Tuesday's Serials: "The Epic of Hades" by Lewis Morris (in English) - IV

BOOK II - HADES.

 

MARSYAS

                                                   Then from those dark

And dreadful precincts passing, ghostly fields

And voiceless took me. A faint twilight veiled

The leafless, shadowy trees and herbless plains.

There stirred no breath of air to wake to life

The slumbers of the world. The sky above

Was one gray, changeless cloud. There looked no eye

Of Life from the veiled heavens; but Sleep and Death

Were round me everywhere. And yet no fear

Nor horror took me here, where was no pain

Nor dread, save that strange tremor which assails[80]

One who in life's hot noontide looks on death

And knows he too shall die. The ghosts which rose

From every darkling copse showed thin and pale—

Thinner and paler far than those I left

In agony; even as Pity seems to wear

A thinner form than Fear.

                                                 Not caged alone

Like those the avenging Furies purged were these,

Nor that dim land as those black cavernous depths

Where no hope comes. Fair souls were they and white

Whom there I saw, waiting as we shall wait,

The Beatific End, but thin and pale

As the young faith which made them; touched a little

By the sad memories of the earth; made glad

A little by past joys: no more; and wrapt

In musing on the brief play played by them

Upon the lively earth, yet ignorant

Of the long lapse of years, and what had been[81]

Since they too breathed Life's air, or if they knew,

Keeping some echo only; but their pain

Was fainter than their joy, and a great hope

Like ours possessed them dimly.

 

                                                             First I saw

A youth who pensive leaned against the trunk

Of a dark cypress, and an idle flute

Hung at his side. A sorrowful sad soul,

Such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze,

Mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful,[82]

Of one whom nature, by some secret spite,

Has maimed and left imperfect; or the pain

Which fills a poet's eyes. Beneath his robe

I seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes,

Too hastily concealed. Yet was he not

Wholly unhappy, but from out the core

Of suffering flowed a secret spring of joy,

Which mocked the droughts of Fate, and left him glad

And glorying in his sorrow. As I gazed

He raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed,

Blew a soft note; and as I stayed awhile

I heard him thus discourse—

                                                        "The flute is sweet

To gods and men, but sweeter far the lyre

And voice of a true singer. Shall I fear

To tell of that great trial, when I strove

And Phœbus conquered? Nay, no shame it is

To bow to an immortal melody;

But glory.

                   Once among the Phrygian hills

I lay a-musing,—while the silly sheep

Wandered among the thyme—upon the bank

Of a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines,

Safe hidden from the noon. A dreamy haze

Played on the uplands, but the hills were clear

In sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky.

It was the time when a deep silence comes

Upon the summer earth, and all the birds

Have ceased from singing, and the world is still

As midnight, and if any live thing move—

Some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake—

Within the pipy overgrowth of weeds,

The ear can catch the rustle, and the trees

And earth and air are listening. As I lay,

Faintly, as in a dream, I seemed to hear

A tender music, like the Æolian chords,

Sound low within the woodland, whence the stream,

Flowed full, yet silent. Long, with ear to ground,

I hearkened; and the sweet strain, fuller grown,

Rounder and clearer came, and danced along

In mirthful measure now, and now grown grave

In dying falls, and sweeter and more clear,

Tripping at nuptials and high revelry,

Wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts,

Chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery,

Touching all chords of being, and life and death,

Now rose, now sank, and always was divine,

So strange the music came.

                                                   Till, as I lay

Enraptured, swift a sudden discord rang,

And all the sound grew still. A sudden flash,

As from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood.

A noise of water smitten, and on the hills

A fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbed

Into the farthest heaven. Then, as I mused,

Knowing a parting goddess, straight I saw

A sudden splendour float upon the stream,

And knew it for this jewelled flute, which paused

Before me on an eddy. It I snatched

Eager, and to my ardent lips I bore

The wonder, and behold, with the first breath—

The first warm human breath, the silent strains.

The half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew,

Revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter far

Than mortal skill could make. So with delight

I left my flocks to wander o'er the wastes

Untended, and the wolves and eagles seized

The tender lambs, but I was for my art—

Nought else; and though the high-pitched notes divine

Grew faint, yet something lingered, and at last

So sweet a note I sounded of my skill,

That all the Phrygian highlands, all the white

Hill villages, were fain to hear the strain,

Which the mad shepherd made.

                                                             So, overbold,

And rapt in my new art, at last I dared

To challenge Phœbus' self.

                                                   'Twas a fair day

When sudden, on the mountain side, I saw

A train of fleecy clouds in a white band

Descending. Down the gleaming pinnacles

And difficult crags they floated, and the arch,

Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun,

Hung like a glory o'er them. Midst the pines

They clothed themselves with form, and straight I knew

The immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre,

Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses clad

In robes of gleaming white; then a great fear,

Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knew

Myself a mortal equalled with the gods.

 

      Ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dread

In face and form, they showed, when now they came

Upon the thymy slope, and the young god

Lay with his choir around him, beautiful

And bold as Youth and Dawn! There was no cloud

Upon the sky, nor any sound at all

When I began my strain. No coward fear

Of what might come restrained me; but an awe

Of those immortal eyes and ears divine

Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full

Of ears for me alone—the woods, the fields,

The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound

My flute might make; such subtle harmonies

The silence seemed to weave round me and flout

The half unuttered thought. Till last I blew,

As now, a hesitating note, and lo!

The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips,

Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes,

Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life

Rise up within me, and expand, and all

The human, which so nearly is divine,

Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips,

And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair

Approval, and my soul in me was glad.

 

      For all the strains I blew were strains of love—

Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies

Within belovèd arms, and wreathes his locks

With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings

Unheeding; and I saw a kindly gleam

Within the Muses' eyes, who were indeed,

Women, though god-like.

                                                But upon the face

Of the young Sun-god only haughty scorn

Sate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre,[89]

And played the Song of Life; and lo, I knew

My strain, how earthy! Oh, to hear the young

Apollo playing! and the hidden cells

And chambers of the universe displayed

Before the charmèd sound! I seemed to float

In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips

In from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths

With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt

By that I heard, and dared to wish no more

For victory; and yet because the sound

Of music that is born of human breath

Comes straighter from the soul than any strain

The hand alone can make; therefore I knew,

With a mixed thrill of pity and delight,

The nine immortal Sisters hardly touched

By this fine strain of music, as by mine,

And when the high lay trembled to its close,

Still doubting.

                            Then upon the Sun-god's face

There passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyre

Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice,

The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy,

Oh happiness of him who once has heard

Apollo singing! For his ears the sound

Of grosser music dies, and all the earth

Is full of subtle undertones, which change

The listener and transform him. As he sang—

Of what I know not, but the music touched

Each chord of being—I felt my secret life

Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns

To drink the summer rain; and at the call

Of those refreshing waters, all my thought

Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst

Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells

Deep call to deep, and all the mystery

Of all that is, laid open. As he sang,

I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes,

Sign 'He has conquered.' Yet I felt no pang

Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard

Such music while I lived, even though it brought

Torture and death. For what were it to lie

Sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise,

And surfeited with offerings, the dull gift

Of ignorant hands—all which I might have known—

To this diviner failure? Godlike 'tis

To climb upon the icy ledge, and fall

Where other footsteps dare not. So I knew

My fate, and it was near.

                                               For to a pine

They bound me willing, and with cruel stripes

Tore me, and took my life.

                                               But from my blood

Was born the stream of song, and on its flow

My poor flute, to the cool swift river borne,

Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide

Into the deep, wide sea. I do not blame

Phœbus, or Nature which has set this bar

Betwixt success and failure, for I know

How far high failure overleaps the bound

Of low successes. Only suffering draws

The inner heart of song and can elicit

The perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enough

To fail, for that were happiness to him

Who ever upward looks with reverent eye

And seeks but to admire. So, since the race

Of bards soars highest; as who seek to show

Our lives as in a glass; therefore it comes

That suffering weds with song, from him of old,

Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse;

Through all the story of neglect and scorn,

Necessity, sheer hunger, early death,

Which smite the singer still. Not only those

Who keep clear accents of the voice divine

Are honourable—they are happy, indeed,

Whate'er the world has held—but those who hear

Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf,

And see the white gods' garments on the hills,

Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find

Fit music for their thought; they too are blest,

Not pitiable. Not from arrogant pride

Nor over-boldness fail they who have striven

To tell what they have heard, with voice too weak

For such high message. More it is than ease,

Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries,

To have seen white Presences upon the hills,

To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods."

 

      So spake he, and I seemed to look on him,

Whose sad young eyes grow on us from the page

Of his own verse: who did himself to death:

Or whom the dullard slew: or whom the sea

Rapt from us: and I passed without a word,

Slow, grave, with many musings.

 

 

ANDROMEDA

                                                               Then I came

On one a maiden, meek with folded hands,

Seated against a rugged face of cliff,

In silent thought. Anon she raised her arms,

Her gleaming arms, above her on the rock,

With hands which clasped each other, till she showed

As in a statue, and her white robe fell

Down from her maiden shoulders, and I knew

The fair form as it seemed chained to the stone

By some invisible gyves, and named her name:

And then she raised her frightened eyes to mine

As one who, long expecting some great fear,

Scarce sees deliverance come. But when she saw

Only a kindly glance, a softer look

Came in them, and she answered to my thought

With a sweet voice and low.

                                                     "I did but muse

Upon the painful past, long dead and done,

Forgetting I was saved.

                                           The angry clouds

Burst always on the low flat plains, and swept

The harvest to the ocean; all the land

Was wasted. A great serpent from the deep,

Lifting his horrible head above their homes,

Devoured the children. And the people prayed

In vain to careless gods.

                                              On that dear land,

Which now was turned into a sullen sea,

Gazing in safety from the stately towers

Of my sire's palace, I, a princess, saw,

Lapt in soft luxury, within my bower

The wreck of humble homes come whirling by,

The drowning, bleating flocks, the bellowing herds,

The grain scarce husbanded by toiling hands

Upon the sunlit plain, rush to the sea,

With floating corpses. On the rain-swept hills

The remnant of the people huddled close,

Homeless and starving. All my being was filled

With pity for them, and I joyed to give

What food and shelter and compassionate hands

Of woman might. I took the little ones

And clasped them shivering to the virgin breast

Which knew no other touch but theirs, and gave

Raiment and food. My sire, not stern to me,

Smiled on me as he saw. My gentle mother,

Who loved me with a closer love than binds

A mother to her son; and sunned herself

In my fresh beauty, seeing in my young eyes

Her own fair vanished youth; doted on me,

And fain had kept my eyes from the sad sights

That pained them. But my heart was sad in me,

Seeing the ineffable miseries of life,

And that mysterious anger of the gods,

And helpless to allay them. All in vain

Were prayer and supplication, all in vain

The costly victims steamed. The vengeful clouds

Hid the fierce sky, and still the ruin came.

And wallowing his grim length within the flood,

Over the ravaged fields and homeless homes,

The fell sea-monster raged, sating his jaws

With blood and rapine.

                                            Then to the dread shrine

Of Ammon went the priests, and reverend chiefs

Of all the nation. White robed, at their head,

Went slow my royal sire. The oracle

Spoke clear, not as ofttimes in words obscure,

Ambiguous. And as we stood to meet

The suppliants—she who bare me, with her head

Upon my neck—we cheerful and with song

Welcomed their swift return; auguring well

From such a quick-sped mission.

                                                               But my sire

Hid his face from me, and the crowd of priests

And nobles looked not at us. And no word

Was spoken till at last one drew a scroll

And gave it to the queen, who straightway swooned,

Having read it, on my breast, and then I saw,

I the young girl whose soft life scarcely knew

Shadow of sorrow, I whose heart was full

Of pity for the rest, what doom was mine.

 

      I think I hardly knew in that dread hour

The fear that came anon; I was transformed

Into a champion of my race, made strong

With a new courage, glorying to meet,

In all the ecstasy of sacrifice,

Death face to face. Some god, I know not who,

O'erspread me, and despite my mother's tears

And my stern father's grief, I met my fate

Unshrinking.

                        When the moon rose clear from cloud

Once more again over the midnight sea,

And that vast watery plain, where were before

Hundreds of happy homes, and well-tilled fields,

And purple vineyards; from my father's towers

The white procession went along the paths,

The high cliff paths, which well I loved of old,

Among the myrtles. Priests with censers went

And offerings, robed in white, and round their brows

The sacred fillet. With his nobles walked

My sire with breaking heart. My mother clung

To me the victim, and the young girls went

With wailing and with tears. A solemn strain

The soft flutes sounded, as we went by night

To a wild headland, rock-based in the sea.

 

      There on a sea-worn rock, upon the verge,

To some rude stanchions, high above my head,

They bound me. Out at sea, a black reef rose,

Washed by the constant surge, wherein a cave

Sheltered deep down the monster. The sad queen

Would scarcely leave me, though the priests shrunk back

In terror. Last, torn from my endless kiss,

Swooning they bore her upwards. All my robe

Fell from my lifted arms, and left displayed

The virgin treasure of my breasts; and then

The white procession through the moonlight streamed

Upwards, and soon their soft flutes sounded low

Upon the high lawns, leaving me alone.

 

      There stood I in the moonlight, left alone

Against the sea-worn rock. Hardly I knew,

Seeing only the bright moon and summer sea,

Which gently heaved and surged, and kissed the ledge

With smooth warm tides, what fate was mine. I seemed,

Soothed by the quiet, to be resting still

Within my maiden chamber, and to watch

The moonlight thro' my lattice. Then again

Fear came, and then the pride of sacrifice

Filled me, as on the high cliff lawns I heard

The wailing cries, the chanted liturgies,

And knew me bound forsaken to the rock,

And saw the monster-haunted depths of sea.

 

      So all night long upon the sandy shores

I heard the hollow murmur of the wave,

And all night long the hidden sea caves made

A ghostly echo; and the sea birds mewed

Around me; once I heard a mocking laugh,

As of some scornful Nereid; once the waters

Broke louder on the scarpèd reefs, and ebbed

As if the monster coming; but again

He came not, and the dead moon sank, and still

Only upon the cliffs the wails, the chants,

And I forsaken on my sea-worn rock,

And lo, the monster-haunted depths of sea.

 

      Till at the dead dark hour before the dawn,

When sick men die, and scarcely fear itself

Bore up my weary eyelids, a great surge

Burst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed,

The sea sucked downward to its depths, laid bare

The hidden reefs, and then before my eyes —

Oh, horrible! a huge and loathsome snake

Lifted his dreadful crest and scaly side

Above the wave, in bulk and length so large,

Coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eye

Could measure its full horror; the great jaws

Dropped as with gore; the large and furious eyes

Were fired with blood and lust. Nearer he came,

And slowly, with a devilish glare, more near,

Till his hot fœtor choked me, and his tongue,

Forked horribly within his poisonous jaws,

Played lightning-like around me. For awhile

I swooned, and when I knew my life again,

Death's bitterness was past.

                                                    Then with a bound

Leaped up the broad red sun above the sea,

And lit the horrid fulgour of his scales,

And struck upon the rock; and as I turned

My head in the last agony of death,

I knew a brilliant sunbeam swiftly leaping

Downward from crag to crag, and felt new hope

Where all was hopeless. On the hills a shout

Of joy, and on the rocks the ring of mail;

And while the hungry serpent's gloating eyes

Were fixed on me, a knight in casque of gold

And blazing shield, who with his flashing blade

Fell on the monster. Long the conflict raged,

Till all the rocks were red with blood and slime,

And yet my champion from those horrible jaws

And dreadful coils was scatheless. Zeus his sire

Protected, and the awful shield he bore

Withered the monster's life and left him cold,

Dragging his helpless length and grovelling crest:

And o'er his glaring eyes the films of death

Crept, and his writhing flank and hiss of hate

The great deep swallowed down, and blood and spume

Rose on the waves; and a strange wailing cry

Resounded o'er the waters, and the sea

Bellowed within its hollow-sounding caves.

 

      Then knew I, I was saved, and with me all

The people. From my wrists he loosed the gyves,

My hero; and within his godlike arms

Bore me by slippery rock and difficult path,

To where my mother prayed. There was no need

To ask my love. Without a spoken word

Love lit his fires within me. My young heart

Went forth, Love calling, and I gave him all.

 

      Dost thou then wonder that the memory

Of this supreme brief moment lingers still,

While all the happy uneventful years

Of wedded life, and all the fair young growth

Of offspring, and the tranquil later joys,

Nay, even the fierce eventful fight which raged

When we were wedded, fade and are deceased,

Lost in the irrecoverable past?

Nay, 'tis not strange. Always the memory

Of overwhelming perils or great joys,

Avoided or enjoyed, writes its own trace

With such deep characters upon our lives,

That all the rest are blotted. In this place,

Where is not action, thought, or count of time,

It is not weary as it were on earth,

To dwell on these old memories. Time is born

Of dawns and sunsets, days that wax and wane

And stamp themselves upon the yielding face

Of fleeting human life; but here there is

Morning nor evening, act nor suffering,

But only one unchanging Present holds

Our being suspended. One blest day indeed,

Or centuries ago or yesterday,

There came among us one who was Divine,

Not as our gods, joyous and breathing strength

And careless life, but crowned with a new crown

Of suffering, and a great light came with him,

And with him he brought Time and a new sense

Of dim, long-vanished years; and since he passed

I seem to see new meaning in my fate,

And all the deeds I tell of. Evermore

The young life comes, bound to the cruel rocks

Alone. Before it the unfathomed sea

Smiles, filled with monstrous growths that wait to take

Its innocence. Far off the voice and hand

Of love kneel by in agony, and entreat

The seeming careless gods. Still when the deep

Is smoothest, lo, the deadly fangs and coils

Lurk near, to smite with death. And o'er the crags

Of duty, like a sudden sunbeam, springs

Some golden soul half mortal, half divine,

Heaven-sent, and breaks the chain; and evermore

For sacrifice they die, through sacrifice

They live, and are for others, and no grief

Which smites the humblest but reverberates

Thro' all the close-set files of life, and takes

The princely soul that from its royal towers

Looks down and sees the sorrow.

                                                              Sir, farewell!

If thou shouldst meet my children on the earth

Or here, for maybe it is long ago

Since I and they were living, say to them

I only muse a little here, and wait

The waking."

                         And her lifted arms sank down

Upon her knees, and as I passed I saw her

Gazing with soft rapt eyes, and on her lips

A smile as of a saint.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Awful Letter" by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by Pete Riccia - Forbidden Worlds #14 - American Comics Group ACG, February 1953 .

 

 

Good Reading: "The Golden Hen" by Ludwig Bechstein (translated into English)

 In a little forest-hut there once lived an old man. Besides several children he also had a golden hen that was so small that it was scarcely bigger than a wren. The old man was fond of this bird and his children loved it too.

When the old man was about to die, he charged them not to sell the hen because it was a luck-bird. But after the old man died, poverty and distress came into the house, although every week the golden hen laid a yellow egg about the size of a pea.

While the father was alive, he had used to carry away these eggs and return with money and food. Now when they were too short of food, the eldest son gathered the eggs that had been laid and took them to market to sell them. But people only laughed at him for offering such things. At last a man, out of compassion, gave him two pennies for the eggs.

When these pennies were spent, hunger stared the poor family in the face again and the lad went a second time to market, this time with only one egg. He met the man that his father had sold the first eggs to, and that man was well aware that they were of pure gold and of great value. But when the man understood that the youth did not know that secret, he said to him, "What shall I do with one egg? Sell the hen to me and I will pay you much for her."

The youth accepted the offer, but his brothers were very against it. Even the bird cried, "Do not sell me! Do not!"

As soon as the hen was sold and gone, misfortune fell on the family and the brothers and sisters were forced to split and beg their own bread.

About the same time the king of the country died. When her weeks of mourning were over, the young and pretty widow got it announced that one day the crown would be hanging in a string, and whoever who let himself be blindfolded and yet pierced the hanging crown with a lance, should be her new husband.

As soon as this was announced, the golden hen cried, "Whoever eats me shall be king! Whoever eats me shall be king!"

Then the man who had bought the hen killed her, although he knew that by doing it there would be no more golden eggs coming. He gave the slaughtered hen to his cook and asked her to prepare and dress the hen for dinner. She was to pay particular attention to the roasting while he himself went and invited some friends.

In the meantime the youth that the hen had first belonged to, came to the door of the kitchen where the hen was roasting and begged the cook for something to eat. "You must do some work for it then," said the cook, and set him to draw water, fetch wood and many other little jobs. Then she left him to watch the bird. When she was out of the kitchen he happened to give the spit an unlucky knock that sent the bird from the spit and into the hearth.

This accident unsettled they youth so that he thoughtlessly and hurriedly snatched up the half-roasted, sooty bird and ate it. When the cook returned, she saw what had happened. First she drove away the beggar for his carelessness, and then she bought another fowl of about the same size and dressed it in the place of the lost one. Soon afterwards, the man came back with his friends and ate up the newly bought bird. He expected to become king shortly afterwards.

Meanwhile the youth who without knowing it had eaten his former lucky hen, travelled on till he came to a miller's house and begged at the door for some food. The miller needed a lad to drive his donkeys at the mill, and therefore hired the youth. He could sleep in the hay in the stable.

The next morning, on going into the stable to strew some fresh straw, the miller found a little golden egg where the lad had slept. The miller then wanted to keep the lad in his service as long as he possibly could.

Soon the day came when the queen should get a new king. The young donkey-driver saw no reason why he should not try his luck with the rest. He begged the miller to lend him a horse and a spear for the occasion, and got a one-eyed, broken-winded mare and a lance.

Everybody laughed when this figure stalked into the place where the trials were held, and the queen felt vexed at the sight of him. Then, after repeated failures on the part of the nobles and knights that had gathered to try, the donkey-driver pierced his lance in the exact spot required.

The reeling queen could not renege, however much she wanted; she had to marry the winner of the competition. But as soon as the wedding ceremony was over, she hastened to a witch for some potion to get rid of her husband. The enchantress gave her one which had the power of turning him who drank it into the form of an animal.

When the new king drank this magic drink, he was gradually changed into a donkey. In that shape he was shooed from the palace and had to experience how a donkey's life was like, while his hooves almost by themselves took him to the mill where he had been used to drive donkeys. The miller could not see any great difference between him and the other donkeys he used, so the donkey man was driven to the mill with the other donkeys and fared with them as they did, now well and now ill.

Now, after they parted, one of his sisters had become a doorkeeper at a convent. The convent got its flour from this miller. One day it fell to the donkey-man's share to carry the sacks to the convent. There he recognised his sister, for although his form was changed, he still kept his human powers and faculties. She got a feeling she knew this donkey - a playmate of her childhood.

The donkey let her know his strange fate by means of signs, and she at once set to work to set him free. She had become learned in many kinds of herbs. Now, going into the convent garden, she plucked one she knew had spell-dispelling powers. She gave it to her brother to eat. No sooner had he tasted it than his false figure fell from him and he became a man again.

With tears of gratitude and joy he embraced his sister and decided to spend the rest of his days in her neighbourhood. He had become wearied with the world and its cares. Close by the convent of his sister he built himself a hut of stones, roots and branches of trees. There he lived the life of a hermit.

Friday's Sung Word: "Mas como? Outra vez?" by Noel Rosa and Francisco Alves (in Portuguese)

Mas como? Outra vez?
Toma cuidado se a moda pega
Estou bem certo
Acabas como Judas no deserto

O meu dinheiro, é macho e não cresce
Só o teu cresce, mas não aparece
Teu grande medo lá do botequim
É pagar um café pra mim!

Sempre a fazer teus castelos de areia
Sujas teus pés no sapato sem meia!
Não tens chapéu, nem gravata hoje em dia
Por medida de economia!

Quando tu compras jornal é fiado
Dando a desculpa que não tens trocado
Os pobres ficam com dor de cabeça
Por ouvir: Deus lhe favoreça!

Lembrei agora em hora propícia
Que o teu caso pertence à polícia
Cabe esta espécie de caso anormal
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Thursday's Serial: "Sonny, a Christmas Guest" by Ruth McEnery Stuart (in English) - III

SONNY'S DIPLOMA

Yas, sir; this is it. This here's Sonny's diplomy thet you've heerd so much about—sheepskin they call it, though it ain't no mo' sheepskin 'n what I am. I've skinned too many not to know. Thess to think o' little Sonny bein' a grad'jate—an' all by his own efforts, too! It is a plain-lookin' picture, ez you say, to be framed up in sech a fine gilt frame; but it's worth it, an' I don't begrudge it to him. He picked out that red plush hisself. He's got mighty fine taste for a country-raised child, Sonny has.

Seem like the oftener I come here an' stan' before it, the prouder I feel, an' the mo' I can't reelize thet he done it.

I'd 'a' been proud enough to've had him go through the reg'lar co'se o' study, an' be awarded this diplomy, but to 've seen 'im thess walk in an' demand it, the way he done, an' to prove his right in a fair fight—why, it tickles me so thet I thess seem to git a spell o' the giggles ev'y time I think about it.

Sir? How did he do it? Why, I thought eve'ybody in the State of Arkansas knowed how Sonny walked over the boa'd o' school directors, an' took a diplomy in the face of Providence, at the last anniversary.

I don't know thet I ought to say that either, for they never was a thing done mo' friendly an' amiable on earth, on his part, than the takin' of this dockiment. Why, no; of co'se he wasn't goin' to that school—cert'n'y not. Ef he had b'longed to that school, they wouldn't 'a' been no question about it. He 'd 'a' thess gradj'ated with the others. An' when he went there with his ma an' me, why, he'll tell you hisself that he hadn't no mo' idee of gradj'atin' 'n what I have this minute.

An' when he riz up in his seat, an' announced his intention, why, you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather. You see, it took me so sudden, an' I didn't see thess how he was goin' to work it, never havin' been to that school.

Of co'se eve'ybody in the county goes to the gradj'atin', an' we was all three settin' there watchin' the performances, not thinkin' of any special excitement, when Sonny took this idee.

It seems thet seein' all the other boys gradj'ate put him in the notion, an' he felt like ez ef he ought to be a-gradj'atin', too.

You see, he had went to school mo' or less with all them fellers, an' he knowed thet they didn't, none o' 'em, know half ez much ez what he did,—though, to tell the truth, he ain't never said sech a word, not even to her or me,—an', seein' how easy they was bein' turned out, why, he thess reelized his own rights—an' demanded 'em then an' there.

Of co'se we know thet they is folks in this here community thet says thet he ain't got no right to this dipiomy; but what else could you expect in a jealous neighborhood where eve'ybody is mo' or less kin?

The way I look at it, they never was a diplomy earned quite so upright ez this on earth—never. Ef it wasn't, why, I wouldn't allow him to have it, no matter how much pride I would 'a' took, an' do take, in it. But for a boy o' Sonny's age to've had the courage to face all them people, an' ask to be examined then an' there, an' to come out ahead, the way he done, why, it does me proud, that it does.

You see, for a boy to set there seein' all them know-nothin' boys gradj'ate, one after another, offhand, the way they was doin', was mighty provokin', an' when Sonny is struck with a sense of injestice, why, he ain't never been known to bear it in silence. He taken that from her side o' the house.

I noticed, ez he set there that day, thet he begin to look toler'ble solemn, for a festival, but it never crossed my mind what he was a-projeckin' to do. Ef I had 'a' suspicioned it, I'm afeered I would've opposed it, I'd 'a' been so skeert he wouldn't come out all right; an' ez I said, I didn't see, for the life o' me, how he was goin' to work it.

That is the only school in the county thet he ain't never went to, 'cause it was started after he had settled down to Miss Phoebe's school. He wouldn't hardly 'v went to it, nohow, though—less'n, of co'se, he 'd 'a' took a notion. Th' ain't no 'casion to send him to a county school when he's the only one we've got to edjercate. They ain't been a thing I've enjoyed ez much in my life ez my sackerfices on account o' Sonny's edjercation—not a one. Th' ain't a patch on any ol' coat I've got but seems to me to stand for some advantage to him.

Well, sir, it was thess like I'm a-tellin' you. He set still ez long ez he could, an' then he riz an' spoke. Says he, "I have decided thet I'd like to do a little gradj'atin' this evenin' myself," thess that a-way.

An' when he spoke them words, for about a minute you could 'a' heerd a pin drop; an' then eve'ybody begin a-screechin' with laughter. A person would think thet they'd 'a' had some consideration for a child standin' up in the midst o' sech a getherin', tryin' to take his own part; but they didn't. They thess laughed immod'rate. But they didn't faze him. He had took his station on the flo', an' he helt his ground.

Thess ez soon ez he could git a heerin', why, he says, says he: "I don't want anybody to think thet I'm a-tryin' to take any advantage. I don't expec' to gradj'ate without passin' my examination. An', mo' 'n that," says he, "I am ready to pass it now." An' then he went on to explain thet he would like to have anybody present thet was competent to do it to step forward an' examine him—then an' there. An' he said thet ef he was examined fair and square, to the satisfaction of eve'ybody—an' didn't pass—why, he 'd give up the p'int. An' he wanted to be examined oral—in eve'ybody's hearin'—free-handed an' outspoke.

Well, sir, seem like folks begin to see a little fun ahead in lettin' him try it—which I don't see thess how they could 'a' hindered him, an' it a free school, an' me a taxpayer. But they all seemed to be in a pretty good humor by this time, an' when Sonny put it to vote, why, they voted unanymous to let him try it. An' all o' them unanymous votes wasn't, to say, friendly, neither. Heap o' them thet was loudest in their unanimosity was hopefully expectin' to see him whipped out at the first question. Tell the truth, I mo' 'n half feared to see it myself. I was that skeert I was fairly all of a trimble.

Well, when they had done votin', Sonny, after first thankin' 'em,—which I think was a mighty polite thing to do, an' they full o' the giggles at his little expense that minute,—why, he went on to say thet he requie'd 'em to make thess one condition, an' that was thet any question he missed was to be passed on to them thet had been a-gradj'atin' so fast, an' ef they missed it, it wasn't to be counted ag'inst him.

Well, when he come out with that, which, to my mind, couldn't be beat for fairness, why, some o' the mothers they commenced to look purty serious, an' seem like ez ef they didn't find it quite so funny ez it had been. You see, they say thet them boys had eve'y one had reg'lar questions give' out to 'em, an' eve'y last one had studied his own word; an' ef they was to be questioned hit an' miss, why they wouldn't 'a' stood no chance on earth.

Of co'se they couldn't give Sonny the same questions thet had been give' out, because he had heerd the answers, an' it wouldn't 'a' been fair. So Sonny he told 'em to thess set down, an' make out a list of questions thet they'd all agree was about of a' equal hardness to them thet had been ast, an' was of thess the kind of learnin' thet all the reg'lar gradj'ates's minds was sto'ed with, an' thet either he knowed 'em or he didn't—one.

It don't seem so excitin', somehow, when I tell about it now; but I tell you for about a minute or so, whilst they was waitin' to see who would undertake the job of examinin' him, why, it seemed thet eve'y minute would be the next, ez my ol' daddy used to say. The only person present thet seemed to take things anyway ca'm was Miss Phoebe Kellog, Sonny's teacher. She has been teachin' him reg'lar for over two years now, an' ef she had 'a' had a right to give diplomies, why, Sonny would 'a' thess took out one from her; but she ain't got no license to gradj'ate nobody. But she knowed what Sonny knowed, an' she knowed thet ef he had a fair show, he'd come thoo creditable to all hands. She loves Sonny thess about ez much ez we do, I believe, take it all round. Th' ain't never been but one time in these two years thet she has, to say, got me out o' temper, an' that was the day she said to me thet her sure belief was thet Sonny was goin' to make somethin' out'n hisself some day—like ez ef he hadn't already made mo' 'n could be expected of a boy of his age. Tell the truth, I never in my life come so near sayin' somethin' I'd 'a' been shore to regret ez I did on that occasion. But of co'se I know she didn't mean it. All she meant was thet he would turn out even mo' 'n what he was now, which would be on'y nachel, with his growth.

Everybody knows thet it was her that got him started with his collections an' his libr'y. Oh, yes; he's got the best libr'y in the county, 'cep'n', of co'se, the doctor's 'n' the preacher's—everybody round about here knows about that. He's got about a hund'ed books an' over. Well, sir, when he made that remark, thet any question thet he missed was to be give to the class, why, the whole atmosp'ere took on a change o' temp'ature. Even the teacher was for backin' out o' the whole business square; but he didn't thess seem to dare to say so. You see, after him a-favorin' it, it would 'a' been a dead give-away.

Eve'ybody there had saw him step over an' whisper to Brother Binney when it was decided to give Sonny a chance, an' they knowed thet he had asked him to examine him. But now, instid o' callin' on Brother Binney, why, he thess said, says he: "I suppose I ought not to shirk this duty. Ef it's to be did," says he, "I reckon I ought to do it—an' do it I will." You see, he daresn't allow Brother Binney to put questions, for fear he'd call out some thet his smarty grad'jates couldn't answer.

So he thess claired his th'oat, an' set down a minute to consider. An' then he riz from his seat, an' remarked, with a heap o' hems and haws, thet of co'se everybody knowed thet Sonny Jones had had unusual advantages in some respec's, but thet it was one thing for a boy to spend his time a-picnickin' in the woods, getherin' all sorts of natural curiosities, but it was quite another to be a scholar accordin' to books, so's to be able to pass sech a' examination ez would be a credit to a State institution o' learnin', sech ez the one over which he was proud to preside. That word struck me partic'lar, "proud to preside," which, in all this, of co'se, I see he was castin' a slur on Sonny's collections of birds' eggs, an' his wild flowers, an' wood specimens, an' min'rals. He even went so far ez to say thet ol' Proph', the half-crazy nigger thet tells fortunes, an' gethers herbs out 'n the woods, an' talks to hisself, likely knew more about a good many things than anybody present, but thet, bein' ez he didn't know b from a bull's foot, why, it wouldn't hardly do to grad'jate him—not castin' no slurs on Master Sonny Jones, nor makin' no invijus comparisons, of co'se.

Well, sir, there was some folks there thet seemed to think this sort o' talk was mighty funny an' smart. Some o' the mothers acchilly giggled over it out loud, they was so mightily tickled. But Sonny he thess stood his ground an' waited. Most any boy o' his age would 'a' got flustered, but he didn't. He thess glanced around unconcerned at all the people a-settin' around him, thess like ez ef they might 'a' been askin' him to a picnic instid o' him provokin' a whole school committee to wrath.

Well, sir, it took that school-teacher about a half-hour to pick out the first question, an' he didn't pick it out then. He 'd stop, an' he'd look at the book, an' then he'd look at Sonny, an' then he'd look at the class,—an' then he'd turn a page, like ez ef he couldn't make up his mind, an' was afeerd to resk it, less'n it might be missed, an' be referred back to the class. I never did see a man so overwrought over a little thing in my life—never. They do say, though, that school-teachers feels mighty bad when their scholars misses any p'int in public.

Well, sir, he took so long that d'reckly everybody begin to git wo'e out, an' at last Sonny, why, he got tired, too, an' he up an' says, says he, "Ef you can't make up your mind what to ask me, teacher, why 'n't you let me ask myself questions? An' ef my questions seem too easy, why, I'll put 'em to the class."

An', sir, with that he thess turns round, an' he says, says he, "Sonny Jones," says he, addressin' hisself, "what's the cause of total eclipses of the sun?" Thess that a-way he said it; an' then he turned around, an' he says, says he:

"Is that a hard enough question?"

"Very good," says teacher.

An', with that, Sonny he up an' picks up a' orange an' a' apple off the teacher's desk, an' says he, "This orange is the earth, an' this here apple is the sun." An', with that, he explained all they is to total eclipses. I can't begin to tell you thess how he expressed it, because I ain't highly edjercated myself, an' I don't know the specifactions. But when he had got thoo, he turned to the teacher, an' says he, "Is they anything else thet you'd like to know about total eclipses?" An' teacher says, says he, "Oh, no; not at all."

They do say thet them graduates hadn't never went so far ez total eclipses, an' teacher wouldn't 'a' had the subject mentioned to 'em for nothin'; but I don't say that's so.

Well, then, Sonny he turned around, an' looked at the company, an' he says, "Is everybody satisfied?" An' all the mothers an' fathers nodded their heads "yes."

An' then he waited thess a minute, an' he says, says he, "Well, now I'll put the next question:

"Sonny Jones," says he, "what is the difference between dew an' rain an' fog an' hail an' sleet an' snow!

"Is that a hard enough question?"

Well, from that he started in, an' he didn't stop tell he had expounded about every kind of dampness that ever descended from heaven or rose from the earth. An' after that, why, he went on a-givin' out one question after another, an' answerin 'em, tell everybody had declared theirselves entirely satisfied that he was fully equipped to gradj'ate—an', tell the truth, I don't doubt thet a heap of 'em felt their minds considerably relieved to have it safe-t over with without puttin' their grad'jates to shame, when what does he do but say, "Well, ef you're satisfied, why, I am—an' yet," says he, "I think I would like to ask myself one or two hard questions more, thess to make shore." An' befo' anybody could stop him, he had said:

"Sonny Jones, what is the reason thet a bird has feathers and a dog has hair?" An' then he turned around deliberate, an' answered: "I don't know. Teacher, please put that question to the class."

Teacher had kep' his temper purty well up to this time, but I see he was mad now, an' he riz from his chair, an' says he: "This examination has been declared finished, an' I think we have spent ez much time on it ez we can spare." An' all the mothers they nodded their heads, an' started a-whisperin'—most impolite.

An' at that, Sonny, why, he thess set down as modest an' peaceable ez anything; but ez he was settin' he remarked that he was in hopes thet some o' the reg'lars would 'a' took time to answer a few questions thet had bothered his mind f'om time to time—an' of c'ose they must know; which, to my mind, was the modes'est remark a boy ever did make.

Well, sir, that's the way this diplomy was earned—by a good, hard struggle, in open daylight, by unanymous vote of all concerned—an' unconcerned, for that matter. An' my opinion is thet if they are those who have any private opinions about it, an' they didn't express 'em that day, why they ain't got no right to do it underhanded, ez I am sorry to say has been done.

But it's his diplomy, an' it's handsomer fixed up than any in town, an' I doubt ef they ever was one anywhere thet was took more paternal pride in.

Wife she ain't got so yet thet she can look at it without sort o' cryin'—thess the look of it seems to bring back the figure o' the little feller, ez he helt his ground, single-handed, at that gradj'atin' that day.

Well, sir, we was so pleased to have him turned out a full gradj'ate thet, after it was all over, why, I riz up then and there, though I couldn't hardly speak for the lump in my th'oat, an' I said thet I wanted to announce thet Sonny was goin' to have a gradj'atin' party out at our farm that day week, an' thet the present company was all invited.

An' he did have it, too; an' they all come, every mother's son of 'em—from a to izzard—even to them that has expressed secret dissatisfactions; which they was all welcome, though it does seem to me thet, ef I 'd been in their places, I'd 'a' hardly had the face to come an' talk, too.

I'm this kind of a disposition myself: ef I was ever to go to any kind of a collation thet I expressed disapproval of, why, the supper couldn't be good enough not to choke me.

An' Sonny, why, he's constructed on the same plan. We ain't never told him of any o' the remarks thet has been passed. They might git his little feelin's hurted, an' 't wouldn't do no good, though some few has been made to his face by one or two smarty, ill-raised boys.

Well, sir, we give 'em a fine party, ef I do say it myself, an' they all had a good time. Wife she whipped up eggs an' sugar for a week befo'hand, an' we set the table out under the mulberries. It took eleven little niggers to wait on 'em, not countin' them thet worked the fly-fans. An' Sonny he ast the blessin'.

Then, after they'd all et, Sonny he had a' exhibition of his little specimens. He showed 'em his bird eggs, an' his wood samples, an' his stamp album, an' his scroll-sawed things, an' his clay-moldin's, an' all his little menagerie of animals an' things. I rather think everybody was struck when they found thet Sonny knowed the botanical names of every one of the animals he's ever tamed, an' every bird. Miss Phoebe, she didn't come to the front much. She stayed along with wife, an' helped 'tend to the company, but I could see she looked on with pride; an' I don't want nothin' said about it, but the boa'd of school directors was so took with the things she had taught Sonny thet, when the evenin' was over, they ast her to accept a situation in the academy next year, an' she's goin' to take it.

An' she says thet ef Sonny will take a private co'se of instruction in nachel sciences, an' go to a few lectures, why, th' ain't nobody on earth that she 'd ruther see come into that academy ez teacher,—that is, of co'se, in time. But I doubt ef he'd ever keer for it.

I've always thought thet school-teachin', to be a success, has to run in families, same ez anythin' else—yet, th' ain't no tellin'.

I don't keer what he settles on when he's grown; I expect to take pride in the way he'll do it—an' that's the principal thing, after all.

It's the "Well done" we're all a-hopin' to hear at the last day; an' the po' laborer thet digs a good ditch'll have thess ez good a chance to hear it ez the man that owns the farm.

 

 

SONNY "KEEPIN' COMPANY"

Hello, doc'; come in! Don't ask me to shake hands, though; 't least, not tell I can drop this 'ere piece o' ribbin.

I never reelized how much shenanigan it took to tie a bow o' ribbin tell I started experimentin' with this here buggy-whup o' Sonny's.

An' he wants it tied thess so. He's a reg'lar Miss Nancy, come to taste.

All the boys, nowadays, they seem to think thet ez soon ez they commence to keep company, they must have ribbin bows tied on their buggy-whups—an' I reckon it's in accordance, ef anything is. I thess called you in to look at his new buggy, doctor. You've had your first innin's, ez the base-ball fellers says, at all o' his various an' sundry celebrations, from his first appearance to his gradj'atin', and I'll call your attention to a thing I wouldn't mention to a' outsider.

Sence he taken a notion to take the girls out a-ridin', why, I intend for him to do it in proper style; an' I went an' selected this buggy myself.

It is sort o' fancy, maybe, for the country, but I knew he'd like it fancy—at his age. I got it good an' high, so's it could straddle stumps good. They's so many tree-stumps in our woods, an' I know Sonny ain't a-goin' to drive nowhere but in the woods so long ez they's a livin' thin' to scurry away at his approach, or a flower left in bloom, or a last year's bird's nest to gether. An' the little Sweetheart, why, she's got so thet she's ez anxious to fetch home things to study over ez he is.

Yas; I think it is, ez you say, a fus'-class little buggy.

Sonny ain't never did nothin' half-ways,—not even mischief,—an' I ain't a-goin' in, at this stage o' his raisin', to stint him.

List'n at me sayin' "raisin'" ag'in, after all Miss Phoebe has preached to me about it! She claims thet folks has to be fetched up,—or "brung up" I believe she calls it,—an' I don't doubt she knows.

She allows thet pigs is raised, an' potaters, an' even chickens; an' she said, one day, thet ef I insisted on "raisin'" child'en, she'd raise a row. She's a quick hand to turn a joke, Miss Phoebe is.

Nobody thet ever lived in Simpkinsville would claim thet rows couldn't be raised, I'm shore, after all the fuss thet's been made over puttin' daytime candles in our 'piscopal church. Funny how folks'll fuss about sech a little thing when, ef they'd stop to think, they's so many mo' important subjec's thet they could git up diffe'nces of opinion on.

I didn't see no partic'lar use in lightin' the candles myself, bein' ez we didn't need 'em to see by, an' shorely the good Lord thet can speak out a sun any time he needs a extry taper couldn't be said to take no pleasure in a Simpkinsville home-dipped candle. But the way I look at it, seem like ef some wants em, why not?

Th' ain't nothin' mo' innercent than a lighted candle,—kep' away up on the wall out o' the draft, the way they are in church,—an' so, when it come to votin' on it, why, I count peace an' good-will so far ahead o' taller thet I voted thet I was good for ez many candles ez any other man would give. An' quick ez I said them words, why, Enoch Johnson up an' doubled his number. It tickled me to see him do it, too.

Enoch hates me thess because he's got a stupid boy—like ez ef that was any o' my fault. His Sam failed to pass at the preliminar' examination, an' wasn't allowed to try for a diplomy in public; an' Enoch an' his wife, why, they seem to hold it ag'in' me thet Sonny could step in at the last moment an' take what their boy could n't git th'oo the trials an' tribulations of a whole year o' bein' teached lessons at home an' wrestled in prayer over.

I ain't got a thing ag'in' Enoch, not a thing—not even for makin' me double my number o' candles. Mo' 'n that, I'd brighten up Sam's mind for 'im in a minute, ef I could.

I never was jealous-hearted. An' neither is Sonny.

He sent Sam a special invite to his gradj'atin' party, an' give him a seat next to hisself so's he could say "Amen" to his blessin', thess because he had missed gittin' his diplomy. Everybody there knowed why he done it.

But talkin' about Sonny being "raised," I told Miss Phoebe thet we'd haf to stop sayin' it about him, right or wrong, ez a person can't raise nothin' higher 'n what he is hisself, an Sonny's taller 'n either wife or me, an' he ain't but sixteen. Ef we raised 'im partly, we must 'a' sent 'im up the rest o' the way. It's a pleasure to pass a little joke with Miss Phoebe; she's got sech a good ear to ketch their p'ints.

But, come to growin', Sonny never asked nobody no odds. He thess stayed stock-still ez long ez he found pleasure in bein' a little runt, an' then he humped hisself an' shot up same ez a sparrer-grass stalk. It gives me pleasure to look up to him the way I haf to.

Fact is, he always did require me to look up to 'im, even when I looked down at 'im.

Yas, sir; ez I said, Sonny has commenced keepin' company,—outspoke,—an' I can't say thet I'm opposed to it, though some would say he was a little young, maybe. I know when I was his age I had been in love sev'al times. Of co'se these first little puppy-dog loves, why, th' ain't no partic'lar harm in 'em—less'n they're opposed.

An' we don't lay out to oppose Sonny—not in nothin' thet he'll attemp'—after him bein' raised an' guided up to this age.

There goes that word "raisin'" agi'n.

He's been in love with his teacher, Miss Phoebe, most three years—an' 'cep'n' thet I had a sim'lar experience when I was sca'cely out o' the cradle, why, I might 'a' took it mo' serious.

That sort o' fallin' in love, why, it comes same ez the measles or the two-year-old teeth, an' th' ain't nothin' sweeter ef it's took philosophical.

It's mighty hard, though, for parents, thet knows thess how recent a child is, to reconcile the facts o' the case with sech things ez him takin' notice to the color o' ribbin on a middle-aged school-teacher's hair—an' it sprinkled with gray.

Sonny was worse plegged than most boys, because, havin' two lady teachers at that time, it took him sort o' duplicated like.

I suppose ef he'd had another, he'd 'a' been equally distributed on all three.

The way I look at it, a sensible, serious-minded woman thet starts out to teach school—which little fellers they ain't got no sense on earth, nohow—ain't got no business with ribbin-bows an' ways an' moles on their cheek-bones. An' ef they've got knuckles, they ought to be like wife's or mine, pointed outward for useful service, instid o' bein' turned inside out to attract a young child's admiration—not thet I hold it against Miss Phoebe thet her knuckles is reversed. Of co'se she can't be very strong-fingered. No finger could git much purchase on a dimple.

'T ain't none of her fault, I know. But Sonny has seen the day thet seem like he couldn't talk about another thing but her an' her dimpled knuckles—them an' that little brown mole thet sets out on the aidge of her eyebrow.

I think myself thet that mole looks right well, for a blemish, which wife says it is, worst kind. But of co'se a child couldn't be expected to know that. It did seem a redic'lous part o' speech the first time he mentioned sech a thing to his mother, but a boy o' twelve couldn't be expected to know the difference between a mountain an' a mole-hill.

I ricollec' he used to talk in his sleep consider'ble when he was a little chap, an' it always fretted wife turrible. She'd git up out o' bed thess ez soon ez he'd begin to hold fo'th, an' taller him over. Whenever she didn't seem to know what else to do, why, she'd taller him; an' I don't reckon there's anything less injurious to a child, asleep or awake, than taller.

She's tallored him for his long division, an' she's tallered him for that blemish on Miss Phoebe's cheek, an' she's tallered him for clairin' of his th'oat. His other lady teacher, Miss Alviry Sawyer, she was a single-handed maiden lady long'bout wife's age, an' she didn't have a feature on earth thet a friend would seem to have a right to mention, she not bein' to blame; but she had a way o' clairin' her th'oat, sort o' polite, befo' she'd open her mouth to speak. Sonny, he seemed to think it was mighty graceful the way she done it, an' he's often imitated it in his little sleep—nights when he'd eat hot waffles for his supper.

An' wife she'd always jump up an' git the mutton taller. I never took it serious myself, 'cause I know how a triflin' thing 'll sometimes turn a level-headed little chap into a drizzlin' ejiot. I been there myself.

But th' ain't no danger in it, not less'n he's made a laughin'-stalk of—which is cruelty to animals, an' shouldn't be allowed.

I know when I went to school up here at Sandy Cri'k, forty year ago, I was teached by a certain single lady that has subsequently died a nachel death of old age an' virtuous works, an' in them days she wo'e a knitted collar, an' long curls both sides of her face; an' I've seen many a night, after the candle was out, thet she'd appear befo' me. She'd seem to come an' hang over my bed-canopy same ez a chandelier, with them side curls all a-jinglin' like cut-glass dangles. It's true, she used mostly to appear with a long peach-switch in her hand, but that was nachel enough, that bein' the way she most gen'ally approached me in life.

But of co'se I come th'oo without taller. My mother had thirteen of us, an' ef she'd started anointin' us for all our little side-curled nightmares, she'd 'a' had to go to goose raisin'.

You see, in them days they used goose grease.

I never to say admired that side-curled lady much, though she's made some lastin' impressions on me. Why, I could set down now, an' make a drawin' of that knitted collar she used to wear, an' it over forty year ago. I ricollec' she was cross-eyed, too, in the eye todes the foot o' the class, where I'd occasionally set; an', tell the truth, it was the strongest reason for study thet I had—thess to get on to the side of her certain eye. Th' ain't anything much mo' tantalizin' to a person than uncertainty in sech matters.

She was mighty plain, an' yet some o' the boys seemed to see beauty in her. I know my brother Bob, he confided to mother once-t thet he thought she looked thess precizely like the Queen o' Sheba must'a' looked, an' I ricollec' thet he cried bitter because mother told it out on him at the dinner-table. It was turrible cruel, but she didn't reelize.

I reckon, ef the truth was known, most of us nine has seen them side curls in our sleep. An' nobody but God an' his angels will ever know how many of us passed th'oo the valley o' the shadder o' that singular-appearin' lady, or how often we notified the other eight of the fact, unbeknowinst to his audience, while they was distributed in their little trundle-beds.

I sometimes wonder ef they ain't no account took of little child'en's trials. Seems to me they ought to be a little heavenly book kep' a-purpose; an' 't wouldn't do no harm ef earthly fathers an' mothers was occasionally allowed to look over it.

My brother Bob, him thet likened Miss Alviry to the Queen o' Sheba, always was a sensitive-minded child, an' we all knowed it, too; and yet, we never called him a thing for months after that but Solomon. We ought to've been whupped good for it.

Bob ain't never married, an' for a bachelor person of singular habits, he's kep' ez warm a heart ez ever I see.

I've often deplo'ed him not marryin'. In fact, sense I see what comfort is to be took in a child, why, I deplo' all the singular numbers—though the Lord couldn't be expected to have a supply on hand thess like Sonny to distribute 'round on demand.

But I doubt ef parents knows the difference.

I've noticed thet when they can't take pleasure in extry smartness in a child, why, they make it up in tracin' resemblances. I suppose they's parental comfort to be took to in all kinds o' babies. I know I've seen some dull-eyed ones thet seemed like ez ef they wasn't nothin' for 'em to do but resemble.

But talkin' about Sonny a-fallin' in love with his teachers, why, they was a time here when he wanted to give away every thing in the house to first one an' then the other. The first we noticed of it was him tellin' us how nice Miss Alviry thought his livers and gizzards was. Now, everybody knows thet they ain't been a chicken thet has died for our nourishment sence Sonny has cut his eye-teeth but has give up its vitals to him, an' give 'em willin'ly, they bein' the parts of his choice; an' it was discouragin', after killin' a useless number o' chickens to git enough to pack his little lunch-bucket, to have her eat 'em up—an' she forty year old ef she's a day, an' he not got his growth yet. An' yet, a chicken liver is thess one o' them little things thet a person couldn't hardly th'ow up to a school-teacher 'thout seemin' small-minded.

I never did make no open objection to him givin' away anything to his teachers tell the time he taken a notion to give Miss Phoebe the plush album out o' the parlor. We was buyin' it on instalments at twenty-five cents a week, and it wasn't fully installed at the time, an' I told him it wouldn't never do to give away what wasn't ours.

When it comes to principle, why, I always take a stand. I thought likely by the time it was ours in full he'd've recovered from his attackt, an' be willin' for his ma to keep it; an' he was.

An' besides, sence his pet squir'l has done chawed the plush clean off one corner of it, he says he wouldn't part with it for nothin'. Of co'se a beast couldn't be expected to reelize the importance o' plush. An' that's what seems to tickle Sonny so.

We had bought it chiefly on his account, so ez to git 'im accustomed to seein' handsome things around, so thet when he goes out into the world he won't need to be flustered by finery.

Wife she's been layin' by egg money all spring to buy a swingin', silver-plated ice-pitcher, so he'll feel at home with sech things, an' capable of walkin' up to one an' tiltin' it unconcerned, which is more'n I can do to this day. I always feel like ez ef I ought to go home an' put on my Sunday clo'es befo' I can approach one of 'em.

Sech ez that has to be worked into a person's constitution in youth. The motions of a gourd-dipper, kep' in constant practice for years, is mighty hard to reverse.

How does that look now, doctor? Yas; I think so, too. It's tied in a right good bow for a ten-thumbed man, which I shorely am, come to fingerin' ribbin.

He chose blue because she's got blue eyes—pore little human! Sir? Who is she, you say? Why, don't you know? She's Joe Wallace's little Mary Elizabeth—a nice, well-mannered child ez ever lived.

Wife has had her over here to supper sev'al nights lately, an' Sonny he's took tea over to the Wallaces' once-t or twice-t, an' they say he shows mighty good table manners, passin' things polite, an' leavin' proper amounts on his plate. His mother has always teached him keerful. It's good practice for 'em both. Of co'se Mary Elizabeth she's a year older 'n what Sonny is, an' she's thess gittin' a little experience out o' him—though she ain't no ways conscious of it,—an' he 'll gain a good deal o' courage th'oo keepin' company with a ladylike girl like Mary Elizabeth. That's the way it goes, an' I think th' ain't nothin' mo' innercent or sweet.

How'd you say that, doctor? S'posin' it wasn't to turn out that-a-way? Well, bless yo' heart, ef it was to work out in all seriousness, what could be sweeter 'n little Mary Elizabeth? Sonny ain't got it in his power to displease us, don't keer what he was to take a notion to, less'n, of co'se, it was wrong, which it ain't in him to do—not knowin'ly.

You know, Sonny has about decided to take a trip north, doctor—to New York State. Sir? Oh, no; he ain't goin' to take the co'se o' lectures thet Miss Phoebe has urged him to take—'t least, that ain't his intention.

No; he sez thet he don't crave to fit his-self to teach. He sez he feels like ez ef it would smother him to teach school in a house all day. He taken that after me.

No; he's goin a-visitin'. Oh, no, sir; we ain't got no New York kin. He's a-goin' all the way to that strange an' distant State to call on a man thet he ain't never see, nor any of his family. He's a gentle man by the name o' Burroughs—John Burroughs. He's a book-writer. The first book thet Sonny set up nights to read was one o' his'n—all about dumb creatures an' birds. Sonny acchilly wo'e that book out a-readin' it.

Yas, sir; Sonny says thet ef he could thess take one long stroll th'oo the woods with him, he'd be willin' to walk to New York State if necessary. An' we're a-goin' to let 'im go. The purtiest part about it is thet this here great book-writer has invited him to pay him a visit. Think o' that, will you? Think of a man thet could think up a whole row o' books a-takin' sech a' int'res' in our plain little Arkansas Sonny. But he done it; an' 'mo' 'n that, he remarked in the letter thet it would give him great pleasure to meet the boy thet had so many mutual friends in common with him, or some sech remark. Of co'se, in this he referred to dumb brutes, an' even trees, so Sonny says. Oh, cert'n'y; Sonny writ him first. How would he've knew about Sonny? Miss Phoebe she encouraged him to write the letter, but it was Sonny's first idee. An' the answer, why, he's got it framed an' hung up above his bookshelves between our marriage c'tif'cate an' his diplomy.

He's done sent Sonny his picture, too. He's took a-settin' up in a' apple-tree. You can tell from a little thing like that thet a person ain't no dude, an' I like that. We 've put that picture in the front page of the plush album, an' moved the bishop back one page.

Sonny has sent him a photograph of all our family took together, an' likely enough he'll have it framed time Sonny arrives there.

When he goes, little Mary Elizabeth, why, she's offered to take keer of all his harmless live things till he comes back, an' I s'pose they'll be letters a-passin' back and fo'th. It does seem so funny, when I think about it. 'Pears like thess the other day thet Mis' Wallace fetched little Mary Elizabeth over to look at Sonny, an' he on'y three days old. I ricollec' when she seen 'im she took her little one-year-old finger an' teched 'im on the forehead, an' she says, says she, "Howdy?"—thess that-a-way. I remember we all thought it was so smart. Seemed like ez ef she reelized thet he had thess arrived—an' she had thess learned to say "Howdy," an' she up an' says it.

An' she's ap' at speech yet, so Sonny says. She don't say much when wife or I are around, which I think is showin' only right an' proper respec's.

Th' ain't nothin' purtier, to my mind, than for a young girl to set up at table with her elders, an' to 'tend strictly to business. Mary Elizabeth'll set th'oo a whole meal, an' sca'cely look up from her plate. I never did see a little girl do it mo' modest.

Of co'se, Sonny, he bein' at home, an' she bein' his company, why, he talks constant, an' she'll glance up at him sort o' sideways occasional. Wife an' me, we find it ez much ez we can do, sometimes, to hold in; we feel so tickled over their cunnin' little ways together. To see Sonny politely take her cup o' tea an' po' it out in her saucer to cool for her so nice, why, it takes all the dignity we can put on to cover our amusement over it. You see, they've only lately teethed together, them child'en.

I reckon the thing sort o' got started last summer. I know he give her a flyin' squir'l, an' she embroidered him a hat-band. I suspicioned then what was comin', an' I advised wife to make up a few white-bosomed shirts for him, an' she didn't git 'em done none too soon. 'Twasn't no time befo' he called for 'em.

A while back befo' that I taken notice thet he 'd put a few idees down on sheets o' paper for her to write her compositions by. Of co'se, he wouldn't write 'em. He's too honest. He'd thess sugges' idees promiscu'us.

She's got words, so he says, an' so she'd write out mighty nice compositions by his hints. I taken notice thet in this world it's often that-a-way; one'll have idees, an' another'll have words. They ain't always bestowed together. When they are, why, then, I reckon, them are the book-writers. Sonny he's got purty consider'ble o' both for his age, but, of co'se, he wouldn't never aspire to put nothin' he could think up into no printed book, I don't reckon; though he's got three blank books filled with the routine of "out-door housekeeping," ez he calls it, the way it's kep' by varmints an' things out o' doors under loose tree-barks an' in all sorts of outlandish places. I did only last week find a piece o' paper with a po'try verse on it in his hand-write on his little table. I suspicioned thet it was his composin', because the name "Mary Elizabeth" occurred in two places in it, though, of co'se, they's other Mary Elizabeths. He's a goin' to fetch that housekeepin' book up north with him, an' my opinion is thet he's a-projec'ing to show it to Mr. Burroughs. But likely he won't have the courage.

Yas; take it all together, I'm glad them two child'en has took the notion. It'll be a good thing for him whilst he's throwed in with all sorts o' travelin' folks goin' an' comin' to reelize thet he's got a little sweetheart at home, an' thet she's bein' loved an' cherished by his father an' mother du'in' his absence.

Even after they've gone their sep'rate ways, ez they most likely will in time, it'll be a pleasure to 'em to look back to the time when they was little sweethearts.

I know I had a number, off an' on, when I was a youngster, an' they're every one hung up—in my mind, of co'se—in little gilt frames, each one to herself. An' sometimes, when I think 'em over, I imagine thet they's sweet, bunches of wild vi'lets a-settin' under every one of 'em—all 'cep'n' one, an' I always seem to see pinks under hers.

An' she's a grandmother now. Funny to think it all over, ain't it? At this present time she's a tall, thin ol' lady thet fans with a turkey-tail, an' sets up with the sick. But the way she hangs in her little frame in my mind, she's a chunky little thing with fat ankles an' wrisses, an' her two cheeks they hang out of her pink caliker sunbonnet thess like a pair o' ripe plumgranates.

She was the pinkest little sweetheart thet a pink-lovin' school-boy ever picked out of a class of thirty-five, I reckon.

Seemed to me everything about her was fat an' chubby, thess like herself. Ricollec', one day, she dropped her satchel, an' out rolled the fattest little dictionary I ever see, an' when I see it, seem like she couldn't nachelly be expected to tote no other kind. I used to take pleasure in getherin' a pink out o' mother's garden in the mornin's when I'd be startin' to school, an' slippin' it on to her desk when she wouldn't be lookin', an' she'd always pin it on her frock when I'd have my head turned the other way. Then when she'd ketch my eye, she'd turn pinker'n the pink. But she never mentioned one o' them pinks to me in her life, nor I to her.

Yas; I always think of her little picture with a bunch o' them old-fashioned garden pinks a settin' under it, an' there they'll stay ez long ez my old mind is a fitten place for sech sweet-scented pictures to hang in.

They've been a pleasure to me all my life, an' I'm glad to see Sonny's a-startin' his little picture-gallery a'ready.