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Sir Francis Bacon - "The New Atlantis"

Jack London - "The Night Born"

A. Light, of Waxhaw - "The Children of the Night, by Edwin Arlington Robinson"

William Dobein James. - "A Sketch of the Life of Brig. Gen. Francis Marion"

Polly of the Circus

M >> Margaret Mayo >> Polly of the Circus




"Leave HIM to ME, this ain't no parson's job." The pastor
lowered his arm, but kept his threatening eyes on the deacon's
face.

"Where's Poll?" asked Jim.

"In there! Douglas pointed toward the main tent without turning
his head. He was still glaring at the deacon, and breathing
hard.

"What?" cried Jim, in alarm. He faced about and saw Eloise. He
guessed the truth. A few quick strides brought him to the
entrance curtains. He threw them back and looked into the ring.

"My God! Why don't Barker stop her?"

"What is it?" called Douglas. He forgot the deacon in his terror
at Jim's behaviour, and Strong was able to slip away, unnoticed.

"She's goin' ter ride! She's goin' ter ride Barbarian!"

Douglas crossed to his side and looked.

Polly was springing onto the back of Barbarian. He was a poorly
trained horse, used by the other girl for more showy, but less
dangerous feats than Polly's.

"She's goin' through her regular turn with him, she's tryin' ter
break her neck," said Jim. "She wants ter do it. It's your
fault!" he cried, turning upon Douglas with bloodshot eyes. He
was half insane, he cared little whom he wounded.

"Why can't we stop her?" cried Douglas, unable to endure the
strain. He took one step inside the entrance.

"No, no; not that!" Jim dragged him back roughly. "If she sees
you now, it will be the end." They watched in silence. "She's
over the first part," Jim whispered, at last.

Douglas drew back, his muscles tense, as he watched the scene
inside the ring. Eloise stood at the pastor's side,
horror-stricken at Polly's reckless behaviour. She knew
Barbarian. It was easy to guess the end.

"She's comin' to the hoops," Jim whispered, hoarsely.

"Barbarian don't know that part, I never trained him," the other
girl said.

Polly made the first leap toward the hoops. The horse was not at
fault; it was Polly. She plunged wildly, the audience started.
She caught her footing with an effort. One, two, three hoops
were passed. She threw herself across the back of the horse and
hung, head downward, as he galloped around the ring. The band
was playing loudly, the people were cheering. She rose to meet
the last two hoops.

"She's swayin'," Jim shrieked in agony. "She's goin' to fall.
He covered his face with his hands.

Polly reeled and fell at the horse's side. She mounted and fell
again. She rose and staggered in pursuit.

"I can't bear it," groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring,
unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black,
ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just
as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs.

Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his
whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and
gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor.

Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own.

"He's bringin' her out," whispered Eloise, who still watched at
the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his
hands.

"Is it over?" he groaned.

"I don't know. I can't tell yet." She stepped aside as Douglas
came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He
knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee.
The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he
waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the
colour crept back to her lips.

"It's all right, Jim!" called one of the men from the crowd.
"She's only fainted." The big fellow had waited in his tracks
for the verdict.

Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson --a thrill shot
through his veins.

"It was no use, was it?" She shook her head with a sad little
smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out
of his way.

"That's because I need you so much, Polly, that God won't let you
go away from me." He drew her nearer to him, and the warm blood
that shot to her cheeks brought back her strength. She rose
unsteadily, and looked about her. Jim came toward her, white and
trembling.

"All right, Poll?"

"Oh, Muvver Jim!" She threw herself into his arms and clung to
him, sobbing weakly.

No one could ever remember just how the audience left the big top
that night, and even Barker had no clear idea of how Jim took
down the tents, loaded the great wagons, and sent the caravan on
its way.

When the last wagon was beginning to climb the long, winding road
of the moon-lit hill, Jim turned to Polly, who stood near the
side of the deserted ring. His eyes travelled from her to the
parson, who waited near her. She was in her street clothes now,
the little brown Quakerish dress which she had chosen to wear so
much since her return from the parsonage.

"I guess I won't be makin' no mistake this time," he said, and he
placed her hand in that of the parson.

"Good-bye, Muvver Jim," faltered Polly.

He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. A mother's
spirit breathed through his kiss.

"I'm glad it's like this," he said, then turned away and followed
the long, dotted line of winding lights disappearing slowly over
the hill.

Her eyes travelled after him.

Douglas touched the cold, little hand at her side.

"I belong with them," she said, still gazing after Jim and the
wagons.

"You belong with me," he answered in a firm, grave voice, and
something in the deep, sure tones told her that he was speaking
the truth. She lifted one trembling hand to his shoulder, and
looked up into his face.

"Whither thou goest, will I go, where thou diest, will I die."

He drew her into his arms.

"The Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee
and me."


THE END

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