Part 11

"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome on that ranch. I wish to heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you come away."

He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his anxious face.

"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing school, and by thunder, she's just about finished."

There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added reflectively:

"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it. Harder to change her mind than to bust any broncho I ever tackled. Queer Little Thing, Baby is."

Copyrighted by Doubleday, Page & Co.

An American Wake

_By Rose A. Crow_

This was the last night in the old home, which had sheltered the family for five generations. The day had been full of excitement, as by a merciful ordinance last days usually are. The final packing had been done, the chests and boxes securely fastened and carefully labeled. This was all looked after by Margaret, herself, amidst interruptions by her brood of young children. Visits from friends and relatives, living at a distance, occupied much of the day; attending to countless minor things kept them all busy until nightfall. Even then there was no time allowed to visit the shrine.

Margaret had a fairy shrine, to which she carried the cares of the day and the hopes of the morrow. This charmed place was a stile over the ivy-clad walls of the garden. There she brought her childish joys and sorrows, and in the quiet received consolation. She had fought the fiercest battles of her womanhood with her head resting against the ivy-covered pillar. To-night, when she was parting from her country and friends, there was no time to commune with her silent friend.

Shortly after dusk, in accordance with local etiquette, very stringent on such momentous occasions, the relatives, friends and neighbors of a lifetime began to drop in by twos and threes until every inch of wall space was filled.

Who of all this gathering was more welcome than "John, the Fiddler"? He was a great favorite with young and old. The sight of him carrying his fiddle caused a feeling of emotion in the hearts of the older people. It recalled the tragic story of John's father who years before left for America intending to send for his wife and crippled son. A fever contracted on shipboard deprived them of a husband and father. It was then that John Doyle became "John, the Fiddler."

John was beckoned into the "room," where with Father O'Connell and a few trusty friends, he was treated to a small measure of potheen. Dan Monahan had donated a very small jug for this special occasion. To be given the first shot from Dan's still was no small favor, as those present knew. Before taking his seat at the end of the room, John drank Margaret's health, wishing herself and family a safe voyage across the water, and a happy home on the prairies of Iowa.

Each guest realized the strain of parting and generously made an effort to conceal the gloom with a brave semblance of mirth. There was dancing, singing of songs, and elaborate drinking of healths. With persistent calls for Margaret's brother James, the dancing stopped. The floor was cleared, and he was borne in on the shoulders of the leaders, who had found him leaning against the ivy-covered wall, gazing at the moon, floating over his old home which, alas! he would never see again.

James MacNevin was a magnificent specimen of Irish manhood and a charming singer. He was about twenty-three years old, tall and broad-shouldered, with a fine head of curly auburn hair. His clear blue eyes reflected the sadness of the group around him, while his white teeth flashed a smile. In one hand he crushed his handkerchief, while with the other he nervously twirled a sprig of ivy. A few measures of "Good Night and Joy Be with You All" came from the violin. For an instant he wavered, then throwing back his head he sang the song, not with full volume, but with intense feeling, emphasis and a clear ringing tone. The song seemed to voice his own feelings as his chest rose and fell. He was no longer just James MacNevin, but a pilgrim traveling to a strange country. His whole soul was filled with the sentiment, and there was such pathos in its heart-throb that the whole company was moved to tears. The last verse ended, he stood a moment with gaze transfixed--then rousing himself, bowed, smiled and with one hand in his sister Margaret's, the other clutching the sprig of ivy, he passed out of the home forever.

Rochester, Minn.

(With apologies to the Mayos)

_By Marie G. Stapp_

Mr. Smith had gallstones, Mr. Jones had gout, Bad appendices had the Browns But now they've been cut out. Rachel had a goitre, Susan a queer spleen, A tumor worried Mrs. Wright Though it could not be seen. Robert had large tonsils And Dick had adenoids, too, Bill Green had never had an ear, He did when _they_ got through. Peggy had a leaky heart, Her father had no hair, Both heart and head are now fixed up And what a happy pair! And I--well I have nothing wrong-- That's why I don't feel right; I'll pay my bill at this hotel And go back home to-night.

God's Back Yard

_By Jessie Welborn Smith_

AN EPISODE FROM ACT THREE

_Place, Tim Murphy's saloon. Time, evening._

Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely. The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly across a broken-down faro table.

_Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing)._ Oh, I'm goin' to hell, and I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to hell. I'm goin' to--hell.

_Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone)._ You're going a damn sight faster than that, Dickie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on the concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says on the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don't sing this time.

_First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside Murphy)._ Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three times. Let 'er go. We're all here.

_First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly)._ Mrs. Long won't be able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night. I met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in waitin' when we're all here.

_Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve)._ Did you hear that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is--d-e-a-d. Do you get me?

_Man at the Bar._ Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is a father yet. Have a heart.

_Rosie Phelan (disgustedly)._ "Have a heart." Well, what do you think of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you had got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?

_Nell (shifting her wad of gum)._ Well, he was sitting over at Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the crowd.

_Murphy (hotly)._ And that is what that preacher will have to do if he makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he had to chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That pale chicken-liver chase me to--Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my treat.

Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.

_Murphy._ Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about you females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.

_Barkeeper._ To hell with every denatured female that comes round here praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he damn pleases with his own soul.

_First Lounger (lazily boastful)._ I told my old woman that if I ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle letting off steam, I'd----

_First Wife (spitefully)._ Us women ain't got no call to get religion. We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a wildcat at his head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it don't do no good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You don't ketch me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection. Safety first, I say.

_Second Wife (meekly)._ They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las' Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?

_Second Painted Lady (patronizingly)._ How would you expect Murphy to know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can't hang around here all night.

_Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the street)._ The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.

_Murphy._ No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my business.

The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and greets him with mock politeness.

_Murphy._ Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It's hard work saving sinners in God's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere with your meeting, parson.

_Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand)._ Not at all, friend. What is the bill of fare?

_Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full skirts from side to side)._ For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me it was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night, Murph. (_She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in pretense of modesty._) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.

_Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads)._ Here, take these, Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part, so I don't mind.

_Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads)._ Not takin' an active part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister once who could make hell look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar? (_She turns to the minister._) Where d'you want to sit? Up there by Mollie? Take your choice.

_Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the slot)._ Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug" and the minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the floor? Do you want the music to be half done before you find your partners? I'll be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance for me. (_She pauses a moment, nickel in hand._)

_First Card Player._ I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The Pullman Porters on Parade."

_Second Player (doggedly)._ They always play "A Great Big Blue-Eyed Baby."

_Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips)._ "My harem, my harem, my roly, poly harem."

_Nell (with mock sentiment)._ "For it's Apple Blossom Time in Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."

The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety clink. A small child wails dismally as the music shivers through the room.

"Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly. While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high. Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide Till the storm of life is past. Safe into the haven guide, O, receive my soul at last."

Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing impulse passes from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden convulsively.

_Rosie (hysterically)._ Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For Gawd's sake, can't you stop it?

She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superstitious awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder. She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor to bring herself out of the daze.

_Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)_. "O, receive my soul at last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I ain't fit to come to you no more, mother--I ain't fit, I ain't fit.

One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.

_Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the lonely street as she laughs madly)._ Old Murphy in cahoots with the minister. Oh, hell!

The door slams shut. The glasses on the bar jangle harshly. A snatch of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.

"Other refuge have I none. Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. Leave, ah, leave me not alone. Still support and comfort me. All my trust on Thee is staid. All my help from Thee I bring. Cover my defenseless head With the shadow of Thy wing."

The wives are all crying quietly. Rosie and Bett are sobbing with the wild abandon that such natures know. Tears are falling upon the idle hands at the card table. The men at the bar are strangely quiet.

_Man at the Faro Table (lifting himself up on his elbow)._ I ushe shing--I ushe shing zhat--I ushe shing Jeshus--Jeshus--I ushe shing--(_He drops his head over on the table and weeps drunkenly._)

_Little Child (pulling at her mother's shoulders and whining peevishly)._ Who is Jesus, mamma? Do we know Jesus? (_Happily._) Will he cover my head with a pretty birdie's wing? (_The mother shakes with sobs and the child speaks more caressingly._) Don't cry, mother. I like my hat with the posies on it. You can have the feathers, nice, good mamma. Don't cry.

_Murphy (absently, looking at the minister)._ They sang that at the funeral. Sally didn't have no call to hide anything. She was that white and pure. I always felt her slippin'--slippin' away. She worried so them last days because of the little kid. "Take him back home, Murph," she kept sayin'. "A little child has got to have some raisin'. A kid has got to go to Sunday school, Tim, dear, and there ain't never no meetin's in God's Back Yard."

_Man at the Bar (dejectedly, going over to the door)._ It's all right for the young-uns, but when a man has got a thirst and is down on his luck, I don't allow that God is going to help much. You got to get 'em young, parson, and keep 'em headed straight. It's hell turning back. I tried it, and I couldn't make it go.

_Minister (gently, as if speaking to someone very near)._ Oh, Jesus, lover of all these misguided souls, come down to this little room to-night, for it is dark here, and, Oh, so cold and dreary. Speak to them, Jesus, as you did to me. Let them see the glory of Thy face. Will someone pray?

_Murphy (looking across at the loafers and speaking half as an invitation, half as a command)._ Are you staying, boys?

_One of the Men (doggedly, as they look at one another sheepishly and no one moves to go)._ Ain't we always stayin' till closin' time?

_Murphy (warmly)._ You sure do, boys. (_He buries his head in his crossed arms over the music-box._) It's your lead, parson.

The Wild Crab Apple

_By Julia Ellen Rogers_

The wild, sweet-scented crab apple! The bare mention of its name is enough to make the heart leap up, though spring be months away, and barriers of brick hem us in. In the corner of the back pasture stands a clump of these trees, huddled together like cattle. Their flat, matted tops reach out sidewise until the stubby limbs of neighboring trees meet. It would not occur to anyone to call them handsome trees. But wait! The twigs silver over with young foliage, then coral buds appear, thickly sprinkling the green leaves. Now all their asperity is softened, and a great burst of rose-colored bloom overspreads the treetops and fills the air with perfume. It is not mere sweetness, but an exquisite, spicy, stimulating fragrance that belongs only to wild crab-apple flowers. Linnæus probably never saw more than a dried specimen, but he named this tree most worthily, _coronaria_, "fit for crowns and garlands."

Break off an armful of these blossoming twigs and take them home. They will never be missed. Be thankful that your friends in distant parts of the country may share your pleasure, for though this particular species does not cover the whole United States, yet there is a wild crab apple for each region.

In the fall the tree is covered with hard little yellow apples. They have a delightful fragrance, but they are neither sweet nor mellow. Take a few home and make them into jelly. Then you will understand why the early settlers gathered them for winter use. The jelly has a wild tang in it, an indescribable piquancy of flavor as different from common apple jelly as the flowers are in their way more charming than ordinary appleblossoms. It is the rare gamy taste of a primitive apple.

Well-meaning horticulturists have tried what they could do toward domesticating this _Malus coronaria_. The effort has not been a success. The fruit remains acerb and hard; the tree declines to be "ameliorated" for the good of mankind. Isn't it, after all, a gratuitous office? Do we not need our wild crab apple just as it is, as much as we need more kinds of orchard trees? How spirited and fine is its resistance! It seems as if this wayward beauty of our woodside thickets considered that the best way to serve mankind was to keep inviolate those charms that set it apart from other trees and make its remotest haunt the Mecca of eager pilgrims every spring.

The wild crab apple is not a tree to plant by itself in park or garden. Plant it in companies on the edge of woods, or in obscure and ugly fence corners, where there is a background, or where, at least, each tree can lose its individuality in the mass. Now, go away and let them alone. They do not need mulching nor pruning. Let them gang their ain gait, and in a few years you will have a crab-apple thicket. You will also have succeeded in bringing home with these trees something of the spirit of the wild woods where you found them.

--From _The Tree Book_.

A Ballad of the Corn

_By S. H. M. Byers_

Oh, the undulating prairies, And the fields of yellow corn, Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray. Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves Like a distant fairy's horn And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.

"We have risen from the bosom Of the beauteous mother earth, Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long. There was gladness and rejoicing When the summer gave us birth, In the tumult and the dancing and the song.

"When the sumach turns to scarlet, And the vines along the lane Are garmented in autumn's golden wine-- Then the land shall smile for plenty, And the toiler for his pain, When the soldiers of our army stand in line.

"With our shining blades before us, And our banners flaming far, Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore. And the cornfield's lord of plenty In his golden-covered car Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."

Oh, the sunshine and the beauty On the fields of ripened corn, And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand. In the lanes I hear the music Of the faintly blowing horn And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.

The Children's Blessing

_By Virginia Roderick_

On the slope of a hill, beneath silvery olives, a group was gathered about the young stranger. He had entered the village only that morning, seeking the companionship of such Nazarenes as might be there. And they had brought him out here in the open to receive his message. But though he carried them greetings, and news from the distant groups of the Christ's followers, it was plain that he had not been sent to them on a mission.

They waited until he should be ready to explain his quest.

"You did not see Him, then?"

Into the young man's eyes there came a great, yearning sadness. "No," he answered. "But you," he asked eagerly, "did none of you see Him?"

They shook their heads, all of them.

"We were too far away," one murmured.

"But I had for spiritual father one who had seen Him," the traveler offered, his face lighting. "You know how He blessed a company of little children? How He put His hands upon them?" He paused and they nodded silently. "My teacher was one of those children," he said, his dark eyes aglow with reverent pride.

A quick glance flashed about the group; but no one spoke and the traveler went on, the radiance of his face blotted out again in sadness. "It is because he is gone that I am a wanderer now. I was always with him, and we went about together, preaching the Kingdom. It was all so clear to my teacher because he had seen Him. He told me of His wonderful look."

They fell silent, brooding and thoughtful.

Then one asked: "What was it like--the blessing He gave your teacher? Did he gain goods and store?"

The young traveler's eyes opened in amazement. "Why no! How could that be? My teacher was like Him," he explained simply.

Again the quick look passed about the circle. At last one spoke, slowly: "There is a man here in the village who was also blessed with the children."

The young traveler started up joyously. "Take me to him," he entreated. "Let me talk with him; that is what I have come here seeking--another teacher."

"Nay, friend--" began one; but another hurriedly whispered: "Let us not tell him. Perhaps he can help." And so the first speaker finished: "I fear you will not find him like your teacher, but you shall go; it is only a step."

And they guided him, all but impatient, to a mean hovel just within the town. There they left him.

It was a man with a dark, bitter face that answered his knock. "May I speak with Nemuel?" the stranger asked courteously.

"I am Nemuel," growled the man curtly.

"But I mean Nemuel who was one of the children that Jesus blessed," persisted the young traveler, his face softly alight as the name passed his lips.

"Come in; I am the man." He straightened proudly. "I was a child seven years old when I saw Him----"

He stopped, for the young stranger, pale and gasping, broke in: "You saw Him! He touched you! You have seen His face, and yet your own--forgive me, friend. But my master was also one of the children blessed by the Christ, and he was ... different." He hesitated, still looking at the somber face in puzzled distress.