Part 2

Esenwein, Joseph Short Story Berg Masterpieces

Firkins, I. T. E. Index to Short Stories

Hawthorne, Julian Library of the World’s Best Mystery and Detective Stories

Jessup, Alexander Little French Masterpieces

Jessup, A. and The Book of the Canby, H. S. Short Story

Matthews, Brander The Short Story

Patten, William Great Short Stories

Patten, William Short Story Classics

Charles Scribner’s Stories by American Sons Authors

Charles Scribner’s Stories by English Sons Authors

Charles Scribner’s Stories by Foreign Sons Authors

VII

SOME INTERESTING SHORT STORIES

R. H. Davis: The Bar Sinister; Washington Irving: The Rose of the Alhambra; The Legend of Sleepy Hollow; Rip Van Winkle; The Three Beautiful Princesses; Rudyard Kipling: Garm, A Hostage; The Arabian Nights: Aladdin; Ali Baba; Annie Trumbull Slosson: Butterneggs; Ruth McEnery Stuart: Sonny’s Diploma; Frederick Remington: How Order No. 6 Went Through; Mark Twain: The Jumping Frog; Henry Van Dyke: The First Christmas Tree.

H. C. Andersen: The Ugly Duckling; Grimm Brothers: Little Briar Rose; Rudyard Kipling: Mowgli’s Brothers; Toomai of the Elephants; Her Majesty’s Servants; Æsop: The Country Mouse and the City Mouse; Joel Chandler Harris: The Wonderful Tar Baby Story; How Black Snake Caught the Wolf; Brother Mud Turtle’s Trickery; A French Tar Baby; George Ade: The Preacher Who Flew His Kite.

Henry Van Dyke: The Other Wise Man; Nathaniel Hawthorne: Rapaccini’s Daughter; David Swan; The Snow Image; The Great Stone Face; Lady Eleanor’s Mantle; The Minister’s Black Veil; The Birth Mark; E. A. Poe: William Wilson; Rudyard Kipling: The Ship that Found Herself; Henry James: The Madonna of the Future; R. L. Stevenson: Will o’ the Mill; Joseph Addison: The Vision of Mirza.

Howard Pyle: The Ruby of Kishmore; Rudyard Kipling: The Man Who Would Be King; Drums of the Fore and Aft; Tiger, Tiger; Kaa’s Hunting; R. H. Davis: Gallegher; Van Bibber’s Burglar; R. L. Stevenson: The Sire de Maletroit’s Door; Joseph Conrad: Youth; E. A. Poe: The Pit and the Pendulum; F. R. Stockton: My Terminal Moraine; Jesse Lynch Williams: The Stolen Story.

Henry Van Dyke: Messengers at the Window; M. R. S. Andrews: A Messenger; Bulwer Lytton: The Haunted and the Haunters; FitzJames O’Brien: The Diamond Lens; What Was It?; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: Shadows on the Wall; R. W. Chambers: The Tree of Heaven; Marion Crawford: The Upper Berth; H. W. Jacobs: The Monkey’s Paw; Rudyard Kipling: At the End of the Passage; The Brushwood Boy; They; Prosper Merimee: The Venus of Ille.

E. A. Poe: The Gold Bug; The Purloined Letter; Conan Doyle: The Dancing Men; the Speckled Band; Henry Van Dyke: The Night Call; FitzJames O’Brien: The Golden Ingot; Anton Chekhoff: The Safety Match; R. L. Stevenson: The Pavillion on the Links; Egerton Castle: The Baron’s Quarry; Wilkie Collins: The Dream Woman; Rudyard Kipling: The Sending of Dana Da.

G. B. McCutcheon: The Day of the Dog; H. C. Bunner: The Love Letters of Smith; A Sisterly Scheme; O. Henry: The Ransom of Red Chief; While the Auto Waits; Samuel Minturn Peck: The Trouble at St. James; T. B. Aldrich: Goliath; R. M. S. Andrews: A Good Samaritan; The Grandfathers of Bob; E. P. Butler: Pigs is Pigs; Josephine Dodge Daskam: Edgar, the Choir Boy Uncelestial; T. A. Janvier: The Passing of Thomas; Myra Kelly: A Christmas Present for a Lady; Ruth McEnery Stuart: The Woman’s Exchange of Simpkinsville.

F. Hopkinson Smith: The Veiled Lady of Stamboul; Stuart Edward White: The Life of the Winds of Heaven; T. B. Aldrich: Père Antoine’s Date Palm; Booth Tarkington: Monsieur Beaucaire; R. H. Davis: The Princess Aline; Alice Brown: A Map of the Country; M. R. S. Andrews: The Bishop’s Silence; Honoré de Balzac: A Passion in the Desert; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The White Old Maid.

Irvin Cobb: Up Clay Street; M. E. Wilkins Freeman: The Revolt of Mother; A Humble Romance; Prosper Merimee: Mateo Falcone; Alphonse Daudet: The Last Class; G. W. Cable: Belles Demoiselles Plantation; Bret Harte: The Luck of Roaring Camp; Ruth McEnery Stuart: The Widder Johnsing; Owen Wister: Specimen Jones; T. A. Janvier: The Sage Brush Hen.

T. B. Aldrich: Marjory Daw; Mademoiselle Olimpe Zabriskie; Miss Mehetabel’s Son; O. Henry: The Gift of the Magi; The Cop and the Anthem; The Whirligig of Life; Guy de Maupassant: The Diamond Necklace; F. R. Stockton: The Lady or the Tiger; John Fox, Jr.: The Purple Rhododendron; R. W. Chambers: A Young Man in a Hurry; E. A. Poe: Three Sundays in a Week; Ambrose Bierce: The Man and the Snake; FitzJames O’Brien: The Bohemian; Frank Norris: A Deal in Wheat.

Mark Twain: A Dog’s Tale; W. D. Howells: Editha; E. T. Seton: The Biography of a Grizzly; Brander Matthews: The Story of a Story; Björnstjerne Björnson: The Father; Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Ambitious Guest; Jacob A. Riis: The Burgomaster’s Christmas; Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol; Henry Van Dyke: The Mansion; E. E. Hale: The Man Without a Country.

M. R. S. Andrews: The Perfect Tribute; François Coppee: The Substitute; J. B. Connolly: Sonny Boy’s People; S. O. Jewett: The Queen’s Twin; James Lane Allen: King Solomon of Kentucky; Bret Harte: Tennessee’s Partner; Jack London: The God of His Fathers; John Galsworthy: Quality.

Thomas Nelson Page: Marse Chan; Meh Lady; R. L. Stevenson: The Merry Men; E. A. Poe: The Masque of the Red Death; The Fall of the House of Usher; Irvin Cobb: White and Black; F. J. Stimson: Mrs. Knollys; John Fox, Jr.: Christmas Eve on Lonesome; H. G. Dwight: In the Pasha’s Garden; Honoré de Balzac: An Episode Under the Terror; Jack London: Thanksgiving on Slav Creek; Charles Lamb: Dream Children; H. C. Brunner: Our Aromatic Uncle.

Bret Harte: The Outcasts of Poker Flat; R. L. Stevenson: Markheim; Guy de Maupassant: A Piece of String; A Coward; E. A. Poe: The Cask of Amontillado; Edith Wharton: The Bolted Door; A Journey; Henry Van Dyke: A Lover of Music; S. R. Crockett: Elsie’s Dance for Her Life; Jack London: The White Silence.

VIII

WHAT TO READ ABOUT THE SHORT STORY

Albright, Evelyn May The Short Story, its Principles and Structure

Barrett, Charles R. Short Story Writing

Buck, Gertrude, and A Course in Narrative Morris, Elizabeth Writing Woodbridge

Canby, Henry Seidel The Short Story in English

Cody, Sherwin Story Writing and Journalism

Dye, Charity The Story Teller’s Art

Esenwein, Joseph Berg Writing the Short Story

Hamilton, Clayton Materials and Methods of Fiction

Matthews, Brander The Philosophy of the Short Story

Perry, Bliss A Study of Prose Fiction

Pitkin, Walter B. Short Story Writing

Wells, Carolyn The Technique of the Mystery Story

MODERN SHORT STORIES

THE MODERN SHORT STORY

THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA[1] By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Footnote 1:

It may be of interest to those who approach Folk-Lore stories from the scientific side, to know that this story was told to one of my little boys three years ago by a negro named John Holder. I have since found a variant (or perhaps the original) in Theal’s “Kaffir Folk-Lore.”

Joel Chandler Harris, 1889.

“I got one tale on my min’,” said Uncle Remus to the little boy one night. “I got one tale on my min’ dat I ain’t ne’er tell you; I dunner how come; I speck it des kaze I git mixt up in my idees. Deze is busy times, mon, en de mo’ you does de mo’ you hatter do, en w’en dat de case, it ain’t ter be ’spected dat one ole broke-down nigger kin ’member ’bout eve’ything.”

“What is the story, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.

“Well, honey,” said the old man, wiping his spectacles, “hit sorter run dis away: One time dey wuz a man w’at had a mighty likely daughter.”

“Was he a white man or a black man?” the little boy asked.

“I ’clar’ ter gracious, honey!” exclaimed the old man, “you er pushin’ me mos’ too close. Fer all I kin tell you, de man mout er bin ez w’ite ez de driven snow, er he mout er bin de blackes’ Affi’kin er de whole kit en bilin’. I’m des tellin’ you de tale, en you kin take en take de man en whitewash ’im, or you kin black ’im up des ez you please. Dat’s de way I looks at it.

“Well, one time dey wuz a man, en dish yer man he had a mighty likely daughter. She wuz so purty dat she had mo’ beaus dan w’at you got fingers en toes. But de gal daddy, he got his spishuns ’bout all un um, en he won’t let um come ’roun’ de house. But dey kep’ on pesterin’ ’im so, dat bimeby he give word out dat de man w’at kin clear up six acres er lan’ en roll up de logs, en pile up de bresh in one day, dat man kin marry his daughter.

“In co’se, dis look like it unpossible, en all de beaus drap off ’ceppin’ one, en he wuz a great big strappin’ chap w’at look like he kin knock a steer down. Dis chap he wuz name Simon, en de gal, she wuz name Susanna. Simon, he love Susanna, en Susanna, she love Simon, en dar it went.

“Well, sir, Simon, he went ter de gal daddy, he did, en he say dat ef anybody kin clear up dat lan’, he de one kin do it, least’ways he say he gwine try mighty hard. De ole man, he grin en rub his han’s terge’er, he did, en tole Simon ter start in in de mornin’. Susanna, she makes out she wuz fixin’ sumpin in de cubberd, but she tuck ’n kiss ’er han’ at Simon, en nod ’er head. Dis all Simon want, en he went out er dar des ez happy ez a jay-bird atter he done robbed a sparrer-nes’.

“Now, den,” Uncle Remus continued, settling himself more comfortably in his chair, “dish yer man wuz a witch.”

“Why, I thought a witch was a woman,” said the little boy.

The old man frowned and looked into the fire.

“Well, sir,” he remarked with some emphasis, “ef you er gwine ter tu’n de man into a ’oman, den dey won’t be no tale, kaze dey’s bleege ter be a man right dar whar I put dis un. Hit’s des like I tole you ’bout de color er de man. Black ’im er whitewash ’im des ez you please, en ef you want ter put a frock on ’im ter boot, hit ain’t none er my business; but I’m gwine ter ’low he wuz a man ef it’s de las’ ac’.”

The little boy remained silent, and Uncle Remus went on:

“Now, den, dish yer man was a witch. He could cunjer folks, mo’ ’speshually dem folks w’at ain’t got no rabbit foot. He bin at his cunjerments so long, dat Susanna done learn mos’ all his tricks. So de nex’ mornin’ w’en Simon come by de house fer ter borry de ax, Susanna she run en got it fer ’im. She got it, she did, en den she sprinkles some black san’ on it, en say, ‘Ax, cut; cut, ax.’ Den she rub ’er ha’r ’cross it, en give it ter Simon. He tuck de ax, he did, en den Susanna say:

“‘Go down by de branch, git sev’n w’ite pebbles, put um in dis little cloth bag, en whenever you want the ax ter cut, shake um up.’

“Simon, he went off in de woods, en started in ter clearin’ up de six acres. Well, sir, dem pebbles en dat ax, dey done de work—dey did dat. Simon could ’a’ bin done by de time de dinner-horn blowed, but he hung back kaze he ain’t want de man fer ter know dat he doin’ it by cunjerments.

“W’en he shuck de pebbles de ax ’ud cut, en de trees ’ud fall, en de lim’s ’ud drap off, en de logs ’ud roll up terge’er, en de bresh ’ud pile itself up. Hit went on dis away twel by de time it wuz two hours b’ sun, de whole six acres wuz done cleaned up.

“’Bout dat time de man come ’roun’, he did, fer ter see how de work gittin’ on, en, mon! he wuz ’stonish’. He ain’t know w’at ter do er say. He ain’t want ter give up his daughter, en yit he ain’t know how ter git out ’n it. He walk ’roun’ en ’roun’, en study, en study, en study how he gwine rue de bargain. At las’ he walk up ter Simon, he did, en he say:

“‘Look like you sort er forehanded wid your work.’

“Simon, he ’low: ‘Yasser, w’en I starts in on a job I’m mighty restless twel I gits it done. Some er dis timber is rough en tough, but I bin had wuss jobs dan dis in my time.’

“De man say ter hisse’f: ‘W’at kind er folks is dis chap?’

Den he say out loud: ‘Well, sence you er so spry, dey’s two mo’ acres ’cross de branch dar. Ef you’ll clear dem up ’fo’ supper you kin come up ter de house en git de gal.’

“Simon sorter scratch his head, kaze he dunner whedder de pebbles gwine ter hol’ out, yit he put on a bol’ front en he tell de man dat he’ll go ’cross dar en clean up de two acres soon ez he res’ a little.

“De man he went off home, en soon’s he git out er sight, Simon went ’cross de branch en shook de pebbles at de two acres er woods, en ’t want no time skacely ’fo’ de trees wuz all cut down en pile up.

“De man, he went home, he did, en call up Susanna, en say:

“‘Daughter, dat man look like he gwine git you, sho’.’

“Susanna, she hang ’er head, en look like she fretted, en den she say she don’t keer nuthin’ fer Simon, nohow.”

“Why, I thought she wanted to marry him,” said the little boy.

“Well, honey, w’en you git growed up, en git whiskers on yo’ chin, en den atter de whiskers git gray like mine, you’ll fin’ out sump’n ’n’er ’bout de wimmin folks. Dey ain’t ne’er say ’zackly w’at dey mean, none er um, mo’ ’speshually w’en dey er gwine on ’bout gittin’ married.

“Now, dar wuz dat gal Susanna what I’m a-tellin’ you ’bout. She mighty nigh ’stracted ’bout Simon, en yit she make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ’spize ’im. I ain’t blamin’ Susanna,” Uncle Remus went on with a judicial air, “kase she know dat ’er daddy wuz a witch en a mighty mean one in de bargain.

“Well, atter Susanna done make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ain’t keerin’ nothin’ ’t all ’bout Simon, he ’gun ter set his traps en fix his tricks. He up ’n tell Susanna dat atter ’er en Simon git married dey mus’ go upsta’rs in de front room, en den he tell ’er dat she mus’ make Simon go ter bed fus’. Den de man went upsta’rs en tuck ’n tuck all de slats out’n de bedstid ceppin one at de head en one at de foot. Atter dat he tuck ’n put some foot-valances ’roun’ de bottom er de bed—des like dem w’at you bin see on yo’ gran’ma bed. Den he tuck ’n sawed out de floor und’ de bed, en dar wuz de trap all ready.

“Well, sir, Simon come up ter de house, en de man make like he mighty glad fer ter see ’im, but Susanna, she look like she mighty shy. No matter ’bout dat; atter supper Simon en Susanna got married. Hit ain’t in de tale wedder dey sont fer a preacher er wedder dey wuz a squire browsin’ ’roun’ in de neighborhoods, but dey had cake wid reezins in it, en some er dish yer silly-bug w’at got mo’ foam in it dan dey is dram, en dey had a mighty happy time.

“W’en bedtime come, Simon en Susanna went upsta’rs, en w’en dey got in de room, Susanna kotch ’im by de han’, en helt up her finger. Den she whisper en tell ’im dat ef dey don’t run away fum dar dey bofe gwine ter be kilt. Simon ax ’er how come, en she say dat ’er daddy want ter kill ’im kase he sech a nice man. Dis make Simon grin; yit he wuz sorter restless ’bout gittin’ ’way fum dar. But Susanna, she say wait. She say:

“‘Pick up yo’ hat en button up yo’ coat. Now, den, take dat stick er wood dar en hol’ it ’bove yo’ head.’

“W’iles he stan’in’ dar, Susanna got a hen egg out’n a basket, den she got a meal-bag, en a skillet. She ’low:

“‘Now, den, drap de wood on de bed.’

“Simon done des like she say, en time de wood struck de bed de tick en de mattruss went a-tumblin’ thoo de floor. Den Susanna tuck Simon by de han’ en dey run out de back way ez hard ez dey kin go.

“De man, he wuz down dar waitin’ fer de bed ter drap. He had a big long knife in he han’, en time de bed drapped, he lit on it, he did, en stobbed it scan’lous. He des natchully ripped de tick up, en w’en he look, bless gracious, dey ain’t no Simon dar. I lay dat man wuz mad den. He snorted ’roun’ dar twel blue smoke come out’n his nose, en his eye look red like varmint eye in de dark. Den he run upsta’rs en dey ain’t no Simon dar, en nudder wuz dey any Susanna.

“Gentermens! den he git madder. He rush out, he did, en look ’roun’, en ’way off yander he see Simon en Susanna des a-runnin’, en a-holdin’ one nudder’s han’.”

“Why, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “I thought you said it was night?”

“Dat w’at I said, honey, en I’ll stan’ by it. Yit, how many times dis blessed night is I got ter tell you dat de man wuz a witch? En bein’ a witch, co’se he kin see in de dark.

“Well, dish yer witch-man, he look off en he see Simon en Susanna runnin’ ez hard ez dey kin. He put out atter um, he did, wid his knife in his han’, an’ he kep’ on a gainin’ on um. Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Fling down yo’ coat.’

“Time de coat tech de groun’, a big thick woods sprung up whar it fell. But de man, he cut his way thoo it wid de knife, en kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de egg on de groun’, en time it fell a big fog riz up fum de groun’, en a little mo’ en de man would a got los’. But atter so long a time fog got blowed away by de win’, en de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de meal-sack, en a great big pon’ er water kivered de groun’ whar it fell. De man wuz in sech a big hurry dat he tried ter drink it dry, but he ain’t kin do dis, so he sot on de bank en blow’d on de water wid he hot breff, en atter so long a time de water made hits disappearance, en den he kep’ on atter um.

“Simon en Susanna wuz des a-runnin’, but run ez dey would, de man kep’ a-gainin’ on um, en he got so close dat Susanna drapped de skillet. Den a big bank er darkness fell down, en de man ain’t know which away ter go. But atter so long a time de darkness lif’ up, en de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um. Mon, he made up fer los’ time, en he got so close dat Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap a pebble.’

“Time Simon do dis a high hill riz up, but de man clum it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap nudder pebble.’

“Time Simon drap de pebble, a high mountain growed up, but de man crawled up it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say:

“‘Drap de bigges’ pebble.’

“No sooner is he drap it dan a big rock wall riz up, en hit wuz so high dat de witch-man can’t git over. He run up en down, but he can’t find no end, en den, atter so long a time, he turn ’roun’ en go home.

“On de yuther side er dis high wall, Susanna tuck Simon by de han’, en say:

“‘Now we kin res’.’

“En I reckon,” said the old man slyly, “dat we all better res’.”

THE CROW-CHILD By MARY MAPES DODGE

MIDWAY between a certain blue lake and a deep forest there once stood a cottage, called by its owner “The Rookery.”

The forest shut out the sunlight and scowled upon the ground, breaking with shadows every ray that fell, until only a few little pieces lay scattered about. But the broad lake invited all the rays to come and rest upon her, so that sometimes she shone from shore to shore, and the sun winked and blinked above her, as though dazzled by his own reflection. The cottage, which was very small, had sunny windows and dark windows. Only from the roof could you see the mountains beyond, where the light crept up in the morning and down in the evening, turning all the brooks into living silver as it passed.

But something brighter than sunshine used often to look from the cottage into the forest, and something even more gloomy than shadows often glowered from its windows upon the sunny lake. One was the face of little Ruky Lynn; and the other was his sister’s when she felt angry or ill-tempered.

They were orphans, Cora and Ruky, living alone in the cottage with an old uncle. Cora—or “Cor,” as Ruky called her—was nearly sixteen years old, but her brother had seen the forest turn yellow only four times. She was, therefore, almost mother and sister in one. The little fellow was her companion night and day. Together they ate and slept, and—when Cora was not at work in the cottage—together they rambled in the wood, or floated in their little skiff upon the lake.

Ruky had bright, dark eyes, and the glossy blackness of his hair made his cheeks look even rosier than they were. He had funny ways for a boy, Cora thought. The quick, bird-like jerks of his raven-black head, his stately baby gait, and his habit of pecking at his food, as she called it, often made his sister laugh. Young as he was, the little fellow had learned to mount to the top of a low-branching tree near the cottage, though he could not always get down alone. Sometimes when, perched in the thick foliage, he would scream, “Cor! Cor! Come, help me down!” his sister would answer, as she ran out laughing, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming.”

Perhaps it was because he reminded her of a crow that Cora called him her little bird. This was when she was good-natured and willing to let him see how much she loved him. But in her cloudy moments, as the uncle called them, Cora was another girl. Everything seemed ugly to her, or out of tune. Even Ruky was a trial; and, instead of giving him a kind word, she would scold and grumble until he would steal from the cottage door, and, jumping lightly from the door-step, seek the shelter of his tree. Once safely perched among its branches he knew she would finish her work, forget her ill-humor, and be quite ready, when he cried “Cor! Cor!” to come from the cottage with a cheery, “Yes, little Crow! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

No one could help loving Ruky, with his quick, affectionate ways; and it seemed that Ruky, in turn, could not help loving every person and thing around him. He loved his silent old uncle, the bright lake, the cool forest, and even his little china cup with red berries painted upon it. But more than all, Ruky loved his golden-haired sister, and the great dog, who would plunge into the lake at the mere pointing of his chubby little finger. In fact, that finger and the commanding baby voice were “law” to Nep at any time.