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Booth Tarkington - "Penrod and Sam"

Harold MacGrath - "The Drums Of Jeopardy"

Edouard le Roy - "Henri Bergson"

George Eliot - "Silas Marner"

The Brick Moon, et. al.

E >> Edward Everett Hale >> The Brick Moon, et. al.




Then was hushed the harp of Phebe, and Dick told his story.



THE INSPECTOR OF GAS-METERS' STORY

Mine is a tale of the ingratitude of republics. It
is well-nigh thirty years since I was walking by the
Owego and Ithaca Railroad,--a crooked road, not then
adapted to high speed. Of a sudden I saw that a long
cross timber, on a trestle, high above a swamp, had
sprung up from its ties. I looked for a spike with which
to secure it. I found a stone with which to hammer the
spike. But at this moment a train approached, down hill.
I screamed. They heard! But the engine had no power to
stop the heavy train. With the presence of mind of a
poet, and the courage of a hero, I flung my own weight on
the fatal timber. I would hold it down, or perish. The
engine came. The elasticity of the pine timber whirled
me in the air! But I held on. The tender crossed.
Again I was flung in wild gyrations. But I held on.
"It is no bed of roses," I said; "but what act of
Parliament was there that I should be happy?" Three
passenger cars and ten freight cars, as was then the
vicious custom of that road, passed me. But I held on,
repeating to myself texts of Scripture to give me
courage. As the last car passed, I was whirled into the
air by the rebound of the rafter. "Heavens!" I said, "if
my orbit is a hyperbola, I shall never return to earth."
Hastily I estimated its ordinates, and calculated the
curve. What bliss! It was a parabola! After a flight
of a hundred and seventeen cubits, I landed, head down,
in a soft mud-hole!

In that train was the young U. S. Grant, on his way
to West Point for examination. But for me the armies of
the Republic would have had no leader.

I pressed my claim, when I asked to be appointed
Minister to England. Although no one else wished to go,
I alone was forgotten. Such is gratitude with republics!

He ceased. Then Sarah Blatchford told


THE WHEELER AND WILSON'S OPERATIVE'S STORY

My father had left the anchorage of Sorrento for a
short voyage, if voyage it may be called. Life was
young, and this world seemed heaven. The yacht bowled on
under tight-reefed staysails, and all was happy.
Suddenly the corsairs seized us; all were slain in my
defence; but I--this fatal gift of beauty bade them spare
my life!

Why linger on my tale? In the Zenana of the Shah of
Persia I found my home. "How escape his eye?" I said;
and, fortunately, I remembered that in my reticule I
carried one box of F. Kidder's indelible ink. Instantly
I applied the liquid in the large bottle to one cheek.
Soon as it was dry, I applied that in the small bottle,
and sat in the sun one hour. My head ached with the
sunlight, but what of that? I was a fright, and I knew
all would be well.

I was consigned, so soon as my hideous deficiencies
were known, to the sewing-room. Then how I sighed for my
machine! Alas! it was not there; but I constructed an
imitation from a cannon-wheel, a coffee-mill, and two
nut-crackers. And with this I made the underclothing for
the palace and the Zenana.

I also vowed revenge. Nor did I doubt one instant
how; for in my youth I had read Lucretia Borgia's
memoirs, and I had a certain rule for slowly slaying a
tyrant at a distance. I was in charge of the Shah's own
linen. Every week I set back the buttons on his shirt
collars by the width of one thread; or, by arts known to
me, I shrunk the binding of the collar by a like
proportion. Tighter and tighter with each week did the
vice close around his larynx. Week by week, at the
high religious festivals, I could see his face was
blacker and blacker. At length the hated tyrant died.
The leeches called it apoplexy. I did not undeceive
them. His guards sacked the palace. I bagged the
diamonds, fled with them to Trebizond, and sailed thence
in a caique to South Boston. No more! such memories
oppress me.

Her voice was hushed. I told my tale in turn.


THE CONDUCTOR'S STORY

I was poor. Let this be my excuse, or rather my
apology. I entered a Third Avenue car at Thirty-sixth
Street, and saw the conductor sleeping. Satan tempted
me, and I took from him his badge, 213. I see the hated
figures now. When he woke, he knew not he had lost it.
The car started, and he walked to the rear. With the
badge on my coat I collected eight fares within, stepped
forward, and sprang into the street. Poverty is my only
apology for the crime. I concealed myself in a cellar
where men were playing with props. Fear is my only
excuse. Lest they should suspect me, I joined their
game, and my forty cents were soon three dollars and
seventy. With these ill-gotten gains I visited the gold
exchange, then open evenings. My superior intelligence
enabled me to place well my modest means, and at
midnight I had a competence. Let me be a warning to all
young men. Since that night I have never gambled more.

I threw the hated badge into the river. I bought a
palace on Murray Hill, and led an upright and honorable
life. But since that night of terror the sound of the
horse-cars oppresses me. Always since, to go up town or
down, I order my own coupe, with George to drive me; and
never have I entered the cleanly, sweet, and airy
carriage provided for the public. I cannot; conscience
is too much for me. You see in me a monument of crime.

I said no more. A moment's pause, a few natural
tears, and a single sigh hushed the assembly; then
Bertha, with her siren voice, told


THE WIFE OF BIDDEFORD'S STORY

At the time you speak of I was the private governess
of two lovely boys, Julius and Pompey--Pompey the senior
of the two. The black-eyed darling! I see him now. I
also see, hanging to his neck, his blue-eyed brother, who
had given Pompey his black eye the day before. Pompey
was generous to a fault; Julius parsimonious beyond
virtue. I, therefore, instructed them in two different
rooms. To Pompey I read the story of "Waste not, want
not." To Julius, on the other hand, I spoke of the
All-love of his great Mother Nature, and her profuse
gifts to her children. Leaving him with grapes and
oranges, I stepped back to Pompey, and taught him how to
untie parcels so as to save the string. Leaving him
winding the string neatly, I went back to Julius, and
gave him ginger-cakes. The dear boys grew from year to
year. They outgrew their knickerbockers, and had
trousers. They outgrew their jackets, and became men;
and I felt that I had not lived in vain. I had conquered
nature. Pompey, the little spendthrift, was the honored
cashier of a savings-bank, till he ran away with the
capital. Julius, the miser, became the chief croupier at
the New Crockford's. One of those boys is now in Botany
Bay, and the other is in Sierra Leone!

"I thought you were going to say in a hotter place,"
said John Blatchford; and he told his story.


THE STOKER'S STORY

We were crossing the Atlantic in a Cunarder. I was
second stoker on the starboard watch. In that horrible
gale we spoke of before dinner, the coal was exhausted,
and I, as the best-dressed man, was sent up to the
captain to ask him what we should do. I found him
himself at the wheel. He almost cursed me, and bade me
say nothing of coal, at a moment when he must keep
her head to the wind with her full power, or we were
lost. He bade me slide my hand into his pocket, and take
out the key of the after freight-room, open that, and use
the contents for fuel. I returned hastily to the engine-
room, and we did as we were bid. The room contained
nothing but old account books, which made a hot and
effective fire.

On the third day the captain came down himself into
the engine-room, where I had never seen him before,
called me aside, and told me that by mistake he had given
me the wrong key; asking me if I had used it. I pointed
to him the empty room; not a leaf was left. He turned
pale with fright. As I saw his emotion, he confided to
me the truth. The books were the evidences or accounts
of the British national debt; of what is familiarly known
as the Consolidated Fund, or the "Consols." They had
been secretly sent to New York for the examination of
James Fiske, who had been asked to advance a few millions
on this security to the English Exchequer, and now all
evidence of indebtedness was gone!

The captain was about to leap into the sea. But I
dissuaded him. I told him to say nothing; I would keep
his secret; no man else knew it. The government would
never utter it. It was safe in our hands. He
reconsidered his purpose. We came safe to port and did--
nothing.

Only on the first quarter-day which followed, I
obtained leave of absence, and visited the Bank of
England, to see what happened. At the door was this
placard, "Applicants for dividends will file a written
application, with name and amount, at desk A, and proceed
in turn to the Paying Teller's Office." I saw their
ingenuity. They were making out new books, certain that
none would apply but those who were accustomed to. So
skilfully do men of government study human nature.

I stepped lightly to one of the public desks. I took
one of the blanks. I filled it out, "John Blatchford,
L1747 6s. 8d." and handed it in at the open trap. I
took my place in the queue in the teller's room. After
an agreeable hour, a pile, not thick, of Bank of England
notes was given to me; and since that day I have
quarterly drawn that amount from the maternal government
of that country. As I left the teller's room, I observed
the captain in the queue. He was the seventh man from
the window, and I have never seen him more.

We then asked Hosanna for her story.


THE N. E. HISTORICAL GENEALOGIST'S STORY

"My story," said she, "will take us far back into the
past. It will be necessary for me to dwell on some
incidents in the first settlement of this country, and I
propose that we first prepare and enjoy the Christmas
tree. After this, if your courage holds, you shall hear
an over-true tale." Pretty creature, how little she
knew what was before us!

As we had sat listening to the stories, we had been
preparing for the tree. Shopping being out of the
question, we were fain from our own stores to make up our
presents, while the women were arranging nuts, and blown
egg-shells, and popcorn strings from the stores of the
Eagle and Star. The popping of corn in two corn-poppers
had gone on through the whole of the story-telling. All
being so nearly ready, I called the drowsy boy again,
and, showing him a very large stick in the wood-box,
asked him to bring me a hatchet. To my great joy he
brought the axe of the establishment, and I bade him
farewell. How little did he think what was before him!
So soon as he had gone I went stealthily down the stairs,
and stepping out into the deep snow, in front of the
hotel, looked up into the lovely night. The storm had
ceased, and I could see far back into the heavens. In
the still evening my strokes might have been heard far
and wide, as I cut down one of the two pretty Norways
that shaded Mr. Pynchon's front walk, next the hotel. I
dragged it over the snow. Blatchford and Steele lowered
sheets to me from the large parlor window, which I
attached to the larger end of the tree. With infinite
difficulty they hauled it in. I joined them in the
parlor, and soon we had as stately a tree growing there
as was in any home of joy that night in the river
counties.

With swift fingers did our wives adorn it. I should
have said above, that we travelled with our wives, and
that I would recommend that custom to others. It was
impossible, under the circumstances, to maintain much
secrecy; but it had been agreed that all who wished to
turn their backs to the circle, in the preparation of
presents, might do so without offence to the others. As
the presents were wrapped, one by one, in paper of
different colors, they were marked with the names of
giver and receiver, and placed in a large clothes-basket.
At last all was done. I had wrapped up my knife, my
pencil-case, my lettercase, for Steele, Blatchford, and
Dick. To my wife I gave my gold watch-key, which
fortunately fits her watch; to Hosanna, a mere trifle, a
seal ring I wore; to Bertha, my gold chain; and to Sarah
Blatchford, the watch which generally hung from it. For
a few moments we retired to our rooms while the pretty
Hosanna arranged the forty-nine presents on the tree.
Then she clapped her hands, and we rushed in. What a
wondrous sight! What a shout of infantine laughter and
charming prattle! for in that happy moment were we not
all children again?

I see my story hurries to its close. Dick, who is
the tallest, mounted a step-ladder, and called us by name
to receive our presents. I had a nice gold watch-key
from Hosanna, a knife from Steele, a letter-case from
Phebe, and a pretty pencil-case from Bertha. Dick had
given me his watch-chain, which he knew I fancied;
Sarah Blatchford, a little toy of a Geneva watch she
wore; and her husband, a handsome seal ring,--a present
to him from the Czar, I believe; Phebe, that is my
wife,--for we were travelling with our wives,--had a
pencil-case from Steele, a pretty little letter-case from
Dick, a watch-key from me, and a French repeater from
Blatchford; Sarah Blatchford gave her the knife she
carried, with some bright verses, saying that it was not
to cut love; Bertha, a watch-chain; and Hosanna, a ring
of turquoise and amethysts. The other presents were
similar articles, and were received, as they were given,
with much tender feeling. But at this moment, as Dick
was on the top of the flight of steps, handing down a red
apple from the tree, a slight catastrophe occurred.

The first thing I was conscious of was the angry hiss
of steam. In a moment I perceived that the steam-boiler,
from which the tavern was warmed, had exploded. The
floor beneath us rose, and we were driven with it through
the ceiling and the rooms above,--through an opening in
the roof into the still night. Around us in the air were
flying all the other contents and occupants of the Star
and Eagle. How bitterly was I reminded of Dick's flight
from the railroad track of the Ithaca and Owego Railroad!
But I could not hope such an escape as his. Still my
flight was in a parabola; and, in a period not longer
than it has taken to describe it, I was thrown senseless,
at last, into a deep snow-bank near the United
States Arsenal.

Tender hands lifted me and assuaged me. Tender teams
carried me to the City Hospital. Tender eyes brooded
over me. Tender science cared for me. It proved
necessary, before I recovered, to amputate my two legs at
the hips. My right arm was wholly removed, by a delicate
and curious operation, from the socket. We saved the
stump of my left arm, which was amputated just below the
shoulder. I am still in the hospital to recruit my
strength. The doctor does not like to have me occupy my
mind at all; but he says there is no harm in my compiling
my memoirs, or writing magazine stories. My faithful
nurse has laid me on my breast on a pillow, has put a
camel's-hair pencil in my mouth, and, feeling almost
personally acquainted with John Carter, the artist, I
have written out for you, in his method, the story of my
last Christmas.

I am sorry to say that the others have never been found.

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