Part 4

“Also unawares,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “you still think things relating to that which is one day to open wondrously for you. But, never mind,” she added hastily, as I was about to say something, “tell me about the Butte High School.”

“’Twas a place,” said I, “where were gathered together manifold interesting phenomena, and where I studied Vergil, and grew fond of it, and was good in it; and where I studied geometry, and was fond of it, and knew less about it each day that I studied it;--and always I studied closely the persons whom I met daily in the Butte High School. I recall very clearly each member of the class of ninety-nine. My memory conjures up for me some quaint and fantastic visions against picturesque backgrounds that appeal to my sense of delicate incongruity, especially so since viewed in this light and from this distance.”

“What are some of them?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“There is one,” said I, “of a girl whom always in my mind I called The Shad, for that she was so bland, and so flat, and so silent,--and she had a bad habit of asking me to write her Latin exercises, which perhaps was not so much like a shad as like a person; and there is one of a girl who spent the long hours of the day in writing long, long letters to her love, but knew painfully little about the lessons in the class-rooms; and there is one of a girl who brought to school every day a small flask of whiskey to cheer her benighted hours,--she was daily called back and down by the French teacher on account of her excessively bad French, and life had looked dull for her were it not for the flask’s pungent contents; there is one of a strange-looking, tawny-headed girl who sat across the narrow aisle from me in the assembly-room during my last year in school, who kept her desk neatly piled with the works (she called them works) of Albert Ross--and after she had read them, very kindly she would lean over and repeat the stories, with quotations verbatim, for my benefit;--her standing in her classes was not brilliant, but in Albert Ross she was thorough; there is one of a clever, pretty girl who was malicious--exquisitely malicious in all her ways and deeds, and seemingly no thought entered her head that was not fraught with it,--she was malicious in algebra, malicious in literature, malicious in ancient history, malicious in physical culture, malicious in the writing of short themes--and when it so chanced that I made a failure in a recitation, or was stupid, she would look up at me and smile very sweetly and maliciously; and there is one of a girl whose quaint and voluble profanity haunts me still. And especially there is in my memory a picture of all these on our graduating day, receiving each a fine white diploma rolled up and neatly tied with the class colors--a picture of these and the others,--we were fifty-nine in all. And the diplomas stated tacitly, in heavily engrossed letters, that we had all been good for four years and had fulfilled every requirement of the Butte High School. So we had, doubtless--but how much some of us had done for which in our diplomas we were not given credit! In truth, nothing was stated in them, in engrossed lettering, about courses in love-letters, or profanity, or malice, and Albert Ross was not in the curriculum.

“And the president of the school board doled out those diplomas, with a short, set speech for each, one wet June day--but he was not aware how insignificant they were.

“And my mind likewise conjures up a vision of two with whom I used to take what we called tramps, during our last year in the High School--far down and out of Butte, on Saturdays and other days when school was not. I remember those two and those tramps exceeding well--nor can I think with but four years gone that the two themselves have forgotten. One of these was an individual whose like I have not since known. She reminded me sometimes of Cleopatra and sometimes of Peg of Limmavaddy. She was of Irish ancestry and had a long black mane of hair braided down behind, and two conscious and lurid eyes of the kind that is known as Irish blue. She had brains enough within her head, but did not study overmuch. Her ways of going through life were often very dubious. She weighed a great many pounds. Her experience of the world was large, and to me she was fascinating. For herself, she was always rather afraid of me--so much afraid, in truth, that if I said a funny thing she must need laugh--with a forced and fictitious merriment; if I told her she had no soul, she must need agree with me abjectly, though she was a good Catholic; if I frowned upon her, she shivered and was silent. Fanciful names and frocks (though this lady’s frocks were always fanciful in ways) were selected for these tramping expeditions. This one’s fanciful name was called Muddled Maud. For no particular reason, I believe--but she wore it well. The other member of our trio was of a less extraordinary type. She was stout as to figure, and she knew a great deal about some things. She was very good in history, and at home she could make pie and cake and bread. It is true that her cake sometimes stuck, and sometimes sank in the middle, and when she carved a fowl she could not always hit the joints. And she was one of the kind that always pronounces picture, “pitcher.” She was also known as a very sensible girl. I can see her now with a purple ribbon around her neck and a brown rain-coat on coming into the High School on a wet morning. When we went tramping she usually wore an immense gray-white, mother-hubbard gown, belted in at the waist, and a wide flat hat, which made her look rather like a toad-stool. Her fanciful name was Emancipated Eva. Emancipated, in truth, she was. In the High School she was dignified and sedate, but on our tramps she would frequently skip like a young lamb, and frisk and gambol down there in the country.

“She who was called Muddled Maud likewise frisked and gamboled--and always she personified my idea of the French noun _abandon_.

“Also I frisked and gamboled in those days far down in the country.

“The fanciful name selected for me was Refreshment Rosanna--and I can not tell why. But it was thought a good name for a lady tramp. We started on these tramps at six in the morning. We would rise from our beds at five, and at ten minutes before six I would meet Muddled Maud at the corner of Washington and Quartz streets, below her house. Together we would go down east Park street to the home of Emancipated Eva. Then we walked seven miles or eight away into the open and the wild.

“We took things along to eat--sometimes a great many things and sometimes a few. Times Muddled Maud would have but a curious-looking jelly-roll, and Emancipated Eva would come laden with hard bits of beef, and I could show but a plate of fudge. But other times there were tarts and meat-pies and turnovers, and deviled ham and deviled chicken and deviled veal and deviled tongue and deviled fish of divers kinds, and some bottles of nut-brown October ale, and sardines _a l’huile_, and green, green olives. Only the more there was, the harder to carry. But, times, Muddled Maud would carry much with little effort--she would adorn herself with the luncheon--a long bit of sausage-link about her neck like a chain, and upon her hat, held securely with bonnet-pins, fat yellow lemons, and two bananas crossed in front like the tiny guns on a soldier’s hat, and bunches of Catawba grapes scattered here and there, and pears hanging by their little stems behind.

“The too early morning prevented all from being seen by the inhabitants of Butte, and we did not venture home again until came the friendly darkness.

“Those were fascinating expeditions--and whose was the glory? Mine was the glory. ’Twas I who invented them. ’Twas I who knew there was none so fitted for a so delicate absurdity as she we called Muddled Maud; and after her, none so fitted as the fair, the good-natured, the Emancipated; and together with them both, I. And I led them forth, and I led them back, and I said things should be thus and so, and straightway they were thus and so. And we enjoyed it, and clear air was in our lungs and life was in our veins, for we had each but eighteen years and were full of youth. But most of all ’twas fascinating because we were three of three widely differing manners of living and methods of reasoning. For I was not like Emancipated Eva, nor yet like Muddled Maud; and Emancipated Eva was not like me, nor yet like Muddled Maud; and Muddled Maud was not like Emancipated Eva, nor yet like me.

“To be sure, there were some things in my ordering which neither the one nor the other found enchanting. Why should the MacLane do all the ordering? they murmured between themselves, but they dared not openly revolt, so all went well.

“But now these are gone.

“The three of us were graduated from the Butte High School with the fifty-nine others of ninety-nine, and had each a fine white diploma, and went our ways.

“She who was like Cleopatra and Peg of Limmavaddy is teaching a school, according to the last that I heard, in the north of Montana; and she that was Emancipated Eva has long since gone to California, and is married, and keeps a house; and for me--I am here, far off from Butte, with you, Annabel Lee, some things having been done meanwhile.

“But though the two are gone, I warrant they have not forgotten. They have not forgotten the Butte High School, nor the class of ninety-nine, nor the tramps we went, nor their tyrant, me.

“And I daresay they all remember their Butte High School--she of the love-letters, she of the whiskey-flask, she the student of Albert Ross, she of the profanity, she of the malice, The Shad,--and all the nine-and-fifty, the young feminine persons and the young masculine persons. Some are married, and some are flown, and some of them are grown up and different, ‘and some of them in the churchyard lie, and some are gone to sea.’

“But whenever I’ve a fancy to shut my eyes and look back, I can see them all, a quaint company.

“Also, whenever I’ve a fancy to shut my eyes and look back to life when it was unspeakably brilliant in possibilities to look forward to, and was marked in parti-colored checks and rings, it fetches me to the days when I went to the Butte High School and studied geometry and Vergil. Only I’m glad I’m not there now.”

“What for?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“It is rather pitiful and dreadful to think of having been seventeen, and to have gone every day to the Butte High School and imagined how wonderful-beautiful life would be some day,” said I, and all at once felt very weary.

XIV

“AND MARY MACLANE AND ME”

There are times in a number of days when my friend Annabel Lee and I enjoy a cigarette together. My friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, her petite much-colored form wrapped round in clouds of thin, exquisite gray, is more than all suggestive and inscrutable. She leans her two elbows on something and looks out at me.

I with my cigarette am nothing but I with my cigarette. I enjoy it, but am not beautiful with it, nor fascinating.

But my friend Annabel Lee is all that my imagination can take in. Under the influence of the thin, exquisite gray she grows fanciful, and subtly and indefinitely she meets me somewhere, and extends me her hand for a moment.

“Don’t you know,” said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, “that old song that goes:

‘Mary Seaton, And Mary Beaton, And Mary Carmichael, And me’?

I think it is Mary Stuart of Scotland who says that. And a fair good song it is. But just now, for _me_, if I were Mary Stuart of Scotland, you poor miserable little rat, I should say:

‘Mary MacLane, And Mary MacLane, And Mary MacLane, And me.’

For aren’t we two together here, calmly smoking--and doesn’t the world spin round?”

I was enchanted. How few are the times when my friend Annabel Lee is like this, warm and friendly and lightly contemptuous and inclined to grotesquerie.

’Tis so that she becomes human and someway near to me.

“Yes, I should say Mary MacLane, and Mary MacLane, and Mary MacLane, and me,” said my friend Annabel Lee from her gently-puffed clouds. “There are times when you are soft and satisfying as a gray pussy-cat. If I stroke you, you will purr. If I give you cream, you will lap it up. And then you will curl up warmly in my lap and sleep and purr and open and shut your little fur paws.

‘I will sit by the fire And give her some food, And pussy will love me Because I am good.’

What literature is more literature than Mother Goose?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “And will you love me--because I am good? Has it occurred to you that you must love what is good and because it is good, you poor, miserable, little rat,--and that you must hate what is evil? Look at me, look at me!--am I good?”

I looked at her. Certainly she was good. Just then she had a look of angels.

“Do you love me?” said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette.

“Oh, yes,” said I.

“Look at me again--am I evil?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“I presume you are,” I replied, for then she looked vindictive and vicious.

“And do you hate me?”

“No,” said I.

“Then you are very bad and wicked yourself, you poor, miserable, little rat,” said my friend Annabel Lee, with her cigarette, “and the world and all good people will condemn you.”

“I fear,” said I, with my cigarette, “that the world and all good people already do that.”

“Ah, do they!” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Never mind--I will take care of you, you poor, miserable, little rat; I will make all soft for you; I will keep out the cold; I will color the dullness; I will fight off the mob.”

“And I,” I replied, “if for that reason you do so, will thank the world and all good people for condemning me.”

“That was neatly said,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “But let me tell you, when the world grows soft, I will grow hard--hard as nails.”

“Then let the world stay hard,” I said--“hard and bitter as wormwood, if it will, so that you come indeed thus friendly to me through these gray clouds.”

“That, too, was very neat,” said my friend Annabel Lee; “but mostly it goes to show that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. What literature is more literature than the proverbs? What is a bird in the hand worth?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Two in the bush,” said I.

“Where does charity begin?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“At home,” said I.

“What does it cover?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A multitude of sins,” said I.

“What’s a miss as good as?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A mile,” said I.

“What makes the mare go?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Money,” said I.

“Whom does conscience make cowards of?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Us all,” said I.

“What does a stitch in time save?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Nine,” said I.

“When are a fool and his money parted?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Soon,” said I.

“What do too many cooks spoil?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“The broth,” said I.

“What’s an idle brain?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“The devil’s workshop,” said I.

“What may a cat look at?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A king,” said I.

“What’s truth stranger than?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Fiction,” said I.

“What’s there many a slip betwixt?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“The cup and the lip,” said I.

“How do birds of a feather flock?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Together,” said I.

“What do fools do where angels fear to tread?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Rush in,” said I.

“What does many a mickle make?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A muckle,” said I.

“What will the pounds do if you take care of the pence?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Take care of themselves,” said I.

“What do curses do, like chickens?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Come home to roost,” said I.

“What is it that has no turning?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A long lane,” said I.

“What does an ill wind blow?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Nobody good,” said I.

“What’s a merciful man merciful to?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“His beast,” said I.

“What’s better to do than to break?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Bend,” said I.

“What’s an ounce of prevention worth?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“A pound of cure,” said I.

“What’s there nothing half so sweet in life as?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Love’s young dream,” said I.

“What does absence make?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“The heart grow fonder,” said I.

“How would a rose by any other name smell?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“As sweet,” said I.

“How did the Assyrian come down?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Like a wolf on the fold,” said I.

“What were his cohorts gleaming with?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Purple and gold,” said I.

“What was the sheen of their spears like?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Stars on the sea,” said I.

“When?” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee,” said I.

“All of which proves,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “that I’ve but to fiddle and you will dance, you poor, miserable, little rat. And my thought is, what is it better to be than second in Rome?”

“First in a little Iberian village,” said I.

“But I’m not sure whether it is or not,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Some day you and I will go out into the great, broad world. Then we shall see who will be first and who will be second. The great, broad world is the best place of all wherein to find ourselves. And no matter how we were situated before, we shall certainly be situated differently in the great broad world. In the great broad world there will be apples--apples enough for you and for me. But, who knows? you poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be _all_ the sweet, juicy apples, whilst I shall be given the cores. In the great broad world there will be ripe-red-raspberry shortcake--enough for you and for me. But, who knows? you poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be all the ripe red raspberries, whilst I shall be given the crusts. In the great broad world there will be cigarettes--cigarettes enough for you and for me. But, who knows? You poor miserable little rat; it may be that your lot will be _all_ the fine Egyptian tobacco and rice paper and clouds and clouds and clouds of pearl gray, soft pearl gray, to wrap you round, whilst I shall go looking in empty boxes all day long, and never a cigarette. In which case mine will be by far the better lot in the end,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “according to the law of compensation.”

“Oh, dear!” said my friend Annabel Lee, petulantly; “why do you sit there stupidly staring? Talk and amuse me, why don’t you? Make me feel sweet and content.”

“If I were but that myself, Annabel Lee,” said I. “I can not talk interestingly, but if you like I will ask you the proverbs and you may answer them. That amused me much--and it gave me a wonderful feeling of satisfaction, quite as if I were seven years old and knew my lesson perfectly.”

“You ask and I answer?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Very good. But I don’t know my lesson perfectly. Begin.”

“What’s a bird in the hand worth?” said I.

“A pound of cure,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What does a stitch in time save?” said I.

“Two in the bush,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Where does charity begin?” said I.

“Betwixt the cup and the lip,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What may a cat look at?” said I.

“The broth,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What does many a mickle make?” said I.

“A multitude of sins,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What do too many cooks spoil?” said I.

“Us all,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Whom does conscience make cowards of?” said I.

“Dead men and fools,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What is it that has no turning?” said I.

“A full stomach,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What fortifies a stout heart?” said I.

“A stitch in time,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What does money make?” said I.

“An ill wind,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What will the pounds do if you take care of the pence?” said I.

“Come home to roost,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“Where is there many a slip?” said I.

“Where angels fear to tread,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s sharper than a serpent’s tooth?” said I.

“The pen,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s mightier than the sword?” said I.

“A rich man,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What makes the mare go?” said I.

“A fool and his money,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What should they do who live in glass houses?” said I.

“Draw down the blinds,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s a man’s castle?” said I.

“The devil’s workshop,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s better to do than to break?” said I.

“Rob Peter,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s the wind tempered to?” said I.

“The camel’s back,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What do many hands make?” said I.

“A shorn lamb,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What can’t you make out of a pig’s ear?” said I.

“A gift-horse,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What should you never look in the mouth?” said I.

“A silk purse,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“What’s half a loaf better than?” said I.

“Chickens before they are hatched,” said my friend Annabel Lee.

“But let’s not play this any more,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “I’m languid and weary. Can’t you talk to me--and talk so that I may feel rested and comfortable? And don’t stare!”

“I fear I can’t amuse you. I am sorry,” said I. “You may envy me, Annabel Lee. You have not Annabel Lee to look at. Would not life look rich and full to you if you could see before you your own vague, purple eyes, and your red red lips, and those hands of power and romance--you, with your scarlet gown and the gold marguerites coming near and fading away in mist?”

“No, not particularly,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “I rather like _your_ looks,” she added, and her purple eyes became less vague--“sitting there in your small black frock; and you puff at that tobacco much like a toy engine. Come, you amuse me--you please me. Come near me.”

She held out one of her hands and the purple eyes changed suddenly into something that was rarely and indescribably friendly.

I felt much from life.

My friend Annabel Lee rested the hand she had held out upon my shoulder.

“When we go into the great, broad world, Mary MacLane,” she said, “and you have all the apples, and all the ripe-red-raspberry shortcake, and all the cigarettes, then perhaps will you _share_ them with me?”

I said I would.

XV

A STORY OF SPOON-BILLS

When the mood takes my friend Annabel Lee she will, if I beg her, tell me quaint and fantastic stories, such as are hidden away in the dusty crevices of this world. These tales have lain away there for centuries, and spiders have spun webs over and about them, so that when, perchance, they are brought out, bits of fine gray fiber are to be found among the lines.

Yesterday a pretty, plain story by my friend Annabel Lee that runs through my mind.

“Long ago,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “there lived in Egypt a family of well-born but poorly-bred Spoon-bills in a green marsh by the side of the great green river Nile. This family numbered five, and they were united and dwelling in peace. There were the father and mother and two daughters and a son. And there had been another son, but he was dead. And their names were Maren Spoon-bill, the mother; and Oliver W. Spoon-bill, the father; and Lilith Spoon-bill, the elder daughter; and Delilah Spoon-bill, the younger daughter. And the son’s name was Le Page Spoon-bill.

“The son who had died was named Roland Spoon-bill. He was buried at the edge of the marsh, and his name and the date were carved upon a square, black, wooden tablet to his memory at the head of the grave. There was also this legend upon the tablet: ‘Age 15. Gone in the hey-day of youth to his last rest. But his virtues are with us still.’