Part 12

Wherever the commercial travelers swarm there is honey in the gum and the flowers of prosperity are in bloom. They carry the pollen-dust of business on their wings and the honey of wealth in their grips. And whenever they cease to hum about a town it is a sure sign that prosperity is a withered blossom there and that there are weevils in the gum.

The garden spider weaves her web among the honeysuckles and spins as she weaves without distaff or loom. She stretches her radial warp of silvery filaments and then lays on her woof. From the center outward she glides in one continuous spiral, and as she crosses each radius of the warp she touches it deftly with her foot as if to weld the viscid fiber.

And thus her shining net grows until it hangs suspended in the air, half visible, half vanishing, like some phantom wheel of moonbeams.

The commercial travelers are the spiders of enterprise, spinning and weaving without distaff or loom, swinging from town to town, from city to city, from continent to continent; and they are weaving the golden web of commerce around the world, drawing the nations closer together in the warp and woof of universal love and the universal brotherhood of man.

THE GATE IN THE GROUND.

BY ROBERT LOVEMAN.

At the end of the lane of joy and pain, We come to the little gate, The king and the clown, and the court go down, Through its portals soon or late; The peasant, the peer, the sage and the seer, Depart when the hour comes round, With a kiss and a sigh, and a last good-bye, Through the little lone gate in the ground.

’Tis fixed by fate, we must pass through the gate, The dear little gate in the ground, At the end of our ways of nights and days, It is marked by a grassy mound; We bend o’er the bier, with a sob and a tear, From the still lips comes no sound,— We never can know, where God’s gardens grow, ’Till we pass through the gate in the ground.

Lyrical and Satirical

CONDUCTED BY VERMOUTH.

THE RURAL SHEET.

The rural paper is a peach without a single doubt, It is patent on the inside, patent medicine without; Yet it giveth information both select and wide of reach From a card of thanks for kindness to a double column preach; It tells about the infant at the home of Bill and wife, And it gives a thrilling storiette replete with love and strife; It says the roads are passable though slightly out of shape, An obituary notice names survivors wearing crepe; It has a bristling column full of legislative news, And when you have the cold or croup it tells you what to use; Its special news to farmers is both choice and up-to-date And it recommends the tablets that will keep your liver straight; It is warmly Democratic and agin the robber class, And although it hates the railroads it will sometimes use a pass; The editor’s a pungent cuss and calls a spade a spade, And he takes subscriptions right along in any kind of trade; The paper is a weekly, but be careful how you spell, And “drop around to see us when you’ve anything to sell.”

JIU-JITSU.

If newspaper stories relative to this strange and recently introduced Japanese science are to be credited, Munchausen is henceforth the standard Sunday school literature and the Arabian Nights prosy historical narrative.

A squad or so of New York policemen were recently compelled to rescue a Bowery mob from extinction at the hands of a burly young Jap, weighing in the neighborhood of a hundred pounds, while an American, after a few lessons, has solved the long delayed problem of the domestication of the hind leg of a mule.

These things being true—and they are conclusively backed by advertisements in magazines and insinuating approvals from the White House, whose occupant in chief now never uses more than one finger on the most strenuous opponent,—how many presumably settled social institutions are longer secure? What, for instance, of the historic traditions hovering around the revered institutions of mother-in-law and cook lady? And what of the cherished monthly anticipation of the horrific bill collector, the eleemosynary insurance agent and the sad-faced representative of a worthy charity? Consider the epochal iconoclasm involved in the passage of these time-honored social, domestic and civic pests!

On the other hand, however, reflect upon the counter possibilities of the parties enumerated becoming wise to jiu-jitsu before you! Authorities state that the initiated can strangle a victim as readily by a gentle pressure about the waist as by a strangle hold about the throat and that the lower extremities may be hopelessly disarranged by a finger gently exerted midway the spine. With casual instruction _sub rosa_, a man’s wife might economically elect the tender and twining embrace as an effective substitute for the divorce court, or might at pleasure convert him into a permanent invalid while affecting to innocently scratch his back.

That biblical narrative which has disturbed the faith of many of the credulously reverent, wherein the ant inquires insinuatingly of the elephant if he fully realizes the thoughtlessness of his disposition to overcrowd or shove, in this sidelight of modern criticism, receives a luminous and comforting ray of explanation and reassurance. The erring faith of many honest but superficial doubters is further bolstered by the reputed but till now little appreciated attitude of the elephant in preferring to pass the observation as facetious.

Great is jiu-jitsu but greater still the higher criticism!

LAWSON OF BAWSON.

Who is it that’s yearning the people to save? Lawson of Bawson. Who murders the system and then digs its grave? Lawson of Bawson. Who is it hates lyin’ and fakin’ and sich? Who can’t stand the plutocrats ’cause they are rich? Who leads simple life at a Hetty Green pitch? Lawson of Bawson.

Who is it that’s sporting the sportiest vest? Lawson of Bawson. And also disporting the chestiest chest? Lawson of Bawson. And who affects sparklers of forty-horse ray? And puts up a thousand to buy a bouquet? And who’d probably talk if he’d something to say? Lawson of Bawson.

A HEART TO HEART WHISPER TO OTHER MILLIONAIRES.

The crusade of a few iconoclastic and revolutionary vulgarians to endow libraries, cheap schoolhouses and retreats for cripples, old maids and other unmentionables, should encounter our organized and unanimous resistance. The conservatives and respectables among us are called upon to sweep back the tide of delusion threatening our decent and time-honored prerogative of making wills and having them broken for the benefit of unknown collateral relatives, lawyers, chorus girls and other common law tenements.

It is no less incumbent upon us as Americans and plutocrats to thwart the disposition of meddlesome and impertinent persons of questioning in print the wisdom of the Almighty in constituting us trustees without bond for the great indigent and financial unwashed. Aside from the blasphemous character of such delusions, expressed misgivings do nobody good and actually mislead the public into a complete misconception of the profound contumely of riches.

Those foolishly inclined to consider our lot a bed of roses, hyacinths and Lawson pinks, will please reflect upon the dread uncertainty of not knowing at what moment “one” may be precipitated overboard from a yacht or be hurled to a violent finish from the back of a vicious polo pony or perchance dislocate the spine on the palace stair or the inlaid floor, or superinduce apoplexy by overindulgence in golf or bridge! And reflect for a moment upon the hazard of the auto from infants and common pedestrians getting tangled in the machinery! And how about being written up in the putrid press and being called a congenital money maker with pictures of some exceedingly primitive people called parents! And how about being compelled to worry along without means to buy new hair, new lungs and new stomachs? And how about irritating irregularities in the water supply when the stock is famishing and how about the Sunday school class coming in late after a peevish week in rebates?

Fellow plutocrats, aristocrats and autocrats, let us steel—ourselves—yea, to callousness against the crime of being misunderstood by the molten masses and betrayed from within by the two-faced Tom Lawson!

HER SPECIALTY.

There’s a prejudice extensive ’gainst the Russian and his ways, For the ruler or his people there is very little praise; In the hurried march of progress they are badly out of date (By the way, they’ve information on this subject just of late); But with all their backward learning, yea, their sodden ignorance, In one respect the Russians lead us all a merry dance In a single branch of knowledge they can put us all to shame, They can give us every face-card and then skin us at the game. A high official undertakes a pleasant social drive And it constitutes the last time he is ever seen alive; In fact, the mere narration rather fills us with a dread, For it is his last appearance, whether in the flesh or dead. There’s a missile thrown, a loud report, and when the smoke is gone There are not sufficient fragments left to pin a medal on; There’s a gentle human drizzle, lasting frequently a day, And they hold a tweedledeum o’er the dissipated spray. To her style in execution as to neatness or dispatch, There’s no other Christian nation that can hold a decent match.

HOW LONG?

To the patriotically inclined, the callousness of the public conscience to reforms freely demanded by the popular welfare is indeed alarming.

Consider for example the supine indifference of the country at large over the ignominious defeat in Kansas of a great moral measure to enact the ten commandments into law! And that it was accomplished in the teeth of a united support of a large, active and pious Methodist, Congregationalist and Presbyterian lobby!

And who does not recall the humiliating failure of the Georgia patriot to have passed a bill to protect the long neglected interests of bull bats, turtles and other game birds hitherto and still entirely ignored by that presumably enlightened commonwealth?

And while there was a low and sullen popular rumble in Tennessee against a shameless lobby of centralized bachelors that by bribes, imprecations and cajoleries smothered a _pro bono publico_ measure to tax their immunity from the strenuous life, public sentiment is once more callous and numb.

As a climax in corporate effrontery, however, as well as an extreme illustration of popular lethargy, a Missouri bill to prohibit the criminal practice of tipping waiters in hotels, restaurants and cafés was ingloriously snowed under and that, too, in the face of the lynx-eyed young governor. A cunning realization by the beef trust of the impossibility of getting its unrighteous commodity before the eating public with such a regulation in vogue, is no doubt responsible for this grave popular misfortune.

Hence the inquiry, what of the times when the public continues indifferent and when those who alone have the courage to essay the people’s relief from the thrall of mammon and general unrighteousness are to be derided as freaks or purchased, and nothing done about it!

A CUBAN SKETCH

By Harvey H. Hannah.

“Anita, my child, the Alcalde declared last night at the market place that the Americans would come to-day. I want you to braid fresh flowers in your hair as your mother used to do, then take my hand, child, and lead me down by the Plaza de Jesus, close by the fountain, that we may await the coming of our friends.”

“But, father, my dress is all torn and ragged, and you are old and blind; they will not expect such as we are to welcome them. They are soldiers, father, and I am afraid of soldiers since the Spanish guards beat you down at the Palace gate when you asked for alms.”

“Yes, I know, little one, they are soldiers, but they are American soldiers, American volunteers who have come to liberate Cuba; then let us hurry, child, and reach the Plaza before it is crowded.”

The old man was a Cuban reconcentrado, lame and blind and homeless, the miserable creature of Spanish cruelty. The child that led him was his grandchild, whose father was killed at “Royal Blanco,” defending the Cuban flag. She was a typical little creole beauty, with face as sweet as a poet’s dream, yet sorrow and poverty made her beauty pathetic. Leading the old blind man, she entered the crowded Plaza, and whispering to him, said: “Father, we are near the fountain, now, and your seat on the stone bench is vacant.”

“Yes, my Anita,” said the old man, making the sign of the cross, “I hear the gurgling of the water which the blessed Virgin gives to us poor people to drink; now let me sit down and we will wait. There seem to be many people on the Plaza to-day and from their voices they must indeed be happy.”

“Oh! yes, father,” said the child, “I have never seen so many people since General Wilder’s army was here; and all the ladies are dressed in white and carry wreaths of flowers on their arms; and so many, father, have little flags in their hands. I’ve never seen such flags before; they are striped with red and white, and one corner is blue like the sky, all full of silver stars. They are beautiful! and must mean something good for our poor Cuba.”

“Yes, Anita,” said the old man, as a strange light lit up his face, “it’s the flag of liberty, the American stars and stripes. Oh! that I could only see them; but what is the cheering, child? What is the cause of the people’s huzzas? Are the soldiers coming?”

“No, father, no,” said the little one; “but General Gomez is taking down the yellow flag of Spain from the City Hall and putting up your liberty flag—the one of the stars and stripes—in its place.”

“God be praised,” muttered the old man on the stone bench, feebly making the sign of the Cross. He leaned back as if he had fallen asleep, but it was a sleep from which no mortal could awake him. The old patriot’s heart had when he ceased to beat, with happiness, knew that his unhappy land was free.

Anita, thinking that he had fallen asleep, tried to arouse him, and cried out to him, “Father, don’t go to sleep—don’t you hear the music? And listen to the people’s cheer! Let us join in their cry, ‘Viva los Americanos!’ Oh, father, here they come! Look! look! all dressed in blue with that beautiful flag waving over them. See the ladies throw their wreaths of flowers on the ground before them! Wake up, dear father; please wake up. I will take the roses out of my hair and throw them, too.” And holding the hand of the old dead man on the rock bench at the fountain, little Anita threw her only rosebud to our Volunteers in Blue.

One soldier in the ranks saw the child and picked up the flower. It brought to him memories of one back in Tennessee. The next day the city officials reported the death and burial of an old pauper, with many others, but the world never knew that the old man’s heart stopped beating with happiness over his country’s freedom, and none inquired what had become of the dark-eyed child who held his hand. Anita was all alone in the street, but the Tennessean who picked up her rosebud watched after her, and she soon became the pet of the American camp. New dresses, new shoes, new friends, made in her a great change, and she was soon the idol of the boys in blue.

But again Anita stands at the fountain in the Plaza de Jesus all alone. The Tennessee Volunteers have been ordered home, they have done everything in their power to leave the child comfortable and in tender hands, but she follows them to the Plaza. Tears fill the eyes of the boys as they tell her good-bye; the flowers seem to wither in her hair, the smiles die on her lips, the old sorrow comes back in her eyes, her soldier friends are gone, the liberty flag is gone; the old rock bench by the fountain is empty; she is all alone on the Plaza to-night—poor little Anita. How much like Anita is Cuba, and how much like Cuba is Anita.

WITHIN A VALLEY NARROW.

BY INGRAM CROCKETT.

Within a valley narrow I heard the vireo sing, And many a white-crowned sparrow, In silvery whispering.

The blue-eyed grass was gleaming Upon a bank of green, And drowsy winds were dreaming The tulip trees between.

Above a pool unwrinkled, Their faces fair to see The sunlight o’er them sprinkled, Leaned purple fleur-de-lis.

And with a grace entrancing, Above the avens low, White butterflies were dancing In bright adagio.

And while for them a cricket His silver strings did smite, From out a wild-grape thicket Was thrust a hand of white.

And thro’ the leaves uplifted, I saw, a moment’s space, Where dogwood blossoms drifted— A dryad’s laughing face.

LEISURE HOURS

For Conference Between the Magazine and its Readers.

Let us be mutually helpful. In this, the initial number of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, one of the dominant thoughts in our minds is that of friendly reciprocity. You would not have subscribed to this periodical, we take it, were you not friendly to it and to its editor.

We wish not merely to amuse you, but to help you; and we wish you to help us, that, through us, you may help your own people, your own state and section and the whole country. To this end we invite, for the use of this department, communications on all subjects of unusual interest and importance, such as:

Prose and poetry of sentiment, fact and fancy.

Forgotten or unpublished bits of history and tradition.

Anecdotes of famous men and women, and of quaint and curious occurrences.

The best short stories and tales you have heard or read, if unusual or unfamiliar.

Suggestions for the special benefit of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, how it may be improved, what it should contain, what it should omit.

Write us these things that all may profit by something of transcendent interest to each.

Also ask questions of interest and importance on any subject. If we can answer them, we will do so; and if we can’t answer them, we will invite our readers to do so.

Address all such communications to Leisure Hours Department of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE.

What a mine of hidden wealth there is in the unrecorded legends of the South and the Southwest! What tales of the cavaliers of the Old Dominion, of the mountaineers, of those modern argonauts who braved in the wilderness more and greater dangers than did the fabled followers of Jason, and whose descendants are now enjoying the golden fleece which eluded their grasp! What of Oglethorpe, and Boone and Crockett, Whitefield and Doak, Jackson and Sam Houston, Lafitte and Bowie and Burr; of Lost Island, Barrancas and the Everglades; of the Creoles and Acadians, and the thousand and one thrilling tales of the treacherous red man! All these, and more, offer to the present and the future story teller an inexhaustible supply of the purest ore for transmuting, fusing genius.

And what gems of prose and poetry lie unnoticed in the literature of the South! While other sections have given wide and constant publicity to their writers and their writers’ productions (and it was their duty to do so), the poets and the masters of prose of the South of former days lie in forgotten graves and the dust of the library gathers thick upon their unopened volumes.

What does the present generation know of Timrod, the “sweetest singer of America?” What of Sims, pronounced by Poe to be the greatest writer of romantic fiction since the time of Cooper? These are but two out of the galaxy of unnumbered stars in the Southern firmament, and they are mentioned merely to give point to the fact that suitable homage is not being rendered to the lights of other days.

For many years has Governor Taylor desired to establish a magazine that should be not only a medium by which to reach an audience as widespread as the country itself, but which should also be a vehicle of Southern expression, for the exploitation and advancement of Southern literature, for the preservation of old time Southern ideals, and for the dissemination of knowledge concerning the material resources and advantages of this section of our country—this primarily. And, secondarily, to breathe abroad a catholic spirit of patriotism, uncramped by a scintilla of sectionalism (opprobriously so termed), of envy, or of ill will to any one; but to carry to every home and to each individual therein personally a message of peace, of harmony and of happiness.

BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, like its editor, stands for the South and for the sunshine that smiles on its beauty and ripens the fruit of its rich and fertile soil. Every fair and precious possession of this section will find representation and appreciation in these pages, and every uplift of purpose, every outspreading of energy now working toward the development of the South will receive the encouragement of this publication.

What the past holds in precious memory, great achievement and pure ideals shall be cherished and held. But in a special sense BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE is working in the present and for the future. The record of the last decade in the South has become the wonder of the industrial and commercial world, but if the spiritual and intellectual development does not keep pace with this material growth, the figures which record our wealth and prosperity will be but the handwriting on the wall, warning us of downfall and ruin.

It is, therefore, the purpose of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE to offer each month, stories, poems and articles mined from the rich vein of Southern sentiment and of Southern life; and these riches will be offered to an audience as numerous and appreciative as any to which a Southern writer can appeal.

A momentous change impends in the citizenship of the South, perhaps in character, certainly in number. For the South is vibrant with energy, its commercial interests have never before throbbed with such activity; and never before has the need of intelligent labor been quite so urgent. The negro, indeed, is here, and for certain kinds of work is the best toiler in the world, if he be properly handled. For field labor, for forest work, for outdoor rough work of every description, for numerous kinds of inside work and for porterage and drayage, he is unequalled, provided he be not given authority over others, or an official position of any kind. In such event he becomes spoiled, foolish and useless.

To skilled labor in factories and mills the negro is not adapted, as a rule, and is inefficient; and the manufacturing industries of the South are growing apace. Extraordinary efforts are, therefore, being made to divert to the states south of Mason and Dixon’s line a part of the enormous flood of immigrants which for many years has been directed toward the West and the Northwest.

And these aliens are coming South in ever increasing streams. Railroads transport them; land agents urge them; commercial organizations invite them, and farms and factories employ them—and what will be the result? Let us see!