And counts for nothing that he reckons real;
      But is, in fact, less insubstantial than
      The world he builds of matter-of-fact and stone.
      That great inhuman world of evidence,
      Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old
      With what it christens wisdom.--Did it know,
      The wise are only they who keep their minds
      As little children's, innocent of doubt,
      Believing all things beautiful are true.


[From _Poems_ (New York, 1911)]

      Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:
        One hand among the deep curls of her brow,
      I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:
        She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

      So have I seen a clear October pool,
        Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere
      Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,
        Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

      Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;
        Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer.
      Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat
        Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!

      So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head
        Sung to and sung to by a longing bird;
      And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,
        No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.


[From the same]

      Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state
        Of gold and purple in the marbled west,
      Thou comest forth like some embodied trait,
        Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed;
      Or of a rose the visible wish; that, white,
      Goes softly messengering through the night,
        Whom each expectant flower makes its guest.

      All day the primroses have thought of thee,
        Their golden heads close-harmed from the heat;
      All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly
        Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet,
      Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;--
      Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last,
        Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet.

      Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's
        Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks
      The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays
        Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links
      In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith,
      O bearer of their order's shibboleth,
        Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks.

      What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear
        That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,--
      A syllabled silence that no man may hear,--
        As dreamily upon its stem it rocks?
      What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant,
      Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant,
        Some specter of some perished flower of phlox?

      O voyager of that universe which lies
        Between the four walls of this garden fair,--
      Whose constellations are the fireflies
        That wheel their instant courses everywhere,--
      Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees
      Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades,
        Thou steerest like some faery ship of air.

      Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer,
        Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest
      Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her
        His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.--
      Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy,
      That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me!
        And all that world at which my soul hath guessed!


[43] Copyright, 1896, by Copeland and Day.

[44] Copyright, 1903, by the Author.

[45] Copyright, 1906, by the Author.

[46] Copyright, 1907, by the Author.

[47] Copyright, 1910, by the Author.

[48] Copyright, 1911, by the Macmillan Company.


Mrs. George Madden Martin, the mother of _Emmy Lou_, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. She is the sister of Miss Eve Anne
Madden, who has also written several delightful books for children.
She was educated in the public schools of Louisville, but on account
of ill-health her training was concluded at home. In 1892 Miss Madden
was married to Mr. Attwood R. Martin, and they have made their home at
Anchorage, Kentucky, some miles from Louisville, ever since. Mrs.
Martin's first book was _The Angel of the Tenement_ (New York, 1897),
now out of print, which she seemingly regards with so little favor
that it is seldom found in the list of her works. _Emmy Lou--Her Book
and Heart_ (New York, 1902), made her famous throughout the
English-reading world. It ran serially in _McClure's Magazine_ during
1900. It is a masterpiece and, though she has published several
stories since, this remains as her best book hitherto. Little "Emmy
Lou" gets into the reader's heart in the most wonderful way, and, once
there, she will not be displaced. She is the most charming child in
Kentucky literature, a genuine creation. Mrs. Martin's short novel,
_The House of Fulfillment_ (New York, 1904) won her praise from people
who could not care for her child, though the heroine was none other
than "Emmy Lou" in long skirts. This was followed by _Abbie Ann_ (New
York, 1907); _Letitia: Nursery Corps, U. S. A._ (New York, 1907), was
a very winsome little girl, who causes the men of the army many
trials and vexations at various military posts where her parents
happened to be stationed. _Emmy Lou_ and _Letitia_, as has been
pointed out by one of Mrs. Martin's keenest critics, regard childhood
through the eyes of age and are best appreciated, perhaps, by adults;
while _Abbie Ann_ sees childhood through a child's eyes, and is
certainly more appreciated by children than by grown-ups. Two of Mrs.
Martin's most recent stories, _When Adam Dolve and Eve Span_, appeared
in _The American Magazine_ for October, 1911; and _The Blue
Handkerchief_, in _The Century_ for December, 1911.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (February, 1903); _The Outlook_
    (October 1, 1904); _McClure's Magazine_ (December, 1904).


[From _Emmy Lou--Her Book and Heart_ (New York, 1902)]

About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it was
February, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth.
At recess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The
echoes reached Emmy Lou.

The Valentines must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing.
And to get no valentine was a dreadful thing--dreadful thing. And even
the timidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats.

Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was
she to survive the contumely and shame?

You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on your
valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was to
prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These things
reached Emmy Lou.

Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so
grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine.

And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on the
Fourteenth day of February. The drug-store window was full of
valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to see
them. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten a
valentine. And she would have to say, No.

She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she
went to her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her
wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through
the crack of the door from Miss Clara's dressing-room.

Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay something
square and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, all
over flowers and scrolls.

Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink.

She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it.

Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened.
Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, for
since you must not--she would never show her valentine--never.

The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and
Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being
able to say it.

Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but
no one else might see it.

It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading
on it. She studied surreptitiously. The reading was made up of
letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She
knew some of the letters. She would ask someone the letters she did
not know by pointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was
learning. It was the first time since she came to school.

But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying
the valentine again.

Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia
was busy.

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou.

Aunt Cordelia listened.

"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?"

"Be," said Aunt Cordelia.

If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were

Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith.

After dinner she approached Aunt Katie.

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"

"My," said Aunt Katie.

The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to
copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom
was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the
other boy was gone.

"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the
slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her.

Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little
girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou.

Now she was alone, so she stopped.

"Get any valentines?"

"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's
friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it."

"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been
reading the long verses inside to me."

"Can you show them--valentines?" asked Emmy Lou.

"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl.

The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and
the aunties, sitting around, reading.

"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou.

They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it
came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to
come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been
forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing
because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled.

But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee.
In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's
forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands.

"I can read it," said Emmy Lou.

They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked
over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder.

"B," said Emmy Lou, "e--Be."

The aunties nodded.

"M," said Emmy Lou, "y--my."

Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n,
e--Valentine. Be my Valentine."

"There!" said Aunt Cordelia.

"Well!" said Aunt Katie.

"At last!" said Aunt Louise.

"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie.


[49] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips and Company.


Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, Kentucky,
in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, she made her home with her
brother, Mr. William Addams of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an
aspirant for the gubernatorial chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was
married to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad,
Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story writer for some
years before she became a novelist. Her first book, _Crestlands_
(Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial story of the famous Cane Ridge
meeting-house, near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or
Reformed church. _Crestlands_ is important as history and
entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by _Blue Grass and
Wattle_ (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of which is more
illuminating, "The Man from Australia." This novel relates the
religious life of a young Australian, educated in Kentucky, and his
many fightings within and without form an interesting story. From the
literary standpoint _Blue Grass and Wattle_ is an advance over
_Crestlands_, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in Mrs.
Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall of 1912 Mrs. Bayne
purchased the old Burnett place at Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she
has converted into the most charming home of that town.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; _The Christian
    Standard_ (December, 1907).


[From _Crestlands_ (Cincinnati, 1907)]

The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze,
pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing
minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its
summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a
fallen log a red-bird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the
lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home;
but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when
mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of
squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild
turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush.
At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but
scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again.
For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a
startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the
depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from
their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the
squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of
the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, undisturbed,
went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm
of his song to fear any intruder.

The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed
by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing.
He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy
complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay
across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags.
He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun
of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the
period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was
short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim
of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray
traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a
waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same
color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black
cloth band with silver buckles.

He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged
into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched,
quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much
a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the
trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an
open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging
sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro
doffed his cap and bowed humbly.

"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke
off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped
off somewhars."

"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is
to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region."

"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin'
whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by
de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to
Marstah Gilcrest's, suh."

"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers'
house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest."

"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse
Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah
same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest
bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah
he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick."

The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile.

"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward
with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid all de shettahs
barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods
all roun' it--dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you
comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore
white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a
orchid. Den you's dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble
rumpus, but you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and
some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter
Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e
bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way."

With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer.
Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another
half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than
any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton.


[50] Copyright, 1907, by the Standard Publishing Company.


Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of _Pa Gladden_, was born at
Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols
Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was
graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter
she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the
breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff
of the _Cincinnati Tribune_, which she left after two years for the
Springfield, Ohio, _Republic-Times_, with which she was connected for
a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz,
a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a
position on _The Courier-Journal_. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor
of _The Courier-Journal_, and this position she held until her death.
Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester
Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's
literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the
ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was
a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after
a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and
iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on
her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the
street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!"
Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known
character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by _The Century
Magazine_ in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being
brought together in a charming book, entitled _Pa Gladden--The Story
of a Common Man_ (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden"
is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind,
and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of
goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great
amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is
the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said
throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death
occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook,"
September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her
book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked.
_The Ancient Landmark_ (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a
vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn
out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer
of real achievement and greater promise.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 5, 1903); _Who's Who in
    America_ (1903-1905).


[From _Pa Gladden_ (New York, 1903)]

In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the
barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had
sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness
to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times
unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and
again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she
turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that,
setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards
and prayed fervently:

"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when
redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye
sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal
'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy
love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let
Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life."

When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep

"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your
goodness. I am not"--her voice rose to a shriek--"I am not wicked. You
can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be
here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell
me your name, sir."

"Pa Gladden."

"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?"

"No"--with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the

"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up."


"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side,
like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She
ended with a sob.

"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make
it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart."

"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry,
Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If
you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet."

He sat by her for a few moments longer.

"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said
cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll
soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye
down. Doc Briskett knows his business."

She held out her hand to him.

"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in
the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps."

Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's
cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate.

"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the
barn road. Yer patient air out thar."

"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me
'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!"

Pa climbed in beside him.

"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his
story for the doctor's amazed ears.

"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an
illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have
any disease traveling."

A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it
and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look
over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the
shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born.
Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago:

      Carol, carol, Christians,
        Carol joyfully,
      Carol for the coming
        Of Christ's nativity!

Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost
tumbled down the ladder:

"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is
at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here;
bring some woman, for the love of God!"


[51] Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic
Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be
gathered from the files of _The Courier-Journal_. Mr. Aroni's fame has
lingered in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never
published a book or wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial
writer on _The North American_, Philadelphia.

[52] Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company.


Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy that has come
down to posterity with a deal of the perfume of permanency, was born
at Louisville, Kentucky, February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter
of Reuben Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of New York
State, the feminine form of whose name she bore. Her father was the
well-known novelist, Mansfield Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her
mother and sister were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a
glance that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately.
She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, but her one-act
comediette, entitled _Where was Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies_ (New
York, 1888), written before she was of age, made her widely known.
This little comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce.
Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in 1896, being poet of
the class, and one of the editors of _The Vassarian_. She then taught
in a woman's college for a time, when the war with Spain was declared
and she determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss
Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. The last months
of her life were spent at the detention hospital, Montauk, New York,
where she rendered noble service in her country's cause. She was
stricken with fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken
to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried with military
honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics should be republished.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New
    York, 1889, v. vi); _A Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F.
    Adams (Boston, 1905).


[From _Where was Elsie?_ (New York, 1888)]

Act I, Scene IV. _Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper._

_Elsie._ Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern?

_Jack._ Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take
you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince--[_Stops_].

_Elsie._ Prince! what Prince?

_Jack._ Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the
King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to
dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due
reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey
her commands. [_Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door._]
Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [_Exit._]

_Elsie._ That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [_Looks at
flask in her hand._] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so
fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I
did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever.
I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have
a long train. [_Struts up and down, but stops suddenly._] Well, I don't
care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [_Looking about her._] I
don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [_Catches sight of something
shining on the wall._] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be
fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going
to see what it is. [_Stops._] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask!
[_Brightening up._] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take
the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is
over there. I wonder what will happen. [_Drinks._]



Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867,
the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden,
the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's
biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr.
Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss
Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future
novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the
two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public
school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent
two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the
Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to
resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville
where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid
Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and
removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently
went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott
joined the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_, and acted as
representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to
South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the
interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to
his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby
county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news
reporter for _The Tribune_, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr.
Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite
cruiser _Nictheroy_. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby
county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he
married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper
correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly
afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at
Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago _Record_. When the
now defunct Louisville _Dispatch_ was established, Mr. Marriott became
telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898.
Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the _Dispatch_, he
regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several
times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in
1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott
has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the
United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to
surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr.
Marriott's first book, _Uncle Sam's Business_ (New York, 1908), was an
excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans."
It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the
Sargasso Sea, _The Isle of Dead Ships_ (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene
of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the
world. _How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City_ (New
York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book,
fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader.
Mr. Marriott's second novel, _Out of Russia_ (Philadelphia, 1911), a
story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than _The Isle of
Dead Ships_. From June to October, 1912, his _Sally Castleton,
Southerner_, a Civil War story, ran in _Everybody's Magazine_, and it
will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of
a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian,
who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr.
Marriott has done--one of the best of the recent war novels. In the
past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some
fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is
certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky
stories, one for _Gunter's Magazine_, the other for _The Pocket
Magazine_ (which periodical was swallowed up by _Leslie's Weekly_);
and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls
_One Night in Kentucky_, and which will appear in _The Red Book
Magazine_ sometime in 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; _Who's Who
    in America_, (1912-1913).


[From _Sally Castleton, Southerner_ (_Everybody's Magazine_, June,

With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the
door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror,
must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to
the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her.

Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one
addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps
holding his horse's bridle--a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking,
with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a
boy--not an enemy.

"Well, sir?" she faltered.

The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood
swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General
Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience,
but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will
be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen,
who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the
valley with field-glasses.

Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at
General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I
have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should."

The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh,
that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking
out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only
wants a place to rest for a few hours."

"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there
were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well
to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle
Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer
supper to him and his staff?"

Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear;
now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow

The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table,
with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general."
He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps.

Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp
on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!"
she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they
are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to
meet her guests.

On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty
cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a
few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with
mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed,
and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other
strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles
in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the
sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny
hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the
flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires,
and his hammer clanked noisily.

The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of
hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no
little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and
the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted.

It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the
Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with
unconscious interest.

The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General
Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten
convention. "General Haverhill--Miss--?" He paused interrogatively.

The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said.

"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose
Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?"

"Yes, general. Will you come in?"

The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper,
general," he said.

The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar
of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his
smile was pleasant. "You are--loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The
question seemed unnecessary.

"Yes--to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily.

"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy
brows. "And this is--" he turned toward the younger girl.

"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton."

"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal--to Virginia,
Miss Eugenia?" he said.

Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched
'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause,
she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small
foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!"

The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration.
"Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling.

Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked
after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its
chairs and lounge--the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately
lain--and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor
her sister could help glancing at that stove.

It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please
sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see
about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie
following rather sullenly.

In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted
her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion
that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he
search--and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded,
suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very
long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would
they consider him a spy and--and----

A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside
her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted.

"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect?
Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!"

Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You
didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too
friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious."

"But--but--he'll starve!"

"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,'
that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get
supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them
occupied--when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!"

'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed.
"Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip
starving right under their noses."

The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are
worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for
him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that
ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a
good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got
to feed the brutes, let's do it."


[53] Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgway Company.


Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at
Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls'
High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor
of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in
studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States
Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a
resident ever since. Her first book, _Antinous_ (Philadelphia, 1891), a
blank verse tragedy, was followed by _College Girls_ (New York, 1895),
an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss
Goodloe's first novel, _Calvert of Strathore_ (New York, 1903), was
set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. _At the Foot of the
Rockies_ (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's
best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest,
one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The
author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the
Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the
romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for
the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other
writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel,
_The Star-Gazers_ (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late
president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together
with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of
narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no
way does this work rank with _At the Foot of the Rockies_. The
short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field
she should go far.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the
    _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. v);
    _Scribner's Magazine_ (January, April, 1910; July, 1911).


[From _At the Foot of the Rockies_ (New York, 1905)]

She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a
wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and
irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with
brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry
her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that.
The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded
garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew
from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring.
With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held
it out to him.

"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to
some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll
enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!"

As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly
saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following
the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand
gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and
following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age.
The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his
complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was
most immaculately got up in riding things.

"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper
incredulously to himself.

The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of
the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The
Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son.

"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too
fit, you know."

"Thanks, father--yes, I know it. When did you get here?"

"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train."

"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?"

"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't seen you for a
long while. May--may I--the Earl of Rigby, Miss Ogden."

The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again--it had fallen out when he
had shaken his son's hand--and stared at the young woman before him.

"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. "I--I had
always understood that this country was an Eveless paradise. I'm glad
to see I'm mistaken."

Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably. Not one of
the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed necessarily
attendant on an introduction to a noble earl now disturbed her
composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite compliment left her perfectly
cool. He simply seemed to her an extremely handsome man, a good deal
cleverer and stronger-looking than his son.

"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss Ogden," said
Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in Port Highwood and
she'll help St. John show you the country, my lord."

"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing the white,
even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she turned to the Earl
of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you the country--specially as
Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in two or three days."

"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction.

"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable Arthur.

"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two weeks, I suppose."

"Yes--father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood House. I fancy
he'll wish he were back in England!"

"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl.

A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes.

"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the two weeks,
and at the end of the time I am sure you could not decide which to
call the prettiest," she asserted.

"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to try."

"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. "And now, as
you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I think I won't go on into
Highwood. Your lordship's things will be sent over early in the
morning. His lordship was so anxious to see you, St. John, that we
couldn't even persuade him to mess with us to-night," he remarked,
jocularly, to the Honorable Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I
think. Good-bye!" He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse
set off at an easy canter for the fort.

A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, which Miss
Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, and riding on
slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur and his father. The earl gazed
admiringly at her slim back.

"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits her horse

"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively.

"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, warmly. He
spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The Honorable Arthur
rather sulkily closed up on the left.

"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go on the
round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised to show me the
country. I am most deeply interested in our Canadian possessions, you
know," said the earl.

She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray eyes
which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp.

"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored while Mr.
St. John is away," she said, sweetly.

It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks and four
days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the Morgan round-up,
twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a telegram for St. John. The
Honorable Arthur was so dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the
half-breed had difficulty in picking him out from the rest of the
dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt round-up crew.

The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable
fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand like a withered
leaf on a windshaken bough.

"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. Most


His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and tanned
skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly a joyous thought
came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, and wants me to go back with
him," he told himself over and over. He thrust his few things into the
one portmanteau he had brought with him and made such good time going
the twenty-five miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down
the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in.

The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule rail of the
observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially grasped his
son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was struck afresh by the good looks
and youthfulness of his aristocratic father.

"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and I'm glad
you got here in time. What? No, you won't need your portmanteau. The
truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, "the Countess of Rigby--she
was Miss Lily Ogden until last night, my deah boy--and I are on our
way to England, and we couldn't leave the country without seeing you
again. Won't you step into the coach and speak to her?"


[54] Copyright, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons.


George Lee Burton, magazinest, was born at Danville, Kentucky, April
17, 1868. He was fitted at the Louisville Rugby School for the
University of Virginia, from which he was graduated, after which he
returned to Louisville, and studied law in the University of
Louisville. Upon his graduation from that institution he was admitted
to the bar, and he has since practiced his profession at Louisville
with success. Mr. Burton began to write some years ago, contributing
short-stories and sketches to the eastern periodicals. _The Century_
published his clever story, _As Seen By His Bride_; and _Ainslee's
Magazine_ printed his _The Training of the Groom_, _The Deferred
Proposal_, _Cupid's Impromptu_, and several other stories. His work
for _The Saturday Evening Post_, however, has been his most noteworthy
performance. For that great weekly he has written: _Getting a Start at
Sixty_ (published anonymously); _The Making of a Small Capitalist_, _A
Fresh Grip_, _A Rebuilt Life_, and _Tackling Matrimony_, the last of
which titles appeared in two parts in _The Post_ for November 23 and
November 30, 1912, was exceedingly well done. He has recently
re-written _Tackling Matrimony_, greatly developing the story-part,
and more than doubling its length, for the Harper's, who will issue it
in book form early in the spring of 1913. Mr. Burton is a bachelor who
has won wide reputation as a writer upon various phases of matrimonial
mixups. He also has a certain sympathy with those who waste their
youth in riotous living, but who win their true positions in the world
after all seems lost.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Burton to the Author; _Outing_
    (May, 1900).


[From _A Rebuilt Life_ (_Saturday Evening Post_, March 23, 1912)]

"Well, sir, when I got out I was shipped back to my own town, or
rather the town from which I had been sent up. I was born five hundred
miles from there; but my people had died when I was young and I had
drifted in there when I was only sixteen years old--I guess that makes
it my town after all. Now, at thirty-five I was back there from the
pen and I stayed there.

"Maybe that was a mistake. I guess it was harder for me; but I had that
much fight left in me. I wanted to show people that there was still some
man in me, even if I had spent ten years in the pen that I deserved to
spend there. Besides, I wouldn't like to start off fresh in a new place
and build up a little, and just as I got to going have somebody from my
home town come along and tell everybody that respected me that I was a
murderer and an ex-convict and a lowdown sort of nobody.

"I believe after all I'd rather start in as I did, back where they
thought that about me to begin with, and build up fresh from that. I
wanted to live down the killing and those ten years--and I believe
I've sorter done it. It may sound foolish, but--though I don't excuse
all that, remember--I have got to sorter respect myself again, and I
tell you it feels good!

"They didn't have prison reform in that state then, with an employment
officer and a job all ready to help a poor devil start out again when
he got back to freedom. They gave me a suit of clothes and five
dollars and shipped me back to the town I came from, then turned me
loose as an ex-convict to hump for myself like the other "exes,"
branded by those years of living in there.

"It certainly seemed strange to see the place again. There had been
many changes in those years. I put up at one of these
twenty-five-cents-a-night men's hotels, and took fifteen-cent
meals--skipping one every day to make my five dollars last longer; and
I commenced looking for a job.

"There didn't seem any need of more help anywhere. I tried many of my
old acquaintances to see if I could get a place--I did not seem to
have any friends left! I found ten years in the pen seemed to wipe out
the claim of being even an acquaintance with most of them. They all
looked at me curiously, as if I was a different brand of man--a
cannibal, or Eskimo, or something.

"I'd rather they wouldn't have showed so plain they thought me
dangerous or worse; yet I'd have swallowed that if they had only given
me work. They didn't though; some of them weren't as cold with me as
others, but none of them had anything for me.

"Of course I tackled all sorts of strangers, too, for work; but
usually they didn't have any--and when they had they wanted
references. I couldn't blame them; I guess I had a sort of pasty face
and hangdog look.

"They had such a habit of asking: 'Where did you work last?'

"'I've been away a long time--have not worked here for several years,'
I would say.

"'Where did you work while you were away?' came next.

"'I worked at broom-making part of the time,' I got to answering.

"Then, like as not, the boss would look at me suspiciously and say:
'No, I don't believe I need you just now; if I do I will let you know.
Where do you live?"

"When I gave the number of the bum lodging house he would look as if
that settled it; he had known all along I wasn't any good. And I felt
so shamed and low down all the time I looked like he was right.

"Five dollars don't last very long, even with two meals a day. I got
work one day on a wrecker's force, tearing down an old building; but
the foreman drove his men hard and I wasn't used to real work anyway.
I couldn't stand up to it, and--I'm ashamed to tell it even now--I
fainted about four o'clock that afternoon.

"Another day I got a place with the gang working repairs on the
street-railroad tracks; but the man in charge said I was too slow and
not strong enough--had better get some different kind of work. As if I
hadn't tried everything I could! He didn't pay me for a full day
either--said I wasn't worth it; and the worst was that I knew he was
right. I was about at the end of my rope when my money gave out, and I
was looking so weak and shamefaced that I didn't stand any sort of a
chance. I got to feeling desperate.

"I remember that about this time I went in to answer an ad--'Man
wanted as porter in well-established wholesale drug house.' The head
of the place was a mild-mannered old man, who sat in the back office,
but who always looked over the new men before they were employed. He
began as usual:

"'Where did you work last?'

"'With the street-railroad gang,' I answered.

"'U-um! How long?'

"'One day,' I told him.

"'Ah!' he said, as if he had discovered something--'and before that?'

"'With a house-wrecking gang on Flint Street.'

"'Yes--how long there?'

"'Part of a day,' I said. 'I couldn't stand up to the work.'

"I thought he looked a little sympathetic then, but was not sure until
he sniffed and asked the next question in a hard, thin voice:

"'And where before that?'

"I hesitated a moment; he looked at me more closely and said in that
same tone:


"I had been looked at and questioned so much that way and had got so
raw about it that now I almost shouted: 'In the penitentiary!'

"'Why, bless my soul!' the mild little man gasped. 'No, I don't need
you. Good day! Good day!'

"He looked so shocked and I felt so desperate that I could not help
adding, while I looked at him hard:

"'I was put in for manslaughter too--voluntary manslaughter!'

"There wasn't any clerk in the room at the time.

"Oh, oh, indeed!' he gulped out, rising and backing away, big-eyed and
trembly. He almost got to the back window before I turned and left.

"Maybe I didn't feel bitter and like 'what's the use--what's the use
of anything!' I don't know what would have happened--I guess I'd have
starved to death or worse--if it hadn't been for the hoboes'
hotel--Welcome Hall--'Headquarters for the Unemployed,' as it's

"You don't know about the place? Well, sir, it's a dandy!--at least,
that's the way I think about it--and a good many others do too. The
worst of the hoboes won't go there if they can help it--they'd rather
bum a dime and get a bed for the night in one of those ten-cent places.

"This Welcome Hall is a sort of industrial kindling-splitting joint.
You blow in there and saw and split kindling for a bed and meals--you
give them six hours' work.

"You see, in that way you can live off six hours' work a day and have
some time left to look for a job. It's a good thing, and it's been a
moneymaker too; it's the only charity I know of that's not a charity
but a moneymaking concern. Of course people had to give it a place and
start it; but it more than pays expenses, and at the same time helps
to build up a man instead of making him a pauper or a deadbeat bum.

"I certainly was glad to find some place where I could at least earn
my lodging and meals. I rested up some there and was glad I could just
stay somewhere. Though I looked about for work a little, nearly every
day, I lived along there for three weeks on my six hours a day of
work--still out of a job. At last I guess my fighting blood got up
again, I determined I would get a job of some kind, even if it was
cleaning vaults. I decided no honest work was beneath me when it all
seemed so far above me as to be out of reach.

"'If I keep my eyes open and am not too choosy I must find something
to do,' I said to myself, and set out to look for it in earnest. It
was Saturday morning, I remember, for I thought of the next day being
Sunday, when I could not even hunt for work. I had walked a good way
and asked for work at a lot of places without getting anything to do,
when I saw an old negro man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk and
washing off the front steps of a plain two-story house with a bucket
of water and a cloth.

"'I may not be much account but I sure can do that,' I thought, and
asked him how much he got for it.

"'For dese here, boss, I gits ten cents; but when I wuks all de way
roun' to de back do' I gits some dinner th'owed in,' he said with a

"That wasn't so bad; and 'boss'!--how good that sounded! I went on
down the street feeling almost like a man again and not a down-and-out

"About a square away I began to ask at every house if they didn't want
the leaves swept off and the front steps washed. Maybe I looked too
much like a tramp or too much above one with that 'boss' still ringing
in my ears--the first time I had been spoken to that way for more than
ten years! Anyway I got turned down at first.

"At the tenth place, however, a two-story-and-attic red brick, they
gave me a job. The woman asked me in a sharp voice, as if she were
defending herself from being overcharged:

"'How much?'

"'Ten cents,' I answered, as meekly as I could.

"She seemed to think that was reasonable; and after waiting a minute, as
if she wanted the work done and couldn't find any excuse for not letting
me do it, she handed me a bucket and mop and broom and set me at it.

"I finished the job in about an hour; and I tell you I enjoyed that
work! Beneath me? Why, it couldn't get beneath me--I was that low down
in mind and living and even hope. I was just about all in, you
understand; and I wasn't a plumb out-and-out fool.

"I have got that dime yet; see here," he said, holding out a brightly
polished dime surrounded by a narrow gold band, which he wore as a charm
on his watch-chain; "whenever I begin to feel ashamed of my work I look
at that and get thankful, and remember how proud and happy I felt when
that sharp-looking woman handed it to me. I had done a little extra work
in cleaning up the yard, and she said as she gave it to me:

"'That looks a whole lot better! You certainly earned that dime.'

"I wouldn't have spent that money if I had had to go without food for
two days! It seemed to put springs in my feet and I went down the
street hustling for another job of the same kind. I found it before
dinner; it was another ten cent job with twenty cents' worth of work;
but I sure was glad to get it.

"I felt that, so long as Welcome Hall was making money, I was earning
my way by those six hours of work a day, and I stayed on there for
some time longer."


[55] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company.


James Tandy Ellis, "Shawn's" father, was born at Ghent, Kentucky, June
9, 1868. He spent his boyhood days in one of the most romantically
beautiful sections of Kentucky, on the Ohio river between Cincinnati and
Louisville. He was educated at Ghent College and the State College of
Kentucky at Lexington. Mr. Ellis has always been a great lover of Nature
and his leisure-hours are usually spent with dog and gun or in angling.
He engaged in newspaper work in Louisville and his character sketches
soon made him well-known throughout the State. His first book, _Poems by
Ellis_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1898), contained some very clever verse.
_Sprigs o' Mint_ (New York, 1906), was an attractive little volume of
pastels in prose and verse. Mr. Ellis next issued three pamphlets:
_Peebles_ (Carrollton, Kentucky, 1908); _Awhile in the Mountains_
(Lexington, Kentucky, 1909); and _Kentucky Stories_ (Lexington, 1909).
His latest book, entitled _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911), is a
novelette of river life in northern Kentucky, and the simple, direct
manner of the little tale was found "refreshing" by the "jaded"
reviewers. Colonel Ellis is now assistant Adjutant-General of Kentucky,
and he resides at Frankfort, the capitol of the Commonwealth.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Ellis to the Author; _Lexington
    Leader_ (December 24, 1911).


[From _Shawn of Skarrow_ (Boston, 1911)]

The winter had passed away. Shawn had been working hard in school, and
under the encouragement of Mrs. Alden, was making fair progress, but
Sunday afternoons found him in his rowboat, wandering about the stream
and generally pulling his boat out on the beach at Old Meadows, for
Lallite was there to greet him, and already they had told each other
of their love. What a dream of happiness, to wander together along the
pebbled beach, or through the upland woods, tell each other the little
incidents of their daily life, and to pledge eternal fidelity. Oh,
dearest days, when the rose of love first blooms in youthful hearts,
when lips breathe the tenderest promises, fraught with such transports
of delight; when each lingering word grows sweeter under the spell of
love-lit eyes. Oh, blissful elysium of love's young dream!

They stood together in the deepening twilight, when the sun's last
bars of gold were reflected in the stream.

"Oh, Shawn, it was a glad day when you first came with Doctor Hissong
to hunt."

"Yes," said Shawn, as he took her hand, "and it was a hunt where I
came upon unexpected game, but how could you ever feel any love for a
poor river-rat?"

"I don't know," said Lallite, "but maybe, it is that kind that some
girls want to fall in love with, especially if they have beautiful
teeth, and black eyes and hair, and can be unselfish enough to kill a
bag of game for two old men, and let them think they did the shooting."

"Lally, when they have love plays on the show-boats, they have all
sorts of quarrels and they lie and cuss and tear up things generally."

"Well, Shawn, there's all sorts of love, I suppose, but mine is not
the show-boat kind."

"Thank the Lord," said Shawn.

He drew out a little paste-board box. Nestling in a wad of cotton, was
the pearl given to him by Burney.

"Lally, this is the only thing I have ever owned in the way of jewelry,
and it's not much, but will you take it and wear it for my sake?"

"It will always be a perfect pearl to me," said the blushing girl.


[56] Copyright, 1911, by the C. M. Clark Company.


George Horace Lorimer, editor and novelist, was born at Louisville,
Kentucky, October 6, 1868, the son of Dr. George C. Lorimer
(1838-1904), the distinguished Baptist clergyman and author, who held
pastorates at Harrodsburg (where he married a wife), Paducah, and
Louisville, but who won his widest reputation in Tremont Temple,
Boston. His son was educated at Colby College and at Yale. Since Saint
Patrick's Day of 1899, Mr. Lorimer has been editor-in-chief of _The
Saturday Evening Post_. He resides with his family at Wyncote,
Pennsylvania, but he may be more often found near the top of the
magnificent new building of the Curtis Publishing Company in
Independence Square. As an author Mr. Lorimer is known for his popular
_Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902), which
was one of the "six best sellers" for a long time. It was actually
translated into Japanese. Its sequel, _Old Gorgon Graham_ (New York,
1904), was more letters from the same to the same. The original of
_Old Gorgon Graham_ was none other than Philip Danforth Armour, the
Chicago packer, under whom Mr. Lorimer worked for several years. Both
of the books made a powerful appeal to men, but it is doubtful if many
women cared for either of them. _The False Gods_ (New York, 1906), is
a newspaper story in which "the false gods" are the faithless _flares_
which lead a "cub" reporter into many mixups, only to have everything
turn out happily in the end. Mr. Lorimer's latest story, _Jack
Spurlock--Prodigal_ (New York, 1908), an adventurous young fellow who
is expelled from Harvard, defies his father, and finds himself in the
maw of a cold and uncongenial world, is deliciously funny--for the
reader! All of Mr. Lorimer's books are full of the _Poor Richard_
brand of worldly-wise philosophy, which he is in the habit of "serving
up" weekly for the readers of _The Post_. That he is certainly an
editor of very great ability, and that he has exerted wide influence
in his field, no one will gainsay. The men who help him make his paper
call him "the greatest editor in America;" and he is undoubtedly the
highest salaried one in this country to-day. _The Post_, which was
nothing before he assumed control of it, is one of the foremost
weeklies in the English-reading world at the present time; and its
success is due to the longheadedness and hard common sense of its
editor, George Horace Lorimer.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (June, 1903); _The Bookman_ (October,
    November, 1904); _Little Pilgrimages Among the Men Who Have
    Written Famous Books_, by E. F. Harkins (Boston, 1903, Second


[From _Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son_ (Boston, 1902)]

  NEW YORK, November 4, 189-.

_Dear Pierrepont_: Who is this Helen Heath, and what are your intentions
there? She knows a heap more about you than she ought to know if they're
not serious, and I know a heap less about her than I ought to know if
they are. Hadn't got out of sight of land before we'd become acquainted
somehow, and she's been treating me like a father clear across the
Atlantic. She's a mighty pretty girl, and a mighty nice girl, and a
mighty sensible girl--in fact she's so exactly the sort of girl I'd like
to see you marry that I'm afraid there's nothing in it.

Of course, your salary isn't a large one yet, but you can buy a whole
lot of happiness with fifty dollars a week when you have the right
sort of a woman for your purchasing agent. And while I don't go much
on love in a cottage, love in a flat, with fifty a week as a starter,
is just about right, if the girl is just about right. If she isn't, it
doesn't make any special difference how you start out, you're going to
end up all wrong.

Money ought never to be _the_ consideration in marriage, but it ought
always to be _a_ consideration. When a boy and a girl don't think
enough about money before the ceremony, they're going to have to think
altogether too much about it after; and when a man's doing sums at
home evenings, it comes kind of awkward for him to try to hold his
wife on his lap.

There's nothing in this talk that two can live cheaper than one. A
good wife doubles a man's expenses and doubles his happiness, and
that's a pretty good investment if a fellow's got the money to invest.
I have met women who had cut their husbands' expenses in half, but
they needed the money because they had doubled their own. I might
add, too, that I've met a good many husbands who had cut their wives'
expenses in half, and they fit naturally into any discussion of our
business, because they are hogs. There's a point where economy becomes
a vice, and that's when a man leaves its practice to his wife.

An unmarried man is a good deal like a piece of unimproved real
estate--he may be worth a whole lot of money, but he isn't of any
particular use except to build on. The great trouble with a lot of
these fellows is that they're "made land," and if you dig down a few
feet you strike ooze and booze under the layer of dollars that their
daddies dumped in on top. Of course, the only way to deal with a
proposition of that sort is to drive forty-foot piles clear down to
solid rock and then to lay railroad iron and cement till you've got
something to build on. But a lot of women will go right ahead without
any preliminaries and wonder what's the matter when the walls begin to
crack and tumble about their ears.


[57] Copyright, 1902, by Small, Maynard and Company.


Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson,
Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native
of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went
to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of
Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was
Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the
Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years,
entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the
next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman
Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now
connected with the Sacred Heart Institute, Watertown, Massachusetts.
Sister Imelda's booklet of poems has been highly praised by competent
critics. It was entitled _Heart Whispers_ (1905), and issued under her
pen-name of "Estelle Marie Gerard." Many of these poems were first
published in _The Midland Review_, a Louisville magazine edited by the
late Charles J. O'Malley, the poet and critic. Sister Imelda is a
woman of rare culture and a real singer, but her strict religious life
has hampered her literary labors to an unusual degree.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Hesperian Tree_ (Columbus, Ohio, 1903); letters
    from Sister Imelda to the Author.


[From _Heart Whispers_ (1905)]

      Every glade sings now of summer--
        Songs as sweet as violets' breath;
      And the glad, warm heart of nature
        Thrills and gently answereth.

      Answers through the lily-lyrics
        And the rosebud's joyous song,
      Faintly o'er the valley stealing,
        As the June days speed along.

      And we, pausing, fondly listen
        To their tuneful minstrelsy,
      Floating far beyond the wildwood
        To the ever restless sea.

      Till the echoes, softly, lowly,
        Trembling on the twilight air--
      Tells us that each rose and lily
        Bows its scented head in prayer.


[From the same]

      In fancy's golden barque at eventide
      My spirit floateth to the Far Away,
      And dreamland faces come as fades the day.
      They lean upon my heart. We gently glide
      Adown the magic shores of long ago,
      While memories, like silver lily bells,
      Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells
      And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low.

      When eventide has slowly winged its flight,
      And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light,
      Ah, then there swiftly come again to me,
      Like echoes of some song-bird melody,
      Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height,
      Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee.


[From the same]

      When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells,
      And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea,
      I wander silently o'er the scented lea
      By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells,
      And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells
      Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee,
      Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny
      Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells
      For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace
      Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest.
      Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease,
      Until Death's angel makes the melody
      That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee,
      Then only will it know eternal rest.


[58] Copyright, 1905, by the Author.


Harrison Conrard, poet, was born at Dodsonville, Ohio, September 21,
1869. He was educated at St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati. From 1892
until the spring of 1899 Mr. Conrard lived at Ludlow, Kentucky, when
he removed to Arizona to engage in the lumber business at Flagstaff,
his present home. While living at Ludlow he published his first book
of poems, entitled _Idle Songs and Idle Sonnets_ (1898), which is now
out of print. Mr. Conrard's second and best known volume of verse,
called _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907), contained a group of singing lyrics
of almost entrancing beauty. These are the only books he has so far
published. "Some day," the poet once wrote, "I shall roll up my
bedding, take my fishing rod and wander back east, and Kentucky will
be good enough for me." He has, however, never come back. A new volume
of his verse is to be issued shortly.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_
    (Boston, Fall Issue, 1907).


[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)]

      In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
      What cared I how the days ran on?
      A brown hand trailing the viol-strings,
      Hair as black as the raven's wing,
      Lips that laughed and a voice that clung
      To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue
      Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime
      Till all life shone, in that golden clime,
      With the tender glow of the morning-time.
      In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
      How swift the merry days ran on!

      In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
      How soon the parting day came on!
      But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams,
      And the low adobe a palace seems,
      Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings
      To the notes that throb from her viol-strings.
      Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand!
      And a soul that glows like the desert sand--
      The golden fruit of a golden land!
      In old Tucson, in old Tucson,
      The long, lone days, O Time, speed on!


[From the same]

      Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet
      Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray
      Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat;
      Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay:
      And the red Sun brings forth the Day.


[From the same]

      The great Sun dies in the west; gold
      And scarlet fill the skies; the white
      Daisies nod in repose; the fold
      Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight:
      The long shadows come, and then--Night.


[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger.


Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at
Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton
College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale
Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of
several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable
attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice
Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New
York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its
admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any
rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the
"six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh
edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most
exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not
greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials
and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey
Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the
one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville,
Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The
'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very
slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little
Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related
the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York,
1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky
journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty,
Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp,
his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs.
Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912),
was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and
high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion
made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder,
that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both
good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one
will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat
Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of
course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more
than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many
people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60]

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_
    (May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904).


[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)]

Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All
the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his
heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had
been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His
town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!

With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling
Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his
latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.

The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white,
spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness.

"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.

From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners,
peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that
was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"

At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with
shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with
papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of
charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had
incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of
paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him
from Coreyville.

As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon
something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the
light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the
girl's clear, round hand:

    Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the

Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly;
"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down
on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be
afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for
me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into
the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road,
calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking
skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.

Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for
the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat
had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the
town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little
woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying
her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show
her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found
unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the
doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.

"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not
to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack
coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."

He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one
who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of

"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr.
Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that
won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all
winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a
number of cities on the geographical atlas."

"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never
be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should
never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we
understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly."

"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked
Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow
up in any way?"

The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent
institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your
family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her
stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will

Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his
hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off
for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat
anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain.
Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the
one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a
future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged
self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it,
at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of
Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise;
of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running
accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of
the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a
moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium.

After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief
across his brow.

"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath
of a man who has been under water.

In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.

As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a
moment dizzily against the wall.

"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the
doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.

Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old
professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he
said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle';
and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody
knows, a complete teetotaler."

At the end of the crowded ward, with her face to the wall, was a
slight, familiar figure. Mr. Opp started forward; then he turned
fiercely upon the attendant.

"Her hands are tied! Who dared to tie her up like that?"

"It's just a soft handkerchief," replied the matronly woman,
reassuringly. "We were afraid she would pull her hair out. She wants
it fixed a certain way; but she's afraid for any of us to touch her.
She has been crying about it ever since she came."

In an instant Mr. Opp was on his knees beside her. "Kippy, Kippy
darling, here's brother D.; he'll fix it for you! You want it parted on
the side, don't you, tied with a bow, and all the rest hanging down?
Don't cry so, Kippy. I'm here now; brother D.'ll take care of you."

She flung her loosened arms around him and clung to him in a passion
of relief. Her sobs shook them both, and his face and neck were wet
with her tears.

As soon as they could get her sufficiently quiet, they took her into
her little bedroom.

"You let the lady get you ready," urged Mr. Opp, still holding her
hand, "and I'll take you back home, and Aunt Tish will have a nice,
hot supper all waiting for us."

But she would let nobody else touch her, and even then she broke forth
into piteous sobs and protests. Once she pushed him from her and
looked about wildly. "No, no," she cried, "I mustn't go; I am crazy!"
But he told her about the three little kittens that had been born
under the kitchen steps, and in an instant she was a-tremble with
eagerness to go home to see them.

An hour later Mr. Opp and his charge sat on the river-bank and waited
for the little launch that was to take them back to the Cove. A
curious crowd had gathered at a short distance, for their story had
gone the rounds.

Mr. Opp sat under the fire of curious glances, gazing straight in
front of him, and only his flushed face showed what he was suffering.
Miss Kippy, in her strange clothes and with her pale hair flying about
her shoulders, sat close by him, her hand in his.

"D.," she said once in a high, insistent voice, "when will I be grown
up enough to marry Mr. Hinton?"

Mr. Opp for a moment forgot the crowd. "Kippy," he said, with all the
gentle earnestness that was in him, "you ain't never going to grow up
at all. You are just always going to be brother D.'s little girl. You
see, Mr. Hinton's too old for you, just like--" he paused, then
finished it bravely--"just like I am too old for Miss Guin-never. I
wouldn't be surprised if they got married with each other some day.
You and me will just have to take care of each other."

She looked at him with the quick suspicion of the insane, but he was
ready for her with a smile.

"Oh, D.," she cried, in a sudden rapture, "we are glad, ain't we?"


[60] _Mr. Opp_ was dramatized by Douglas Z. Doty, a New York editor,
and presented at Macaulay's Theatre, in Louisville, but it was shortly
sent to the store-house. _Mrs. Wiggs_ was put into play-form by Mrs.
Anne (Laziere) Crawford Flexner, in 1904, with Madge Carr Cook in the
title-role. Mrs. Flexner was born at Georgetown, Kentucky; educated at
Vassar; married Abraham Flexner of Louisville, June 23, 1898; lived at
Louisville until June, 1905, since which time she has spent a year in
Cambridge, Mass., and a year abroad; now residing in New York City.
She has written two original plays: _A Man's Woman_, in four acts; and
_A Lucky Star_, the fount of inspiration being a novel by C. N. and A.
M. Williamson, entitled _The Motor Chaperon_, which was produced by
Charles Frohman, with Willie Collier in the steller part, at the
Hudson Theatre, New York, in 1910. She also dramatized A. E. W.
Mason's story, _Miranda of the Balcony_ (London, 1899), which was
produced in New York by Mrs. Fiske in 1901. Mrs. Flexner is the only
successful woman playwright Kentucky has produced; and it is a real
pity that none of her plays have been published. _Mrs. Wiggs_ has held
the "boards" for eight year; and it seems destined to go on forever.

[61] Copyright, 1909, by the Century Company.


Richard Henry Wilson ("Richard Fisguill"), novelist and educator, was
born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 6, 1870. He received the degrees
of B. A. and M. A. from South Kentucky College, and Ph. D. from Johns
Hopkins in 1898. Dr. Wilson spent ten years in Europe studying at
universities in France, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and he married a
Frenchwoman. He has been a great "globe-trotter," and he speaks a dozen
languages fluently. Since 1899 Dr. Wilson has been professor of Romantic
languages at the University of Virginia. All the appointments of his
home are in the French style, and French is the language of the family.
Professor Wilson is a good Kentuckian, nevertheless, and he knows the
land and the people well. He is to the University of Virginia what
Professor Charles T. Copeland is to Harvard. His first book, _The
Preposition A_, is now out of print. His novel, _Mazel_ (New York,
1902), takes rather the form of a satire upon life at the University of
Virginia. Professor Wilson's next story, _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York,
1905), is a rollicking extravaganza of cave and country life at Cadiz,
Kentucky. Both of his novels have been issued under his pen-name of
"Richard Fisguill"--"Fisguill" being bastard French for "Wilson."
Professor Wilson contributes much to the magazines. Four of his
short-stories were printed in _Harper's Weekly_ between April and
October of 1912, under the following titles, and in the order of their
appearance: _Orphanage_, _The Nymph_, _Seven Slumbers_, and _The
Princess of Is_. Another story, _The Waitress at the Phoenix_, was
published in _Collier's_ for September 7, 1912. A collection of his
short-stories may be issued in 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
    xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Venus of Cadiz_ (New York, 1905)]

Colonel Norris was as laconic as usual, not even giving his address.
He had written four letters in twelve years.

"The Colonel means a million francs," explained Captain Malepeste. "His
letter was addressed to me, and he knows I always count in francs."

"The Colonel means a million marks," replied Captain Bisherig. "He
began his letter: 'Dear Malepeste and Bisherig,' and I don't believe
Colonel Norris would think in francs when he had me in mind."

"But the Colonel is an American," observed Gertrude. "Don't you think
it would be more natural for him to count and think in dollars--a
million dollars?"

"No, I do not," replied Doctor Alvin. "I believe all of you are wrong.
The Colonel is in Australia. His business relations are doubtless with
English houses. And in my opinion he means pounds, English money--a
million pounds sterling."

"Why, that would make five million dollars!" exclaimed Gertrude.

"Twenty million marks!" ejaculated Captain Bisherig.

"Twenty-five million francs!" echoed Captain Malepeste.

"That is what it would be," assented Doctor Alvin, "and that is what the
Colonel means, I feel sure. Nor am I surprised. Norris is a man of
remarkable business instincts. He is as cool and collected on the floor
of a stock exchange as he was on the field of battle. Then he had every
incentive to make a fortune. And he has made one, take my word for it."

"Nom d'une pipe!" exclaimed Captain Malepeste. "We will all go to
Paris, and buy a hôtel on the Champs-Elysees!"

"We will do no such thing," objected Captain Bisherig. "Your modern
Babylon is no place for respectable folks to live in."

Captain Malepeste retorted:

"Well, if you think we should be willing to put up with more than one
'Dutchman,' and live in Germany--God forbid!"

Captain Bisherig and Captain Malepeste retired to the Music Room that
they might settle with swords the question of the respective merits of
Germany and France. Gertrude followed in the capacity of second and
surgeon to both men. Susan and Doctor Alvin remained alone. Catherine
had retired to her bedroom.

"So papa is coming back with a fortune," observed Dr. Alvin,
affectionately. "And ... and what is our Susie going to do--give a
ball, and invite the Governor of Kentucky?"

"If father comes back with a million, I am going somewhere to study
art," replied Susan.

The reply came so quickly that Dr. Alvin was startled.

Susan had fought out her battles alone. Unperceived she had crossed
the threshold of womanhood.

"Study art ... be an artist, when a girl is as pretty as you are, and
heiress to five million dollars!" cried Doctor Alvin, laying aside the
mask he had worn so long.

It was Susan's turn to be astonished. She looked at her guardian
fixedly, expressing pain in her look.

At length, in a low voice, she said:

"I do not see why."

"Susan!" began Doctor Alvin.

Then he hesitated, as if in doubt as to whether he should continue.

"I do not see why," repeated Susan, in the same low voice.

Doctor Alvin passed his hand over his forehead. He resumed:

"Susan, your father is coming back shortly. My guardianship is ended.
Your father made me swear on Julia's coffin, that I would discourage
in you all thoughts of marriage until he returned. He was afraid you
might follow in Julia's footsteps. I was to represent sentiment as
sentimentality, substitute art for love, and prevent your fancy
crystallizing into some man-inspired desire. I have kept my promise.
Your father will find you fancy-free, will he not?"


"But, Susan--" and Doctor Alvin's voice again expressed excitement.

Doctor Alvin's voice trembled so that he was obliged to start over

"Susan, you do not know what you are. You--you--are a beautiful woman.
You are more beautiful than Julia was at the height of her beauty. You
are more beautiful than your mother was--"

Doctor Alvin's voice echoed mournfully as if he were calling upon the

"Susan, you have only to look upon men to conquer them. You can
achieve with a gesture what artists accomplish with a masterpiece.
What can artists do, other than quicken the pulse of sluggard
humanity? But, Susan--God guide your power--you will make blood boil,
heads reel, hearts throb until they burst, if so you will it.
Art--artists! There is no need of you studying art. Artists will study
you. Have you never looked at yourself in the glass, child? Have you
never, when--when--You have studied art with Malepeste, and you know
what lines are. Have you never thought of studying your own lines?
None of the great statues or paintings, of which Malepeste has the
photographs, is so harmoniously perfect as you. Art!--You are the
genius of art. I have influenced you into taking up various lines of
work, that I might keep you from the pitfalls of love, until the
proper time. But, now, my guardianship is ended. I have played a part.
I must lay aside my mask. Susan, I have been deceiving you. Love is by
all odds the greatest thing in the world. You must love. And you must
let some one love you--some one of the many who will be ready to lay
down their lives for you--"


[62] Copyright, 1905, by Henry Holt and Company.


Miss Lucy Furman, short-story writer, was born at Henderson, Kentucky,
in 1870, the daughter of a physician. Her parents died when she was
quite young, and she was brought up by her aunt. Miss Furman attended
public and private schools at Henderson, and at the age of sixteen
years, graduated from Sayre Institute at Lexington, Kentucky. The
three years following her graduation were spent at Henderson and at
Shreveport, Louisiana, the home of her grandparents, in both of which
places she was a social leader. At the age of nineteen, it became
necessary for her to make her own way in the world, and for about four
years she was court stenographer at Evansville, Indiana. Miss Furman's
earliest literary work was done at Evansville. The first stories she
ever wrote were accepted by _The Century Magazine_ when she was but
twenty-three years of age. These were some of the _Stories of a
Sanctified Town_ (New York, 1896), one of the most charming books yet
written by a Kentucky woman. At the age of twenty-five, when her
prospects were exceedingly bright, Miss Furman's health failed
entirely, and during the next ten years she was an invalid, seeking
health in Florida, southern Texas, on the Jersey coast, and elsewhere,
but without much success, and being always too feeble to do any
writing. In 1907 she went up into the mountains of her native State to
become a teacher in the W. C. T. U. Settlement School at Hindman,
Knott county, Kentucky. She did very little at first, but gradually
her strength came back, and for the last two years she has been
writing stories and sketches of the Kentucky mountains for _The
Century Magazine_. In 1911 _The Century_ published a series of stories
under the title of _Mothering on Perilous_, which will be brought out
in book form. In 1912 Miss Furman had several stories in the same
magazine, one of the best of which was _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_.
Her lack of physical strength has compelled her to work very slowly,
and it is only by living out-of-doors at least half the time that she
can live at all. "I have charge of the gardening and outdoor work at
the Settlement School," Miss Furman wrote recently, "but the happiest
part of my life is my residence at the small boys' cottage, about
which I have told in the 'Perilous' stories, and in which I find
endless pleasure and entertainment. Here I hope to spend the
remainder of my days." Very pathetic, reader, and very heroic!

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Miss Furman to the Author; _The Century
    Magazine_ (July, August, November, December, 1912).


[From _Hard-Hearted Barbary Allen_ (_The Century Magazine_, March,

Beneath the musket, on the "fire-board," lay a spindle-shaped, wooden
object, black with age. "A dulcimer," Aunt Polly Ann explained. "My
man made it, too, always-ago. Dulcimers used to be all the music there
was in this country, but banjos is coming in now."

Miss Loring knew that the dulcimer was an ancient musical instrument
very popular in England three centuries ago. She gazed upon the
interesting survival with reverence, and expressed a wish to hear it

"Beldory she'll pick and sing for you gladly when she gets the dishes
done," promised Aunt Polly Ann. "Picking and singing is her strong
p'ints, and she knows any amount of song-ballads."

At last Beldora came out on the porch and seated herself on a low
stool near the loom. Laying the dulcimer across her knees, she began
striking the strings with two quills, using both shapely hands. The
music was weird, but attractive; the tune she played, minor,
long-drawn, and haunting. Miss Loring received the second shock of the
day when she caught the opening words of the song:

      All in the merry month of May,
      When the green buds they were swelling,
      Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
      For the love of Barbary Allen.

Often had she read and heard of the old English ballad "Barbara
Allen"; never had she thought to encounter it in the flesh. As she
listened to the old song, long since forgotten by the rest of the
world, but here a warm household possession; as she gazed at Beldora,
so young, so fair against the background of ancient loom and gray log
wall, she felt as one may to whom the curtain of the past is for an
instant lifted, and a vision of dead-and-gone generations vouchsafed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Beldora went off to fetch the nag, and Aunt Polly Ann accompanied the
guest to the horse-block, laying an anxious hand on her arm.

"You heared the song-ballad Beldory sung to you. She knows dozens, but
that's always her first pick. It's her favor_rite_, and why? Because
it's similar to her own manoeuvers. Light and cruel and leading poor
boys on to destruction is her joy and pastime, same as Barbary's. Did
you mind her eyes when she sung them words about

       As she were walking through the streets,
       She heard them death-bells knelling,
       And every stroke it seemed to say,
      "Hard-hearted Barbary Allen!"

like it was something to take pride in, instead of sorrow for? Yes,
woman, them words, 'Hard-hearted Barbary Allen,' is her living
description, and will be to the end of time."

Ten days later the shocking news reached the school that Robert and
Adriance Towles had fought on the summit of Devon Mountain for Beldora
Wyant's sake, and Robert had fallen dead, with five bullets in him,
Adriance being wounded, though not fatally. It was said that Beldora,
pressed to choose between the two, had told them she would marry the
best man; that thereupon, with their bosom friends, they had ridden to
the top of Devon, measured off paces, and fired. Adriance had fled, but
word came the next day that, weak from loss of blood, he had been
captured and was on the way to jail in the county-seat near the school.

In the weeks until court sat and the trial came off there was much
excitement. Sympathy for Adriance and blame for Beldora were
everywhere felt. Most of the county and all of the school-women
attended the trial, and interest was divided between the haggard,
harassed young face of Adriance and the calm, opulent loveliness of
Beldora. When she took the stand, people scarcely breathed. Yes, she
had told the Towles boys she would marry the best man of them. She had
had to tell them something,--they were pestering her to death,--and
the law didn't allow her to marry both. She had had no notion they
would be such fools as to try to kill each other. Miss Loring and the
other women watched anxiously for some sign of pity or remorse in her,
but there was not so much as a quiver of the lips or a tremor in her
voice. As she sat there in the lone splendor of her beauty, somewhat
scornfully enjoying the gaze of every eye in the court-room, one
phrase of her "favor_rite_" song rang ceaselessly through Miss
Loring's head--"Hard-hearted Barbary Allen." Her lack of feeling
intensified the sympathy for Adriance, and, to everybody's joy, the
light verdict of only one year in the penitentiary was brought in.

Half an hour later, Aunt Polly Ann, tragic in face and air, and with
Beldora on the nag behind her, drew rein before the settlement school.

"Women," she said with sad solemnity on entering, "for four year' you
have been bidding Beldory come and set down and partake of your feast
of learning and knowledge; for four year' she has spurned your invite.
At last she is minded to come. Here she is. Take her, and see what you
can accomplish on her. My raising of her has requited me naught but
tenfold tribulation. In vain have I watched and warned and denounced
and prophesied; her inordinate light-mindedness and perfidity has now
brung one pore boy to a' ontimely grave and another to Frankfort. Take
her, women, and see if you can learn her some little demeanor and
civility. Keep her under your beneficent and God-fearing roof, and
direct her mind off of her outward and on to her inward disabilities!
Women, I now wash my hands."

Receiving Beldora into the school was felt to be a somewhat hazardous
undertaking, but affection and sympathy for Aunt Polly Ann moved the
heads to do it. To the general surprise, Beldora settled down very
adaptably to the new life, being capable enough about the industries,
and passably so about books. But it was in music that she excelled.
Miss Loring gave her piano lessons, and rarely had teacher a more
gifted pupil.

Needless to say, when Beldora picked the dulcimer and sang
song-ballads at the Friday night parties, all the children and
grown-ups sat entranced. For three or four weeks, on these occasions,
she had the grace to choose other ballads than "Barbara Allen"; but
one night in early November, after singing "Turkish Lady" and "The
Brown Girl," she suddenly struck into the haunting melody and tragic
words of "Barbara Allen." A thrill and a shock went through all her
hearers. Miss Loring saw Howard Cleves start forward in his chair with
a look of horror, almost repulsion, on his fine, intelligent face.

Howard was the most remarkable boy in the school. Five years before,
when not quite fifteen, he had walked over, barefoot, from his home on
Millstone, forty miles distant, and presented himself to "the women"
with this plea: "I hear you women run a school where boys and girls
can work their way through. I am the workingest boy on Millstone, and
have hoed corn, cleared new-ground, and snaked logs since I turned my
fifth year. I have heard tell, over yander on Millstone, that there is
a sizable world outside these mountains, full of strange, foreign folk
and wonderly things. I crave to know about it. I can't set in darkness
any longer. My hunger for learning ha'nts me day and night, and burns
me like a fever. I'll pine to death if I don't get it. Women, give me
a chance. Hunt up the hardest job on your place, and watch me toss it

They gave him the chance; and never had they done anything that more
richly rewarded them. Not only were his powers of work prodigious, but
his eager, brilliant mind opened amazingly day by day, progressing by
leaps and bounds. The women set their chief hopes upon Howard,
believing that in him they would give a great man to the nation.
Promise of a scholarship in the law school of a well-known university
had already been obtained for him, and in one more year, such was his
astonishing progress, he would be able to enter it, if all went well.
Miss Loring had observed that, in common with every other boy, big or
little, in the school, Howard had been at first much taken with
Beldora's looks, and it was with relief that she beheld his expression
of repulsion at Beldora's complacent singing of "Barbara Allen."

The first real warning came at the Thanksgiving party. During a game
of forfeits, Beldora was ordered to "claim the one you like the best."
Miss Loring saw her first approach Howard with a dazzling and tender
look in her splendid eyes, and even put out a hand to him; then
suddenly, with a wicked little smile, she turned and gave both hands
to Spalding Drake, a young man from the village. A deep flush sprang
to Howard's face, his jaws clenched, his eyes blazed tigerishly. It
might have been only chagrin at the public slight; still, it made Miss
Loring anxious enough to have a long talk with Beldora next day and
explain to her the hopes and plans for Howard's future and the tragedy
and cruelty of interfering with them in any way.

One morning, three days before Christmas, Beldora's bed had not been
slept in at all, and under the front door was a note in Howard's
handwriting, as follows:


Beldora told me last week she aimed to marry Spalding Drake Christmas.
Though he is a nice boy and I like him, I knew, if she did, I would
kill him on the spot. Rather than do this, it is better for me to
marry her myself beforehand. I have hired a nag, and we will ride to
Tazewell by moonlight for a license and preacher.

I know a man is a fool that throws away his future for a woman, that
Beldora is not worth it, and that I am doing what I will never cease
to regret. It is like death to me to know I will never accomplish the
things you set before me, and be the man you wanted me to be. I wish I
had never laid eyes on Beldora. I have agonized and battled and tried
to give her up; but she is too strong for me. I can fight no longer
with fate. It would be better if women like Beldora never was created.
She has cost the life of one boy, the liberty of another, and now my
future. But it had to be.

  Respectfully yours,



[63] Copyright, 1912, by the Century Company.


Edward Bertrand Finck ("Bert Finck"), prose pastelist and closet
dramatist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, October 16, 1870, the son
of a German father and American mother. His parents were fond of
traveling and much of his earlier life was spent in various parts of
this country and abroad. He was educated in the private schools of his
native city, finishing his academic training at Professor M. B.
Allmond's institution. Mr. Finck began to write at an early age, and
he has published four books: _Pebbles_ (Louisville, 1898), a little
volume of epigrams; _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900), being reveries and
essays in miniature; _Plays_ (Louisville, 1902), a group of
allegorical dramas; and _Musings and Pastels_ (Louisville, 1905). All
of these small books are composed of poetic and philosophical prose,
many passages possessing great truth and beauty. In 1906 Mr. Finck was
admitted to the bar of Louisville, and he has since practiced there
with success. He seemingly took Blackstonian leave of letters some
years ago, but the gossips of literary Louisville have been telling,
of late, of a new book of prose pastels that he has recently finished
and will bring out in the late autumn of 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Mr. Finck's letters to the Author; _Who's Who in
    America_ (1912-1913).


[From _Webs_ (Louisville, 1900)]

Could we but lift the countenance which pleases or repels, what seems
so sweet might thrust away, and what is repugnant charm or win our
sympathy and aid. Is not indifference often a net to catch or to
conceal? Modesty, diplomatic egotism? Wit, brilliant misery?
Contentment, wallowing despair? Langor, shrewd energy? Frivolity, woe
burlesquely masked by unselfishness or pride? Is not philosophy, at
times, resignation in delirium? The enthusiastic are ridiculed as
being self-conceited; the patient condemned for having no heart. We
stigmatize them as idle whose natures are toiling the noblest toil of
all, for not rarely do thought-gods drift through a spell of idleness;
a butterfly-fancy may breed a spirit that turns the way of an age's
career; there are sleeps that are awakenings; awakenings, sleeps; none
so worthless as many who are busy all the time. Smiles are sometimes
selfish triumphs; peace, the swine-heart's well-filled trough. Cheeks
rich with the fire of fever are envied as glow of health; steps, eager
to escape from a spectre, we laudingly call enthusiasm in work; and
the brain's desperate efforts to stifle bitter thoughts sharpen
tongues that fascinate with their brilliant gayety--the world dances
to the music of its sighs.


[64] Copyright, 1900, by the Author.


Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born at
Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She attended the
public schools, in which her parents were teachers, until she was ten
years of age, when they left Kentucky and established a school at
Donophan, Missouri. Three years later she was ready for college, but her
mother's health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark Mountains,
near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another school was conducted, this
time with the daughter as her father's assistant. For the following five
years she taught the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and
during these years she herself was always hoping and planning for a
college education, which hopes and plans seemed to crumble beneath her
feet when her mother died, in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with
her invalid father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and finally
obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to the University of
Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution she was graduated two years
later. Miss Tilford then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but
the climate so affected her health that she was forced to resign and
repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly afterwards took a
course in a business college and, for a brief period, held a position in
a bank. Teaching again called her and for two years she taught in the
schools of San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in English
and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and a
year later she turned again to teaching, holding a position in Acadia
Seminary, Wolfville, Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in
reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also worked as a
stenographer. Several of her articles were accepted by the magazines
about this time, which decided her to settle upon literature as her life
work. She worked too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way,
and she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in order to regain
her strength. Miss Tilford was married, in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan,
of Darlington, South Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at
Radcliffe. Not long after she went to New York, and there resumed her
literary labors with a high and serious purpose. Mrs. Dargan's first
volume of dramas, _Semiramis and Other Plays_, was published by
Brentano's in 1904, and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides
the title-play, _Semiramis_, founded on the life of the famous Persian
queen, this book contained _Carlotta_, a drama of Mexico in the days of
Maximilian, and _The Poet_, which is Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized.
Mrs. Dargan's second volume of plays bore the attractive title of _Lords
and Lovers and Other Dramas_ (New York, 1906), the second edition of
which appeared in 1908. This also contains three plays, the second
being _The Shepherd_, with the setting in Russia, and the third, _The
Siege_, a Sicilian play, the scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three
hundred and fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's _Lords and
Lovers_, set against an English background, is generally regarded as the
best work she has done hitherto. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised
this play highly, placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine
Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's foremost poetic
dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished may be considered
but an earnest of what she will ultimately produce. Her beautiful
masque, _The Woods of Ida_, appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for
August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest English work in
that branch of the drama. She has had lyrics in _Scribner's_,
_McClure's_, _The Century_, and _The Atlantic Monthly_, her most recent
poem, "In the Blue Ridge," having appeared in _Scribner's_ for May,
1911. Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three years she
has traveled abroad, spending much time in England, the background of
her greatest work. Her third and latest volume contains three dramas,
entitled _The Mortal Gods and Other Plays_ (New York, 1912). This was
awaited with impatience by her admirers on both sides of the Atlantic
and read with delight by them.

"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it may seem premature
to pronounce a critical judgment on her work," wrote Dr. George A.
Wauchope, professor of English in the University of South Carolina, in
claiming her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued,
"that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this country, and
is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with all but the greatest in
English literature. One is equally impressed by the creative
inspiration and the mastery of technique displayed by the author. Each
of her plays reveals a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought
and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, also, with which
her plays are interspersed, yield a rich and haunting melody that is
redolent of the charming Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are
audacious in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling of
the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in the splendor
of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent of reflection, and, above
all, in their spiritual uplift and noble emotion, these dramas give
evidence of a remarkably gifted playwright who not only possesses a
deep feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has command
of all the varied resources of dramatic expression."

It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of an author,
would it not?

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The University of Virginia Magazine_ (January,
    1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's
    _The Poet_; _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v.
    iii); _The Writers of South Carolina_, by G. A. Wauchope
    (Columbia, S. C., 1910).


[From _Lords and Lovers_ (New York, 1906)]

Act IV, Scene I. _Henry, with lute, singing._

      Ope, throw ope thy bower door,
        And come thou forth, my sweet!
      'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er,
        And mating hearts should meet.
      The stars have fled and left their grace
      In every blossom's lifted face,
      And gentle shadows fleck the light
      With tender memories of the night.
      Sweet, there's a door to every shrine;
      Wilt thou, as morning, open thine?
      Hark! now the lark has met the clouds,
        And rains his sheer melodious flood;
      The green earth casts her mystic shrouds
        To meet the flaming god!
      Alas, for me there is no dawn
      If Glaia come not with the sun.

[_Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches._]

      _Gla._ 'Tis you!

      _Hen._ [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland,
             Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned.

      _Gla._ How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false?
             Nay, I'm too glad thou'rt come to question so.
             'Tis easy to forgive the treachery
             That opes our gates to angels.

      _Hen._                  O, I'm loved?

      _Gla._ Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you,
             And I rose early, for I love to say
             Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan
             And loath to go away, as though they know
             The fickle world is thinking of the sun
             And all their gentle service of the night
             Is quite forgot.

      _Hen._ And what didst think of me?

      _Gla._ That you could come and see this beauteous wood,
             Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace,
             You'd be content to live awhile with me,
             Leave war's red step to follow living May
             Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood
             To each decaying root; and rest by springs
             Where waters run to sounds less rude than song,
             And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies.

      _Hen._ The only springs I seek are in your eyes
             That nourish all the desert of myself.
             Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews,
             And start fair summer in this waste of me!

      _Gla._ Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love?

      _Hen._ See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose?
             What do I know of it but that 'tis fair?
             And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews
             And goes to some sweet country of the sky,
             So cloud-like dost thou move before my love,
             From beauty coming that I may not see,
             To beauty going that I can but dream.
             O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand,
             This miracle of warm, unmelting snow,
             This lily bit of thee that in my clasp
             Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote--
             Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows
             And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown!
             Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare
             The darkest shadow of defeat that broods
             O'er sceptres and unfriended kings.

      _Gla._                                  Why talk
             Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry,
             For if you love me you will stay with me.

      _Hen._ Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top
             Review the sunny graces of the world,
             Plucking the smilingest to dearer love,
             Until the heart becomes the root and spring
             Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet
             As these bright children of the wedded sun
             And dewy earth!

      _Gla._ I knew you'd stay, my brother!
             You'll live with me!

      _Hen._   But there's a world not this,
             O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch,
             Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood,
             Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop
             That rims the forehead of a king,--a world
             Where trampling armies and sedition's march
             Cut off the flowers of descanting love
             Ere they may sing their perfect word to man,
             And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies,
             Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths--

      _Gla._ O, do not tell me, do not think of it!

      _Hen._ I must. There is my world, and there my life
             Must grow to gracious end, if so it can.
             If thou wouldst come, my living periapt,
             With virtue's gentle legend overwrit,
             I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek,
             Pure lily cloister of a praying rose,
             E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear
             Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia?

      _Gla._ Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me.
             Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah,
             The whispering winds do never counsel false,
             And senatorial trees droop not their state
             To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be
             Your minister, the seasons your envoys
             And high ambassadors, bearing from His court
             The mortal olive of immortal love.

      _Hen._ To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia,
             To bind me here; and if you love me true,
             You will not ask me where I go or stay,
             But that your feet may stay or go with mine.
             Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips
             That all their life have ripened for this kiss.
                                            [_Kisses her_]
             O ruby purities! I would not give
             Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran
             Stored with the honey of a thousand suns
             Through the slow measure of as many years!

      _Gla._ Do brothers talk like that?

      _Hen._                          I think not, sweet

      _Gla._ But you will be my brother?

      _Hen._                          We shall see.

      _Gla._ And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear
             All that you love in me is born of these
             Wild innocences that I live among,
             And far from here, all such sweet value lost,
             I'll be as others are in your mad world,
             Or wither mortally, even as the sprig
             A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough.
             Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be
             Dear playmates ever, never growing old,--
             Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace
             Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us
             To come at will.

      _Hen._          No, Glaia. Even now
             I must be gone. I came for this----to say
             I'd come again, and bid you watch for me.
             A tear? O, love! One moment, then away!

                           [_Exeunt. Curtain_]


[65] Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons.


Harry Lee Marriner, newspaper poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky,
March 24, 1871, the son of a schoolman. He was educated by his father
and in the public schools of his native city. He engaged in a dozen
different businesses before he suddenly discovered that he could
write, which discovery caused him to accept a position on the now
defunct _Chicago Dispatch_, from which he went to _The Evening Post_,
of Louisville, remaining with that paper for several years. In 1902
Mr. Marriner went to Texas and became assistant city editor of the
_Dallas News_; and he has since filled practically all the editorial
positions, being at the present time Sunday editor of both the _Dallas
News_ and the _Galveston News_, which are under the same management.
In 1907 Mr. Marriner originated a feature consisting of a daily human
interest poem, printed on the front page of his two papers. For some
time he concealed his identity under the title of "The News Staff
Poet," but in 1909 he discarded his cloak and came out into the
sunlight of reality in order that his hundreds of admirers throughout
the Southwest might be content. Mr. Marriner's "poetry" is rather
homely verse based upon the everyday things and thoughts and
experiences of everyday people. This verse has had a wonderful vogue
in Texas and Oklahoma, and the surrounding States. Dealing with dogs
and "kids," with sore toes and sentiment, with joys and griefs, dolls
and ball gowns, country stores and city life, street cars and prairie
schooners, mint-fringed creeks and bucking bronchos, it is a medley of
everything human. The cream of his verse has been brought together in
three charming little books: _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York,
1909); _Joyous Days_ (Dallas, 1910); and _Mirthful Knights in Modern
Days_ (Dallas, 1911). Mr. Marriner has written the lyrics for two
musical comedies; and he has had short-stories in the periodicals.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Marriner to the Author; _The Dallas
    News_ (December 2, 1911).


[From _When You and I Were Kids_ (New York, 1909)]

      How doth the mind of man go back to when he was a boy;
      When feet were full of tan and dust, and life was full of joy;
      But many a man looks back in fear, for in a time-worn chair,
      He sees himself draped in a sheet, while Mother cuts his hair.

      The scissors drag, and sniffles rise when ears lop in the way,
      And on the porch rain locks of hair like tufts of prairie hay,
      'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely hid,
      Looks on himself and views with pain the job that Mother did.

      The mule may shed in summertime the felt that Nature grew,
      The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, too;
      But neither bears that patchwork look, that war map of despair,
      That zigzags on the small boy's head when Mother cuts his hair.


[From _Mirthful Knights in Modern Days_ (Dallas, 1911)]

      Sir Gumshoo, known as Wot d'Ell, a noble Knight from Spain,
      Was one who was so strong a Pro he'd water on the brain.
      He would not drink a dram at all, or even sniff at it,
      And just the sight of lager beer would throw him in a fit.

      It chanced one day Sir Gumshoo rode upon a noble quest--
      His lady had acquired a cold that settled on her chest,
      And to the rural districts he repaired, for it was plain
      He must secure some goosegrease that she might get well again.

      He found a rude, bucolic rube who had goosegrease to sell;
      Sir Gumshoo bought about a quart, and all was going well
      When he who rendered geese to grease made him a stealthy sign
      And led him to a bottle filled with elderberry wine.

      The Knight declined; he was a Pro, which fact he did explain;
      The farmer, sore disgusted, took his goosegrease back again,
      Whereat the Knight in anguish sore gave up himself for lost
      And took a fierce and fiery drink with all his fingers crossed.

      That night he rode as rides a pig upon a circus steed;
      He clutched his charger 'round the neck, for he was stewed indeed,
      And, bowing to his lady fair, as bows the wind-tossed pine,
      He handed her part of a quart of elderberry wine.


[66] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.

[67] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.


Lucien V. Rule, poet, was born at Goshen, Kentucky, August 29, 1871.
He spent one year at State College, Lexington, when he went to Centre
College, Danville, from which he was graduated in 1893. Mr. Rule
studied for the ministry, but he later engaged in newspaper work, in
which he spent six or seven years. During the last few years he has
devoted his time to writing and speaking upon social and religious
subjects. His first book of poems, entitled _The Shrine of Love and
Other Poems_ (Chicago, 1898), is his best known work. He is also the
author of a small pamphlet of social and political satires, entitled
_When John Bull Comes A-Courtin'_ (Louisville, 1903). This contains
the title-poem, the sub-title of which reads: "Sundry Meditations on
the Rumored Matrimonial Alliance between J. Bull, Bart., and his
cousin, Lady Columbia;" and several shorter poems. Those inscribed to
Tolstoi, Whittier, and Walt Whitman are very strong. Mr. Rule's latest
book is _The House of Love_ (Indianapolis, 1910). In 1913 he will
probably publish a group of poetic dramas-in-cameo for young people,
and a brief collection of biographical studies. Mr. Rule resides at
his birthplace, Goshen, Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Southern Writers_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1905);
    letters from Mr. Rule to the Author.


[From _When John Bull Comes A Courtin'_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1903)]

      What right hast thou to more than thou dost need
      While others perish for the want of bread?
      What right hast thou upon a palace bed
      To idly slumber while the homeless plead;
      A vicious and voluptuous life to lead,
      While millions struggle on in rags and shame?
      What right hast thou thus vilely to inflame
      Thy fellow men with hate, O fiend of greed?
      What right hast thou to take the hallowed name
      Of God upon thy lips, or Christ's, who came
      To save the race from sorrows thou dost cause?
      Not always helpless 'neath thy cruel paws,
      O Beast of Capital, shall Labor lie;
      Thy doom this day is thundered from the sky!


[From the same]

      Arise, my soul, put off thy dark despair;
      Say not the age of chivalry is gone;
      For lo, the east is kindling with its dawn,
      And bugle echoes bid thee wake to wear
      Majestic moral armour, and to bear
      A worthy part in truth's eternal fray.
      Say not the muse inspires no more to-day,
      Nor that fame's flowers no longer flourish fair.
      Live thou sublimely and then speak thy heart,
      If thou wouldst build an altar unto art.
      Stand with the struggling and the stars above
      Will shower celestial thoughts to thrill thy pen.
      Put self away and walk alone with Love,
      And thou shalt be the marvel of all men!


[68] Copyright, 1903, by the Author.


Mrs. Eva Wilder (McGlasson) Brodhead, novelist and short-story writer,
was born at Covington, Kentucky, in 187-. Her parents were not of
Southern origin, her father having been born in Nova Scotia, and her
mother at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She was educated in New York City
and in her native town of Covington. She began to write when but
eighteen years of age, and a short time thereafter her first novel
appeared, _Diana's Livery_ (New York, 1891). This was set against a
background most alluring: the Shaker settlement at Pleasant Hill,
Kentucky, into which a young man of the world enters and falls in love
with a pretty Shakeress. Her second story, _An Earthly Paragon_ (New
York, 1892), which was written in three weeks, ran through _Harper's
Weekly_ before being published in book form. It was a romance of the
Kentucky mountains, laid around Chamouni, the novelist's name for
Yosemite, Kentucky. It was followed by a novelette of love set amidst
the salt-sea atmosphere of an eastern watering place, _Ministers of
Grace_ (New York, 1894). Hildreth, the scene of this little story, is
anywhere along the Jersey coast from Atlantic City to Long Branch.
_Ministers of Grace_ also appeared serially in _Harper's Weekly_, and
when it was issued in book form Col. Henry Watterson called the
attention of Richard Mansfield to it as a proper vehicle for him, and
the actor promptly secured the dramatic rights, hoping to present it
upon the stage; but his untimely death prevented the dramatization of
the tale under highly favorable auspices. It was the last to be
published under the name of Eva Wilder McGlasson, as this writer was
first known to the public, for on December 5, 1894, she was married in
New York to Mr. Henry C. Brodhead, a civil and mining engineer of
Wilkesbarre, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Brodhead's next novelette, _One of
the Visconti_ (New York, 1896), the background of which was Naples,
the hero being a young Kentuckian and the heroine of the old and
famous Visconti family, was issued by the Scribner's in their
well-known Ivory Series of short-stories. Her last Kentucky novel,
_Bound in Shallows_ (New York, 1896), originally appeared in _Harper's
Bazar_. That severe arbiter of literary destinies, _The Nation_, said
of this book: "No such work as this has been done by any American
woman since Constance Fenimore Woolson died." It was founded on
material gathered at Burnside, Kentucky, where Mrs. Brodhead spent two
summers. Her most recent work, _A Prairie Infanta_ (Philadelphia,
1904), is a Colorado juvenile, first published in _The Youth's
Companion_. Aside from her books, Mrs. Brodhead won a wide reputation
as a short-story writer and maker of dialect verse. More than fifty of
her stories have been printed in the publications of the house of
Harper, the publishers of four of her books; in _The Century_,
_Scribner's_, and other leading periodicals. Many of her admirers hold
that the short-story is her especial forte. Five of them may be
mentioned as especially well done: _Fan's Mammy_, _A Child of the
Covenant_, _The Monument to Corder_, _The Eternal Feminine_, and _Fair
Ines_. She has written much dialect verse which appeared in the Harper
periodicals, _The Century_, _Judge_, _Puck_, and other magazines.
Neither her short-stories nor her verse has been collected and issued
in book form. Since her marriage Mrs. Brodhead has traveled in Europe
a great deal, and in many parts of the United States, traveled until
she sometimes wonders whether her home is in Denver or New York, and,
although she is in the metropolis more than she is in the Colorado
capital, her legal residence is Denver, some distance from the mining
town of Brodhead, named in honor of her husband's geological
discoveries and interests. In 1906 she was stricken with a very
severe illness, followed by her physician's absolute mandate of no
literary work until her health should be reëstablished, which has been
accomplished but recently. She has published but a single story since
her sickness, _Two Points of Honor_, which appeared in _Harper's
Weekly_ for July 4, 1908. At the present time Mrs. Brodhead is quite
well enough to resume work; and the next few years should witness her
fulfilling the earnest of her earlier novels and stories, firmly
fixing her fame as one of the foremost women writers of prose fiction
yet born on Kentucky soil.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (September 3, 1892); _The
    Book-buyer_ (September, 1896).


[From _Ministers of Grace_ (New York, 1894)]

As the days merged towards the end of August, Hildreth was packed to
the very gates. The wiry yellow grasses along the neat walks were
trampled into powder. The very sands, for all the effacing fingers of
the tides, seemed never free of footprints, and by day and night the
ocean promenade, the interior of the town, lake-sides, hotels, and the
surf itself, were a press of holiday folk.

In these times Mr. Ruley seldom went forth in his rolling-chair,
except early of a morning, when the beach was yet way-free, and the
sands unfrequented save for a few barelegged men, who, with long
wooden rakes, cleaned up the sea-verge for the day.

Sometimes Wade pushed the chair. But since the night when he gave
Elizabeth the honeysuckles he had in some measure avoided the old
preacher's small circle. There had been, on that occasion, a newness
of impulse in his spirit which made him feel the advisability of
keeping himself out of harm's way, however sweet that way might seem.
Graham was the favored suitor. He, Wade, having no chance for the
rose, could at least withhold his flesh from the thorn.

"So," said Gracie Gayle, "you're out of the running?"

"Ruled off," smiled Wade.

"Don't you make any mistakes," wisely admonished Miss Gayle. "I've
seen her look at him, and I've seen her look at _you_."

"This is most surprising," indicated Wade, with a feigned accent. "You
will pardon me, Gracie, if I scarcely credit your statement."

"Be sarcastic if you want to," said Gracie. "If you knew anything at
all, you'd know that straws show which way the wind blows. When a
woman regards a man with a kind of flat, frank sincerity, it's because
her heart's altogether out of his reach. When she looks _around_ him
rather than _at_ him, it's because----" Gracie lifted her shoulders

"Grace," breathed Wade, gravely, "I am hurt to the quick to see you
developing the germs of what painfully resembles thought. For Heaven's
and your sex's sake, pause while there is yet time! Women who form the
pernicious habit of thinking lose in time the magic key which unlocks
the hearts of men."

Grace sniffed.

"Men's hearts are never locked," she said, sagaciously. "The heavier
the padlock the smoother the hinges." She shook her crisp curls as she
tripped away with her airy, mincing, soubrette tread.

Notwithstanding the inconsequent nature of this talk, it set Wade to
thinking. Perhaps he had carried his principle of self-effacement too
far. At all events, when he next saw Miss Ruley, he went up to her and
stopped for a moment's conversation.

It chanced to be on the sands. Elizabeth was sitting by herself under
the arch of a lace-hung sunshade, which cast shaking little shadows on
her face, sprigging it with such delicate darkness as lurk in the
misty milk of moss-agate.

"You are going in, then?" she asked, smiling up rather uncertainly,
and noticing his flannel attire. "Mr. Graham is already very far out.
That is he, I think, taking that big breaker. What a stroke!"

Wade, focussing an indulgent eye, saw a figure away beyond the other
bathers, rising to the lift of a great billow. The man swam with a
splendid motion. Whether he dived, or floated, or circled his arms in
that whirling stroke of his, he seemed in subtle sympathy with the sea,
possessed of a kinship with it, and in an element altogether his own.

Wade expressed an appropriate sentiment of admiration.

Just then Gracie Gayle came gambolling along, a childish shape,
kirtled to the knee in bright blue, and turbaned in vivid scarlet.
Among the loose-waisted figures on the sands she was like a
humming-bird scintillating in a staid gathering of barnyard fowls.
Bailey was with her, having returned after a fortnight's absence.

The two paused beside Elizabeth, and Wade went on, confused by the
singular way in which that small fair face, shadow-streaked and
faintly smiling, lingered in his vision. He was still perplexed with a
half-pleasant, half-pained consciousness of it as he plunged into the
pushing surf and felt a dizzy world of water heave round him. The
surge was strong to-day, and the splashing and screaming of the shore
bathers sent him farther and still farther out. Gradually their cries
lessened in his ear, and there was with him presently only the hollow
thud of the waves and the rushing hiss of the crestling foam.

Once, as he rose to a sea-lift, it seemed to him that he heard a sound
that was not the boom of the breakers nor the song of the slipping
froth. It came again, whatever it was, and as he gave ear he took in a
human intonation, sharp and agonized. It was a cry for help.

Wade shook the brine from his hair, freeing his gaze for an outlook. In
the glassy mound of water to his right a face, lean and white with
alarm, gleamed and faded. That the sinking man was Graham came instantly
to Wade's mind--Graham, a victim to some one of the mischances which the
sea reserves for those who adventure too confidently with her.

Wade struck out instantly for the spot where Graham's appalled
features had briefly glimpsed. Shoreward he could note an increasing
agitation among the multitudes. Evidently the people had noticed the
peril of the remote swimmer whose exploits had so lately won admiring
comment. The beachguard no doubt was buckling to his belt the
life-rope coiled always on the sands for such emergencies. Cries of
men and women rang stifled over the water--exclamations of fear and
advice and excitement, mingled in a long continuous wail.

Graham's head rose in sight, a mere speck upon the dense green of the
bulging water. Wade, fetching nearer in wide strokes, suddenly felt
himself twisted violently out of his course, and whirled round in a
futile effort with some mysterious current. He was almost near enough
to lay hold of Graham when this new sensation explained lucidly the
cause of Graham's danger. They were both in the claws of an undertow,
which, as Wade realized its touch, appeared as if wrenching him
straight out to the purring distance of the farther sea.

Even in the first consternation of this discovery he felt himself
thrust hard against a leaden body, and in the same instant Graham's
hands snatched at him in a desperate reach for life.

"For God's sake don't hold me like this!" Wade expostulated. "Let go.
Trust me to do what I can. You're strangling me, man!"

But Graham was past sanity. He only clutched with the more frenzy at
the thing which seemed to keep him from the ravenous mouth of the
snarling waters.

Wade, in a kind of composed despair, sent a look towards the beach.
They were putting out a boat, a tiny sheel which frisked in the surf,
and seemed motionless in the double action of the waves. Men laid hard
at the oars. The little craft took the first big wave as a horse takes
a hurdle. It dropped from the glassy height, and Wade saw it sink into
a breach of the sea. Then flashing with crystal, it bore up again and

The figures running and gesticulating on the beach had a marvellous
distinctness to Wade's submerging eyes. He noticed the blue sky,
flawed with scratches of white, the zigzag roof-lines of the great
town, the twisting flags and meshes of the dark wire. Everything
oppressed him with a sort of deadly clearness, as if a metal stamp
should press in melting wax.

He was momently sinking, drawn ever outward by the undercurrent, and
downward by the weighty burden throttling him in its senseless grasp.
He looked once more through a blinding veil of foam, and saw the boat
dipping far to the left. A phantasm of life flickered before him.
Unsuspected trivialities shook out of their cells, and amazed him with
the pygmy thrift of memory. Then came a sense of confusion, as if the
spiritual and corporal lost each its boundary and ranged wild, and
Wade felt the sea in his eyes, stroking them down as gently as ever
any watcher by the dying.


[69] Copyright, 1894, by Harper and Brothers.


Mrs. Cordia Greer Petrie, a talented writer of very great promise and
of decided performance, was born near Merry Oaks, Kentucky, February
12, 1872. When she was a child her parents removed to Louisville,
Kentucky, and in the public schools of that city she was educated,
after which she spent a half-year at old Eminence College, Eminence,
Kentucky. In July, 1894, Miss Greer was married to Dr. Hazel G.
Petrie, of Fairview, Kentucky, who, for the past ten years, has been
mine physician in various sections of eastern Kentucky. At the present
time he is serving six mines and making his home at Chenoa, near
Pineville, Kentucky. In her writings Mrs. Petrie has created a
character of great originality in Angeline Keaton, an unlettered
inhabitant of a remote Kentucky hamlet. "Of the original Angeline,"
Mrs. Petrie once wrote, "I know but little. She and her shiftless,
'no-erkount' husband, Lum, together with her son, Jeems Henry, lived
in Barren county, not far from Glasgow. Angeline supported the family
by working on the 'sheers,' 'diggin one half the taters fur tother
half!' She was very anxious for her boy to 'git an edjycation' and no
sooner would he get comfortably settled in a 'cheer' until she would
exclaim, 'Jeems Henry! Git up offen them britches, you lazy whelp! Git
yer book and be gittin some larnin in your head!' Without a word Jim
Henry would climb up the log wall and from under the rafters abstract
his blue back speller." Characterization is Mrs. Petrie's chief
strength; and she is a positive refutation of the masculine dictum
that women lack humor. With her friend, Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, the
short-story writer, she collaborated on an Angeline sketch, entitled
"When the Bees Got Busy," which was published in the _Overland
Monthly_ for August, 1904; and the prize story reprinted at the end of
this note is the only other Angeline story that has been published so
far. She has won several prizes with other stories, but a group of the
Angeline sketches are in manuscript, and they will shortly appear in
book form. _Angeline Keaton_, "with her gaunt angular form clad in its
scant calico gown," is sure to "score" when she makes her bow between
the covers of a book. She is every bit as cleverly conceived as _Mrs.
Wiggs_, _Susan Clegg_, or any of the other quaint women who have
recently won the applause of the American public.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mrs. Petrie to the Author; Miss Leigh
Gordon Giltner's study in _The Southern Home Journal_ (Louisville).


[From _The Evening Post_ (Louisville, Kentucky)]

She sat upon the edge of the veranda, fanning herself with her "split"
sunbonnet, a tall, angular woman, whose faded calico gown "lost
connection" at the waist line. Her spring being dry, she came to our
well for water. Discovering that Angeline Keaton was a "character," I
invariably inveigled her to rest awhile on our cool piazza before
retracing her steps up the steep, rocky hillside to her cabin home.

"I missed you yesterday," I said as a starter.

"Yes'm," she answered in a voice harsh and strident, yet touched with
a peculiar sibilant quality characteristic of the Kentucky
backwoodsman, "and thar wuz others that missed me, too!"

Settling herself comfortably, she produced from some hidden source a
box of snuff and plied her brush vigorously.

"We-all have got inter a wrangle over at Zion erbout the church
music," she began. "I and Lum, my old man, has been the leaders ever
since we moved here from Lick-skillet. We wuz alluz on hand--Lum with
his tunin' fork and me with my strong serpraner. When it come to
linin' off a song, Lum wuz pintedly hard to beat. Why, folks come from
fur and near to hear us, and them city folks, at Mis' Bowles' last
summer, 'lowed thar warn't nothing in New York that could tech us. One
of 'em offered us a dollar to sing inter a phonygraf reckerd, but we
wuz afeerd to put our lives in jopperdy by dabblin' in 'lectricerty.
But even celebrerty has its drawbacks, and a 'profit is not without
honor in his own country,' as the saying is. A passel of 'em got
jellus, a church meeting was called, unbeknownst to us, and ermong 'em
they agreed to make a change in the music at old Zion. That
peaked-faced Betty Button wuz at the bottom of it. Ever since she tuk
that normal course at Bowling Green she's been endeverin' to push
herself inter promernence here at Bear Waller. Fust she got up a class
in delsarty, but even Bear Waller warn't dull ernough to take to that
foolishness! Then she canvassed the county with a cuttin' system and a
book called 'Law at a Glance.' Now she's teaching vokle culshure. She
orter know singers, like poits, is born, not made! Jest wantin' to
sing won't do it. It takes power. It's give up mine's the powerfullest
voice in all Bear Waller. I kin bring old Brindle in when she's
grazing in the woods, back o' Judge Bowles' medder, and I simply step
out on the portico and call Lum to dinner when he's swoppin' yarns
down to the store quarter o' mile away. Fur that matter, though, a
deef and dum man could fetch Lum to _vittles_.

"Do you know Bear Waller owes its muserkil educashun to me? Mine wuz
the fust accordyon brought to the place, and I wuz allus ready to play
fur my nabers. I didn't hafter be _begged_. I orgernized the Zobo
band, I lent 'em my ballads, but whar's my thanks? At the battin' of
an eye they're ready to drop me for that quavery-voiced Button gal and
them notes o' hern that's no more'n that many peryids and commers.

"When the committee waited on me and Lum we jest flew mad and 'lowed
we'd quit. Maybe we wuz hasty, but it serves 'em right. Besides, these
Bear Wallerites ain't compertent to appreshiate a voice like mine,
nohow. I decided I'd take my letter to Glasgow and jine that brag
choir of their'n. It did me good to think how it 'ud spite some folks
to see me leadin' the singin' at the county seat!

"Lum wuz dead set ergin it, but armin' myself with the rollin' pin and
a skillet o' bilin grease, I finally pervailed on him to give in. Lum
is of a yieldin' dispersishun if a body goes at 'im right.

"Jim Henry, that's my boy, an' I tuk a early start. We had tied up the
colt in the cow shed and I wuz congratulatin' myself on bein' shet of
the pesky critter when I heerd him nicker. Lookin' back, I saw him
comin' in a gallerp, his head turned to one side, while he fairly
obscured the landscape with great clouds o' pike dust!

"We wuz crossin' the railroad when old Julie heered that nicker, an'
right thar she balked. Neither gentle persuasion from the peach tree
switch which I helt in my hand, nor well-aimed kicks of Jim Henry's
boots in her flanks could budge her till that colt come up pantin'
beside her. We jest did clear the track when the accomerdashun whizzed
by. Well, sir, when old Julie spied them kyars she began buck-jumpin'
in a manner that would'er struck terror to a less experienced
hosswoman. Jim Henry, who wuz gazin' at the train with childlike
pleasure, wuz tuk wholly by suprise, and before he knowed what wuz up
he wuz precippytated inter the branches o' a red-haw tree. He crawled
out, a wreck, his face and hands scratched and bleedin' and his
britches hangin' in shreds, and them his Sundays, too! I managed to
pin 'em tergether with beauty pins, and cautionin' him not to turn his
back to the ordiance, we finally resumed our journey. That colt alluz
tries hisself, and jest as we reached the square, in Glasgow, his
appertite began clammerin', and Julie refused to go till the pesky
critter's wants wuz appeased. Them Glasgowites is dear lovers of good
hoss flesh, and quite a crowd gethered to discuss the good pints of
the old mare and that mule colt.

"Some boys mistook Jim Henry for somebody they knowed and hollered,
'Say, Reube!' 'Hey, Reube!' at him. Jim Henry wuz fur explainin' to
'em their mistake, till one of 'em began to sing, 'When Reuben comes
to town, he's shore to be done brown!' 'Jim Henry,' says I, sternly,
'you're no child o' mine ef you take _that_! Now, if you don't get
down and thrash him I'm agoin' to set you afire when I get you home.'

"Jim Henry needed no second biddin'. He wuz off that nag in a jiffy,
and the way he did wallerp that boy wuz a cawshun! He sellerbrated his
victry by givin' the Bear Waller war-whoop. Then crawlin' up behind
me, he said he wuz _now_ ready fur meetin'. That boy's a born fiter.
He gets it honest, for me and Lum are both experts, but then practice
makes perfect, as the sayin' is.

"Our arrival created considerable stir in meetin'. Why is it that when a
distinguished person enters a church it allus perduces a flutter? Owin'
to the rent in Jim Henry's britches, I shoved him inter the back seat.
Cautionin' him not to let me ketch him throwin' paper wads, I swept
merjestercally up the ile and tuk a seat by the orgin. A flood of
approvin' glances fastened themselves on my jet bonnet and fur-lined
dolman. I wuz sorry I didn't know the fust song. It must have been a new
one to that choir. Thar wuz four of 'em and each one wuz singin' it to a
different tune, and they jest couldn't keep tergether! The coarse-voiced
gal to my rear lagged dretfully. When the tall blonde, who wuz the only
one of 'em that knowed the tune, when she'd sing,

      "'Wake the song!'

that gal who lagged would echo,

      "'Wake the song!'

in a voice as coarse as Lum's. She 'peared to depend on the tall gal
for the words, for when the tall 'un would sing,

      "'Song of Ju-ber-lee,'

the gal that lagged, and the two gents, would repeat, 'Of Ju-ber-lee.'

"I passed her my book, thinkin' the words wuz tore out o' hern, but,
la! she jest glared at me, and she and them gents, if anything,
bellered louder'n ever. I looked at the preacher, expecting to see him
covered with shygrin, but, la! he wuz takin' it perfectly cam, with
his eyes walled up at the ceilin' and his hands folded acrost his
stummick like he might be havin' troubles of his own.

"I kept hopin' that tryo would either ketch up with the leader or jest
have the curridge to quit. Goodness knows, I done what I could fur
'em, by beatin' time with my turkey wing.

"Somebody must have give 'em a tip, for the next song which the
preacher give out as 'a solo,' that tryo jest pintedly giv it up and
set thar is silent as clambs. The tall gal riz and commenced singin'
and that tryo never pertended to help her out! My heart ached in
symperthy fur her as she stood thar alone, singin' away with her voice
quaverin', and not a human bein' in that house jined in, not even the
_preacher_! But she had _grit_, and kept right on! Most people
would'er giv right up. She's a middlin' good singer, but is dretfully
handercapt by that laggin' tryo and a passel o' church members that
air too triflin' to sing in meetin'. The song wuz a new 'un to me, but
havin' a nacheral year for music, I soon ketched the tune and jined in
on the last verse with a vim. Of course I could only hummit, not
knowin' the words, but I come down on it good and strong and showed
them folks that Angeline Keaton ain't one to shirk a duty, if they
wuz. After the sermon the preacher giv out 'Thar Is a Fountain Filled
with Blood.' Here wuz my chanct to show 'em what the brag-voice of
Bear Waller wuz like!

"With my voice risin' and falling and dwellin' with extry force on the
fust syllerbles of foun-tin and sin-ners, in long, drawn-out meeter, I
fairly lost myself in the grand old melerdy. I wuz soarin' inter the
third verse when I discovered I wuz the only one in the house that
knowed it! The rest of 'em wuz singin' it to a friverlous tune like
them Mose Beasley plays on his fiddle! What wuz more, they wuz
titterin' like I wuz in errer! The very idy! That wuz too much fur me,
and beckernin' Jim Henry to foller, I marched outer meetin'!

"We found the old mare had slipped the bridle and gone home, so thar
wuz nothin' left fur us to do but foot it. The last thing I heered as
we struck the Bear Waller pike and set out fur home wuz that
coarse-voiced gal, still lagging behind, as she sang,

      "'The Blood of the Lamb!'"


Miss Maria Thompson Daviess, author of _The Melting of Molly_, was born
at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in October, 1872, the descendant of the famous
Joseph Hamilton Daviess, the granddaughter of the historian of
Harrodsburg, whose full name she bears, and the niece of Mrs. H. D.
Pittman and Miss Annie Thompson Daviess, the Kentucky novelists. Miss
Daviess was graduated from Science Hill Academy, Shelbyville, Kentucky,
in 1891, after which she studied English for a year at Wellesley
College. She then went to Paris to study art at Julien's, and several of
her pictures have been hung in the Salon. As a miniature painter she
excelled. At the conclusion of her art course, Miss Daviess returned to
America, making her home at Nashville, Tennessee, where she resides at
the present time. She taught at Belmont College, Nashville, for a year
or more, and set up as a painter of miniatures for a public that
demanded values in their portraits that she could not see fit to grant,
so she finally decided to write. Miss Daviess's first book, and the one
that she is still best known by, was _Miss Selina Lue and the Soap-Box
Babies_ (Indianapolis, 1909). Miss Lue, spinster, tucks babies into a
row of soap-boxes, maintaining sort of a free day-nursery, and the
reader has much delicious humor from her duties. _Miss Selina Lue_ was
followed by _The Road to Providence_ (Indianapolis, 1910), dominated by
the character of Mother Mayberry, guide, philosopher, and friend to a
Tennessee town; _Rose of Old Harpeth_ (Indianapolis, 1911), was a love
story "as ingenuous and sweet as a boy's first kiss under a ruffled
sunbonnet." Selina Lue and Mother Mayberry were both past their bloom;
Rose possessed the power and glory of youth. _The Treasure Babies_
(Indianapolis, 1911), was a delightful children's story, which has been
dramatized and produced, but Miss Daviess's most charming novel, _The
Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912), was "the saucy success of the
season," for eight months the best selling book in America. Molly must
melt from the plumpest of widows to the slenderest of maidens in just
three months because the sweetheart of her girlhood days, now a
distinguished diplomat, homeward bound, demands a glimpse of her in the
same blue muslin dress which she wore at their parting years ago. The
melting process, with the O. Henry twist at the end, is the author's
business to narrate, and she does it in the most fetching manner. The
little novel is "gay, irresistible, all sweetness and spice and
everything nice." Miss Daviess's latest story, _Sue Jane_ (New York,
1912), has for its heroine a little country girl who comes to Woodlawn
Seminary (which is none other than the author's _alma mater_, Science
Hill), is at first laughed at and later loved by the girls of that
school. She is as quaint and charming a child as one may hope to meet in
the field of juvenile fiction. _The Elected Mother_ (Indianapolis,
1912), the best of the three short-stories tucked in the back of the
Popular edition of _Miss Selina Lue_ (New York, 1911), was a rather
unique argument for woman's equal rights. It proves that motherhood and
mayoralties may go hand and hand--in at least one modern instance.
_Harpeth Roses_ (Indianapolis, 1912), were wise saws culled from the
pages of her first four books, made into an attractive little volume.
Just as the year of 1912 came to a close Miss Daviess's publishers
announced that her new novel, _Andrew the Glad_, a love story, would
appear in January, 1913. _Phyllis_, another juvenile, will also be
issued in 1913, but will first be serialized in _The Visitor_, a
children's weekly, of Nashville. That Miss Daviess has been an
indefatigable worker may be gathered at a glance. She has the "best
seller touch," which is the most gratifying thing a living writer may
possess. The present public demands that its reading shall be as light
as a cream puff and sparking as a brook, and, in order to qualify for
_The Bookman's_ monthly handicap, a writer must possess those two
requisites: deftness of touch and brightness. These Miss Daviess has.
And so, when the summer-days are over-long and the winter's day is dull,
Maria Thompson Daviess and her brood of books will be found certain
dispellers of earthly woes and bringers of good cheer.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (December, 1909); _The Bookman_ (July,


[From _The Melting of Molly_ (Indianapolis, 1912)]

Why don't people realize that a seventeen-year-old girl's heart is a
sensitive wind-flower that may be shattered by a breath? Mine
shattered when Alfred went away to find something he could do to make
a living, and Aunt Adeline gave the hard green stem to Mr. Carter when
she married me to him. Poor Mr. Carter!

No, I wasn't twenty, and this town was full of women who were aunts
and cousins and law-kin to me, and nobody did anything for me. They
all said with a sigh of relief, "It will be such a nice safe thing for
you, Molly." And they really didn't mean anything by tying up a gay,
dancing, frolicking, prancing colt of a girl with a terribly ponderous
bridle. But God didn't want to see me always trotting along slow and
tired and not caring what happened to me, even pounds and pounds of
plumpness, so he found use for Mr. Carter in some other place but this
world, and I feel that He is going to see me through whatever happens.
If some of the women in my missionary society knew how friendly I feel
with God, they would put me out for contempt of court.

No, the town didn't mean anything by chastening my spirit with Mr.
Carter, and they didn't consider him in the matter at all, poor man.
Of that I feel sure. Hillsboro is like that. It settled itself here in
a Tennessee valley a few hundreds of years ago and has been hatching
and clucking over its own small affairs ever since. All the houses set
back from the street with their wings spread out over their gardens,
and mothers here go on hovering even to the third and fourth
generation. Lots of times young, long-legged, frying-size boys
scramble out of the nests and go off to college and decide to grow up
where their crow will be heard by the world. Alfred was one of them.

And, too, occasionally some man comes along from the big world and
marries a plump little broiler and takes her away with him, but mostly
they stay and go to hovering life on a corner of the family estate.
That's what I did.

I was a poor, little, lost chick with frivolous tendencies and they all
clucked me over into this empty Carter nest which they considered
well-feathered for me. It gave them all a sensation when they found out
from the will just how well it was feathered. And it gave me one, too.
All that money would make me nervous if Mr. Carter hadn't made Doctor
John its guardian, though I sometimes feel that the responsibility of me
makes him treat me as if he were my step-grandfather-in-law. But all in
all, though stiff in its knees with aristocracy, Hillsboro is lovely
and loving; and couldn't inquisitiveness be called just real affection
with a kind of squint in its eye?

And there I sat on my front steps, being embraced in a perfume of
everybody's lilacs and peachblow and sweet syringa and affectionate
interest and moonlight, with a letter in my hand from the man whose
two photographs and many letters I had kept locked up in the garret
for years. Is it any wonder I tingled when he told me that he had
never come back because he couldn't have me and that now the minute he
landed in America he was going to lay his heart at my feet? I added
his honors to his prostrate heart myself and my own beat at the
prospect. All the eight years faded away and I was again back in the
old garden down at Aunt Adeline's cottage saying good-by, folded up in
his arms. That's the way my memory put the scene to me, but the word
"folded" made me remember that blue muslin dress again. I had promised
to keep it and wear it for him when he came back--and I couldn't
forget that the blue belt was just twenty-three inches and mine
is--no, I _won't_ write it. I had got that dress out of the old trunk
not ten minutes after I had read the letter and measured it.

No, nobody would blame me for running right across the garden to
Doctor John with such a real trouble as that! All of a sudden I hugged
the letter and the little book up close to my breast and laughed until
the tears ran down my cheeks.

Then before I went into the house I assembled my garden and had family
prayers with my flowers. I do that because they are all the family I've
got, and God knows that all His budding things need encouragement,
whether it is a widow or a snowball-bush. He'll give it to us!

And I'm praying again as I sit here and watch for the doctor's light
to go out. I hate to go to sleep and leave it burning, for he sits up
so late and he is so gaunt and thin and tired-looking most time.
That's what the last prayer is about, almost always,--sleep for him
and no night call!


[70] Copyright, 1912, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company.


Cale Young Rice, poet and dramatist, was born at Dixon, Kentucky,
December 7, 1872. He graduated from Cumberland University, in
Tennessee, and then went to Harvard University, where he received his
Bachelor of Arts degree in 1895, and his Master's degree in the
following year. In 1902 Mr. Rice was married to Miss Alice Caldwell
Hegan, whose _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ had been published the
year before. Mr. Rice has been busy for years as a lyric poet and
maker of plays for the study, though several of them, indeed, have
received stage presentation. His several books of shorter poems are:
_From Dusk to Dusk_ (Nashville, Tennessee, 1898); _With Omar_
(Lebanon, Tennessee, 1900), privately printed in an edition of forty
copies; _Song Surf_ (Boston, 1901), in which _With Omar_ was
reprinted; _Nirvana Days_ (New York, 1908); _Many Gods_ (New York,
1910); and his latest book of lyrics, _Far Quests_ (New York, 1912).
Mr. Rice's plays have been published as follows: _Charles di Tocca_
(New York, 1903); _David_ (New York, 1904); _Plays and Lyrics_ (London
and New York, 1906), a large octavo containing _David_, _Yolanda of
Cyprus_, a poetic drama, and all of his best work; _A Night in
Avignon_ (New York, 1907), a little one-act play based upon the loves
of Petrarch and Laura, which was "put upon the boards" in Chicago with
Donald Robertson in the leading _role_. It was part one of a dramatic
trilogy of the Italian Renaissance. Next came a reprinting in an
individual volume of his _Yolanda of Cyprus_ (New York, 1908); and
_The Immortal Lure_ (New York, 1911), four plays, the first of which,
_Giorgione_, is part two of the trilogy of one-act plays of which _A
Night in Avignon_ was the first part. The trilogy will be closed with
another one-act drama, _Porzia_, which is now announced for
publication in January, 1913. Mr. Rice has been characterized by the
_New York Times_ as a "doubtful poet," but that paper's recent and
uncalled for attack upon Madison Cawein, together with many other
seemingly absurd positions, makes one wonder if it is not a "doubtful
judge." After all is said, it must be admitted that Mr. Rice has done
a small group of rather pleasing lyrics, and that his plays, perhaps
impossible as safe vehicles for an actor with a reputation to sustain,
are not as turgid as _The Times_ often is, and not as superlatively
poor as some critics have held. Of course, Mr. Rice is not a great
dramatist, nor a great poet, yet the body of his work is considerable,
and our literature could ill afford to be rid of it. The Rices have an
attractive home in St. James Court, Louisville, Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (September, 1904); _The Atlantic
    Monthly_ (September, 1904); _The Bookman_ (December, 1911);
    _Lippincott's Magazine_ (January, 1912).


[From _A Night in Avignon_ (New York, 1907)]

  _Petrarca._ While we are in the world the world's in us.
              The Holy Church I own--
              Confess her Heaven's queen;
              But we are flesh and all things that are fair
              God made us to enjoy--
              Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but sorrow.
              You though would ban earth's beauty,
              Even the torch of Glory
              That kindled Italy once and led great Greece--
              The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all
              The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born!
              I love them! they are divine!
              And so to-night--I--
              They! it is Lello! Lello! Lello! Sancia!--

(_Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; then
Sancia singing:_)

  To the maids of Saint Rèmy
    All the gallants go for pleasure;
  To the maids of Saint Rèmy--
    Tripping to love's measure!
  To the dames of Avignon
    All the masters go for wiving;
  To the dames of Avignon--
    That shall be their shriving!

(_He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then Lello cries:_)

  _Lello._ Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in?
           What! are you a sonnet-monger?

  _Petrarca._                     Ai, ai, aih!
              (_Motions_ Gherhardo--_who goes_.)

  _Lello._ Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in!
                       (_Rattles it._)

  _Petrarca._ No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill!
              Look for it and ascend!
                           (Orso _enters_.)
              Stay, here is Orso!

(_The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet them. In a
moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter--_Lello_ between

  Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline!
  Ehyo! ninni! onni! onz!
  I went fishing on All Saints' Day
  And--caught but human bones!

  I went fishing on All Saints' Day,
  The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black!
  I went fishing on All Saints' Day--
  But my love called me back!

  She called me back and she kissed my lips--
  Oh, my lips! Oh! onni onz!
  "Better take love than--bones! bones!
          (Sancia _kisses_ Petrarca.)
  Better take love than bones."

(_They scatter with glee and_ Petrarca _seizes_ Sancia _to him_.)

  _Petrarca._ Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends!
              Warm love is better, better!
              And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand!
              And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!

  _Sancia._ (_interposing_). Or--less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca!
              You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.

  _Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!

  _Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine,
              To pledge him in!

  _Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er!
                       (_They go to the table._)
              And see, they are wreathed of April,
              With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.
              We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!

  _Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show
              Out of your sallow books?

  _Petrarca._               Those books were writ
              With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon
              Papyri of the stars!

  _Sancia._                    And--long ago?
              Ha! long ago?

  _Petrarca._           Returnless centuries!

  _Sancia._ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past,
              Loves mummies and their dust--
              And he will mould!
              Who loves the future loves what may not be,
              And feeds on fear.
              Only one flower has Time--its name is Now!
              Come, pluck it! pluck it!

  _Lello._                     Brava, maid! the Now!

  _Sancia._ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it!

  _Petrarca._           By my soul, I will:
                       (_Seizes her again._)
              It grows upon these lips--and if to-night
              They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would.
                      (_She breaks from him._)

  _Flippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine!

  _Sancia._                     O ever-thirsty
              And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
                    (_She lifts a brimming cup._)
              We'll drink to Messer Petrarca--
              Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.
              May he long revel in the courts of Venus!

  _All (drinking)._                Aih, long!

  _Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them!

  _Flippa._   I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.

  _Sancia._   And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa!
              Messer Petrarca, should not be made
              High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,
              Whose breath of life is oaths?...
              But, swear it!--by the Saints!
              Who were great sinners all!
              And by the bones of every monk or nun
              Who ever darkened the world!

  _Lello._                 Or ever shall!
                                 (_A pause._)

  _Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing
              Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,
              Like nightingales in the wood!

  _Sancia._                          Pah! Messer Poet--
              Such words as those you vent without an end--
              To the Lady Laura!

  _Petrarca._ Stop!
                           (_Grows pale._)
              Not _her_ name--here!
                      (_All have sat down; he rises._)

  _Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might
              Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?
                       (_To the rest--rising._)
              Shall we depart, that he may still indite them?
              "To Laura--On the Vanity of Passion?"
              "To Laura--Unrelenting?"
              "To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?"
              "To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?"
                          (Orso _enters_.)
              Shall we depart?


[71] Copyright, 1907, by McClure, Phillips and Company.


Robert McNutt McElroy, author of the best of the recent histories of
Kentucky, was born at Perryville, Kentucky, December 28, 1872. He took
the three degrees conferred by Princeton University; and since 1901 he
has been assistant professor of American history in that institution.
For the _Metropolitan Magazine_ of New York Dr. McElroy wrote an
excellent _History of the Mexican War_, but this work has not yet
appeared in book form. His _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New
York, 1909), gave him an honorable place among the younger generation
of American historians, and certainly a high place in Kentucky
literature. Upon his history of Kentucky Dr. McElroy labored for many
years, no sacrifice was too great for him to make, no journey too long
for him to undertake, provided a better perspective were to be
obtained at the end of his travels. He spent many months with Colonel
Reuben T. Durrett at Louisville, working in his library, and sitting
at his feet drinking from the well of Western history which the
Colonel has kept undefiled. This, too, was what so sadly mars his
work: he does in the discussion of several great questions, hardly
more than serve as amanuensis for Colonel Durrett and the late Colonel
John Mason Brown. Their opinions and conclusions are accepted
_carte-blanche_, and all other authorities are ruthlessly set aside.
Dr. McElroy accepts Colonel Brown's book upon the Spanish Conspiracy,
and writes a single line concerning Thomas Marshall Green's great
work! He brings his narrative down to the commencement of the Civil
War, which probably indicates that a second volume is in preparation
in order that the entire field may be surveyed. His work is most
scholarly, the latest historical procedure is sustained throughout,
and the pity is that he so slavishly followed one or two authorities,
though both of them were wholly excellent and profound, to the
exclusion of all others. Originality of opinion is what the work
lacks, a lack which it might have easily possessed with the author's
undoubted ability, had he not lingered so long in literary Louisville.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Dr. McElroy to the Author; _Who's Who
    in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _Kentucky in the Nation's History_ (New York, 1909)]

It was at this critical moment that George Rogers Clark, the future
conqueror of the Northwest territory, took up his permanent abode
among the Kentucky pioneers. Clark had visited Kentucky, on a brief
tour of inspection, during the previous autumn (Sept., 1775), and had
been placed in command of the irregular militia of the settlements. He
had returned to Virginia, filled with the importance of establishing
in Kentucky an extensive system of public defence, and with the firm
conviction that the claims of Henderson & Company ought to be
disallowed by Virginia. His return to Kentucky, in 1776, marks the
beginning of the end of the Transylvania Company. In spite of his
youth (he was only twenty-four) he was far the most dangerous opponent
that Henderson & Company had in the province. A military leader by
nature, he had served in Lord Dunmore's war with such conspicuous
success that he had been offered a commission in the British Army.
This honor he had declined, preferring to remain free to serve his
country in the event of a revolt from British tyranny.

Shortly after his arrival, Clark proposed that, in order to bring
about a more certain connection with Virginia, and the more definitely
to repudiate the authority of the Transylvania Company, a regular
representative assembly should be held at Harrodsburg. His own views
he expressed freely in advancing his suggestion. Agents, he said,
should be appointed to urge once more the right of the region to be
taken under the protection of Virginia, and, if this request should
again be unheeded, we should "employ the lands of the country as a
fund to obtain settlers, and establish an independent state."

The proposed assembly convened at Harrodsburg on the 6th of June.
Clark was not present when the session began, and when he arrived, he
found that the pressing question of the day had already been acted
upon, and that he himself, with Gabriel John Jones, had been elected a
delegate to represent the settlements in the Virginia Assembly. Clark
knew that such an election would not entitle them to seats, but he
agreed to visit Williamsburg, and present the cause of his fellow
pioneers. Provided with a formal memorial to the Virginia Assembly, he
started, with Jones, for Virginia and, after a very painful journey,
upon which, Clark declared, I suffered "more torment than I ever
experienced before or since," they reached the neighborhood of
Charlottesville, only to learn that the Assembly had adjourned. Jones
set off for a visit to the settlements on the Holston; but Clark,
intent upon his mission, pushed on to Hanover County, where he secured
an interview with Patrick Henry, then Governor of Virginia.

After listening to Clark's report of the troubles of the frontier
colony, and doubtless enjoying his denunciation of the Transylvania
Company, Governor Henry introduced him to the executive Council of the
State, and he at once requested from them five hundred pounds of
powder for frontier defence. He had determined to accomplish the
object of his mission in any manner possible, and he knew that if he
could induce the authorities of Virginia to provide for the defence of
the frontier settlements, the announcement of her property rights in
them would certainly follow, to the destruction of the plans of
Henderson and his colleagues.

The Council, however, doubtless also foreseeing these consequences,
declared that its powers could not be so construed as to give it
authority to grant such a request. But Clark was insistent, and urged
his case so effectively that, after considerable discussion, the
Council announced that, as the call appeared urgent, they would assume
the responsibility of lending five hundred pounds of powder to Clark,
making him personally responsible for its value, in case their
assumption of authority should not be upheld by the Burgesses. They
then presented him with an order to the keeper of the public magazine,
calling for the powder desired.

This was exactly what Clark did not want, as the loan of five hundred
pounds of powder to George Rogers Clark, could in no sense be
interpreted as an assumption by Virginia, of the responsibility of
defending the western frontier, and his next act was most
characteristic of the man. He returned the order with a curt note,
declaring his intention of repairing at once to Kentucky, and exerting
the resources of that country to the formation of an independent
State, for, he frankly declared, "a country which is not worth
defending is not worth claiming."

This threat proved instantly successful. The Council recalled Clark to
their presence and, on August 23, 1776, delivered him another order
calling for five hundred pounds of gunpowder, which was to be conveyed
to Pittsburg by Virginia officials, there "to be safely kept and
delivered to George Rogers Clark or his order, for the use of the said
inhabitants of Kentucky."

With this concession Clark was completely satisfied, for he felt that by
it Virginia was admitting her obligation to defend the pioneers of the
West, and that an open declaration of sovereign rights over the
territory must soon follow. He accordingly wrote to his friends in
Kentucky, requesting them to receive the powder at Pittsburg, and convey
it to the Kentucky stations, while he himself awaited the opening of the
autumn session of the Virginia Assembly, where he hoped to procure a
more explicit verdict against the claims of Henderson's Company.

At the time appointed for the meeting, Clark, accompanied by his
colleague, Gabriel John Jones, proceeded to Williamsburg and presented
his petition to the Assembly, where again his remarkable personality
secured a victory. In spite of the vigorous exertions of Henderson and
Campbell in behalf of the Transylvania Company, the Virginia Assembly
(December 7, 1776) passed an act dividing the vast, ill-defined
region, hitherto known as Fincastle County, into three sections, to be
known as Kentucky County, Washington County, and Montgomery County,
Virginia. The County of Kentucky, comprising almost the same territory
as is contained in the present State of Kentucky, was thus recognized
as a political unit of the Virginia Commonwealth, and as such was
entitled to representation.

This statute decided the fate of the Transylvania Company, as there
could not be two Sovereign Proprietors of the soil of Kentucky County.
And so passed, a victim to its own lust of gain, the last attempt to
establish a proprietary government upon the free soil of the United
States; and George Rogers Clark, as founder of Kentucky's first
political organization, became the political father of the Commonwealth,
even as Daniel Boone had been the father of her colonization.


[72] Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Company.


Edwin Davies Schoonmaker, poet, was born at Scranton, Pennsylvania,
February 1, 1873. He removed from Ohio to Kentucky in 1886, and he
lived at Lexington almost continuously until 1904. Mr. Schoonmaker was
educated at old Kentucky (Transylvania) University; and in 1904 he
married a Kentucky woman, who has published a play and a novel. For
the last several years he and his wife have lived at Bearsville, New
York, high up in the Catskills. Mr. Schoonmaker's first book was a
verse play, entitled _The Saxons--a Drama of Christianity in the
North_ (Chicago, 1905). This was based upon the attempt on the part of
Rome to force the religion of Christ upon the pagans in the forests of
the North, and it was a very strong piece of work. His second work,
another verse drama, will appear in 1913, entitled _The Americans_.
It will be published by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, for whom Mr.
Schoonmaker is planning two other plays. Mr. Schoonmaker has had short
lyrics in many of the leading magazines.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Arena_ (May, 1906); _Hampton's Magazine_ (June,
    1910); _The Forum_ (August, 1912).


[From _The American Magazine_ (October, 1912)]

      I neither praise nor blame thee, aged Scot,
      In whose wide lap the shifting times have poured
      The heavy burden of that golden hoard
      That shines far off and shall not be forgot.

      I only see thee carving far and wide
      Thy name on many marbles through the land,
      Or flashing splendid from the jeweler's hand
      Where medaled heroes show thy face with pride.

      Croesus had not such royal halls as thou,
      Nor Timon half as many friends as crowd
      Thy porches when thy largesses are loud,
      Learning and Peace are stars upon thy brow.

      And still thy roaring mills their tribute bring
      As unto Cæsar, and thy charities
      Have borne thy swelling fame beyond the seas,
      Where thou in many realms art all but king.

      Yet when night lays her silence on thine ears
      And thou art at thy window all alone,
      Pondering thy place, dost thou not hear the groans
      Of them that bear thy burdens through the years?


[73] Copyright, 1912, by the Phillips Publishing Company.


Credo Harris, novelist, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, January 8,
1874. He was educated in the schools of Louisville and finished at
college in the East. He settled in New York as a newspaper man and the
following ten years of his life were given to that work. In 1908 Mr.
Harris abandoned daily journalism in order to devote himself to
fiction. Only a few of his short-stories had gotten into the magazines
when his first book, entitled _Toby, a Novel of Kentucky_ (Boston,
1912), appeared. In spite of the fact that the author's literary
models were, perhaps, too manifest, _Toby_ was well liked by many
readers. Mr. Harris's second story, _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New
York, 1912), was cordially received by those very critics who assailed
his first volume with vehemence. It is both a book of travels and a
romance, the recital being in the form of love letters to his
sweetheart, Polly, and also descriptive of the country from
Baden-Baden to Rome seen from the tonneau of a big touring-car. Mr.
Harris has a new story well under way, which will probably appear in
1913. He resides at Glenview, Kentucky, with his father, but his work
on _The Louisville Herald_ takes him into town almost every day.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Harris to the Author; _The
    Courier-Journal_ (November 30, 1912).


[From _Motor Rambles in Italy_ (New York, 1912)]

Bologna! Home of the sausage! Does not your mouth water at just the
thought of it! I can see your pretty nose turn up in a curve that
simply screams "Disgusting"--but you have never been quite fair to
this relic of menageries.

To-day at luncheon our waiter first pranced up with a dish I did not
recognize. It has long been a rule of mine--especially in Italy--that
when I do not recognize a dish I wave it by. But rules are sent
broadcast before the Bolognese spirit of patriotism. Would I be
permitted to refuse this dish? No. He poked it still nearer and gave
me a polite look. "No," I said, "not any." He poked it still nearer
and his look became troubled. "No," I said again. This time his look
was indignant as he exclaimed: "But, signor, it is _mortadella_!"
Indeed, we found his persistence quite justifiable.

I could be satisfied to linger here. It is a pleasant mixture of
cosmopolitan and mediaeval, blending a touch of geniality which adds
much to its charm. The people are happier, perhaps it would be best to
say more smiling, in Bologna than farther north. If one can be
reconciled to the incongruity of living in a hotel that was a
fifteenth century palace overlooking the solemn tombs of jurists, and
then stepping to the corner for a twentieth century electric car, he
can steel himself to put up with many other temperamental
contradictions to be found in this capital of the Emilia.

But because of its cosmopolitanism I shall tell you little. In big
places like this there is so much to see, so much to digest, so much
to read out of guide books, that--what's the use? My letters are
permitted, you have threatened, only so long as I tell an occasional
thing which may serve you and the Dowager when you come through next
year by motor, and while I do not believe you quite mean this, or
would throw it down if you saw me heading toward the tender realms of
nothingness, your wish shall, nevertheless, constitute my aim. Should
I digress, it will be because my love for you is stronger than
myself--an assertion of doubtful value at the present time.

So if you want to know Bologna, read your guide books. Here, you shall
have only the more untrodden paths, which, if you follow as I have
done, you may be fortunate. For you must know that all I have seen has
been discovered by your eyes alone. Many a day has passed since you
brought and taught me the things truly beautiful in this world. Great
sculptures, rich paintings, magnificent architecture, are in the well
worn paths of every one's progress which those who pass cannot help
seeing, but a changing leaf, the sweep of a bird, a child's laugh at
the roadside, ah, those are the bounties your hands have poured into
my lap! Thousands pass along this way, piled high with perishable
treasures, and never dream that they are trampling a masterpiece with
every crunch of their bourgeoise boots.


[74] Copyright, 1912, by Moffat, Yard and Company.


Mrs. Hallie Erminie Rives-Wheeler, maker of mysteries, was born near
Hopkinsville, Kentucky, May 2, 1874, the daughter of Colonel Stephen
T. Rives. She is a cousin of Princess Troubetzkey, the celebrated
Virginia novelist. Miss Rives, to give her her old name, was educated
in Kentucky schools, after which she went to New York with her mother.
In 1896 Miss Rives's mother died and she and her father moved to
Amherst county, Virginia, which is her present American home. Her
literary labors fall naturally into two periods: the first, which
included five "red-hot" books, as follows: _The Singing Wire and Other
Stories_ (Clarksville, Tennessee, 1892), the "other stories" being
four in number and nameless here; _A Fool in Spots_ (St. Louis, 1894);
_Smoking Flax_ (New York, 1897); _As the Hart Panteth_ (New York,
1898); and _A Furnace of Earth_ (New York, 1900). Miss Rives's second
period of work began with _Hearts Courageous_ (Indianapolis, 1902), a
romance of Revolutionary Virginia, and continues to the present time.
This was followed by _The Castaway_ (Indianapolis, 1904), based upon
the career of Lord Byron; and the great poems of the Englishman are
made to swell the length of the story. In _Tales from Dickens_
(Indianapolis, 1905), Miss Rives did for the novelist what Lamb did
for Shakespeare--made him readable for children. _Satan Sanderson_
(Indianapolis, 1907), a wild and thrilling tale of today, one of the
"six best sellers" for many months, was followed by what is, perhaps,
her best book, a story set in Japan, entitled _The Kingdom of Slender
Swords_ (Indianapolis, 1910). Her latest novel is _The Valiants of
Virginia_ (Indianapolis, 1912), the action of which begins in New
York, but is transferred to Virginia. Miss Rives was married in Tokyo,
Japan, December 29, 1906, to Mr. Post Wheeler, writer and diplomat,
now connected with the American embassy at Rome. While none of her
novels is set against Kentucky backgrounds, several of her short
stories published in the magazines are Kentucky to the core.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The American Review of Reviews_ (October, 1902);
    _The Nation_ (August 11, 1904).


[From _Satan Sanderson_ (Indianapolis, 1907)]

Inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting Harry Sanderson. He
had officiated at his ordination and liked him. His eyes took in the
simple order of the room, lingering with a light tinge of disapproval
upon the violin case in the corner, and with a deeper shade of question
upon the jewel on the other's finger--a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting
curiously twisted of the two initial letters of his name.

There came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early prodigalities
and wildness which he had heard. For the lawyer who had listened to
Harry Sanderson's recital on the night of the making of the will had
not considered it a professional disclosure. He had thought it a "good
story," and had told it at his club, whence it had percolated at
leisure through the heavier strata of town-talk. The tale, however,
had seemed rather to increase than to discourage popular interest in
Harry Sanderson. The bishop knew that those whose approval had been
withheld were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could not
have denied that he possessed desirable qualities--a manner by turns
sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, and the
unteachable tone of blood--and had infused new life into a generally
sleepy parish. He had dismissed the whisper with a smile, but oddly
enough it recurred to him now at sight of the ruby ring.

"I looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "I've just
come from David Stires--he has a letter from Van Lennap, the great
eye-surgeon of Vienna. He disagrees with the rest of them--thinks
Jessica's case may not be hopeless."

The cloud that Hugh's call had left on Harry's countenance lifted.

"Thank God!" he said. "Will she go to him?"

The bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed to hold
more than a conventional relief.

"He is to be in America next month. He will come here to examine, and
perhaps to operate. An exceptional girl," went on the bishop, "with a
remarkable talent! The angel in the chapel porch, I suppose you know,
is her modelling, though that isn't just masculine enough in feature
to suit me. The Scriptures are silent on the subject of woman-angels
in Heaven; though, mind you, I don't say they're not common on earth!"

The bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram.

"Poor child!" he continued more soberly. "It will be a terrible thing
for her if this last hope fails her, too! Especially now, when she and
Hugh are to make a match of it."

Harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen it suddenly
startled. "To make a match of it!" To hide the flush he felt staining
his cheek, Harry bent to close the safe. A something that had darkled in
some obscure depth of his being, whose existence he had not guessed, was
throbbing now to a painful resentment. Jessica to marry Hugh!

"A handsome fellow--Hugh!" said the bishop. "He seems to have returned
with a new heart--a brand plucked from the burning. You had the same
_alma mater_, I think you told me. Your influence has done the boy
good, Sanderson!" He laid his hand kindly on the other's shoulder.
"The fact that you were in college together makes him look up to
you--as the whole parish does," he added.

Harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. But through the
turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating:

"No, they don't call me 'Satan' now!"


[75] Copyright, 1907, by the Bobbs-Merrill Company.


Edwin Carlile Litsey, author of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_, was
born at Beechland, Kentucky, June 3, 1874. He was educated in public
and private schools, but he did not go to college. At the age of
seventeen years Mr. Litsey entered the banking business, and he is now
connected with the Marion National Bank, of his present home, Lebanon,
Kentucky. His first novel, _The Princess of Gramfalon_ (Cincinnati,
1898), was a daring piece of imagination, creating impossible lands
and peoples, and it has been forgotten by author and public alike. Mr.
Litsey's strongest and best work so far is a beautiful tale of Nature,
entitled _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ (New York, 1902). This
novelette made the author many friends, as it is a charming story. In
1904 he won first prize in _The Black Cat_ story-contest, over ten
thousand competitors, with _In the Court of God_. His stories of wild
animals in their haunts were brought together in _The Race of the
Swift_ (Boston, 1905). This contains some of his best work, the first
story being especially fine and strong. Mr. Litsey's latest novel,
_The Man from Jericho_ (New York, 1911), was not up to the standard
set in his earlier works, and in no sense is it a noteworthy
production. It shows a decided falling off, and it brought
disappointment to many admirers of _The Love Story of Abner Stone_ and
_The Race of the Swift_. In 1912 Mr. Litsey contributed several
short-stories to _The Cavalier_, and next year he will issue another
novel, to be entitled _A Maid of the Kentucky Hills_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Book Buyer_ (July, 1902); _Munsey's Magazine_
    (April, 1903).


[From _The Race of the Swift_ (Boston, 1905)]

The next morning, near midday, her merciless offsprings teased and
worried her so that the she-fox crept forth in spite of the warning of
the day before, and set her sharp muzzle towards the crest of the
range, with the intention of invading territory which hitherto her
feet had never pressed. There were wild turkeys back in the hills, and
wary and suspicious as she knew them to be, they were no match for her
wily woodcraft. But scarcely had her noiseless feet gone over the top
of the knob, when a sharp yelp immediately behind her caused her to
jump and turn quickly. They were there--her enemies--and their noses
were smelling out her trail, for as yet they had not seen her. Even as
she leaped for the nearest cover like a yellow flash, her first
thought was of the little ones biding at home. She must lead her foes
away from that cleft in the rocks where her love-children lay awaiting
her return. And though her life should be given up, yet would she die
alone, and far away, before she would sacrifice her young.

It was a hard and stubborn race which she ran for the next six hours.
At times her loyal, loving heart seemed ready to burst from the strain
she thrust upon it. At times fleet feet were pattering almost at her
heels, and pitiless jaws were held wide to grasp her; then again only
the echo of the stubborn cry of her pursuers reached her. She had
doubled time and again. Once a brief respite was granted her when she
dashed up a slanting tree-trunk which, in falling, had lodged in the
branches of another tree. Eight tawny forms dashed hotly, furiously
by, then she descended and took the back track. Only for a moment,
however, were the cunning dogs deceived. They discovered the artifice
almost as soon as it was perpetrated, and came harking back themselves
with redoubled zeal. So the long hours of the afternoon wore away. Not
a moment that was free from effort; not an instant that death did not
hover over the mother fox, awaiting the least misstep to descend. Back
and forth, around and across, and still the subtlety of the fox eluded
the haste and fury of the hounds. All were tired to the point of
exhaustion, but none would give up. The sun went down; tremulous
shadows, like curtains hung, were draped among the trees. The timid
stars came out again and the halfed moon arose, a little larger than
the night before. And still, with inveterate hate on the one side, and
the undying strength of despair on the other, the grim chase swept
through the night. At last the blood-rimmed eyes of the reeling quarry
saw familiar landmarks. Unconsciously, in her blind efforts, she had
come to the neighborhood of her den. Perhaps the love within her heart
had guided her back. She found her strength quickly failing, and with
a realization of this her scheming brain awoke as from a trance, and
drove her to deeper guile. Two rods away was the creek. To it she
staggered, splashed through the low water for a dozen yards, and hid
herself beneath the gnarled roots of a tree from the base of which the
stream had eaten away the soil. She listened intensely. She heard the
pack lose the scent, search half-heartedly for a few minutes, for
they, too, were weary to dropping, then withdraw one at a time,
beaten. But for half an hour the brave animal lay against the tree
roots, waiting and resting. Then she came out cautiously, looked
around her, and with difficulty gained the mouth of her den. Casting
one keen glance over her shoulder through the checkered spaces of the
forest, she glided softly within, and lying down, curled her tired
body protectingly around her sleeping little ones.


[76] Copyright, 1905, by Little, Brown and Company.


Milton Bronner, literary critic and journalist, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, November 10, 1874. He was graduated from the
University of Virginia, in 1895, when he returned to his home to join
the staff of the old _Louisville Commercial_. In 1900 Mr. Bronner
removed to Covington, Kentucky, to become city editor of _The Kentucky
Post_, of which paper he is now editor-in-chief. Mr. Bronner's first
book, called _Letters from the Raven_ (New York, 1907), was a work
about Lafcadio Hearn with many of Hearn's hitherto unpublished
letters. His second and most important volume so far, _Maurice
Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910), is the first adequate discussion of the
novels and poems of the celebrated English author. His method was to
treat the works in the order of their publication, together with a
brief word upon Mr. Hewlett's life. His little book must have pleased
the novelist as much as it did the public. Mr. Bronner seems to have a
_flair_ for new writers who later "arrive." Thus years ago _Poet-Lore_
published his paper on William Ernest Henley, before Henley's fame was
so firmly established. Some years later _The Independent_ had his
essay on Francis Thompson, whom all the world now declares to have
been a great and true poet. Still later _The Forum_ printed his
criticism of John Davidson, in which high estimates were set upon the
unfortunate fellow's works; and _The Bookman_ has printed a series of
his critical appreciations of such men as John Masefield, Ezra Pound,
Wilbur Underwood, W. H. Davies, W. W. Gibson, and Lionel Johnson,
which introduced these now celebrated poets to the American public.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Forum_ (September, 1910); _The Bookman_
    (August; November, 1911); _The Bookman_ (April; October, 1912).


[From _Maurice Hewlett_ (Boston, 1910)]

Mr. Hewlett is mainly interested in his women. They are the pivots
about whom his comedies and tragedies move. And his treatment of them
differs from all the great contemporary novelists. Kipling gives
snapshot photographs of women. He shows them in certain brief moments
of their existence, in vivid blacks and whites, caught on the instant
whether the subjects were laughing or crying. Stevenson's few women
are presented in silhouette. Barrie and Hardy give etchings in which
line by line and with the most painstaking art, the features are
drawn. But Meredith and Mr. Hewlett give paintings in which brush
stroke after brush stroke has been used. The reader beholds the
finished work, true not only in features, but in colouring.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now Mr. Hewlett is purely medieval. The Hewlett woman is forever the
plaything of love. She is always in the attitude of the pursuing who
is pursued. She is forever the subject of passion, holy or unholy. Men
will fight for her, plunge kingdoms and cities in war or ruin for her,
die for her. Sometimes, as in "The Stooping Lady," she is the willing
object of this love and stoops to enjoy its divine benison; sometimes
she flees from it when it displays a satyr face as in "The Duchess of
Nona;" sometimes she is caught up in its tragic coil as in "The
Queen's Quair," and destroyed by it. Hewlett's women, like Hardy's,
are stray angels, but like Meredith's they are creatures of the chase.
And, note the difference from Meredith!--this, according to the gospel
of Mr. Hewlett, is as it should be.

Since it is woman's proper fate to be loved, it would seem to be
impossible for Mr. Hewlett to write a story in which there is not some
romantic love interest. And in each case there is a stoop on the part
of one. The stoop may be happy or the reverse, but it is there. He
recurs to the idea again and again, but each time with a difference
that prevents monotony.

In the main, Mr. Hewlett's women are good women. They are loyal and
loving, ready alike to take beatings or kisses. There is no ice in
their bosoms which must needs be thawed. Nor are Mr. Hewlett's women
"kind" after the manner of the Stendhal characters. They are not women
who make themselves common. For the most part, they are Rosalinds and
Perditas of an humbler sort, with the beauty of those immortal girls,
but without their supreme wit and high spirits. They are girls who are
stricken down with love's dart and who make no effort to remove the
dear missiles. They are true dwellers in romance-land, beautiful
creatures who give themselves to their chosen lords without thought of
sin or of the future.


[77] Copyright, 1910, by L. E. Bassett.


Alastair St. Clair Mackenzie, author of _The Evolution of Literature_,
was born at Inverness, Scotland, February 17, 1875. "Blue as a molten
sapphire gleams the Moray Firth below Culloden Moor, under whose
purple heather sleep some of the warrior ancestors of Alastair St.
Clair Mackenzie, near which he was born." The University of Glasgow
conferred the degree of Master of Arts upon him in 1892. He then did
graduate work in English at the University of Edinburgh for a year,
after which he studied for some months under Sir Richard C. Jebb of
the University of Cambridge, and Edward Caird of Oxford University.
Mackenzie met S. R. Crockett, Henry Drummond, William Black, Alfred
Tennyson, and many other distinguished men of letters, before he came
to America. After a brief residence in Philadelphia he came to the
State University of Kentucky, at Lexington, in September, 1899, as
head of the department of English, and under his supervision the
curriculum has been extended from three courses to thirty. Among
Kentucky educators he has been the pioneer in introducing Journalism,
Comparative Philology, and Comparative Literature. In 1911 he
received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Kentucky Wesleyan
College, the only degree of the kind ever conferred by that
institution. In 1912 Dr. Mackenzie was Ropes Foundation lecturer at
the University of Cincinnati. He is now dean of the Graduate School of
the University of Kentucky. Besides contributing many articles to
periodicals, Dr. Mackenzie wrote, in 1904, the first history of
Lexington Masonic Lodge, No. 1, the earliest in the West; and, in
1907, the article on Hew Ainslie, the Scottish-Kentucky poet,
published in the _Library of Southern Literature_, and pronounced by
many competent critics to be the finest essay in that great
collection. His _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911), the
English edition of which was issued by John Murray, London, deals with
the origins of literature, as its title indicates, and it has placed
Dr. Mackenzie at the head of Southern students of this subject. Into
this work went the researches and deliberate judgments of a lifetime;
and that a scholar should produce such a work in the West or South,
without a great library near at hand, is in itself remarkable. Dr.
Mackenzie has done what will probably come to be regarded as the most
scholarly production of a Kentucky hand, although the work is more
suggestive than it is conclusive.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v.
    xv); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Evolution of Literature_ (New York, 1911)]

Here is an old Keltic tale of farewell. It was a night of mist, a low
moon brooding over the braes, the heathery braes. The man sat by the
seashore, as he sang quaint ballads of a land across the water, where
men never see death. There was none to reveal the secrets of the
glens, nor could any one tell him what the eagle cried to the stag at
the corrie, while the burn wimpled on with its song of sobbing. He sat
and listened, but he was knowing naught of sadness. To his ears came
only the accents of the fairies of joy, and they called him to seek
the fountain where song had its birth. Away from the sea he climbed
till its voice came faint, faint across the bracken. At last, full
weary, he slept. The night passed, and a leveret stood up, gazing upon
his face without fear. A deer came to the stream, beheld the sleeping
figure, and fled not. A grey linnet perched upon the pale hand lying
across the bosom; it looked the sun in the face, and sang, but the man
did not awake. Again the shadows melted into the night of stars, and
the hills said to one another, "He has found Death and Life. For we
know, and God knows, all his dreams. He has found the secret of the
sea, the message of all the streams, and the fountain-head of song."

In quest of literary strivings and achievements, lowly as well as
exalted, we have journeyed through all the principal lands of the globe.
The forests of Africa have shaded us from the scorching sun, and the
tang of the salt sea has smitten us off Cape Horn. Visions of scenes
familiar have mingled with sights and sounds of cities that flourished
forty centuries ago. Wherever we have gone, we have noticed that
vitality is the quality which gives permanent value to all true art.
Popular opinion, blind perhaps to the qualities of art as art, caring
nothing about the more elusive charms of verse and prose, is quick to
detect the presence or absence of a vital relationship between
literature and humanity. Literary art voices life and gives life. The
higher the art the more effectively does it fill the onlooker with a
sense of life, personal and racial, dignified, wholesome, inexhaustible.
Apparently it is the ideal within the real that becomes ever more
manifest in the course of the evolution of literature.


[78] Copyright, 1911, by Thomas Y. Crowell and Company.


Miss Laura Spencer Portor, poet and short-story writer, was born at
Covington, Kentucky, in 1875. She lived at Covington until ten years
old, when she was taken to Paris, France, where she attended private
schools for two years. She returned to Kentucky, and attended school
at Cincinnati, but she afterwards entered the old Norwood Institute,
Washington. Her education being finished, Miss Portor again made her
home at Covington, where she resided until a few years ago, when she
went to New York, her home at the present time. She has worked in many
literary fields. Children's work; essays; short-stories; feature and
editorial work of all kinds; and verse for children and "grown-ups."
Miss Portor is now children's editor of _The Woman's Home Companion_.
She has been so very busy with her magazine work that she has found
time to publish but one book, _Theodora_ (Boston, 1907), a little tale
for children, done in collaboration with Miss Katharine Pyle, sister
of the famous American artist, the late Howard Pyle, and herself an
artist and author of ability and reputation. The next few years will
certainly see several of Miss Portor's manuscripts published in book
form. Among her magazine stories and verse that have attracted
attention may be mentioned her purely Kentucky tales, such as "A
Gentleman of the Blue Grass," published in _The Ladies' Home Journal_;
"The Judge," which appeared in _The Woman's Home Companion_; "Sally,"
a Southern story, printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_; and "My French
School Days," an essay, also printed in _The Atlantic_, are thought to
be the best things in prose Miss Portor has written so far. Her poems,
"The Little Christ" (_Atlantic Monthly_), and "But One Leads South"
(_McClure's Magazine_), are her most characteristic work in verse. She
has written much for children in both prose and poetry. Miss Portor
is one of Kentucky's proudest hopes in fiction or verse, and the books
that are to be published from her pen will bring together her work in
a manner that will be highly pleasing to her admirers.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (August, 1900); _St. Nicholas
    Magazine_ (October, 1912).


[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1905]

      Mother, I am thy little Son--
        Why weepest thou?

      _Hush! for I see a crown of thorns,
        A bleeding brow._

      Mother, I am thy little Son--
        Why dost thou sigh?

      _Hush! for the shadow of the years
        Stoopeth more nigh!_

      Mother, I am thy little Son--
        Oh, smile on me.
      The birds sing blithe, the birds sing gay,
        The leaf laughs on the tree.

      _Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore
        That tree whereon they grow,
      I see it hewn, and bound, to bear
        The weight of human woe!_

      Mother, I am thy little Son--
        The Night comes on apace--
      When all God's waiting stars shall smile
        On me in thy embrace.

      _Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night!
        Oh, could'st thou slip away
      Now, by the hawthorn hedge of Death,--
        And get to God by Day!_


[From _McClure's Magazine_, December, 1909]

      So many countries of the earth,
      So many lands of such great worth;
      So stately, tall, and fair they shine,--
      So royal, all,--but one is mine.

      So many paths that come and go,
      Busy and freighted, to and fro;
      So many that I never see
      That still bring gifts and friends to me;
      So many paths that go and come,
      But one leads South,--and that leads home.

      Oh, I would rather see the face
      Of that dear land a little space
      Than have earth's richest, fairest things
      My own, or touch the hands of kings.--
      I'm homesick for it! When at night
      The silent road runs still and white,--
      Runs onward, southward, still and fair,
      And I know well it's going there,
      And I know well at last 'twill come
      To that old candle-lighted home,--
      Though all the candles of heaven are lit,
      I'm homesick for the sight of it!


[79] Copyright, 1905, by Houghton, Mifflin Company.

[80] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.


Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, poet and short-story writer, was born at
Eminence, Kentucky, in 1875. She is the daughter of the Rev. W. S.
Giltner, who was for many years president of Eminence College, from
which the future writer was graduated. She later pursued a course in
English at the University of Chicago, and studied Shakespeare and
dramatic art with Hart Conway of the Chicago School of Acting. Miss
Giltner's book of lyrics, _The Path of Dreams_ (Chicago, 1900), brought
her many kind words from the reviewers. This little book contained some
very excellent verse, but, shortly after its appearance, the author
abandoned poesy for the short-story. Her stories and sketches have
appeared in the _New England Magazine_, _The Century_, _Munsey's
Overland Monthly_, _The Reader_, _The Era_, and several other
periodicals. Within the last year or so she has had quite a number of
short-stories in _Young's Magazine_ "of breezy stories." At the present
time Miss Giltner has a Kentucky novel and a comedy in preparation, both
of which should appear shortly. She is one of the most beautiful of
Kentucky's writers: her frontispiece portrait in _The Path of Dreams_ is
said to have disarmed many carping critics who untied the little volume
with malice aforethought. But back of her personal loveliness, is a mind
of much power, cleverness, and originality.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (September 6, 1900); _Munsey's
    Magazine_ (October, 1902); _The Overland_ (October, 1910).


[From _Munsey's Magazine_ (July, 1904)].

From the first it had been, in the nature of things, perfectly patent
to every member of the party gathered at Grantleigh for the shooting
that Tompkins' bride cared not a whit for Tompkins--which, if one
happened to know the man, was scarcely a matter for surprise.

Tompkins, though a good fellow on the whole, was an unmitigated idiot.
Not a mere insignificant unit in the world's noble army of fools, but
a fool so conspicuous and of so infinite a variety as to be at all
times the cynosure of the general gaze.

When a man is a fool and knows it, his folly not infrequently attains
the measure of wisdom. Let him but conceal his motley beneath a cloak
of weighty silence and he will presently acquire a reputation for
solid intelligence and a wise conservatism. But Tompkins was not one
of these. He joyously jangled his bells and flourished his bauble,
wholly unaware the while of the spectacle he was making of himself. If
he could have been persuaded to take on a neutral tint and keep
himself well in the background, inanity might, in time, have assumed
the dignity of intellectuality: but he lacked the sense of proportion,
of values. He was always in the foreground and always a more or less
inharmonious element in the _ensemble_.

Tompkins had published an impossible volume of prose, followed by a
yet more impossible volume of verse: his crudely impressionistic
essays at art made the judicious grieve: he dabbled in music and posed
as a lyric tenor, though he had neither voice nor ear. A temperament
essentially histrionic kept him constantly in the centre of the stage.
With no remote realization of his limitations, he aspired to play
leads and heavies, when Fate had inexorably cast him for a line of low
comedy. He contrived to make divers and sundry kinds and degrees of an
idiot of himself on all possible occasions--and even when there was no
possible occasion therefor. He had a faculty for doing the wrong thing
which amounted to inspiration.

We had been wont to speculate at the Club as to whether Tompkins would
ever find a woman the measure of whose folly should so far exceed his
own as to impel her to marry him. We wondered much when we heard that
he had at last achieved this feat. We wondered more when we saw the
woman who had made it a possibility.

"_Titania_ and _Bottom_, by Jove!" whispered Ronalds to me as Tompkins
followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening of their arrival
at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked everywhere on account of his
relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) My fancy, which I had allowed to
play freely about the lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his
marriage, had wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had
accepted him as a _dernier resort_ and a simpering school girl too young
to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride--and gasped.

She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so compelling,
as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It quite took away
one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping at her, but she bore
the ordeal with all grace and calm, though she was the daughter of a
struggling curate in some obscure locality remote from social
advantages. She was of a singularly striking type: the beauty of her
face was almost tragic in its intensity: the ghost of some immemorial
sorrow seemed to lurk in the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too
sombre expression was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare
smile, she was positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to
"promulgate rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial
indifference to feminine charm should endorse me.)

       *       *       *       *       *

As the days passed--we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight--I found
myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some inaccuracy in
her interpretation of her _role_. But I watched in vain. There was
always a perfect appreciation of the requirements of the situation,
always the perfection of taste in its treatment. Evidently she had
thrown herself into the part and was playing it--would play it,
perhaps, to the end--with artistic _abandon_, tempered by a fine
discretion and discrimination. If her yoke galled, this proud woman
made no sign. But even the subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment,
and it was in such a moment that I chanced to see her the night before
the last of our stay.

The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the moors and were
on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. Tompkins had gone up
stairs just ahead of me (his apartments were next mine) and had
carelessly left a door opening on the corridor slightly ajar. In
passing I unconsciously glanced that way and my eyes fell full upon
the mirrored face of Elinor Tompkins as her husband crossed toward
where she sat at her dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed
her countenance held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an
unbelievable complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and
self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash it came
and went. The next instant she had forced herself to smile and was
lifting her face for her husband's caress, while Tompkins, physically
and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined his lips to hers. I
caught my breath sharply. A choking sensation in my throat paid
tribute to her art. Not even Duse was more a mistress of emotional
control, expression, and repression. But this was something more than
the perfection of acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance
long drawn out--a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's
mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering.

That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for the day,
and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to open his budget.
He had had the satisfaction of surprising us with the rumored
engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the scapegrace son of an
impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately at a scandal in high
official life: and had made his climax with the announcement of the
sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton and the consequent succession of
Delmar to his title and estates--when I glanced, by purest chance, at
Mrs. Tompkins. (I had fallen into a way of looking at her often--she
was certainly an interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the
lips. Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant she
had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered her wonted
perfect poise and calm.

That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the subject.
Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps at the moment.
In his unconscious egotism he never spared her: there was seldom a
moment when she might drop her smiling mask: the essence of his
personality pervaded her whole atmosphere.

"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying,
"and--_apropos_ of Delmar's succession to the title--he mentioned that
there had been a serious affair of the heart between him and our
fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. It seems one of
Ilverton's innumerable country places was near the village where the
Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl there last Autumn. The affair
soon assumed serious proportions: Ilverton heard of the engagement:
cut up an awful shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him
off to India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her
compliments to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have
given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused his son
and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should occasion
arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a bit, chuckled
mightily over the message and vowed that had it only been one of his
younger sons, she should have had him, by Jupiter!... But things
weren't easy for the girl at home. She had an invalid mother, a
nervous, nagging creature, who dinned it into her ears that she'd lost
the chance of a lifetime: that she was standing in the light of three
marriageable younger sisters: that with her limited social advantages
few matrimonial opportunities might be expected to come her way--and
more to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic."

"Why not have tried the stage--with her voice and presence any manager
would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested.

"She considered it, they say, but her reverend father turned a fit at
the bare suggestion. At this juncture, Tompkins presented himself as a
suitor: it was duly pointed out to Miss Barton by her loving parents
that he was rather an eligible _parti_: rich, not bad looking, and a
nephew of Wrexford's, and that she would better take the goods the
gods provided, which, in sheer desperation, she ultimately did. You
can see she loathes him, but she's evidently made up her mind to be
decent to him--and by Jove, she doesn't do it by halves! She's got
sand, all right, and I honor her for the way she makes the best of a
bad bargain--though it's not a pleasant thing to see."

"It's a beastly pity!" broke in Ronalds warmly. "It makes me ill to see
her wasting herself and her subtleties on a dolt like Algy. What a
splendid pair she and Del would have made, and what a shame his Lordship
didn't obligingly die a few months sooner--since it had to be!"

At this precise moment I caught sight of Tompkins standing just
without the parted portierres. How long he had been there I could not
guess, but doubtless quite long enough. He looked like a man who had
had a facer and was a bit dazed in consequence. I think I gasped, for
on the instant he looked my way with a glance that held an appeal,
which I must somehow have answered. In an instant he was gone and the
other men, all unaware of his proximity, pursued their theme.

I did not see Tompkins at our hurried buffet breakfast next morning, and
I began to hope he would not go out with the guns that day, thus sparing
me the awkward necessity of meeting him again. But he presently appeared
on the terrace in his shooting togs, and I knew I was in for it. His
manner, however, which was entirely as usual, reassured me. Either he
had heard less than I had feared or the callousness of stupidity
protected him. He chatted with his wonted gayety with the men: he made
the ladies at hand to see us off a labored compliment or two, and met my
eye without consciousness or embarassment. I wondered if it were
stolidity or stoicism? All day he was in the best of spirits: he was
positively hilarious when we gathered at the gamekeeper's cottage for
luncheon--and I decided upon the former with a sense of relief, for the
thing had somehow got on my nerves.

But later, as we returned to the field, he so palpably waited for me
to come up with him (we always put Tompkins in the van for safety's
sake--he did such fearful and wonderful things with his gun) that I
was forced to join him. After a moment he said, with an effort:

"Sibley, I want to ask, as a very great personal favor, that you will
never, under any circumstances, mention to anyone--to _any one_," he
repeated, with a curious effect of earnestness, "about--last night."

I hastened to give him my assurance. It was the least I could do.

"Thank you," he said simply. "I felt I might depend upon you." Then,
because we were men--and Englishmen--we spoke of other things.

Late that afternoon, as we bent our steps homeward, Tompkins and I
found ourselves again together. We had somehow strayed from the rest,
and under the guidance of a keeper, striding ahead, laden with
trappings of the hunt, were making our way toward Grantleigh.
Tompkins' manner was entirely simple and unconstrained. A respect I
had not previously accorded him was growing upon me. We were both dead
tired, and when we spoke at all it was of the day's sport.

As we neared the Manor, the keeper, far in the lead, vaulted lightly
over a stile in a hedgerow. I followed less lightly (my enemies aver
that I am growing stout) with Tompkins in the rear.... Suddenly a shot,
abnormally loud and harsh in the twilight hush, rang out at my back.
Blind and deaf--fatally blind and deaf as I had been--I realized its
import on the instant. Even before I turned I knew what I should see.

Tompkins was lying in a huddled heap at the foot of the stile, and as
I bent over him I saw that it was a matter of moments. He had bungled
things all his life, poor fellow, but he had not bungled this.

"An accident, Sibley," he gasped, as I knelt beside him. "I
was--always--awkward--with a gun, you know. _An accident_--you'll
remember, old man? Elinor must not--"

Speech failed him for an instant. An awful agony was upon him, but no
moan escaped his lips. His life had been a farce, a failure, but if he
had not known how to live, assuredly he knew how to die.... The
shadows were closing round him. He put out a groping hand for mine.

"I think I'm--going, Sibley," he whispered. "Tell Elinor--" And with
her name upon his lips, he went out into the dark.


[81] Copyright, 1904, by the Frank A. Munsey Company.


Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated in the public schools,
with a short special course at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss
Anderson has been literary editor of _The Evening Post_, of
Louisville, having a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in
the Saturday edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" for
_McClure's Magazine_; and since quitting _McClure's_, she has been a
public lecturer upon literature and art in New York, Philadelphia,
Pittsburg, Memphis, and Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems
have appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Century_, _McClure's_,
but the greater number of them have been published in _The American
Magazine_. She has also contributed considerable verse to the minor
magazines. The next year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought
together in a charming volume, entitled _The Flame in the Wind_, which
form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky woman of the present time
has done better work in verse than has she.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (August, 1902); _The Century_
    (September, 1904).


[From _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1909)]

      Lord of all strength--behold, I am but frail!
      Lord of all harvest--few the grapes and pale
      Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord,
      Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword,
      Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die,
      Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry:
      Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one
      Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun;
      Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed
      Let me lift up my sapling like a blade;
      Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine!
      Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine!


[From _McClure's Magazine_ (November, 1909)]

      Shall I not give this world my heart, and well,
      If for naught else, for many a miracle
      Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?--
      _Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go
      When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow
      Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss,
                    Not this world, oh, not this!_

      Shall I not give this world my heart, who find
      Within this world the glories of the mind--
      That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?--
      _Nay, by the little footways it hath trod,
      And smiles to see, when thou art under sod,
      And by its very gaze across the abyss,
                    Not this world, oh, not this!_

      Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold
      One figure here above myself, my gold,
      My life and hope, my joy and my intent?--
      _Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent,
      That fragile garment that shall soon be rent,
      By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss,
                    Not this world, oh, not this!_

      Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain?
      Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain,
      And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot?
      _Thou child and thankless! On this little spot_
      _Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not;
      Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss,
                    Not this world, oh, not this!_


[From _The Atlantic Monthly_ (August, 1910)]

      So sharp the sword, so airy the defense!
      As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense;
      So fine and strange--so subtly-poisèd, too--
      The egoist that looks forever through!

      That winged spirit--air and grace and fire--
      A-flutter at the frame, is your desire;
      Nay, it is you--who never knew the net,
      Exquisite, vain--whom we shall not forget!


[82] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.

[83] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.

[84] Copyright, 1910, by the Atlantic Monthly Company.


Mrs. Abby Meguire Roach, "the very cleverest of the Louisville school
of women novelists," was born at Philadelphia in 1876. She was
educated in the schools of her native city, finishing her training
with a year at Wellesley College. In 1899 she was married to Mr. Neill
Roach, of Louisville, Kentucky, and that city has been her home since.
Mrs. Roach wrote many stories of married life for the New York
magazines, which were afterwards collected and published as _Some
Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906). These have been singled out by
the reviewers as "charming" and "most beautiful"; and her work has
been compared to Miss May Sinclair's, the famous English novelist. One
of Mrs. Roach's most recent stories was published in _The Century
Magazine_ for July, 1907, entitled "Manifest Destiny," but this has
not been followed by any others in the last year or so.
"Unremembering June," one of the best of the tales in _Some Successful
Marriages_, relates the love of Molly-Moll for her invalid husband,
after whose death she falls in love with Reno, the father of Lola,
"who had been his salvage from the wreck of his marriage."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (May, 1907); _Library of
    Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. xv), contains Miss Marilla
    Waite Freeman's excellent study of Mrs. Roach.


[From _Some Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906)]

"And you will let me have word of you? Surely? And give me a chance to
be of use? Won't you?" he persisted, taking leave. She swept his face
swiftly with a glance of inquiry, intelligence. "Won't you?"

"O-h--perhaps," with just the faintest puckering of the mouth.

But spring passed without word from her, until there were times when
Reno's impatience seethed like a colony of bees at hiving-time.

At last he wrote.

With unpardonable deliberation a brief answer came: Molly's son was a
couple months old, but not yet finished enough to be much to look at.

He wrote again: Lola was pale from the city, and bored with herself
and her maid; a farm with other children on it sounded like fairyland
to her. Could some arrangement be made...?

Lola had been there a month before he had any word but her own
hard-written and naturally not very voluminous love-letters, letters in
which the homesickness was an ever fainter and fainter echo of the first
wild cry, and in which the references to "Dandie" made it plain that she
had adopted the other children's auntie into a peculiar relationship
with herself. At last a postscript from Mrs. Loring herself:

"Wouldn't you like to come to see her? It's worth a longer trip."

"Of course I would. You're uncommon slow asking me. What kind of
father, and man, do you think me?"

Molly was standing with the baby in her arms, chewing its chub of
fist. In the warm wind soft wisps of blown brown hair curled all
around forehead and neck. Her flesh was firm, transparent, aglow; her
skin as clear, satiny, pink as the baby's. And what generous, sweet
plumpness! She was at perhaps the most beautiful time of a woman's
life--in the glamour of first young motherhood, with the beauty of
perfect health and uncoarsened maturity.

And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was no more
suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter in full
June--rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering June," the present
and future tenses of the year's declension.

As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look devoured

Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed his to
the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile in front of
her. One particular occupant of one particular pair of overalls spied
him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, rosy. "Why, who is
this? Whose little girl--or boy--are you?"

Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped flower.

"Whose little girl _are_ you?" coached a rich voice with an
undercurrent of laughter.

Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that elemental
nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small voice. At sight of
the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of many significances. And
with a flood of recollected loyalty, "_Papa's!_" gasped the child, and
smothered him with remorse.

"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all at once?"

("Well! I like that!")

"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?"

"I think you can."

("Oh, you do?")

"No?" His grip on her wrist hurt, and forced her to look up. ("Is it
only a mother you want for Lola--and yourself?"); and, looking, she
was satisfied; and, looking, she flushed slowly from head to foot,
answering him.

"The most loyal, affectionate woman in the world!" he added, after a

"Oh, never mind the fairy tales!" she scoffed, pleased, waiting.

He spoke none of the time-honored commonplaces that belittle or
dignify or mask the real individual feeling under the stereotype of
what it is assumed love ought to be. He could foresee her amusement.
Besides, it would have been about as appropriate as trying to capture
a bird with a smile.

"But I would never marry any woman that I wasn't sure would be kind to
Lola and fond of her."

"Oh, Lola!" Her whole look was soft and sweet. "I am fond of her now."
Then a mischievous laugh bubbled in her throat. "And could be of you,
too, if you insist." Even with the laugh her eyes were deeper than
words, grave and tender.

"As to that, also, Molly-Moll, what you will be to me I am quite
satisfied, quite."


[85] Copyright, 1906, by Harper and Brothers.


Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb, humorist and short-story writer, was born at
Paducah, Kentucky, June 23, 1876. He was educated in public and
private schools, but the newspaper field loomed large before him, and
at the age of nineteen he became editor of the Paducah _Daily News_.
For three years he conducted the "Sour Mash" column in the Louisville
_Evening Post_, when he returned to Paducah to become managing editor
of the _News-Democrat_, which position he held from 1901 to 1904. Late
in the year of 1904 Mr. Cobb went to New York, and for a year he was
editor of the humorous section and special writer for _The Evening
Sun_. In 1905 he became staff humorist for _The World_, and for the
following six years he remained with that paper. Mr. Cobb has written
several plays, none of which have been published in book form, but
they have been produced upon the stage. They include: _The
Campaigner_, _Funabashi_, _Mr. Busybody_, _The Gallery God_, _The
Yeggman_, and _Daffy-Down-Dilly_. He has written many humorous
stories, among which may be mentioned: _New York Through Funny
Glasses_, _The Hotel Clerk_, _Live Talks with Dead Ones_, _Making
Peace at Portsmouth_, _The Gotham Geography_, and _The Diary of Noah_.

Then, one day, the daily grind racked his nerves, he rebelled and
bethought himself of the good old days in Kentucky years agone. Ah, what
a fine chapter was added to the history of our native letters when Cobb
looked backward! Now, when he was but twenty-four years of age, he had
written a story, a horror tale of Reelfoot Lake, which he named
"Fishhead" and immediately forgot, but which he had brought on East with
him. On this he made some minor revisions and started it on its round of
the magazine editors. But Cobb didn't wait for the fate of "Fishhead";
and it's a good thing that he didn't! He wrote what he now regards as
his first fiction story, The Escape of Mr. Trimm; and _The Saturday
Evening Post_ accepted it so quickly, printing it in the issue for
November 27, 1909, that Cobb gleefully cashed the cheque and sent them
another shortly thereafter. The editor of _The Post_, George Horace
Lorimer, whom many competent judges considered the greatest editor in
the United States, realized that a new literary planet had swam into his
ken; and in 1911 he asked Cobb to become a staff contributor, which the
Kentuckian was delighted to do. All of his stories have appeared in that
publication, all save _Fishhead_, which Mr. Lorimer regarded as a bit
too strong medicine for his subscribers. Mr. Cobb's next big story in
_The Post_ was one that he has come to regard as the best thing he has
done hitherto, "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," which appeared in the
issue for January 21, 1911. This was a real horror tale, a "thriller,"
making one couple the name of Cobb with Poe, a comparison which has
gathered strength with the passing of the months. For _The Post_ Mr.
Cobb created Judge Priest, a character that has made him famous. He did
a group of tales about and around this leading citizen of a certain
Southern town--which town was none other than his own Paducah; and which
character was none other than old Judge Bishop, whom many Kentuckians
recall with pleasure. Cobb is a great realist and he has never had any
patience with the romanticists. He painted the old town and the old
judge and the judge's friends and enemies--if he had any--just as he
remembered them. The best of these yarns, perhaps, was "Words and
Music," printed in the issue for October 28, 1911; and when they were
collected the other day and published under the title of _Back Home_
(New York, 1912), that story, in which the old judge "rambles," was the
first of the ten tales the book contained. Some reviewers of this work
have rather loosely characterized it as a novel, and in a certain big
sense it is; but the sub-title is a better description: "the narrative
of Judge Priest and his people." The book is really a series of
pictures; and what Francis H. Underwood did so well in his Kentucky
novel, _Lord of Himself_, and what William C. Watts did much better in
his _Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement_, Irvin S. Cobb has done in a
manner superior to either of them in his _Back Home_. Judge Priest is a
worthy and welcome addition to the gallery of American heroes of prose
fiction, hung next to Bret Harte's highest heroes. Cohan and Harris have
acquired the dramatic rights of his book, and it is to be made into
play-form by Bayard Veiller, author of _Within the Law_, the great
"hit" of the 1912 New York season, in collaboration with the Kentuckian,
who once wrote of his original plays, which have already been listed:
"One was accidentally destroyed, one was lost, and one was loaned out
and never returned." Let us hope that none of these things may overtake
the present work; and that, when Thomas Wise struts across the boards in
the autumn of 1913 as Judge Priest he may receive a bigger "hand" than
he ever drew in _The Gentleman from Mississippi_.

Besides these tales of Judge Priest, Cobb wrote several detached
short-stories, and many humorous articles for _The Post_ during 1912.
The best of this humor appeared simultaneously with _Back Home_, in a
delightful little book, called _Cobb's Anatomy_ (New York, 1912). This
contained four essays on the following subjects: "Tummies," perhaps
the funniest thing he has done so far; "Teeth;" "Hair;" "Hands and
Feet." The only adverse criticism to make of the work was its length:
it was too short. Its sequel will appear in 1913 under the title of
_Cobb's Bill of Fare_, containing four humorous skits. Aside from his
Judge Priest yarns, which began in _The Post_ in the autumn of 1911
and ran throughout the year of 1912, and his humorous papers which
also appeared from time to time, Cobb wrote the greatest short-story
ever written by a Kentuckian (save that first book of stories by James
Lane Allen), entitled "The Belled Buzzard" (_The Post_, September 28,
1912). This, with "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," and "Fishhead,"
which is to be published in _The Cavalier_ for January 11, 1913, after
having been rejected by almost every reputable magazine in America,
form a trio of horror tales of such power as to compel comparison with
the best work of Edgar Poe, with the "shade" going to the Kentuckian
in many minds. All three of them, together with "The Escape of Mr.
Trimm"; "The Exit of Anse Dugmore," a Kentucky mountain yarn; and
four unpublished stories, called "Another of Those Cub Reporter
Stories"; "Smoke of Battle"; "To the Editor of the Sun;" and "Guilty
as Charged," will appear in book form in the autumn of 1913, entitled
_The Escape of Mr. Trimm_.

In summing up Cobb's work for the New York _Sun_, Robert H. Davis,
editor of the Munsey magazines, wrote: "Gelett Burgess, in a lecture
at Columbia College, said that Cobb was one of the ten great American
humorists. Cobb ought to demand a recount. There are not ten humorists
in the world, although Cobb is one of them.... Thus in Irvin Cobb we
find Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and Edgar Allan Poe at their best.... If
he uses his pen for an Alpine stock, the Matterhorn is his." And
George Horace Lorimer holds that Cobb is "the biggest writing-man ever
born in Kentucky; and he's going to get better all the time." This is
certainly high praise, but that it voices the opinions of many people
is beyond all question. "The great 'find' of 1912" may be the
trade-mark of his future.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (April, 1911); _Hampton's
    Magazine_ (October, 1911); _The American Magazine_ (November,
    1912); _Who's Cobb and Why_, by R. H. Davis (New York, 1912, a


[From _The Saturday Evening Post_ (Philadelphia, September 28, 1912)]

There was a swamp known as Little Niggerwool, to distinguish it from
Big Niggerwool, which lay nearer the river. It was traversable only by
those who knew it well--an oblong stretch of yellow mud and yellower
water, measuring, maybe four miles its longest way and two miles
roughly at its widest; and it was full of cypress and stunted swamp
oak, with edgings of cane-break and rank weeds; and in one place,
where a ridge crossed it from side to side, it was snaggled like an
old jaw with dead tree-trunks, rising close-ranked and thick as teeth.
It was untenanted of living things--except, down below, there were
snakes and mosquitoes, and a few wading and swimming fowl; and up
above, those big woodpeckers that the country people called
logcocks--larger than pigeons, with flaming crests and spiky
tails--swooping in their long, loping flight from snag to snag, always
just out of gunshot of the chance invader, and uttering a strident cry
which matched those surroundings so fitly that it might well have been
the voice of the swamp itself.

On one side Little Niggerwool drained its saffron waters off into a
sluggish creek, where summer ducks bred, and on the other it ended
abruptly at a natural bank of high ground, along which the county
turnpike ran. The swamp came right up to the road, and thrust its
fringe of reedy, weedy undergrowth forward as though in challenge to
the good farm lands that were spread beyond the barrier. At the time I
am speaking of it was midsummer, and from these canes and weeds and
waterplants there came a smell so rank as almost to be overpowering.
They grew thick as a curtain, making a blank green wall taller than a
man's head.

Along the dusty stretch of road fronting the swamp nothing living had
stirred for half an hour or more. And so at length the weedstems
rustled and parted, and out from among them a man came forth silently
and cautiously. He was an old man--an old man who had once been fat,
but with age had grown lean again, so that now his skin was by odds
too large for him. It lay on the back of his neck in folds. Under the
chin he was pouched like a pelican and about the jowls was wattled
like a turkey-gobbler.

He came out upon the road slowly and stopped there, switching his legs
absently with the stalk of a horseweed. He was in his shirtsleeves--a
respectable, snuffy old figure; evidently a man deliberate in words
and thoughts and actions. There was something about him suggestive of
an old staid sheep that had been engaged in a clandestine transaction
and was afraid of being found out.

He had made amply sure no one was in sight before he came out of the
swamp, but now, to be doubly certain, he watched the empty road--first
up, then down--for a long half minute, and fetched a sighing breath of
satisfaction. His eyes fell upon his feet and, taken with an idea, he
stepped back to the edge of the road and with a wisp of crabgrass
wiped his shoes clean of the swamp mud, which was of a different color
and texture from the soil of the upland. All his life Squire H. B.
Gathers had been a careful, canny man, and he had need to be doubly
careful on this summer morning. Having disposed of the mud on his
feet, he settled his white straw hat down firmly upon his head, and,
crossing the road, he climbed a stake-and-rider fence laboriously and
went plodding sedately across a weedfield and up a slight slope toward
his house, half a mile away, upon the crest of the little hill.

He felt perfectly natural--not like a man who had just taken a
fellowman's life--but natural and safe, and well satisfied with
himself and his morning's work. And he was safe--that was the main
thing--absolutely safe. Without hitch or hindrance he had done the
thing for which he had been planning and waiting and longing all these
months. There had been no slip or mischance; the whole thing had
worked out as plainly and simply as two and two make four. No living
creature except himself knew of the meeting in the early morning at
the head of Little Niggerwool, exactly where the squire had figured
they should meet; none knew of the device by which the other man had
been lured deeper and deeper in the swamp to the exact spot where the
gun was hidden. No one had seen the two of them enter the swamp; no
one had seen the squire emerge, three hours later, alone. The gun,
having served its purpose, was hidden again, in a place no mortal eye
would ever discover. Face downward, with a hole between his
shoulderblades, the dead man was lying where he might lie undiscovered
for months or for years, or forever. His pedler's pack was buried in
the mud so deep that not even the probing crawfishes could find it. He
would never be missed probably. There was but the slightest likelihood
that inquiry would ever be made for him--let alone a search. He was a
stranger and a foreigner, the dead man was, whose comings and goings
made no great stir in the neighborhood, and whose failure to come
again would be taken as a matter of course--just one of those
shiftless, wandering dagoes, here to-day and gone to-morrow. That was
one of the best things about it--these dagoes never had any people in
this country to worry about them or look for them when they
disappeared. And so it was all over and done with, and nobody the
wiser. The squire clapped his hands together briskly with the air of a
man dismissing a subject from his mind for good, and mended his gait.

He felt no stabbings of conscience. On the contrary, a glow of
gratification filled him. His house was saved from scandal; his present
wife would philander no more--before his very eyes--with these young
dagoes, who came from nobody knew where, with packs on their backs and
persuasive, wheedling tongues in their heads. At this thought the squire
raised his head and considered his homestead. It looked pretty good to
him--the small white cottage among the honey locusts, with beehives and
flowerbeds about it; the tidy whitewashed fence; the sound outbuildings
at the back, and the well-tilled acres roundabout.

At the fence he halted and turned about, carelessly and casually, and
looked back along the way he had come. Everything was as it should
be--the weedfield steaming in the heat; the empty road stretching
along the crooked ridge like a long gray snake sunning itself; and
beyond it, massing up, the dark, cloaking stretch of swamp. Everything
was all right, but----. The squire's eyes, in their loose sacs of
skin, narrowed and squinted. Out of the blue arch away over yonder a
small black dot had resolved itself and was swinging to and fro, like
a mote. A buzzard--hey? Well, there were always buzzards about on a
clear day like this. Buzzards were nothing to worry about--almost any
time you could see one buzzard, or a dozen buzzards if you were a mind
to look for them.

But this particular buzzard now--wasn't he making for Little
Niggerwool? The squire did not like the idea of that. He had not
thought of the buzzards until this minute. Sometimes when cattle
strayed the owners had been known to follow the buzzards, knowing
mighty well that if the buzzards led the way to where the stray was,
the stray would be past the small salvage of hide and hoofs--but the
owner's doubts would be set at rest for good and all.

There was a grain of disquiet in this. The squire shook his head to
drive the thought away--yet it persisted, coming back like a midge
dancing before his face. Once at home, however, Squire Gathers
deported himself in a perfectly normal manner. With the satisfied
proprietorial eye of an elderly husband who has no rivals, he
considered his young wife, busied about her household duties. He sat
in an easy-chair upon his front gallery and read his yesterday's
Courier-Journal which the rural carrier had brought him; but he kept
stepping out into the yard to peer up into the sky and all about him.
To the second Mrs. Gathers he explained that he was looking for
weather signs. A day as hot and still as this one was a regular
weather-breeder; there ought to be rain before night.

"Maybe so," she said; "but looking's not going to bring rain."

Nevertheless the squire continued to look. There was really nothing to
worry about; still at midday he did not eat much dinner, and before
his wife was half through with hers he was back on the gallery. His
paper was cast aside and he was watching. The original buzzard--or,
anyhow, he judged it was the first one he had seen--was swinging back
and forth in great pendulum swings, but closer down toward the
swamp--closer and closer--until it looked from that distance as though
the buzzard flew almost at the level of the tallest snags there. And
on beyond this first buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards.
Were there four of them? No; there were five--five in all.

Such is the way of the buzzard--that shifting black question-mark
which punctuates a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or a sheep or a
horse lies down to die. At once, coming seemingly out of nowhere,
appears a black spot, up five hundred feet or a thousand in the air.
In broad loops and swirls this dot swings round and round and round,
coming a little closer to earth at every turn and always with one
particular spot upon the earth for the axis of its wheel. Out of space
also other moving spots emerge and grow larger as they tack and jibe
and drop nearer, coming in their leisurely buzzard way to the feast.
There is no haste--the feast will wait. If it is a dumb creature that
has fallen stricken the grim coursers will sooner or later be
assembled about it and alongside it, scrouging ever closer and closer
to the dying thing, with awkward outthrustings of their naked necks
and great dust-raising flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; lifting their
feathered shanks high and stiffly like old crippled grave-diggers in
overalls too tight--but silent and patient all, offering no attack
until the last tremor runs through the stiffening carcass and the eyes
glaze over. To humans the buzzard pays a deeper meed of respect--he
hangs aloft longer; but in the end he comes. No scavenger shark, no
carrion crab, has chambered more grisly secrets in his digestive
processes than this big charnel bird. Such is the way of the buzzard.

       *       *       *       *       *

The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing that had not happened in
years. He stayed on the front gallery and kept count. Those moving
distant black specks typified uneasiness for the squire--not fear
exactly, or panic or anything akin to it, but a nibbling, nagging kind
of uneasiness. Time and again he said to himself that he would not
think about them any more; but he did--unceasingly.

By supper-time there were seven of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

He slept light and slept badly. It was not the thought of that dead
man lying yonder in Little Niggerwool that made him toss and fume
while his wife snored gently alongside him. It was something else
altogether. Finally his stirrings roused her and she asked drowsily
what ailed him. Was he sick? Or bothered about anything?

Irritated, he answered her snappishly. Certainly nothing was bothering
him, he told her. It was a hot-enough night--wasn't it? And when a man
got a little along in life he was apt to be a light sleeper--wasn't
that so? Well, then? She turned upon her side and slept again with her
light, purring snore. The squire lay awake, thinking hard and waiting
for day to come.

At the first faint pink-and-gray glow he was up and out upon the
gallery. He cut a comic figure standing there, in his shirt in the
half light, with the dewlap at his throat dangling grotesquely in the
neck-opening of the unbuttoned garment, and his bare bowed legs
showing, splotched and varicose. He kept his eyes fixed on the skyline
below, to the south. Buzzards are early risers too. Presently, as the
heavens shimmered with the miracle of sunrise, he could make them
out--six or seven, or maybe eight.

An hour after breakfast the squire was on his way down through the
weed field to the country road. He went half eagerly, half
unwillingly. He wanted to make sure about those buzzards. It might be
that they were aiming for the old pasture at the head of the swamp.
There were sheep grazing there--and it might be that a sheep had died.
Buzzards were notoriously fond of sheep, when dead. Or, if they were
pointed for the swamp he must satisfy himself exactly what part of the
swamp it was. He was at the stake-and-rider fence when a mare came
jogging down the road, drawing a rig with a man in it. At sight of the
squire in the field the man pulled up.

"Hi, squire!" he began. "Goin' somewheres?"

"No; jest knockin' about," the squire said--"jest sorter lookin' the
place over."

"Hot agin--ain't it?" said the other.

The squire allowed that it was, for a fact, mighty hot. Commonplaces of
gossip followed this--county politics, and a neighbor's wife sick of
breakbone fever down the road a piece. The subject of crops succeeded
inevitably. The squire spoke of the need of rain. Instantly he regretted
it, for the other man, who was by way of being a weather wiseacre,
cocked his head aloft to study the sky for any signs of clouds.

"Wonder whut all them buzzards are doin' yonder, squire," he said,
pointing upward with his whipstock.

"Whut buzzards--where?" asked the squire with an elaborate note of
carelessness in his voice.

"Right yonder, over Little Niggerwool--see 'em there?"

"Oh, yes," the squire made answer. "Now I see 'em. They ain't doin'
nothin, I reckin--jest flyin' round same as they always do in clear

"Must be somethin' dead over there!" speculated the man in the buggy.

"A hawg probably," said the squire promptly--almost too promptly.
"There's likely to be hawgs usin' in Niggerwool. Bristow, over the
other side from here--he's got a big drove of hawgs."

"Well, mebbe so," said the man; "but hawgs is a heap more apt to be
feedin' on high ground, seems like to me. Well, I'll be gittin' along
towards town. G'day, squire." And he slapped the lines down on the
mare's flank and jogged off through the dust.

He could not have suspected anything--that man couldn't. As the squire
turned away from the road and headed for his house he congratulated
himself upon that stroke of his in bringing in Bristow's hogs; and yet
there remained this disquieting note in the situation, that buzzards
flying, and especially buzzards flying over Little Niggerwool, made
people curious--made them ask questions.

He was halfway across the weedfield when, above the hum of insect
life, above the inward clamor of his own busy speculations, there came
to his ear dimly and distantly a sound that made him halt and cant his
head to one side the better to hear it. Somewhere, a good way off,
there was a thin, thready, broken strain of metallic clinking and
clanking--an eery ghost-chime ringing. It came nearer and became
plainer--tonk-tonk-tonk; then the tonks all running together briskly.

A cowbell--that was it; but why did it seem to come from overhead,
from up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so abruptly from one
quarter to another--from left to right and back again to left? And how
was it that the clapper seemed to strike so fast? Not even the
breachiest of breachy young heifers could be expected to tinkle a
cowbell with such briskness. The squire's eye searched the earth and
the sky, his troubled mind giving to his eye a quick and flashing
scrutiny. He had it. It was not a cow at all. It was not anything that
went on four legs.

One of the loathly flock had left the others. The orbit of his swing had
carried him across the road and over Squire Gathers' land. He was
sailing right toward and over the squire now. Craning his flabby neck
the squire could make out the unwholesome contour of the huge bird. He
could see the ragged black wings--a buzzard's wings are so often ragged
and uneven--and the naked throat; the slim, naked head; the big feet
folded up against the dingy belly. And he could see a bell too--an
ordinary cowbell--that dangled at the creature's breast and jangled
incessantly. All his life nearly Squire Gathers had been hearing about
the Belled Buzzard. Now with his own eye he was seeing him.

Once, years and years and years ago, some one trapped a buzzard, and
before freeing it clamped about its skinny neck a copper band with a
cowbell pendent from it. Since then the bird so ornamented has been
seen a hundred times--and heard oftener--over an area as wide as half
the continent. It has been reported, now in Kentucky, now in Florida,
now in North Carolina--now anywhere between the Ohio River and the
Gulf. Crossroads correspondents take their pens in hand to write to
the country papers that on such and such a date, at such a place,
So-and-So saw the Belled Buzzard. Always it is the Belled Buzzard,
never a belled buzzard. The Belled Buzzard is an institution.

There must be more than one of them. It seems hard to believe that one
bird, even a buzzard in his prime, and protected by law in every
Southern state and known to be a bird of great age, could live so long
and range so far, and wear a clinking cowbell all the time! Probably
other jokers have emulated the original joker; probably if the truth
were known there have been a dozen such; but the country people will
have it that there is only one Belled Buzzard--a bird that bears a
charmed life and on his neck a never-silent bell.

       *       *       *       *       *

Squire Gathers regarded it a most untoward thing that the Belled Buzzard
should have come just at this time. The movements of ordinary, unmarked
buzzards mainly concerned only those whose stock had strayed; but almost
anybody with time to spare might follow this rare and famous visitor,
this belled and feathered junkman of the sky. Supposing now that some
one followed it to-day--maybe followed it even to a certain thick clump
of cypress in the middle of Little Niggerwool!

But at this particular moment the Belled Buzzard was heading directly
away from that quarter. Could it be following him? Of course not! It
was just by chance that it flew along the course the squire was
taking. But, to make sure, he veered off sharply, away from the
footpath into the high weeds. He was right; it was only a chance. The
Belled Buzzard swung off, too, but in the opposite direction, with a
sharp tonking of its bell, and, flapping hard, was in a minute or two
out of hearing and sight, past the trees to the westward.

Again the squire skimped his dinner, and again he spent the long,
drowsy afternoon upon his front gallery. In all the sky there were now
no buzzards visible, belled or unbelled--they had settled to earth
somewhere; and it served somewhat to soothe the squire's pestered
mind. This does not mean, though, that he was by any means easy in his
thoughts. Outwardly he was calm enough, with the ruminative judicial
air befitting the oldest justice of the peace in the county; but,
within him, a little something gnawed unceasingly at his nerves like
one of those small white worms that are to be found in seemingly sound
nuts. About once in so long a tiny spasm of the muscles would contract
the dewlap under his chin. The squire had never heard of that play,
made famous by a famous player, wherein the murdered victim was a
pedler, too, and a clamoring bell the voice of unappeasable remorse in
the murderer's ear. As a strict church goer the squire had no use for
players or for play-actors, and so was spared that added canker to his
conscience. It was bad enough as it was.

That night, as on the night before, the old man's sleep was broken and
fitful, and disturbed by dreaming, in which he heard a metal clapper
striking against a brazen surface. This was one dream that came true.
Just after daybreak he heaved himself out of bed, with a flop of his
broad bare feet upon the floor, and stepped to the window and peered
out. Half seen in the pinkish light, the Belled Buzzard flapped directly
over his roof and flew due south, right toward the swamp--drawing a
direct line through the air between the slayer and the victim--or,
anyway, so it seemed to the watcher, grown suddenly tremulous.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kneedeep in yellow swamp water the squire squatted, with his shotgun
cocked and loaded and ready, waiting to kill the bird that now
typified for him guilt and danger and an abiding great fear. Gnats
plagued him and about him frogs croaked. Almost overhead a logcock
clung lengthwise to a snag, watching him. Snake-doctors, insects with
bronze bodies and filmy wings, went back and forth like small living
shuttles. Other buzzards passed and repassed, but the squire waited,
forgetting the cramps in his elderly limbs and the discomfort of the
water in his shoes.

At length he heard the bell. It came nearer and nearer, and the Belled
Buzzard swung overhead not sixty feet up, its black bulk a fair target
against the blue. He aimed and fired, both barrels bellowing at once
and a fog of thick powder smoke enveloping him. Through the smoke he
saw the bird careen, and its bell jangled furiously; then the buzzard
righted itself and was gone, fleeing so fast that the sound of its
bell was hushed almost instantly. Two long wing feathers drifted
slowly down; torn disks of gunwadding and shredded green scraps of
leaves descended about the squire in a little shower.

He cast his empty gun from him, so that it fell in the water and
disappeared; and he hurried out of the swamp as fast as his shaky legs
would take him, splashing himself with mire and water to his eyebrows.
Mucked with mud, breathing in great gulps, trembling, a suspicious
figure to any eye, he burst through the weed curtain and staggered into
the open, his caution all gone and a vast desperation fairly choking
him--but the gray road was empty and the field beyond the road was
empty; and, except for him, the whole world seemed empty and silent.

As he crossed the field Squire Gathers composed himself. With plucked
handfuls of grass he cleaned himself of much of the swamp mire that
coated him over; but the little white worm that gnawed at his nerves
had become a cold snake that was coiled about his heart, squeezing it
tighter and tighter!

       *       *       *       *       *

This episode of the attempt to kill the Belled Buzzard occurred in the
afternoon of the third day. In the forenoon of the fourth, the weather
being still hot, with cloudless skies and no air stirring, there was a
rattle of warped wheels in the squire's lane and a hail at his yard
fence. Coming out upon his gallery from the innermost darkened room of
his house, where he had been stretched upon a bed, the squire shaded
his eyes from the glare and saw the constable of his own magisterial
district sitting in a buggy at the gate waiting for some one.

The old man came down the dirtpath slowly, almost reluctantly, with
his head twisted up sidewise, listening, watching; but the constable
sensed nothing strange about the other's gait and posture; the
constable was full of the news he brought. He began to unload the
burden of it without preamble.

"Mornin', Squire Gathers. There's been a dead man found in Little
Niggerwool--and you're wanted."

He did not notice that the squire was holding on with both hands to
the gate; but he did notice that the squire had a sick look out of his
eyes and a dead, pasty color in his face; and he noticed--but attached
no meaning to it--that when the Squire spoke his voice seemed flat and

"Wanted--fur--whut?" The squire forced the words out of his throat.

"Why, to hold the inquest," explained the constable. "The coroner's
sick abed, and he said you bein' the nearest jestice of the peace
should serve."

"Oh," said the squire with more ease. "Well, where is it--the body?"

"They taken it to Bristow's place and put it in his stable for the
present. They brought it out over on that side and his place was the
nearest. If you'll hop in here with me, squire, I'll ride you right
over there now. There's enough men already gathered to make up a jury,
I reckin."

"I--I ain't well," demurred the squire. "I've been sleepin' porely
these last few nights. It's the heat," he added quickly.

"Well, such, you don't look very brash, and that's a fact," said the
constable; "but this here job ain't goin' to keep you long. You see
it's in such shape--the body is--that there ain't no way of makin' out
who the feller was, nor whut killed him. There ain't nobody reported
missin' in this county as we know of, either; so I jedge a verdict of
a unknown person dead from unknown causes would be about the correct
thing. And we kin git it all over mighty quick and put him underground
right away, suh--if you'll go along now."

"I'll go," agreed the squire, almost quivering in his newborn
eagerness. "I'll go right now." He did not wait to get his coat or to
notify his wife of the errand that was taking him. In his shirtsleeves
he climbed into the buggy, and the constable turned his horse and
clucked him into a trot. And now the squire asked the question that
knocked at his lips demanding to be asked--the question the answer to
which he yearned for and yet dreaded.

"How did they come to find--it?"

"Well, suh, that's a funny thing," said the constable. "Early this
mornin' Bristow's oldest boy--that one they call Buddy--he heared a
cowbell over in the swamp and so he went to look; Bristow's got cows,
as you know, and one or two of 'em is belled. And he kept on followin'
after the sound of it till he got way down into the thickest part of
them cypress slashes that's near the middle there; and right there he
run acrost it--this body.

"But, suh, squire, it wasn't no cow at all. No, suh; it was a buzzard
with a cowbell on his neck--that's whut it was. Yes, suh; that there
same old Belled Buzzard he's come back agin and is hangin' round. They
tell me he ain't been seen round here sence the year of the yellow
fever--I don't remember myself, but that's whut they tell me. The
niggers over on the other side are right smartly worked up over it.
They say--the niggers do--that when the Belled Buzzard comes it's a
sign of bad luck for somebody, shore!"

The constable drove on, talking on, garrulous as a guinea-hen. The
squire didn't heed him. Hunched back in the buggy he harkened only to
those busy inner voices filling his mind with thundering portents.
Even so, his ear was first to catch above the rattle of the buggy
wheels the faraway, faint tonk-tonk! They were about halfway to
Bristow's place then. He gave no sign, and it was perhaps half a
minute before the constable heard it too.

The constable jerked the horse to a standstill and craned his neck
over his shoulder.

"Well, by doctors!" he cried, "if there ain't the old scoundrel now,
right here behind us! I kin see him plain as day--he's got an old
cowbell hitched to his neck; and he's shy a couple of feathers out of
one wing. By doctors, that's somethin' you won't see every day! In all
my born days I ain't never seen the beat of that!"

Squire Gathers did not look; he only cowered back farther under the
buggy-top. In the pleasing excitement of the moment his companion took
no heed, though, of anything except the Belled Buzzard.

"Is he followin' us?" asked the squire in a curiously flat voice.

"Which--him?" answered the constable, still stretching his neck. "No,
he's gone now--gone off to the left--jest a-zoonin', like he'd forgot

And Bristow's place was to the left! But there might still be time. To
get the inquest over and the body underground--those were the main
things. Ordinarily humane in his treatment of stock, Squire Gathers
urged the constable to greater speed. The horse was lathered and his
sides heaved wearily as they pounded across the bridge over the creek
which was the outlet to the swamp and emerged from a patch of woods in
sight of Bristow's farm buildings.

The house was set on a little hill among cleared fields, and was in
other respects much like the squire's own house, except that it was
smaller and not so well painted. There was a wide yard in front with
shade trees and a lye-hopper and a well-box, and a paling fence with a
stile in it instead of a gate. At the rear, behind a clutter of
outbuildings--a barn, a smokehouse and a corncrib--was a little peach
orchard; and flanking the house on the right there was a good-sized
cowyard, empty of stock at this hour, with feeding racks ranged in a
row against the fence. A two-year-old negro child, bareheaded and
barefooted, and wearing but a single garment, was grubbing busily in
the dirt under one of these feedracks.

To the front fence a dozen or more riding horses were hitched, flicking
their tails at the flies; and on the gallery men in their shirtsleeves
were grouped. An old negro woman, with her head tied in a bandanna and a
man's old slouch hat perched upon the bandanna, peeped out from behind a
corner. There were hound dogs wandering about, sniffing uneasily.

Before the constable had the horse hitched the squire was out of the
buggy and on his way up the footpath, going at a brisker step than the
squire usually traveled. The men on the porch hailed him gravely and
ceremoniously, as befitting an occasion of solemnity. Afterward some
of them recalled the look in his eye; but at the moment they noted
it--if they noted it at all--subconsciously.

For all his haste the squire, as was also remembered later, was almost
the last to enter the door; and before he did enter he halted and
searched the flawless sky as though for signs of rain. Then he hurried
on after the others, who clumped single file along a narrow little hall,
the bare, uncarpeted floor creaking loudly under their heavy farm shoes,
and entered a good-sized room that had in it, among other things, a
high-piled feather bed and a cottage organ--Bristow's best room, now to
be placed at the disposal of the law's representatives for the inquest.
The squire took the largest chair and drew it to the very center of the
room, in front of a fireplace, where the grate was banked with withering
asparagus ferns. The constable took his place formally at one side of
the presiding official. The others sat or stood about where they could
find room--all but six of them, whom the squire picked for his coroner's
jury, and who backed themselves against the wall.

The squire showed haste. He drove the preliminaries forward with a
sort of tremulous insistence. Bristow's wife brought a bucket of fresh
drinking water and a gourd, and almost before she was out of the room
and the door closed behind her the squire had sworn his jurors and was
calling the first witness, who it seemed likely would also be the only
witness--Bristow's oldest boy. The boy wriggled in confusion as he sat
on a cane-bottomed chair facing the old magistrate. All there, barring
one or two, had heard his story a dozen times already, but now it was
to be repeated under oath; and so they bent their heads, listening as
though it were a brand-new tale. All eyes were on him; none were
fastened on the squire as he, too, gravely bent his head,

The witness began--but had no more than started when the squire gave a
great, screeching howl and sprang from his chair and staggered
backward, his eyes popped and the pouch under his chin quivering as
though it had a separate life all its own. Startled, the constable
made toward him and they struck together heavily and went down--both
on all fours--right in front of the fireplace.

The constable scrambled free and got upon his feet, in a squat of
astonishment, with his head craned; but the squire stayed upon the
floor, face downward, his feet flopping among the rustling asparagus
greens--a picture of slavering animal fear. And now his gagging
screech resolved itself into articulate speech.

"I done it!" they made out his shrieked words. "I done it! I own up--I
killed him! He aimed fur to break up my home and I tolled him off into
Niggerwool and killed him! There's a hole in his back if you'll look
fur it. I done it--oh, I done it--and I'll tell everything jest like
it happened if you'll jest keep that thing away from me! Oh, my Lawdy!
Don't you hear it? It's a-comin' clos'ter and clos'ter--it's a-comin'
after me! Keep it away----" His voice gave out and he buried his head
in his hands and rolled upon the gaudy carpet.

And now they heard what he had heard first--they heard the
tonk-tonk-tonk of a cowbell, coming near and nearer toward them along
the hallway without. It was as though the sound floated along. There was
no creak of footsteps upon the loose, bare boards--and the bell jangled
faster than it would dangling from a cow's neck. The sound came right to
the door and Squire Gathers wallowed among the chairlegs.

The door swung open. In the doorway stood a negro child, barefooted and
naked except for a single garment, eying them with serious, rolling
eyes--and, with all the strength of his two puny arms, proudly but
solemnly tolling a small, rusty cowbell he had found in the cowyard.


[86] Copyright, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company.


Isaac Frederick Marcosson, editor and author, was born at Louisville,
Kentucky, September 13, 1876, of Jewish ancestry. He was educated in the
public schools of Louisville, and attended High School for a year. In
1894 he entered journalism, joining the staff of the Louisville _Times_,
of which he was subsequently literary and city editor. In 1903 Mr.
Marcosson went to New York, and became associate editor of _The World's
Work_; and in connection with this work he served its publishers,
Doubleday, Page and Company, as literary adviser. While with _The
World's Work_ he wrote many articles on topics of vital interest. From
March, 1907, to 1910, Mr. Marcosson was financial editor of _The
Saturday Evening Post_ of Philadelphia. For _The Post_ he conducted
three popular departments: "Your Savings"; "Literary Folks"; and "Wall
Street Men." Every other week he had a signed article upon some subject
of general interest. Some of his articles upon "Your Savings" have been
collected and published in a small book, called _How to Invest Your
Savings_ (Philadelphia, 1907). Mr. Marcosson's latest book, _The
Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910), written upon an unusual
subject, attracted wide attention. A part of it was originally published
anonymously as a serial in _The Post_, and the response it evoked
encouraged Mr. Marcosson to make a little book of his hero, who was none
other than Jules Turnour, the famous Ringling clown. Jules furnished the
facts, or part of them, perhaps, but Mr. Marcosson made him more
attractive in cold type than he had ever been under the big tent. _The
Autobiography of a Clown_ deserved all the kind things that were said
about it. Since 1910 Mr. Marcosson has been associate editor of
_Munsey's Magazine_ and the other periodicals that are owned by Mr.
Munsey. His articles usually lead the magazine.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (April; June; December, 1910).


[From _The Autobiography of a Clown_ (New York, 1910)]

All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from town to
town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the hotel in 'buses or
snatched what sleep they could in specially built vans. The start for
the next town was usually made about three o'clock in the morning. No
"run" from town to town was more than twenty miles, and more often it
was considerably less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader,
on horseback, with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the
wagons, and cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles,
neighing horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it
wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their seats. The
elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy groom alongside.
The route was indicated by flaming torches left at points where the
roads turned. Sometimes these torches went out, and the show got lost.
More than once a farmer was rudely aroused from his slumbers, and
nearly lost his wits when he poked his head out of his window and saw
the black bulk of an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the
picturesque day of the circus.

My first engagement was with the Burr Robbins circus, which was a big
wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was new to me, and at
first strange. But I got to like it very much. It was a great relief to
lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and feel the sweet breath of the
country. Often the nights were so still that the only sounds were the
creaking of the wagons, and occasionally the words, "Mile up," that the
elephant driver always used to urge his patient, plodding beast.

The circus arrangement then was much different from now. Then the whole
outfit halted outside the town, which was never reached until after
daylight. The canvas men would hurry to the "lot" to put up the tents
while we remained behind to spruce up for the parade. Gay flags were
hoisted over the dusty wagons; the tired and sleepy performers turned
out of tousled beds to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous
howdah was placed on the elephant's back, and a dark-eyed beauty,
usually from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and
to be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter how
long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, everybody,
man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of course, by this time
we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping countrymen. Often the triumphant
parade of the town was made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no
let-up until the people of the community had had every bit of "free
doing" that the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in
the parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers changed
clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. If there
was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But sleep and the circus man
are strangers during the season. Ask any circus man when he sleeps, and
he will say, "In the winter time."


[87] Copyright, 1910, by Moffat, Yard and Company.


Mrs. Gertrude King Tufts, author of _The Landlubbers_, was born in
Boone county, Kentucky, in 1877, the daughter of Col. William S. King.
She was educated in Kentucky and at private schools in Philadelphia,
after which she took a library course and went to New York to work.
The property she had inherited had been squandered, so she was
compelled to seek her own fortune. For a while she did well, but her
struggle for success was most severe. For nearly two years Miss King
knew "physical pain and the utter want of money." Finally, however, in
1907, she became editor of the educational department of the Macmillan
Company, and then she set to work upon her novel, _The Landlubbers_
(New York, 1909), which was first conceived as a short story, and was
finished in the hot summer of 1908. Polly, heroine, is a school
teacher out West, who hates her job, saves her money, and decides to
see the world. On the trip across the Atlantic, she falls in with
Flossie, confidence queen, and she is soon "broke." Suicide seems to
be the only way out of her predicament and, at midnight, she quits her
state-room to silently slip into the ocean. She is no sooner on deck,
however, than she is confronted with cries from the crew and captain
that the ship has struck an iceberg and is sinking. The next day Polly
finds herself and Dick, hero-lover, on the old battered ship and
alone. They, then, are "the landlubbers," and their experiences on the
drifting, water-soaked craft, is the story. Miss King dramatized her
novel, as she is anxious to become famous as a playwright, "not as a
mere yarn-spinner." She also prepared a wonderful human document of
her struggles in New York that was most interesting as an excellent
piece of writing, and as an advertisement for her book. At the present
time Miss King is said to be engaged upon a "long novel----a
leisurely, picturesque thing into which I want to put a good deal of
life." Miss King was married on February 26, 1912, to Mr. Walter B.
Tufts, a New York business man. She is a kinswoman of Mr. Credo
Harris, the Kentucky novelist.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (May, 1909); _Lexington Leader_ (May
    16, 1909).


[From _The Landlubbers_ (New York, 1909)]

I woke, not roused by any unusual sound or motion, but disturbed by a
sense of hovering evil, a horror imminent and unescapable. I sat up,
looked at my watch--for I had not turned off the light--and saw that
it was toward half-past eleven o'clock. The great ship was silent,
save for the throbbing of her iron pulses. As I listened, the fog-horn
moaned out its warning, and as the deep note died away seven bells
rang faintly from above. My watch, then, was right--and it was time!

I remembered what I had to do, and obeyed the decision of my more
wakeful self, though I was far more influenced by the sense of vague,
impersonal fear. Still muffled in the stupor of sleep, and shaken from
head to foot by a nervous trembling, I rose, put on my long cloak, and
flung a scarf over my disordered hair, for if I were to meet anyone I
must seem merely a restless passenger seeking a breath of fresh air. I
moved rapidly as I grew more wakeful, and tried not to think. From
habit I folded my rugs neatly, and plumped up the pillow on which I
had been lying. My throat and lips were dry, and I drank a glass of
water before I unlocked my door and stepped out into the passage.

There rose above me a long, horrible cry, a shout blent discordantly
of the voices of two-score men, a fearful sound as of the essence of
brute fear. Many feet pattered upon the deck. There were wordless
shouts, shrieked oaths, sharp commands, the boatswain's whistle
piercing through the whole mass of confused sound. The great horn
boomed just once more--I heard it through my hands upon my ears as I
cowered against the wall.

Then the deck quivered under my feet as a horrible, grinding, rending
crash shut out every other sound, and the great ship trembled
throughout her length, and began to reel drunkenly from side to side,
settling over, with every swing, further and further to port.

A new, more deafening clamour arose all about me, as the sleepers were
aroused, and in half a minute the corridor was filled with whitefaced
people in all sorts of dress and undress, carrying all kinds of queer
treasures, weeping, shrieking, cursing; there was even laughter,
hysterical and uncontrollable, and strange stammered words of
blasphemy, prayer, reassurance, were shaken out between chattering
teeth. A fat steward ran by, shoving rudely aside those whom till now
he had lovingly tended as the source of tips. Now he struck away the
trembling hands which clutched at his white jacket, ignoring the
shivering inquiries as to "What was the matter?" The rapid passage of
him gave the excited crowd the impulse it needed, and as one man they
surged toward the stair--I with the rest.

But at the foot of the stair reason returned to me, and I reflected
that it was absurd for me to join in the struggle for that life which
I had just prepared to renounce. Here was death held out to me in the
cold hand of Fate, as I could not doubt--and here was I pitiably
trying to thrust away the gift!

I wrenched myself out of that frantic crowd, and made my way back to
my stateroom with some difficulty, owing to the ship's unusual motion
and the increasing list to port. She quivered no longer, indeed, but
there passed through her from time to time a long, waving shudder,
like the throe of a dying thing, unspeakably fearful and very
sickening. As I passed beyond the close-packed crowd the sounds of
their terror became more awful. I could discern the cries of little
children, the quavering clamour of the very old. The pity of it
overcame me, and I staggered into my stateroom and closed the door
upon it all. But overhead there was still the swift tramp of feet, the
harsh sound of voices--steadier now, and less multiplied, the tokens
of a brave and awful preparation.

The next quarter of an hour--for I am sure that the time could not
have been as much as twenty minutes, though it seemed that I sat with
clenched hands for several days--was spent in a struggle with myself
which devoured all my strength. I had heard much, and, in the folly of
my peaceful, untempted youth, had often spoken of the cowardice of
suicide. But now it required more courage and strength of will than I
had ever believed myself capable of just to sit upon that divan,
passively waiting to give back my warm, vigorous life to the infinity
whence it came. Several times I gave in, and rose and laid my hand
upon the doorknob--and conquered myself and went back to the divan and
sat down again. Meanwhile, the noise went on above and about me; the
fat steward, his face green with fear, flung my door open without
knocking. "To the boats, Miss--captain's orders--no luggage----" He
went on to the next room: "To the boats, sir!" The room was empty, and
he passed to the next: "To the boats----" His teeth knocked against
each other, tears of fright glittered down his broad face, but I
heard him open doors faithfully the length of the starboard passage.
It was, I suppose, his great hour.

I went to close the door, and found myself confronted by a man,
barefooted, clad in shirt and trousers. It was Champion. "You awake,
miss? I came to call you--All right? I'm going to get Mr. Darragh on
deck," and he vanished.

His friendly, anxious look broke down something in me, and I was on a
sudden overwhelmed by the passion of life; my humanity awoke again, and
I longed for life, for life however stern, painful, hardwrung from peril
and deprivation, for life snatched with bleeding hands out of the fanged
jaws of the universe. I stood irresolute, the handle of the door in my
hand, for I know not how long. The swaying of the ship became less
regular, and the sounds of her straining, wrenched framework sickened
me. I stepped over the threshold--the ship gave a last long trembling
lurch from which it seemed she could not right herself; there rose a
mighty hissing roar and the shriek of the steam from the hold, louder
cries from the deck, the lights went out. I stumbled in the dark and
fell, striking my head, and something warm and wet trickled down my face
as a huge silence settled down upon me, swift and gentle as the wing of
a great brooding bird, and I was very peaceful and very happy, for was I
not being rocked--no, I was swinging, "letting the old cat die" in the
big backyard at Carsonville, Illinois. No, it was better than that--I
was dying, for the dark was shot by flashes of golden light, throbbing
and raying painfully from my head, and then everything ebbed quietly,
gently away.


[88] Copyright, 1909, by Doubleday, Page and Company.


Charles Hanson Towne, poet of New York's many-sided life, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, February 2, 1877, the son of Professor Paul
Towne. He left Kentucky before he was five years old, and he has been
living in New York practically ever since. Mr. Towne was educated in
the public schools of New York, and then spent a year at the College
of the City of New York. He was editor of _The Smart Set_ for several
years, but he resigned this position to become literary editor of _The
Delineator_. At the present time Mr. Towne is managing editor of _The
Designer_, one of the Butterick publications. With H. Clough-Leighter
he published two song-cycles, entitled _A Love Garden_, and _An April
Heart_; and with Amy Woodforde-Finden he collaborated in the
preparation of three song-cycles, entitled _A Lover in Damascus_,
_Five Little Japanese Songs_, and _A Dream of Egypt_. His original and
independent work is to be found in his three volumes of verse, the
first of which was _The Quiet Singer and Other Poems_ (New York,
1908), a collection of lyrics reprinted from various magazines;
_Manhattan: a Poem_ (New York, 1909), an epic of New York City; and
_Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911), a metrical romance of
domestic happiness, with a group of pleasing shorter poems.
_Manhattan_ is the best thing Mr. Towne has done so far. The poem is
the life of the present-day New Yorker, the rich and the poor, the
famous and the infamous, from many points of view. The poet has turned
the most commonplace events of every-day life into verse of
exceptional quality and much strength. As the singer of the passing
show in New York City, Mr. Towne has done his best work.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (March, 1910); _The Forum_ (June,
    1911); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (December, 1912).


[From _Manhattan, a Poem_ (New York, 1909)]

      Spring comes to town like some mad girl, who runs
      With silver feet upon the Avenue,
      And, like Ophelia, in her tresses twines
      The first young blossoms--purple violets
      And golden daffodils. These are enough--
      These fragile handfuls of miraculous bloom--
      To make the monster City feel the Spring!
      One dash of color on her dun-grey hood,
      One flash of yellow near her pallid face,
      And she and April are the best of friends--
      Benighted town that needs a friend so much!
      How she responds to that first soft caress,
      And draws the hoyden Spring close to her heart,
      And thrills and sings, and for one little time
      Forgets the foolish panic of her sons,
      Forgets her sordid merchandise and trade,
      And lightly trips, while hurdy-gurdies ring--
      A wise old crone upon a holiday!


[From _Youth and Other Poems_ (New York, 1911)]

      There was no certain hour
        Wherein we said good-bye;
      But day by day, and year by year
        We parted--you and I;
      And ever as we met, each felt
        The shadow of a lie.

      It would have been too hard
        To say a swift farewell;
      You could not goad your tongue to name
        The words that rang my knell;
      But better that quick death than this
        Glad heaven and mad hell!


(To Michael Monahan)

[From the same]

      Why should I fear that ultimate thing--
      The Great Release of clown and king?

      Why should I dread to take my way
      Through the same shadowed path as they?

      But can it be a shadowy road
      Whereon both Youth and Genius strode?

      Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod
      Its unknown length, to meet our God;

      Since Shelley, with his valiant youth,
      Fared forth to learn the final Truth;

      Since Milton in his blindness went
      With wisdom and a high content;

      And Angelo lit with white flame
      The pathway when God called his name;

      And Dante, seeking Beatrice,
      Marched fearless down the deep abyss?

      Where Plutarch went, and Socrates,
      Browning and Keats, and such as these,

      Homer, and Sappho with her song
      That echoes still for the vast throng;

      Lincoln and strong Napoleon,
      And calm, courageous Washington;

      Great Alexander, Nero--names
      That swept the world with deathless flames--

      I need not fear that I shall fall
      When the Lord God's great Voice shall call;

      For I shall find the roadway bright
      When I go forth some quiet night.


[89] Copyright, 1909, by Mitchell Kennerley.

[90] Copyright, 1911, by Mitchell Kennerley.


William English Walling, writer upon sociological subjects, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, March 14, 1877. When twenty years of age he was
graduated from the University of Chicago with the B. S. degree; and he
subsequently did graduate work in economics and sociology for a year at
the same institution. Since 1902 Mr. Walling has been a resident at the
University Settlement in New York. He has contributed to many of the
high-class magazines, but he is best seen as a writer in his two books,
entitled _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908); and _Socialism As It Is_
(New York, 1912). The first title, _Russia's Message_, is one of the
authoritative works upon that race; and it has been received as such in
many quarters. And the same statement may be made of his excellent
discussion of socialism. Mr. Walling is a member of many political and
social societies. He has an attractive home at Cedarhurst, Long Island.
In the early spring of 1913 the Macmillan Company will issue another
book for Mr. Walling, entitled _The Larger Aspects of Socialism_.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Nation_ (August 6, 1908); _Review of Reviews_
    (August, 1908); _The Independent_ (May 16, 1912).


[From _Russia's Message_ (New York, 1908)]

Russia, like the United States, is a self-sufficient country; more than
a country, a world. Like the new world, the Russian world forms an
almost complete economic whole, embracing under a single government
nearly all, if not all, climates and nearly all the raw products used in
modern life; both countries are large exporters of agricultural
products, both are devoted more to agriculture than to manufacturing
industry. Both of these worlds are composed largely of newly acquired
and newly settled territory; though both are inhabited by very many
races, in each a single race prevails numerically and in most other
respects over all the rest, and keeps them together as a single whole.
As the result of the mixture of races and the recent settlement of large
parts of both countries, their culture is international, world-culture,
unmarked by the comparatively provincial nationalistic tendencies of
England, Germany, or France. We may look, according to a great German
publicist, Kautsky, to America for the great economic experiments of the
near future and to Russia for the new (social) politics.

America is essentially a country of rapid economic evolution, while
Russia is undeveloped, economically and financially dependent. America
is the country of economic genius, a nation whose conceptions of
material development have reached even a spiritual height. The great
American qualities, the American virtues, the American imagination,
have thrown themselves almost wholly into business, the material
development of the country. Americans are the first of modern peoples
that have learned to respect the repeated failures of enterprising
individuals with a genius for affairs, knowing that such failures
often lead to greater heights of success. They have learned how to
excuse enormous waste when it was made for the sake of economics lying
in the distant future. They can appreciate the enterprise of persons
who, instead of immediately exploiting their properties, know how to
wait, like some of our most able builders that, foreseeing the
brilliant future of the locality in which they are situated, are
satisfied with temporary structures and poor incomes until the time is
ripe for some of the magnificent modern achievements in architecture,
in which we so clearly lead. All three of these types of men we admire
are true revolutionists, who prefer to wait, to waste, or to fail,
rather than to accept the lesser for the greater good.

So it is with Russians in their politics. There seems no reason for
doubting that the near future will show that the political failures
now being made by the Russians are the failures of political genius,
that the waste of lives and property will be repaid later a
hundredfold, and that the hopeful and planful patience with which the
Russians are looking forward and working to a great social
transformation promises the greatest and most magnificent results when
that transformation is achieved. Already the political revolution of
the Russian people, though not yet embodied in political institutions,
is becoming as rapid, as remarkable, as phenomenal, as the economic
revolution of the United States.


[91] Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday, Page and Company.


Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City,
June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled
at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male
High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the
Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University
of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the
little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated
in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and
returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became
police court reporter for the now defunct _Louisville Commercial_. Mr.
Buchanan was connected with the _Commercial_ until 1900, save six
months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer
Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto
Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared,
returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr.
Buchanan went with _The Courier-Journal_; and during the same year he
was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left
Colonel Watterson's paper for _The Louisville Herald_, of which he was
dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr.
Buchanan in New York on _The Evening Journal_, with which he was
connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to
devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book,
_The Castle Comedy_ (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of
Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's _Monsieur
Beaucaire_, was followed by _Judith Triumphant_ (New York, 1905),
another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of
the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of _The Castle Comedy_
was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of
fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, _Nancy Don't
Care_, was met with a like response from the public, and the young
playwright presented _The Intruder_, which certainly justified belief
in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The
play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done
hitherto was _A Woman's Way_, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace
George created the character of the wife with convincing power.
_Marion Stanton_ is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly
rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of
other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is
wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows"
are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details--which
desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the
size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of
the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is
called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South
is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a
very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of
her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been
well-worn long before _Marion_ made it famous. The drama was one of
the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its
author's reputation. A novelization of _A Woman's Way_ (New York,
1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but
how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as
produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time
one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and
death of Charles Lamb. _The Cub_, produced in 1910, a comedy with a
mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville
newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in
the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations,
pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called
_The Cub_ "one of the wittiest of plays"--which opinion was shared by
many who saw it. _Lula's Husbands_, a farce from the French, was also
produced in 1910. _The Rack_, produced in 1911, was followed by
_Natalie_, and _Her Mother's Daughter_, all of which were given stage
presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and
rehearsing his new play, _The Bridal Path_, a matrimonial comedy in
three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his
plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two
romances and the novelization of _A Woman's Way_, two other novels
have appeared, entitled _The Second Wife_ (New York, 1911); and
_Making People Happy_ (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the
ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious
discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is,
indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists
almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach
his audience across the footlights, is a _rara avis_. Augustus Thomas,
the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a
short time, and his finest drama, _The Witching Hour_, is set wholly
at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon
him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has
done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn
his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!"

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Theatre Magazine_ (April; May, 1909); _The
    American Magazine_ (November, 1910); _The Green Book_ (January,


[From _A Woman's Way_ (_Current Literature_, New York, June, 1909)]

_Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General
Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all
of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow._

    _General Livingston._ I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you,
    sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion
    any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible.

    _Lynch._ General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since
    three o'clock.

    _General Livingston._ (_Sharp._) What!

    _Lynch._ And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall
    certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the
    story spread on the front page, sure--"Famous old soldier fined
    for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man."

(_General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands
twitching, quivering with rage._)

    _General Livingston._ (_Gasps almost tearfully._) Have you
    newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity?

    _Lynch._ Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours,
    our associations are very bad.

    _General Livingston._ What do you mean?

    _Lynch._ We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in
    his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the
    trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr.
    Stanton a----

    _General Livingston._ (_Interrupting._) Would the papers print

    _Lynch._ Would they print it? Well--(_Smiles significantly._)

    _General Livingston._ Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers
    will take action.

    _Lynch._ They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters
    up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say
    anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the
    car with him at the time of his automobile accident
    was----(_Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis._) Mrs. Elizabeth

    _General Livingston._ (Starting back in amazement.) Good

    _Bob and Morris._ (_Turn, face each other, absolute amazement
    showing on their faces, speak together._) Well, what do you think
    of that? (_Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a
    moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first._)

    _Stanton._ (_As he comes on._) General, I wish to
    apologize----(_Stops short, seeing Lynch._)

    _General Livingston._ (_Whirling on Stanton._) Apologize!
    Apologize! How dare you, sir! (_Losing his self-control._) My
    great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult----

[_Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a
moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave
the house at once. Marion demurs._]

    _Marion._ Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must
    settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you
    cannot coerce me in my own house. (_Walks past him to the door and
    opens it._) Good evening, Mr. Lynch.

    _Lynch._ (_Sincere tone._) I hope you will believe me, Mrs.
    Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to
    come on this errand.

    _Marion._ Thank you, Mr. Lynch.

    _Lynch._ I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton.

    _Marion._ Sorry, but----(_Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but
    firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts

    _Lynch._ Then please understand my position, and how I regret
    personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put.
    (_Marion bows._) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that

    _Marion._ Yes.

    _Lynch._ And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven

    _Marion._ I'd expect that. Who is she?

    _Lynch._ Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (_Lynch pronounces the name
    regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then
    throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men
    on the stage stare at Marion amazed._)

    _Marion._ Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch.
    (_Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men._)
    Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke!
    (_The men try awkwardly to back her up._)

    _General Livingston._ Splendid! Haw! Haw!

    _Bob._ Fine, he, he!

    _Morris._ (_At head of table._) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like

    _Whitney._ I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail.

    _Lynch._ (_Grimly._) You can't laugh me off.

    _Marion._ (_Struggling for self-control._) Of course not. But you
    must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial
    proof. (_Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's
    talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had
    looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most
    dulcet tone._) Elizabeth!

    _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Her voice heard off stage._) Yes, Marion,
    dear. (_An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the

    _Marion._ Come in! (_Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly,
    almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's
    waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving
    Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm._) Don't say a
    word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (_Mrs.
    Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come
    down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most
    affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and
    Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily._) Mr.
    Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore?

    _Lynch._ (_In amazement._) Mrs. Blakemore!

    _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Bowing pleasantly._) Glad to meet you, Mr.

    _Lynch._ (_Repeating, dazed._) Mrs. Blakemore!

    _Marion._ (_Gaily._) And you see she's not lame a bit from her
    broken leg.

    _Mrs. Blakemore._ What's the joke?

    _Marion._ (_Taunting._) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find
    plaintiff and corespondent so friendly.

    _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Gasping._) Plaintiff! Corespondent!

    _Marion._ Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town
    to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard,
    naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (_She
    keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist._)

    _Mrs. Blakemore._ (_Taking the cue._) This is awful! Horrible!

    _Marion._ Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (_To Lynch._)
    Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch?

    _Lynch._ Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded
    clever you might run in a "ringer." (_Reaches in his pocket,
    brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with
    Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up._) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton.

    _Marion._ Thanks. (_Bows satirically._)

    _Lynch._ Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put
    your arm about the _other woman_. (_A suppressed, gasping
    exclamation from the men._)

    _Marion._ That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch.

    _Lynch._ Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night!

    _All._ (_With relief._) Good night.

    [_The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her
    arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had
    forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs.
    Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed
    by the others._ "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks,
    "you'll get all that is coming to you." _Stanton calls back Marion
    who has also deserted the room._]

    _Stanton._ Marion! Marion!

    _Marion._ (_Enters._) Has she gone?

    _Stanton._ Who?

    _Marion._ Puss?

    _Stanton._ Oh, she's not my Puss.

    _Marion._ Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she?

    _Stanton._ God knows--maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time.
    I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you
    forgive me and take me back?

    _Marion._ Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you
    think I could stand for that cat--Puss, I mean--in this house and
    me off to Reno?



[92] Copyright, 1909, by the Current Literature Publishing Company.


Will Levington Comfort, "the new style novelist," was born at
Kalamazoo, Michigan, January 17, 1878. He was educated in the grammar
and high schools of Detroit, and was at Albion College, Albion,
Michigan, for a short time. Mr. Comfort was a newspaper reporter in
Detroit for a few months, but, in 1898, he did his first real
reporting on papers in Cincinnati, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky.
During the Spanish-American War he served in the Fifth United States
Cavalry; and in 1899 he was war correspondent in the Philippines and
China for the "Detroit Journal Newspaper Syndicate;" and in 1904 he
was in Russia and Japan during the war for the "Pittsburgh Dispatch
Newspaper Syndicate." Thus he followed the war-god almost around the
world; and out of his experiences he wrote his anti-war novel,
_Routledge Rides Alone_ (Philadelphia, 1909). This proved to be one of
the most popular of recent American novels, now in its ninth edition.
It was followed by _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911), his
quasi-Kentucky novel. In order to get the local color for this book,
Mr. Comfort spent some months at Danville, Kentucky, the _Danube_ of
the story, and of his stay in the little town, together with his
opinion of the Kentucky actress in the book, Selma Cross, he has
written: "I always considered Selma Cross the real thing. I had quite
a wonderful time doing her, and she came to be most emphatically in
Kentucky. It was a night in Danville when some amateur theatricals
were put on, that I got the first idea of a big crude woman with a
handicap of beauty-lack, but big enough to win against every law. She
had to go on the anvil, hard and long. I was interested to watch her
in the sharp odor of decadence to which her life carried her. She
wabbles, becomes tainted a bit, but rises to shake it all off. I did
the Selma Cross part of _She Buildeth Her House_ in the Clemons
House, Danville.... I also did a novelette while I was in Kentucky.
The Lippincotts published it under the caption, _Lady Thoroughbred,
Kentuckian_." No critic has written nearer the truth of Selma Cross
than the author himself: "She was a bit strong medicine for most
people." Mr. Comfort has made many horseback trips through Kentucky,
and he has "come to feel authoritative and warmly tender in all that
concerns the folk and the land." His latest novel, _Fate Knocks at the
Door_ (Philadelphia, 1912), is far and away the strongest story he has
written. Mr. Comfort has created a style that the critics are calling
"new, big, but crude in spots;" and it certainly does isolate him from
any other American novelist of today. Whatever may be said for or
against his style, this much is certain: he who runs may read it--some
other time! His work is seldom clear at first glances. Mr. Comfort
devoted the year 1912 to the writing of a new novel, _The Road of
Living Men_, which will be issued by his publishers, the Lippincotts,
in March, 1913. He has an attractive home and family at Detroit.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lippincott's Magazine_ (March, 1908); _Lippincott's
    Magazine_ (March; April; August, 1912).


[From _She Buildeth Her House_ (Philadelphia, 1911)]

Selma Cross was sick for a friend, sick from containing herself. On
this night of achievement there was something pitiful in the need of
her heart.

"New York has turned rather too many pages of life before my eyes,
Selma, for me to feel far above any one whose struggles I have not

The other leaned forward eagerly. "I liked you from the first moment,
Paula," she said. "You were so rounded--it seemed to me. I'm all
streaky, all one-sided. You're bred. I'm cattle.... Some time I'll tell
you how it all began. I said I would be the greatest living
tragedienne--hurled this at a lot of cat-minds down in Kentucky fifteen
years ago. Of course, I shall. It does not mean so much to me as I
thought, and it may be a bauble to you, but I wanted it. Its
far-away-ness doesn't torture me as it once did, but one pays a ghastly
price. Yes, it's a climb, dear. You must have bone and blood and
brain--a sort of brain--and you should have a cheer from below; but I
didn't. I wonder if there ever was a fight that can match mine? If so,
it would not be a good tale for children or grown-ups with delicate
nerves. Little women always hated me. I remember one restaurant cashier
on Eighth Avenue told me I was too unsightly to be a waitress. I have
done kitchen pot-boilers and scrubbed tenement-stairs. Then, because I
repeated parts of plays in those horrid halls--they said I was crazy....
Why, I have felt a perfect lust for suicide--felt my breast ache for a
cool knife and my hand rise gladly. Once I played a freak part--that was
my greater degradation--debased my soul by making my body look worse
than it is. I went down to hell for that--and was forgiven. I have been
so homesick, Paula, that I could have eaten the dirt in the road of that
little Kentucky town.... Yes, I pressed against the steel until
something broke--it was the steel, not me. Oh, I could tell you

She paused but a moment.

"The thing so dreadful to overcome was that I have a body like a great
Dane. It would not have hurt a writer, a painter, even a singer, so
much, but we of the drama are so dependent upon the shape of our
bodies. Then, my face is like a dog or a horse or a cat--all these I
have been likened to. Then I was slow to learn repression. This a part
of culture, I guess--breeding. Mine is a lineage of Kentucky poor
white trash, who knows, but a speck of 'nigger'? I don't care now,
only it gave me a temper of seven devils, if it was so. These are some
of the things I have contended with. I would go to a manager and he
would laugh me along, trying to get rid of me gracefully, thinking
that some of his friends were playing a practical joke on him.
Vhruebert thought that at first. Vhruebert calls me _The Thing_ now. I
could have done better had I been a cripple; there are parts for a
cripple. And you watch, Paula, next January when I burn up things
here, they'll say my success is largely due to my figure and face!"


[93] Copyright, 1911, by J. B. Lippincott Company.


Frank Waller Allen, novelist, was born at Milton, Kentucky, September
30, 1878, the son of a clergyman. He spent his boyhood days at
Louisville, and, in the fall of 1896, he entered Kentucky (Transylvania)
University, Lexington, Kentucky. While in college he was editor of _The
Transylvanian_, the University literary magazine; and he also did
newspaper work for _The Louisville Times_, and _The Courier-Journal_.
Mr. Allen quit college to become a reporter on the Kansas City
_Journal_, later going with the Kansas City _Times_ as book editor. He
resigned this position to return to Kentucky University to study
theology. He is now pastor of the First Christian (Disciples) church, at
Paris, Missouri. Mr. Allen's first stories were published in _Munsey's_,
_The Reader_, and other periodicals, but it is upon his books that he
has won a wide reputation in Kentucky and the West. The first title was
a sketch, _My Ships Aground_ (Chicago, 1900), and his next work was an
exquisite tale of love and Nature, entitled _Back to Arcady_ (Boston,
1905), which has sold far into the thousands and is now in its third
edition. A more perfect story has not been written by a Kentuckian of
Mr. Allen's years. _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, 1907), was so
slight that it attracted little attention, yet it is exceedingly
well-done; and in his latest book, _The Golden Road_ (New York, 1910),
he just failed to do what one or two other writers have recently done so
admirably. His Nature-loving tinker falls a bit short, but some
excellent writing may be found in this book. Mr. Allen has recently
completed another novel, _The Lovers of Skye_, which will be issued by
the Bobbs-Merrill Company in the spring of 1913.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Reader Magazine_ (October, 1905); _Who's Who in
    America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Maker of Joys_ (Kansas City, Missouri, 1907)]

At this moment the servant lifted the tapestries and announced: "The
lady, sir."

This time, before he could stop her, she took his hand and kissed it.

"There was little use in my coming today," she said, "except to thank

"Why, I do not quite understand you. What for?" asked the rector in

"For answering my question."

"Tell me?" he replied.

"You've known me a long time," she answered, "and being Jimmy Duke, it
isn't necessary for me to tell you how I've lived. But you and
me--once youth is gone, sir, and people are a long time old. I've
thought of this a great deal lately, and I've been trying to decide
what's right and what's wrong.... Then I read in the papers about you.
About the things you preach and the like, and I knew you could tell
me. I knew you'd know whether good people are faking, and which life
is best. You see, I'd never thought of it in all my life before until
just a little while ago. Just a month or such a matter."

"And now?" asked the Shepherd of St. Mark's.

"I could have left the old life years ago if I had wanted to," she
continued, ignoring his question. "There is a man--well, there's several
of them--but this a special one, who, for years, has wanted me to marry
him. I always liked him better than anybody I knew, but I just couldn't
give up the life. He is a plain man in a little village in Missouri, and
I thought I'd die if I went. He offered to move to the city and I was
afraid for him. You see I just didn't know what was good and what was
bad, yet I didn't want this man to become like other men I knew."

"Tell me, what are you going to do?" he asked eagerly. He had almost
said, "Tell me what to do."

"Well," she answered, "since I have been thinking it all over, things
as they are have become empty. There is no joy in it, and I am weary
of it all.... Yesterday I came to you. I wanted to ask you whether it
was best or not to leave the old life. But I did not have to ask you.
I saw how it was when you told me what you had done. And O, how I
thank you for straightening it all out for me. Besides," she added
with hesitancy, "after I left you last night I telegraphed for the man
in the little village out west."

When she had gone he gazed out of the window after her as she walked
buoyant and happy through the night.

"Perhaps," softly said the Maker of Joys, "it is the memory of the old
days that is sweetest after all."


Miss Venita Seibert, whose charming stories of German-American child
life have been widely read and appreciated, was born at Louisville,
Kentucky, December 29, 1878. Miss Seibert was educated in the
Louisville public schools, and almost at once entered upon a literary
career. She contributed short stories and verse to the leading
periodicals, her first big serial story being published in _The
American Magazine_ during 1907 and 1908, entitled _The Different
World_. This dealt with the life and imaginings of a little
German-American girl, a dreamy, sensitive child, and showing the
poetry of German home life and the originality of childhood. The story
was highly praised by Miss Ida M. Tarbell and other able critics.
Under the title of _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910), Miss Seibert
brought these tales together in one volume. There "the chronicles of
Velleda, who understood about 'the different world,'" may be read to
the heart's desire. Miss Seibert, who resides at Louisville, Kentucky,
promises big for the future, and her next book should bring her a
wider public, as well as greater growth in literary power.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1903); _Library of
    Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xv).


[From _The Gossamer Thread_ (Boston, 1910)]

Oh, it was a puzzling world. Not the least puzzling thing was babies.
Mrs. Katzman had come several times with a little brown satchel and
brought one to Tante--a little, little thing that had to be fed catnip
tea and rolled in a shawl and kept out of draughts. The advantage of
having a new baby in the house was that it meant a glorious period of
running wild, for of course one did not pretend to obey the girl who
came to cook. Also, there was much company who brought nice things to
eat for Tante, who naturally left the biggest part for the children.

Of course God sent the little babies, but how did he get them down to
Mrs. Katzman? She averred that she got them out of the river, but this
Velleda knew to be a fib, for of course they would drown in the river.
Tante said they fell down from Heaven, but of course such a fall would
kill a little baby. Gros-mamma Wallenstein said a stork brought them,
and for a time Velleda thought Mrs. Katzman must be a stork; but when
she saw a picture of one she knew that it was only a bird. Then she
decided that the stork carried the babies to Mrs. Katzman's and she
divided them around; but Mrs. Katzman's little boy, questioned in the
most searching manner, declared that he had never seen a sign of any
stork about the premises.

Just after Baby Ernest's coming, Velleda and Freddy went all the way
to Mrs. Katzman's house--and it was quite a long way, fully three
blocks--to beg her to exchange him for a girl.

"We've only used him two days and he's just as good as new," stated
Velleda, guiltily concealing the fact that he cried a great deal. But
Mrs. Katzman said she really couldn't think of it, as God settled all
those matters himself. It was on this occasion that Velleda had
cross-examined Mrs. Katzman's little boy regarding the stork. There
was no doubting the truth of Georgie's statements, for he told Velleda
dolefully that he himself had long desired a brother or a sister, but
never a baby had he seen in that house. Evidently Mrs. Katzman fetched
them from somewhere else in the brown satchel.

"You might have had ours," said Velleda. "We didn't want him. We
prayed for a girl."

"Oh, you'll soon find out _that_ don't do any good." Georgie kicked
gloomily at a stone. "I used to pray, too, but God's awful stubborn
when it comes to babies."

Velleda wondered at the strangeness of things. All the little girls
and some of the little boys who had no baby brother or sister to take
care of, thought it a great treat to be allowed to wheel the
baby-buggy up and down the square, really a most irksome task, as
Velleda could testify. At Velleda's house they believed with the poet
that "Time's noblest offspring is the last," so the baby reigned king,
which was not always pleasant for his smaller slaves. Therefore she
wondered at Georgie's taste. However, since he evidently regarded his
brotherless state as a deep misfortune, she was full of sympathy and
would do what she could for him.

"You just pray a little harder," she advised; "and," struck by a
brilliant thought, "look in the brown satchel every night! Maybe
you'll find one left over."

She and Freddy went home feeling very sorry for Georgie. He was only
another illustration of the old saying which Onkel often commented
on--the shoemaker's children wear ragged shoes, the painter's own
house is the last to receive a fresh coat, and the stork woman has no
baby of her own.

Regarding this great question there was one point upon which everybody
agreed. Velleda had her own system of deciding questions; she sifted
the versions of her various informants, retained those points upon
which all agreed, and upon this common ground proceeded to erect the
structure of her own reasoning. Grown-ups, she knew, had a weakness
for mild fibbing, which was not lying and not wrong at all, but was
naturally very disconcerting when one burned to learn the real truth
about a thing. The stork theory, the river theory, the falling from
Heaven theory--all possessed one mutual starting point: God sent the
little babies. There was of course no doubt in that regard, and
Velleda finally decided that God placed them in the woods in a certain
spot, marked where they were to go, and then vanished into Heaven (for
of course no one had ever seen God), whereupon Mrs. Katzman approached
with the brown satchel.

This was a most satisfactory theory, with no flaws in its logic,
reasonable and probable, and conflicting with no known law. The
question was shelved.

Velleda, going up to the third floor room of Nellie Johnson with a
pitcher of milk which the dairywoman had asked her to deliver, found the
girl huddled up before a small stove, looking so white and miserable
that Velleda's heart ached for her, although she knew that Nellie was a
very wicked person and nobody in the neighborhood spoke to her. Across
her knees lay a white bundle. Velleda considered the matter.

"I guess God loves you anyway, Nellie," she concluded. "He has sent
you a little baby."

The girl tossed the bundle upon the bed with a fierce gesture.

"God?" she said bitterly. "It ain't God sent that baby. The Devil sent

Velleda fled down the stairs.

It is indeed a puzzling world.


[94] Copyright, 1910, by Small, Maynard and Company.


Charles Neville Buck, novelist and short-story writer, was born near
Midway, Kentucky, April 15, 1879. He spent the first fifteen years of
his life at his birthplace, save the four years he was in South
America with his father, the Hon. C. W. Buck, who was United States
Minister to Peru from 1885 to 1889, and the author of _Under the
Sun_, a Peruvian romance. At the age of fifteen years, Charles Neville
Buck went to Louisville to enter the high school; and, in 1898, he was
graduated from the University of Louisville. He studied art and joined
the staff of _The Evening Post_, of Louisville, as cartoonist, which
position he held for a year, when he became an editorial writer on
that paper. Mr. Buck studied law and was admitted to the bar, but he
did not practice. In 1908 he quit journalism for prose fiction. His
short-stories were accepted by American and English magazines, but he
won his first real reputation with a novel of mental aberration,
entitled _The Key to Yesterday_ (New York, 1910), the scenes of which
were set against Kentucky, France, and South America. Mr. Buck's next
novel, _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911), was an international love
romance in which a rich young American falls in love with the
princess, and about-to-be-queen, of a bit of a kingdom near Spain.
Benton, hero, has a rocky road to travel, but he, of course,
demolishes every barrier and proves again that love finds a way. _The
Lighted Match_ is a rattling good story, and it contains many purple
patches between the hiss of the revolutionist's bomb and lovers'
sighs. Mr. Buck's latest novel, _The Portal of Dreams_ (New York,
1912), was a very clever story. His first Kentucky novel, and the
finest thing he has done, he and his publisher think, is _The Strength
of Samson_, which will appear in four parts in _The Cavalier_, a
weekly magazine, for February, 1913, after which it will be almost
immediately published in book form under the title of _The Call of the
Cumberlands_. Mr. Buck's home is at Louisville, Kentucky, but he
spends much of his time in New York, where he lives at the Hotel
Earle, in Waverly Place, a stone's throw from the apartments of his
friend, Thompson Buchanan, the Kentucky playwright.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (October 8, 1910); _Cosmopolitan
    Magazine_ (August, 1911); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).


[From _The Lighted Match_ (New York, 1911)]

Despite the raw edge on the air, the hardier guests at "Idle Times"
still clung to those outdoor sports which properly belonged to the
summer. That afternoon a canoeing expedition was made up river to
explore a cave which tradition had endowed with some legendary tale of
pioneer days and Indian warfare.

Pagratide, having organized the expedition with that object in view, had
made use of his prior knowledge to enlist Cara for the crew of his
canoe, but Benton, covering a point that Pagratide had overlooked,
pointed out that an engagement to go up the river in a canoe is entirely
distinct from an engagement to come down the river in a canoe. He cited
so many excellent authorities in support of his contention that the
matter was decided in his favor for the return trip, and Mrs.
Porter-Woodleigh, all unconscious that her escort was a Crown Prince,
found in him an introspective and altogether uninteresting young man.

Benton and the girl in one canoe, were soon a quarter of a mile in
advance of the others, and lifting their paddles from the water they
floated with the slow current. The singing voices of the party behind
them came softly adrift along the water. All of the singers were young
and the songs had to do with sentiment.

The girl buttoned her sweater closer about her throat. The man stuffed
tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and bent low to kindle it into a
cheerful spot of light.

A belated lemon afterglow lingered at the edge of the sky ahead.
Against it the gaunt branches of a tall tree traced themselves
starkly. Below was the silent blackness of the woods.

Suddenly Benton raised his head.

"I have a present for you," he announced.

"A present?" echoed the girl. "Be careful, Sir Gray Eyes. You played
the magician once and gave me a rose. It was such a wonderful
rose"--she spoke almost tenderly--"that it has spoiled me. No
commonplace gifts will be tolerated after that."

"This is a different sort of present," he assured her. "This is a god."

"A what!" Cara was at the stern with the guiding paddle. The man
leaned back, steadying the canoe with a hand on each gunwale, and
smiled into her face.

"Yes," he said, "he is a god made out of clay with a countenance that
is most unlovely and a complexion like an earthenware jar. I acquired
him in the Andes for a few _centavos_. Since then we have been
companions. In his day he had his place in a splendid temple of the
Sun Worshipers. When I rescued him he was squatting cross-legged on a
counter among silver and copper trinkets belonging to a civilization
younger than his own. When you've been a god and come to be a souvenir
of ruins and dead things--" the man paused for a moment, then with the
ghost of a laugh went on "--it makes you see things differently. In
the twisted squint of his small clay face one reads slight regard for
mere systems and codes."

He paused so long that she prompted him in a voice that threatened to
become unsteady. "Tell me more about him. What is his godship's name?"

"He looked so protestingly wise," Benton went on, "that I named him
Jonesy. I liked that name because it fitted him so badly. Jonesy is
not conventional in his ideas, but his morals are sound. He has seen
religions and civilizations and dynasties flourish and decay, and it
has all given him a certain perspective on life. He has occasionally
given me good council."

He paused again, but, noting that the singing voices were drawing
nearer, he continued more rapidly.

"In Alaska I used to lie flat on my cot before a great open fire and
his god-ship would perch crosslegged on my chest. When I breathed, he
seemed to shake his fat sides and laugh. When a pagan god from Peru
laughs at you in a Yukon cabin, the situation calls for attention. I
gave attention.

"Jonesy said that the major human motives sweep in deep channels,
full-tide ahead. He said you might in some degree regulate their floods
by rearing abutments, but that when you tried to build a dam to stop the
Amazon you are dealing with folly. He argued that when one sets out to
dam up the tides set flowing back in the tributaries of the heart it is
written that one must fail. That is the gospel according to Jonesy."

He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward. There was
silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, the dripping of
the water from the lifted blades, and the song drifting down river.
Finally Benton added:

"I don't know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give you
good advice--on those matters which the centuries can't change."

Cara's voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears.

"He has already given me good advice, dear--" she said, "good advice
that I can't follow."


[95] Copyright, 1911, by W. J. Watt and Company.


George Bingham ("Dunk Botts"), newspaper humorist, was born near
Wallonia, Kentucky, August 1, 1879. He quit school at the age of ten
years to become "the devil" in a printing office at Eddyville,
Kentucky. Two years later he removed to Mayfield, Kentucky, and
accepted a position on _The Mirrow_. Shortly afterwards he wrote his
first ficticious "news-letter" from an imaginary town called Boney
Ridge, Kentucky, and submitted it to the critical eye of a tramp
printer. This nomad at once saw the boy's design: to burlesque the
letters received from the _Mirrow's_ crossroad correspondents; and he
encouraged him. Mr. Bingham remained at Mayfield until he was twenty
years of age, at which time he felt important enough to go out and see
the world. Like most prodigals homesickness seized him for its very
own; and he started home perched high on a freight train. Homeward
bound he first had the name of his future paper suggested to him.
Battling through a tiny town in Tennessee he enquired of the brakeman
as to its name.

"Walhalla," answered the "shack."

"Hogwallow?" repeated the young Kentuckian.

"Hell no! Who ever heard of a place called 'Hogwallow'?"

Upon reaching home Mr. Bingham decided to put the village of
Hogwallow, Kentucky, on the map. His first letter from that town was
printed in the old _Mayfield Monitor_, under the pen-name of "Dunk
Botts," which he has retained hitherto. After having written several
Hogwallow letters, he was compelled to accept a position on a small
newspaper; then nothing more was heard of Hogwallow until 1901, when
he wrote a letter every few weeks, for a year, and then went to
California. He "arrived back home on June 1, 1905, had a chill a week
later, and launched _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ on July 15." He took
the public into his confidence, telling them that his object was to
conduct a burlesque newspaper, or, rather, a parody on one. He peopled
his imaginary town and its environs with forty or more characters
whose names summed them up without further ado; and he founded such
important places as Rye Straw, Tickville, Hog Hill church and
graveyard, Wild Onion schoolhouse, Gander Creek, and several other
necessary hamlets and institutions. On May 15, 1909, Mr. Bingham
suspended publication in order to make another trip to California. Two
years later he returned to Kentucky for the sole purpose of
resurrecting his paper. He resumed publication on June 17, 1911, at
Paducah, but Irvin Cobb's town seemingly got on his nerves and, after
three months, he tucked his "sheet" under his arm and returned to his
first love, Mayfield, where he has remained ever since. _The Hogwallow
Kentuckian_ is published every Saturday night, read in thirty-seven
states, and copied by the leading newspapers of America and England.
Mr. Bingham has written more than five thousand "news items" for the
paper, besides some five hundred short-stories, sketches, and
paragraphs. He contributes considerable Hogwallow news to Charles
Hamilton Musgrove's[96] page in _The Evening Post_ of Louisville; but
he is an "outside contributor," doing his work at Mayfield.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Bingham to the Author; the St.
    Louis _Post-Dispatch_ (January 14, 1912).


[From _The Hogwallow Kentuckian_ (December 21, 1912)]

Atlas Peck can't see why his left shoe wears out so much quicker than
his right one, when his right one does just as much walking as his left.

Until times get better and the financial questions of the nation gets
fully settled the Old Miser on Musket Ridge will live on two
hickorynuts per day.

Sim Flinders has brought back with him from the Calf Ribs neighborhood
a feather bed made of owl feathers. While coming home with it on his
back the other night it was so soft and downy he fell to sleep while
walking along the road.

Yam Sims appeared in public last Sunday with a new pair of pants and a
striped necktie. They have made a wonderful change in his appearance,
and until they wear out he will rank among our best people.

A dawg fight attracted a lot of attention and broke up the
conversation at the Hog Ford moonshine still house the other day. One
of the dawgs belonged to Poke Eazley and the other to Jefferson
Potlocks, and the difficulty came up over some misunderstanding
between their owners.

Ellick Hellwanger is fixing to celebrate his wooden wedding next week
with a quart of wood alcohol.

Tobe Moseley's mule is able to walk around again after being propped
up against a persimmon tree for several days.

Tobe Moseley took his jug over to the sorghum mill early Tuesday
morning of last week after some molasses, and has not yet returned. No
grave fears, however, are entertained on account of his protracted
absence, as sorghum molasses run slow in cold weather.

Bullets have been falling in Hogwallow for the past few days. They are
thought to be those Raz Barlow fired at the moon a few nights ago.

Luke Mathewsla has a good hawg pen for sale cheap. It would make a
good front yard, and Luke may move his house up behind it.

Cricket Hicks has gone up to Tickville to get an almanac, as he is on
the program for a lot of original jokes at Rye Straw Saturday night.

Isaac Hellwanger fell off of a foot lawg while watching a panel of
fence float down Gander creek the other morning. He says it don't pay
to get too interested in one thing.

Slim Pickens has received through the mails a bottle of dandruff cure,
and he is taking two teaspoonfuls after each meal.

Poke Eazley has been puny this week with lumbago, and had to be
excused from singing at the Dog Hill church Sunday, being too weak to
carry a tune, or lift his voice.

Fit Smith is having his shoes remodeled, and will occupy them next week.

Columbus Allsop's head has been itching for several days. He says that
is a sign Christmas is coming.

The Dog Hill Preacher will be surprised by his congregation next
Sunday morning when they will give him a Christmas present, which they
have already bought. The preacher is greatly surprised every time his
congregation gives him anything.

Fletcher Henstep's geese are being fattened for Christmas, and have
been turned loose in the Musket Ridge corn patches. They all wear
lanterns as it is late before they get in at night.


[96] Mr. Musgrove, who is to leave _The Post_ at the end of 1912 to
become humorist editor of _The Louisville Times_, was born in
Kentucky, and is the author of a charming volume of verse, _The Dream
Beautiful and Other Poems_ (Louisville; 1898). He is to issue in 1913
another book of poems, through a Louisville firm, to be entitled _Pan
and Aeolus_. When Mr. Musgrove joins _The Times_ he will take _The
Post's_ clever cartoonist, Paul Plaschke, with him; and they will
occupy an office next to Colonel Henry Watterson's in the new
Courier-Journal and Times building.


Miss Mabel Porter Pitts, poet, was born near Flemingsburg, Kentucky,
January 5, 1884. Her family removed to Seattle, Washington, when she was
a girl, and her education was received at the Academy of the Holy Names.
Miss Pitts lived at Seattle for a number of years, but she now resides
at San Francisco. Her verse and short-stories have appeared in several
of the eastern magazines, and they have been read with pleasure by many
people. Her first book of poems, _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other
Poems_ (Denver, Colorado, 1907), is now in its third edition, five
thousand copies having been sold so far. This seems to show that there
are people in the United States who care for good verse. Miss Pitts is
well-known on the Pacific coast, where she has spent nearly all her
life, but she must be introduced to the people of her native State,
Kentucky. Her short-stories are as well liked as her poems, a collection
of them is promised for early publication, and she should have a
permanent place in the literature of Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Overland Monthly_ (January; December, 1904; April,


[From _In the Shadow of the Crag and Other Poems_ (Denver, 1907)]

      Just within the mystic border of Kentucky's blue grass region
        There's a silver strip of river lying idly in the sun,
      On its banks are beds of fragrance where the butterflies are legion
        And the moonbeams frame its glory when the summer day is done.

      There's a little, rose-wreathed cottage nestling close upon its
        Where a tangled mass of blossoms half conceals an open door,
      There's a sweet, narcotic perfume from a garden's wild disorder,
        And the jealous poppies cluster where its kisses thrill the shore.

      From across its dimpled bosom comes the half-hushed, careful calling
        Of a whippoorwill whose lonely heart is longing for its mate,
      And the sun aslant the sleepy eyes of fox-gloves gently falling
        Tells the fisherman out yonder that the hour is growing late.

      From the branches of the poplars a spasmodic sleepy twitter
        Comes, 'twould seem, in careless answer to the pleading of a song,
      And perhaps the tiny bosom holds despair that's very bitter
        For his notes are soon unheeded by the little feathered throng.

      Then the twilight settling denser shows a rush-light dimly burning--
        Ah, how well I know the landing drowsing 'neath its feeble beams,
      And my homesick heart to mem'ries of the yesterday is turning
        While I linger here, forgotten, with no solace but my dreams.


[97] Copyright, 1907, by the Author.


Miss Marion Forster Gilmore, the young Louisville poet and dramatist,
was born at Anchorage, Kentucky, November 27, 1887. She was educated
at Hampton College, Louisville, and at a private school in Washington,
D. C. At the age of fourteen years she wrote a poem while crossing the
Rocky Mountains that attracted the attention of Joaquin Miller and
Madison Cawein, and won her the friendship of both poets. When but
fifteen years old she had completed her three-act tragedy of
_Virginia_, set in Rome during the days of the Decemvirs. This is
purely a play for the study, and hardly fitted for stage presentation,
yet it has been praised by William Faversham, the famous actor. Miss
Gilmore contributed lyrics to the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ and
_Leslie's Weekly_, which, with her play, she published in a charming
book, entitled _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville,
Kentucky, 1910). _The Cradle Song_, originally printed in the
_Cosmopolitan_ for May, 1908, is one of the best of her shorter poems.
Miss Gilmore has recently returned to her home at Louisville, after
having spent a year in European travel and study.[98]

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1909); _Current
    Literature_ (August, 1910).


[From _Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems_ (Louisville, Kentucky,

      Adown the vista of the years,
        I turn and look with silent soul,
      As though to catch a muted strain
        Of melody, that seems to roll
      In tender cadence to my ear.
        But, as I wait with eyes that long
      The singer to behold--it fades,
        And silence ends the Cradle Song.

      But when the shadows of the years
        Have lengthened slowly to the West,
      And once again I lay me down
        To sleep, upon my mother's breast,
      Then well I know I ne'er again
        Shall cry to God, "How long? How long?"
      For, to my soul, her voice will sing
        A never-ending Cradle Song.


[98] There are two other young women poets of Louisville who should be
mentioned in the same breath with Miss Gilmore: Miss Ethel Allen
Murphy, author of _The Angel of Thought and Other Poems_ (Boston,
1909), and contributor of brief lyrics to _Everybody's Magazine_; and
Miss Hortense Flexner, on the staff of _The Louisville Herald_, whose
poems in the new _Mammoth Cave Magazine_ have attracted much
attention. Miss Flexner is to have a poem published in _The American
Magazine_ in 1913.

[99] Copyright, 1910, by the Author.



Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority for the
statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author of _When the Cows Come
Home_, one of the loveliest lyrics in the language, lived at
Louisville for some years, and that she wrote her famous poem within
the confines of that city. The date of its composition must have been
about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, but little else
is known of her life and literary labors. It is a real pity that her
career has not come down to us in detail. She certainly "lodged a note
in the ear of time," and firmly fixed her fame with it.


[From _The Humbler Poets_, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)]

      With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle,
      'Way down the dusty dingle,
        The cows are coming home;
      Now sweet and clear, and faint and low,
      The airy tinklings come and go,
      Like chimings from some far-off tower,
      Or patterings of an April shower
        That makes the daisies grow;
      Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle,
      'Way down the darkening dingle,
        The cows come slowly home;
      And old-time friends, and twilight plays
      And starry nights and sunny days,
      Come trooping up the misty ways,
        When the cows come home.

      With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle,
      Soft sounds that sweetly mingle,
        The cows are coming home;
      Malvine and Pearl and Florimel,
      DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell,
      Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue,
      Across the fields I hear her OO-OO,
      And clang her silver bell;
      Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle,
      With faint far sounds that mingle,
        The cows come slowly home;
      And mother-songs of long-gone years,
      And baby joys, and childish tears,
      And youthful hopes, and youthful fears,
        When the cows come home.

      With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle,
      By twos and threes and single,
        The cows are coming home;
      Through the violet air we see the town,
      And the summer sun a-slipping down;
      The maple in the hazel glade
      Throws down the path a longer shade,
        And the hills are growing brown;
        To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle,
        By threes and fours and single,
        The cows come slowly home.
      The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
      The same sweet June-day rest and calm,
      The same sweet scent of bud and balm,
        When the cows come home.

      With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle,
      Through fern and periwinkle,
        The cows are coming home.
      A-loitering in the checkered stream,
      Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
      Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis
      Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies
        In a drowsy dream;
      To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle,
      O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,
        The cows come slowly home;
      And up through memory's deep ravine
      Come the brook's old song--its old-time sheen,
      And the crescent of the silver queen,
        When the cows come home.

      With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle,
      With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle.
        The cows are coming home;
      And over there on Morlin hill
      Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill;
      The dew drops lie on the tangled vines,
      And over the poplars Venus shines.
      And over the silent mill;
        Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle;
        With a ting-a-ling and jingle,
        The cows come slowly home;
      Let down the bars; let in the train
      Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,
      For dear old times come back again
        When the cows come home.


  Ainslie, Hew, I, 87-91

  Allen, Frank Waller, II, 366-368

  Allen, James Lane, II, 4-17

  Allison, Young E., II, 53-56

  Altsheler, Joseph A., II, 144-149

  Anderson, Miss Margaret S., II, 318-320

  Andrews, Mrs. Mary R. S., II, 104-110

  Aroni, Ernest, II, 206

  Audubon, John J., I, 45-51

  Audubon, John W., I, 185-187

  Badin, Stephen T., I, 30-34

  Banks, Mrs. Nancy Huston, II, 17-20

  Barnett, Mrs. Evelyn S., II, 119-122

  Bartlett, Elisha, I, 147-150

  Barton, William E., II, 126-129

  Bascom, Henry B., I, 98-102

  Baskett, James Newton, II, 1-4

  Bayne, Mrs. Mary Addams, II, 202-205

  Beck, George, I, 23-26

  Betts, Mary E. W., I, 237-239

  Bingham, George, II, 375-378

  Bird, Robert M., I, 135-139

  Birney, James G., I, 91-95

  Blackburn, J. C. S., I, 232

  Bledsoe, Albert T., I, 169-172

  Bolton, Mrs. Sarah T., I, 228-230

  Bradford, John, I, 5-7

  Breckinridge, John C., I, 231-234

  Breckinridge, Robert J., I, 112-114

  Breckinridge, W. C. P., I, 319-323

  Brodhead, Mrs. Eva Wilder, II, 267-273

  Broadus, John A., I, 261-265

  Bronner, Milton, II, 303-305

  Brown, John Mason, I, 240

  Browne, J. Ross, I, 200-204

  Bruner, James D., II, 184-186

  Buchanan, Thompson, II, 355-362

  Buck, Charles Neville, II, 371-375

  Burton, George Lee, II, 222-228

  Butler, Mann, I, 59-62

  Butler, William O., I, 84-87

  Caldwell, Charles, I, 34-37

  Call, Richard E., I, 240

  Cawein, Madison, II, 187-198

  Childs, Mrs. Mary F., I, 356-359

  Chivers, Thomas H., I, 152-156

  Clay, Henry, I, 39-44

  Clay, Mrs. Mary R., I, 240

  Cobb, Irvin S., II, 323-342

  Collins, Lewis, I, 104-106

  Collins, Richard H., 244-247

  Comfort, Will Levington, II, 363-366

  Connelley, Wm. E., II, 63-67

  Conrard, Harrison, II, 236-237

  Corwin, Thomas, I, 95-98

  Cosby, Fortunatus, Jr., I, 119-123

  Cottell, Dr. Henry A., II, 384

  Cotter, Joseph S., II, 115-116

  Crittenden, John J., I, 71-74

  Crittenden, William L., I, 238

  Crockett, Ingram, II, 77-80

  Cutter, George W., I, 176-179

  Dargan, Mrs. Olive Tilford, II, 255-262

  Davie, George M., I, 363-364

  Daviess, Miss Maria Thompson, II, 279-283

  Davis, Jefferson, I, 156-160

  Dazey, Chas. Turner, II, 67-71

  Dinsmore, Miss Julia S., I, 295-297

  Dixon, Mrs. Susan B., I, 220

  Doneghy, George W., I, 146

  Doty, Douglas Z., II, 239

  Drake, Daniel, I, 65-68

  Duke, Basil W., I, 323-325

  Durbin, John P., I, 117-119

  Durrett, Reuben T., I, 239-243

  Ellis, James Tandy, II, 228-230

  Filson, John, I, 1-4

  Filson Club, I, 240-241

  Finck, Bert, II, 254-255

  Flagg, Edmund, I, 194-196

  Fleming, Walter L., I, 158

  Flexner, Mrs. Anne Crawford, II, 239

  Flexner, Miss Hortense, II, 381

  Ford, Mrs. Sallie R., I, 272-275

  Foster, Stephen C., I, 255-257

  Fox, John, Jr., II, 172-181

  Frazee, Lewis J., I, 216-218

  Fruit, John Phelps, II, 72-74

  Furman, Miss Lucy, II, 247-253

  Gallagher, Wm. D., I, 160-163

  Geppert, Mrs. Hester Higbee, II, 57-60

  Gilmore, Miss Marion F., II, 380-381

  Giltner, Miss Leigh Gordon, II, 311-317

  Goodloe, Miss Carter, II, 217-222

  Green, Thomas M., I, 310-313

  Griffin, Gilderoy W., I, 331-333

  Gross, A. Haller, I, 151

  Gross, Samuel D., I, 150-152

  Harney, John M., I, 74-78

  Harney, Will Wallace, I, 291-292

  Harris, Credo, II, 295-297

  Hatcher, John E., I, 276-278

  Hentz, Mrs. Caroline L., I, 114-116

  Herrick, Mrs. Sophia, I, 171

  Holley, Horace, I, 52-56

  Holley, Mrs. Mary A., I, 69-71

  Holmes, Daniel Henry, II, 36-47

  Holmes, Mrs. Mary J., I, 265-269

  Imelda, Sister, II, 233-235

  Imlay, Gilbert, I, 11-16

  Jeffrey, Mrs. Rosa V., I, 269-272

  Johnson, Thomas, Jr., I, 19-23

  Johnston, Mrs. Annie Fellows, II, 165-169

  Johnston, J. Stoddard, I, 292-294

  Johnston, William P., I, 288-290

  Kelley, Andrew W., II, 49-53

  Ketchum, Mrs. Annie C., I, 247-249

  Kinkead, Miss Eleanor T., II, 175

  Knott, J. Proctor, I, 282-284

  Lampton, Will J., II, 96-101

  Leonard, Miss Mary F., II, 142-144

  Litsey, Edwin Carlile, II, 300-302

  Lloyd, John Uri, I, 364-368

  Lorimer, George Horace II, 230-233

  Lyon, Matthew, I, 8-11

  McAfee, Mrs. Nelly M., I, 353-356

  McClung, John A., I, 139-142

  McElroy, Mrs. Lucy Cleaver, II, 139-142

  McElroy, Robert M., II, 289-293

  McKinney, Mrs. Kate S., II, 85-86

  Macaulay, Mrs. Fannie C., II, 181-184

  MacKenzie, A. S., II, 305-307

  Madden, Miss Eva A., II, 170-172

  Magruder, Allan B., I, 37-39

  Marcosson, Isaac F., II, 343-345

  Marriner, Harry L., II, 262-264

  Marriott, Crittenden, II, 211-217

  Martin, Mrs. George M., II, 198-202

  Marshall, Humphrey, I, 26-29

  Marshall, Thomas F., I, 123-126

  Marvin, William F., I, 145-147

  Mason, Miss Emily V., I, 191-193

  Menefee, Richard H., I, 173-175

  Mulligan, James H., I, 348-352

  Murphy, Miss Ethel Allen, II, 381

  Musgrove, Charles Hamilton, II, 377

  Mitchel, Ormsby M., I, 166-169

  Mitchell, Mrs. Agnes E., II, 385-386

  Morehead, James T., I, 102-104

  Morehead, Mrs. L. M., I, 103

  Morris, Rob, I, 205-207

  Navarro, Mary Anderson de, II, 101-104

  Norris, Mrs. Zoe A., II, 135-139

  Obenchain, Mrs. Eliza Calvert, II, 81-84

  O'Hara, Theodore, I, 218-228

  O'Malley, Charles J., II, 86-91

  Patterson, John, II, 123-125

  Pattie, James O., I, 142-144

  Penn, Shadrach, I, 82-83

  Perrin, William H., I, 240

  Perry, Bliss, I, 252

  Peter, Dr. Robert, I, 240-241

  Petrie, Mrs. Cordia G., II, 273-279

  Piatt, Mrs. Sarah M. B., I, 303-307

  Pickett, Thomas E., I, 241

  Pirtle, Alfred, I, 240

  Pitts, Miss Mabel Porter, II, 379-380

  Plaschke, Paul, II, 377

  Polk, Jefferson J., I, 126-128

  Portor, Miss Laura S., II, 308-310

  Prentice, George D., I, 129-135

  Price, Samuel W., I, 240

  Price, William T., I, 359-362

  Quisenberry, A. C., II, 27-28

  Rafinesque, C. S., I, 56-58

  Ranck, George W., I, 240

  Rankin, Adam, I, 17-19

  Rice, Mrs. Alice Hegan, II, 238-243

  Rice, Cale Young, II, 284-289

  Ridgely, Benj. H., II, 129-135

  Rives, Mrs. Hallie Erminie, II, 297-300

  Roach, Mrs. Abby Meguire, II, 320-323

  Robertson, George, I, 78-82

  Robertson, Harrison, II, 74-77

  Robins, Miss Elizabeth, II, 156-162

  Rouquette, Adrien E., I, 187-191

  Rule, Lucien V., II, 265-266

  Schoonmaker, E. D., II, 293-294

  Seibert, Miss Venita, II, 368-371

  Semple, Miss Ellen C., II, 162-165

  Shaler, Nathaniel S., I, 336-342

  Sherley, Douglass, II, 110

  Shindler, Mrs. Mary P., I, 179-180

  Shreve, Thomas H., I, 163-166

  Slaughter, Mrs. Elvira M., II, 110-114

  Smith, Langdon, II, 91-96

  Smith, William B., II, 20-26

  Smith, Z. F., I, 258-261

  Spalding, John L., I, 334-335

  Spalding, Martin J., I, 181-184

  Speed, Thomas, I, 240

  Stanton, Henry T., I, 297-302

  Taylor, Zachary, I, 62-65

  Tevis, Mrs. Julia A., I, 107-111

  Towne, Charles Hanson, II, 350-353

  Tufts, Mrs. Gertrude King, II, 345-349

  Underwood, Francis H., I, 250-254

  Underwood, Oscar W., II, 150-155

  Verhoeff, Miss Mary, I, 241

  Vest, George G., I, 285-287

  Visscher, William L., I, 342-344

  Walling, W. E., II, 353-355

  Waltz, Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry, II, 205-209

  Walworth, Miss Reubena H., II, 209-211.

  Warfield, Mrs. Catherine A., I, 197-200

  Warfield, Ethelbert D., II, 116-118

  Watterson, Henry, I, 325-331

  Watts, William C., I, 279-282

  Webber, Charles W., I, 211-215

  Weir, James, Senior, I, 234-237

  Welby, Mrs. Amelia B., I, 207-211

  Whitsitt, William H., I, 240

  Willson, Forceythe, I, 313-319

  Wilson, Richard H., II, 244-247

  Wilson, Robert Burns, II, 29-35

  Winchester, Boyd, I, 307-310

  Wood, Henry Cleveland, II, 60-63

  Woods, William Hervey, II, 47-49

  Young, Bennett H., I, 344-348

Transcriber's Notes

Obvious punctuation and spelling errors fixed throughout.

The oe ligature in this etext has been replaced with oe.

Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original.

Page 106: The title and italicization has been changed from (... little
story, _With A Good Samaritan_ ...) to this (... little story, with _A
Good Samaritan_ ...) to match the title in the rest of the text.

Page 392: In the Index Mulligan, Murphy and Musgrove are entered out
of alphabetic order as in the original.

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