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COLLIER "MEMORIAL EDITION"
"JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY COMPLETE WORKS"

Vol 10, Part 3

MRS. MILLER.......................................................................... 2623

AT ZEKESBURY....................................................................... 2640

A CALLER FROM BOONE....................................................... 2658

THE OLD SOLDIER'S STORY.................................................... 2670

DIALECT IN LITERATURE.......................................................................................  2674

MRS. MILLER

OHN B. McKINNEY, Attorney and Counselor at Law, as his sign read, was, for many reasons, a fortunate man. For many other reasons he was not. He was chiefly fortunate in being, as certain opponents often strove witheringly to designate him, "the son of his father," since that sound old gentleman was the wealthiest farmer in that sec­tion, with but one son and heir to supplant him, in time, in the role of "county god," and haply perpet­uate the prouder title of "the biggest taxpayer on the assessment list." And this fact, too, fortunate as it would seem, was doubtless the indirect occa­sion of a liberal percentage of all John's misfor­tunes. From his earliest school-days in the little town, up to his tardy graduation from a distant college, the influence of his father's wealth invited his procrastination, humored its results, encouraged the laxity of his ambition, "and even now," as John used, in bitter irony, to put it, "it is aiding and abet­ting me in the ostensible practise of my chosen pro­fession, a listless, aimless undetermined man of forty, and a confirmed bachelor at that !" At the utterance of his self-depreciating statement, John

2623

2624                            MRS. MILLER

generally jerked his legs down from the top of his desk ; and rising and kicking his chair back to the wall he would stump around his littered office till the manila carpet steamed with dust. Then he would wildly break away, seeking refuge either in the open street, or in his room at the old-time tav­ern, The Eagle House, "where," he would say, "I have lodged and boarded, I do solemnly asseverate, for a long, unbroken, middle-aged eternity of ten years, and can yet assert, in the words of the more fortunately-dying Webster, that 'I still live' !"

Extravagantly satirical as he was at times, John had always an indefinable drollery about him that made him agreeable company to his friends, at least ; and such an admiring friend he had con­stantly at hand in the person of Bert Haines. Both were Bohemians in natural tendency, and, though John was far in Bert's advance in point of age, he found the young man "just the kind of a fellow to have around ;" while Bert, in turn, held his senior in profound esteem—looked up to him, in fact, and even in his eccentricities strove to pattern himself after him. And so it was,, when summer days were dull and tedious, these two could muse and doze the hours away together ; and when the nights were long, and dark, and deep, and beautiful, they could drift out in the noonlight of the stars, and with "the soft complaining flute" and "warbling lute," "lay the pipes," as John would say, for their enduring popu­larity with the girls ! And it was immediately sub­sequent to one of these romantic excursions, when

MRS. MILLER                        2625

the belated pair, at two o'clock in the morning, had skulked up a ,side stairway of the old hotel, and gained John's room, with nothing more serious hap­pening than Bert falling over a trunk and smashing his guitar,—just after such a night of romance and adventure it was that, in the seclusion of John's room, Bert had something of especial import to communicate.

"Mack," he said, as that worthy anathematized a spiteful match, and then sucked his finger.

"Blast the all-fired old torch !" said John, wrestling with the lamp-flue, and turning on a welcome flame at last. "Well, you said `Mack' Why don't you go on? And don't bawl at the top of your lungs, either. You've already succeeded in waking every boarder in the house with that guitar, and you want to make amends now by letting them go to sleep again !"

"But my dear fellow," said Bert with forced calmness, "you're the fellow that's making all the no i se—and—"

"Why, you howling dervish !" interrupted John, with a feigned air of pleased surprise and admira­tion. "But let's drop controversy. Throw the fragments of your guitar in the wood-box there, and proceed with the opening proposition."

"What I was going to say was this," said Bert, with a half-desperate enunciation ; "I'm getting tired of this way of living—clean, dead-tired, and fagged out, and sick of the whole artificial busi­ness !"

MRS. MILLER                        2627

life for the benedict's. Going to hunt out a good sensible girl and marry her." And as the young man concluded this desperate avowal he jerked the bow of his cravat into a hard knot, kicked his hat under the bed, and threw himself on the sofa like an old suit.

John stared at him with absolute compassion. "Poor devil," he said half musingly, "I know just how he feels

"Ring in the wind his wedding chimes,

Smile, villagers, at every door;

Old churchyards stuffed with buried crimes,

Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er.—"

"Oh, here !" exclaimed the wretched Bert, jump­ing to his feet ; "let up on that dismal recitative. It would make a dog howl to hear that !"

"Then you 'let up' on that suicidal talk of marry­ing," replied John, "and all that harangue of in­coherency about your growing old. Why, my dear fellow, you're at least a dozen years my junior, and look at me !" and John glanced at himself in the glass with a feeble pride, noting the gray sparse­ness of his side-hair, and its plaintive dearth on top. "Of course I've got to admit," he continued, "that my hair is gradually evaporating; but for all that, I'm 'still in the ring,' don't you know ; as young in society, for the matter of that, as your­self ! And this is just the reason why I don't want you to blight every prospect in your life by marry­ing at your age—especially a womari—I mean the

2628                            MRS. MILLER

kind of woman you'd be sure to fancy at your age." "Didn't I say 'a good sensible girl' was the kind I had selected ?" Bert remonstrated.

"Oh !" exclaimed John, "you've selected her, then ?—and without one word to me !" he ended, rebukingly.

"Well, hang it all !" said Bert impatiently ; "I knew how you were, and just how you'd talk me out of it ; and I made up my mind that for once, at least, I'd follow the dictations of a heart that—however capricious in youthful frivolities—should beat, in manhood, loyal to itself and loyal to its own affinity."

"Go it ! Fire away ! Farewell, vain world !" ex­claimed the excited John.—"Trade your soul off for a pair of ear-bobs and a button-hook—a hank of jute hair and a box of lily-white! I've buried not less than ten old chums this way, and here's an­other nominated for the tomb."

"But you've got no reason about you," began Bert,—"I want to"

"And so do I 'want to,' " broke in John finally, —"I want to get some sleep.—So 'register' and come to bed.—And lie up on edge, too, when you do come—'cause this old catafalque-of-a-bed is just about as narrow as your views of single blessed­ness ! Peace ! Not another word! Pile in! Pile in ! I'm three-parts sick, anyhow, and I want rest !" And very truly he spoke.

It was a bright morning when the slothful John was aroused by a long vociferous pounding on the

MRS. MILLER                        2629

door. He started up in bed to find himself alone—the victim of his wrathful irony having evidently risen and fled away while his pitiless tormentor slept—"Doubtless to accomplish at once that ne­farious intent as set forth by his unblushing con­fession of last night," mused the miserable John. And he ground his fingers in the corners of his swollen eyes, and leered grimly in the glass at the feverish orbs, blood-shot, blurred and aching.

The pounding on the door continued. John looked at his watch ; it was only eight o'clock.

"Hi, there !" he called viciously. "What do you mean, anyhow ?" he went on, elevating his voice again ; "shaking a man out of bed when he's just dropping into his first sleep ?"

"I mean that you're going to get up ; that's what !" replied a firm female voice. "It's eight o'clock, and I want to put your room in order ; and I'm not going to wait all day about it, either ! Get up and go down to your breakfast, and let me have the room !" And the clamor at the door was industriously re­newed.

"Say !" called John querulously, hurrying on his clothes, "Say, you !"

"There's no 'say' about it !" responded the de­termined voice : "I've heard about you and your ways around this house, and I'm not going to put up with it ! You'll not lie in bed till high noon when I've got to keep your room in proper order !"

"Oh, ho !" bawled John intelligently : "reckon you're the new invasion here ? Doubtless you're

2630                              MRS. MILLER

that girl that's been hanging up the new window-blinds that won't roll, and disguising the pillows with clean slips, and hennin' round among my books and papers on the table here, and aging me generally till I don't know my own handwriting by the time I find it ! Oh, yes, you're going to revo­lutionize things here ; you're going to introduce promptness, and system, and order. See you've even filled the wash-pitcher and tucked two starched towels through the handle. Haven't got any tin towels, have you ? I rather like this new soap, too ! So solid and durable, you know ; warranted not to raise a lather. Might as well wash one's hands with a door-knob !"

And as John's voice grumbled away into the sullen silence again, the determined voice without responded : "Oh, you can growl away to your heart's content, Mr. McKinney, but I want you to understand distinctly that I'm not going to hu­mor you in any of your old bachelor, sluggardly, slovenly ways, and whims and notions. And I want you to understand, too, that I'm not hired help in this house, nor a chambermaid, nor anything of the kind. I'm the landlady here ; and I'll give you just ten minutes more to get down to your break­fast, or you'll not get any—that's all !" And as the reversed cuff John was in the act of buttoning slid from his wrist and rolled under the dresser, he heard a stiff rustling of starched muslin flouncing past the door, and the quick italicized patter of de­termined gaiters down the hall.

MRS. MILLER                        2631

"Look here," said John to the bright-faced boy in the hotel office, a half hour later. "It seems the house here's been changing hands again."

"Yes, sir," said the boy, closing the cigar case, and handing him a lighted match. "Well, the new landlord, whoever he is," continued John, patron­izingly, "is a good one. Leastwise, he knows what's good to eat, and how to serve it."

The boy laughed timidly,—"It ain't a 'landlord,' though—it's a landlady ; it's my mother."

"Ah," said John, dallying with the change the boy had pushed toward him. "Your mother, eh ? And where's your father ?"

"He's dead," said the boy.

"And what's this for ?" abruptly asked John, ex­amining his change.

"That's your change," said the boy : "You got three for a quarter, and gave me a half."

"Well, you just keep it," said John, sliding back the change. "It's for good luck, you know, my boy. Same as drinking your long life and prosperity. And, oh yes, by the way, you may tell your mother I'll have a friend to dinner with me to-day."

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir," said the beaming boy.

"Handsome boy !" mused John, as he walked down street. "Takes that from his father, though, I'll wager my existence !"

Upon his office desk John found a hastily written note. It was addressed in the well-known hand of his old chum. He eyed the missive apprehensively,

x.-9

2632                             MRS. MILLER

and there was a positive pathos in his voice as he said aloud, "It's our divorce. I feel it !" The note, headed, "At the Office, Four in Morning," ran like

this :

"Dear Mack—I left you slumbering so soundly that, by noon, when you waken, I hope, in your re­freshed state, you will look more tolerantly on my intentions as partially confided to you this night. I will not see you here again to say good-by. I wanted to, but was afraid to 'rouse the sleeping lion.' I will not close my eyes to-night—fact is, I haven't time. Our serenade at Josie's was a pre­arranged signal by which she is to be ready and at the station for the five morning train. You may re­member the lighting of three consecutive matches at her window before the igniting of her lamp. That meant, 'Thrice dearest one, I'll meet thee at the depot at four-thirty sharp.' So, my dear Mack, this is to inform you that, even as you read, Josie and I have eloped. It is all the old man's fault, yet I forgive him. Hope he'll return the favor. Josie predicts he will, inside of a week—or two weeks, anyhow. Good-by, Mack, old boy ; and let a fellow down as easy as you can. Affectionately,

"BERT."

"Heavens !" exclaimed John, stifling the note in his hand and stalking tragically around the room. "Can it be possible that I have nursed a frozen viper ? An ingrate ? A wolf in sheep's clothing? An orang-outang in gent's furnishings ?"

"Was you calling me, sir ?" asked a voice at the door. It was the janitor.

MRS. MILLER                        2633

"No !" thundered John ; "Quit my sight ! get out of my way ! No, no, Thompson, I don't mean that," he called after him. "Here's a half-dollar for you, and I want you to lock up the office, and tell anybody that wants to see me that I've been set upon, and sacked and assassinated in cold blood ; and I've fled to my father's in the country, and am lying there in the convulsions of dissolution, bab­bling of green fields and running brooks, and thirst­ing for the life of every woman that comes in gun­shot !" And then, more like a confirmed invalid than a man in the strength and pride of his prime, he crept down into the street again, and thence back to his hotel.

Dejectedly and painfully climbing to his room, he encountered, on the landing above, a little woman in a jaunty dusting-cap and a trim habit of crisp muslin. He tried to evade her, but in vain. She looked him squarely in the face—occasioning him the dubious impression of either needing shaving _,very badly, or having egg-stains on his chin.

"You're the gentleman in Number II, I believe?" Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill ?"

He nodded confusedly.

"Mr. McKinney is your name, I think," she queried, with a pretty elevation of the eyebrows.

"Yes, ma'am," said John rather abjectly. "You see, ma'am—But I beg pardon," he went on stam­meringly, and with a very awkward bow—"I beg pardon, but I am addressing—ah—the—ah—the—"

2634                               MRS. MILLER

"You are addressing the new landlady," she in­terpolated pleasantly. "Mrs. Miller is my name. I think we should be friends, Mr. McKinney, since I hear that you are one of the oldest patrons of the house."

"Thank you—thank you !" said John, completely embarrassed. "Yes, indeed !—ha, ha. Oh, yes­yes—really, we must be quite old friends, I assure you, M rs.—M rs.—"

"Mrs. Miller," smilingly prompted the little woman.

"Yes, ah, yes,—Mrs. Miller. Lovely morning, Mrs. Miller," said John, edging past her and back­ing toward his room.

But as Mrs. Miller was laughing outright, for some mysterious reason, and gave no affirmation in response to his proposition as to the quality of the weather, John, utterly abashed and nonplused, darted into his room and closed the door. "Deu­cedly extraordinary woman !" he thought ; "wonder what's her idea !"

He remained locked in his room till the dinner-hour ; and, when he promptly emerged for that oc­casion, there was a very noticeable improvement in his personal appearance, in point of dress, at least, though there still lingered about his smoothly-shaven features a certain haggard, care-worn, anx­ious look that would not out.

Next his own at the table he found a chair tilted forward, as though in reservation for some honored guest. What did it mean? Oh, he remembered

MRS. MILLER                        2635

now. Told the boy to tell his mother he would have a friend to dine with him. Bert—and, blast the fel­low !--was, doubtless, dining then with a far prefer­able companion—his wife—in a palace-car on the P., C. & St. L., a hundred miles away. The thought was maddening. Of course, now, the landlady would have material for a new assault. And how could he avert it ? A despairing film blurred his sight for the moment—then the eyes flashed dar­ingly. "I will meet it like a man !" he said, men­tally—"yea, like a State's Attorney,—I will invite it ! Let her do her worst !"

He called a servant, giving some message in an undertone.

"Yes, sir," said the agreeable servant, "I'll go right away, sir," and left the room.

Five minutes elapsed, and then a voice at his shoulder startled him :          ‑

"Did you send for me, Mr. McKinney? What is it I can do ?"

"You are very kind, Mrs.—Mrs.—"

"Mrs. Miller," said the lady, with a smile that he remembered.

"Now, please spare me even the mildest of re­bukes. I deserve your censure, but I can't stand it —I can't positively !" and there was a pleading look in John's lifted eyes that changed the little woman's smile to an expression of real solicitude. "I have sent for you," continued John, "to ask of you three great favors. Please be seated while I enumerate them. First—I want you to forgive and

2636                              MRS. MILLER

forget that ill-natured, uncalled-for grumbling of mine this morning when you awakened me."

"Why, certainly," said the landlady, again smil­ing, though quite seriously.

"I thank you," said John with dignity. "And, second," he continued—"I want your assurance that my extreme confusion and awkwardness on the oc­casion of our meeting later were rightly inter­preted."

"Certainly—certainly," said the landlady with the kindliest sympathy.

"I am grateful—utterly," said John, with newer dignity. "And then," he went on,—"after inform­ing you that it is impossible for the best friend I have in the world to be with me at this hour, as intended, I want you to do me the very great honor of dining with me. Will you ?"

"Why, certainly," said the charming little land­lady—"and a thousand thanks besides ! But tell me something of your friend," she continued, as they were being served. "What is he like—and what is his name—and where is he ?"

"Well," said John warily,—"he's like all young fellows of his age. He's quite young, you know—not over thirty, I should say—a mere boy, in fact, but clever—talented—versatile."

"—Unmarried, of course," said the chatty little woman.

"Oh, yes !" said John, in a matter-of-course tone —but he caught himself abruptly—then stared in­tently at his napkin—glanced evasively at the side‑

MRS. MILLER                        2637

face of his questioner, and said,—"Oh, yes ! Yes, indeed ! He's unmarried.—Old bachelor like my­self, you know. Ha! Ha!"

"So he's not like the young man here that dis­tinguished himself last night ?" said the little woman archly.

The fork in John's hand, half-lifted to his lips, faltered and fell back toward his plate.

"Why, what's that ?" said John in a strange voice ; "I hadn't heard anything about it—I mean I haven't heard anything about any young man. What was 0"

"Haven't heard anything about the elopement ?" exclaimed the little woman in astonishment.—"Why it's been the talk of the town all morning. Elopement in high life—son of a grain-dealer, name of Hines, or Himes, or something, and a preacher's daughter—Josie somebody—didn't catch her last name. Wonder if you don't know the parties—Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill?"

"Oh, no—not at all !" said John : "Don't mention it. Ha—ha! Just eating too rapidly, that's all. Go on with—you were saying that Bert and Josie had really eloped."

"What 'Bert' ?" asked the little woman quickly.

"Why, did I say art ?" said John, with a guilty look. "I meant Haines, of course, you know—Haines and Josie.—And did they really elope ?"

"That's the report," answered the little woman, as though deliberating some important evidence ; "and they say, too, that the plot of the runaway

2638                    MRS. MILLER

was quite ingenious. It seems the young lovers were assisted in their flight by some old fellow—f riend of the young man's—Why, Mr. McKinney, you are ill, surely ?"

John's face was as ashen.

"No—no !" he gasped painfully : "Go on—go on ! Tell me more about the—the—the old fellow —the old reprobate! And is he still at large ?"

"Yes," said the little woman, anxiously regarding the strange demeanor of her companion. "They say, though, that the law can do nothing with him, and that this fact only intensifies the agony of the broken-hearted parents—for it seems they have, till now, regarded him both as a gentleman and family friend in whom"

"I really am ill," moaned John, waveringly rising to his feet ; "but I beg you not to be alarmed. Tell your little boy to come to my room, where I will retire at once, if you'll excuse me, and send for my physician. It is simply a nervous attack. I am often troubled so ; and only perfect quiet and se­clusion restores me. You have done me a great honor, Mrs."—("Mrs. Miller," sighed the sym­pathetic little woman)—"Mrs. Miller,—and I thank you more than I have words to express." He bowed limply, turned through a side door opening on a stair,.and tottered to his room.

During the three weeks' illness through which he passed, John had every attention—much more, in­deed, than he had consciousness to appreciate. For

MRS. MILLER                        2639

the most part his mind wandered, and he talked of curious things, and laughed hysterically, and sere­naded mermaids that dwelt in grassy seas of dew, and were bald-headed like himself. He played upon a fourteen-jointed flute of solid gold, with diamond holes, and keys carved out of thawless ice. His old father came at first to take him home ; but he could not be moved, the doctor said.

Two weeks of John's illness had worn away, when a very serious-looking young man, in a travel­ing duster, and a high hat, came up the stairs to see him. A handsome young lady was clinging to his arm. It was Bert and Josie. She had guessed the very date of their forgiveness. John awoke even clearer in mind than usual that afternoon. He recognized his old chum at a glance, and Josie­now Bert's wife. Yes, he comprehended that. He was holding a hand of each when another figure en­tered. His thin white fingers loosened their clasp, and he held a hand toward the newcomer. "Here," he said, "is my best friend in the world—Bert, you and Josie will love her, I know ; for this is Mrs.­Mrs."—"Mrs. Miller," said the radiant little woman. —"Yes,—Mrs. Miller," said John, very proudly.

AT ZEKESBURY

HE little town, as I recall it, was of just enough dignity and dearth of the same to be an ordi­nary county seat in Indiana—"The Grand Old Hoosier State," as it was used to being howlingly referred to by the forensic stump orator from the old stand in the court-house yard—a political cam­paign being the wildest delight that Zekesbury might ever hope to call its own.

Through years the fitful happenings of the town and its vicinity went on the same—the same ! An­nually about one circus ventured in, and vanished, and was gone, even as a passing trumpet-blast ; the usual rainy season swelled the "Crick," the driftage choking at "the covered bridge," and backing water till the old road looked amphibious ; and crowds of curious townfolk struggled down to look upon the watery wonder, and lean awestruck above it, and spit in it, and turn mutely home again.

The usual formula of incidents peculiar to an uneventful town and its vicinity : The countryman from "Jessup's Crossing," with the corn-stalk coffin-measure, loped into town, his steaming little gray­and-red-flecked "roadster" gurgitating, as it were,

2640

AT ZEKESBURY                     2641

with that mysterious utterance that ever has com­manded and ever must evoke the wonder and be­wilderment of every boy ; the small-pox rumor became prevalent betimes, and the subtle aroma of the asafetida-bag permeated the graded schools "from turret to foundation-stone" ; the still recur­ring expose of the poor-house management ; the farm-hand, with the scythe across his shoulder, struck dead by lightning; the long-drawn quarrel between the rival editors culminating in one of them assaulting the other with a "sidestick," and the other kicking the one down-stairs and thenceward ad libitum; the tramp, suppositiously stealing a ride, found dead on the railroad ; the grand jury return­ing a sensational indictment against a bar-tender non est; the Temperance outbreak ; the "Revival ;" the Church Festival ; and the "Free Lectures on Phrenology, and Marvels of Mesmerism," at the town hall. It was during the time of the last-men­tioned sensation, and directly through this scien­tific investigation, that I came upon two of the town's most remarkable characters. And however meager my outline of them may prove, my material for the sketch is most accurate in every detail, and no deviation from the cold facts of the case shall influence any line of my report.

For some years prior to this odd experience I had been connected with a daily paper at the state capital ; and latterly a prolonged session of the legislature, where I specially reported, having told threateningly upon my health, I took both the

2642                   AT ZEKESBURY

advantage of a brief vacation, and the invitation of a young bachelor senator, to get out of the city for a while, and bask my respiratory organs in the re­vivifying rural air of Zekesbury—the home of my new friend.

"It'll pay you to get out here," he said cordially, meeting me at the little station, "and I'm glad you've come, for you'll find no end of odd characters to amuse you." And under the very pleasant spon­sorship of my senatorial friend, I was placed at once on genial terms with half the citizens of the little town—from the shirt-sleeved nabob of the county office to the droll wag of the favorite loafing­place—the rules and by-laws of which resort, by the way, being rudely charcoaled on the wall above the cutter's bench, and somewhat artistically cul­minating in an original dialect legend which ran thus :

instunce, now, when some folks gits To relyin' on theyr wits,

Ten to one they git too smart

And sPi/e it all, right at the start! Feller wants to jest go slow

And do his thinkin' first, you know. 'F I can't think up somepin' good,

I set still and chaw my Good!

And it was at this inviting rendezvous, two or three evenings following my arrival, that the gen­eral crowd, acting upon the random proposition of one of the boys, rose as a man and wended its hi­larious way to the town hall.

AT ZEKESBURY                     2643

"Phrenology," said the little, old, bald-headed lec­turer and mesmerist, thumbing the egg-shaped head of a young man I remembered to have met that af­ternoon in some law office "phrenology," repeated the Professor—"or rather the term phrenology—is derived from two Greek words signifying mind and discourse; hence we find embodied in phrenol­ogy-proper, the science of intellectual measurement, together with the capacity of intelligent communi­cation of the varying mental forces and their flexi­bilities, etc., etc. The study, then, of phrenology is, to simplify it wholly—is, I say, the general contem­plation of the workings of the mind as made mani­fest through the certain corresponding depressions and protuberances of the human skull when, of course, in a healthy state of action and development, as we find the conditions exemplified in the subject before us."

Here the "subject" vaguely smiled.

"You recognize that mug, don't you ?" whispered my friend. "It's that coruscating young ass, you know, Hedrick—in Cummings' office—trying to study law and literature at the same time, and tampering with 'The Monster that Annually,' don't you know ?—where we found the two young stu­dents scuffling round the office, and smelling of pep­permint ?—Hedrick, you know, and Sweeney. Sweeney, the slim chap, with the pallid face, and frog-eyes, and clammy hands ! You remember I told you 'there was a pair of 'em' ? Well, they're up to something here to-night. Hedrick, there on

2644                            AT ZEKESBURY

the stage in front ; and Sweeney—don't you see ?_ with the gang on the rear seats."

"Phrenology—again," continued the lecturer, "is, we may say, a species of mental geography, as it were ; which—by a study of the skull—leads also to a study of the brain within, even as geology naturally follows the initial contemplation of the earth's surface. The brain, thurfur, or intellectual retort, as we may say, natively exerts a molding influence on the skull contour ; thurfur is the expert in phrenology most readily enabled to accurately locate the multitudinous intellectual forces, and most exactingly estimate, as well, the sequent char­acter of each subject submitted to his scrutiny. As, in the example before us—a young man, doubtless well known in your midst, though, I may say, an entire stranger to myself—I venture to disclose some characteristic trends and tendencies, as indi­cated by this phrenological depression and develop­ment of the skull proper, as later we will show, through the mesmeric condition, the accuracy of our mental diagnosis."

Throughout the latter part of this speech my friend nudged me spasmodically, whispering some­thing which was jostled out of intelligent utterance by some inward spasm of laughter.

"In this head," said the Professor, straddling his malleable fingers across the young man's bumpy brow—"In this head we find Ideality large—abnor­mally large, in fact ; thurby indicating—taken in conjunction with a like development of the per‑

AT ZEKESBURY                    2645

ceptive qualities—language following, as well, in the prominent eye—thurby indicating, I say, our sub­ject as especially endowed with a love for the beau­tiful—the sublime—the elevating—the refined and delicate—the lofty and superb—in nature, and in all the sublimated attributes of the human heart and beatific soul. In fact, we find this young man pos­sessed of such natural gifts as would befit him for the exalted career of the sculptor, the actor, the artist, or the poet—any ideal calling ; in fact, any calling but a practical, matter-of-fact vocation ; though in poetry he would seem to best succeed."

"Well," said my friend seriously, "he's feeling for the boy !" Then laughingly : "Hedrick has writ­ten some rhymes for the county papers, and Sweeney once introduced him, at an Old Settlers' Meeting, as 'The Best Poet in Center Township,' and never cracked a smile ! Always after each other that way, but the best friends in the world. Sweeney's strong suit is elocution. He has a native ability that way by no means ordinary, but even that gift he abuses and distorts simply to produce grotesque, and often­times, ridiculous effects. For instance, nothing more delights him than to loathfully' consent to answer a request, at The Mite Society, some eve­ning, for 'an appropriate selection,' and then, with an elaborate introduction of the same, and an ex­alted tribute to the refined genius of the author, proceed with a most gruesome rendition of 'Alonzo The Brave and The Fair Imogene,' in a way to coagulate the blood and curl the hair of his fair

2646                          AT ZEKESBURY

listeners with abject terror. Pale as a corpse, you know, and with that cadaverous face, lit with those malignant-looking eyes, his slender figure, and his long thin legs and arms and hands, and his whole diabolical talent and adroitness brought into play--why, I want to say to you, it's enough to scare 'em to death ! Never a smile from him, though, till he and Hedrick are safe out into the night again—then, of course, they hug each other and howl over it like Modocs ! But pardon ; I'm interrupting the lecture. Listen."

"A lack of continuity, however," continued the Professor, "and an undue love of approbation, would, measurably, at least, tend to retard the young man's progress toward the consummation of any loftier ambition, I fear ; yet as we have inti­mated, if the subject were appropriately educated to the need's demand, he could doubtless produce a high order of both prose and poetry—especially the latter—though he could very illy bear being laughed at for his pains."

"He's dead wrong there," said my friend ; "Hed­rick enjoys being laughed at ; he's used to it—gets fat on it !"

"Is fond of his friends," continued the Professor, "and the heartier they are the better ; might even be convivially inclined—if so tempted—but prudent —in a degree," loiteringly concluded the speaker, as though unable to find the exact bump with which to bolster up the last named attribute.

The subject blushed vividly—my friend's right

AT ZEKESBURY                      2647

eyelid dropped, and there was a noticeable, though elusive sensation throughout the audience.

"But!" said the Professor explosively, "selecting a directly opposite subject, in conjunction with the study of the one before us [turning to the group at the rear of the stage and beckoning], we may find a newer interest in the practical comparison of these subjects side by side." And the Professor pushed a very pale young man into position.

"Sweeney !" whispered my friend delightedly ; "now look out !"

"In this subject," said the Professor, "we find the practical business head. Square—though small —a trifle light at the base, in fact ; but well bal­anced at the important points at least ; thoughtful eye—wide-awake — crafty—quick—restless—a pol­icy eye, though not denoting language—unless, per­haps, mere business forms and direct statements."

"Fooled again !" whispered my friend ; "and I'm afraid the old man will fail to nest out the fact also that Sweeney is the cold-bloodedest guyer on the face of the earth, and with more diabolical re­sources than a prosecuting attorney; the Professor ought to know this, too, by this time—for these same two chaps have been visiting the old man in his room at the hotel ;—that's what I was trying to tell you a while ago. The old chap thinks he's `playing' the boys, is my idea ; but it's the other way, or I lose my guess."

"Now, under the mesmeric influence—if the two subjects will consent to its administration," said

x.-10

2648                         AT ZEKESBURY

the Professor, after some further tedious preamble, "we may at once determine the fact of my asser­tions, as will be proved by their action while in this peculiar state." Here some apparent remon­strance was met with from both subjects, though amicably overcome by the Professor first manipulat­ing the stolid brow and pallid front of the imper­turbable Sweeney—after which the same mysterious ordeal was loathfully submitted to by Hedrick—though a noticeably longer time was consumed in se­curing his final loss of self-control. At last, however, this curious phenomenon was presented, and there before us stood the two swaying figures, the heads dropped back, the lifted hands, with thumb and finger-tips pressed lightly together, the eyelids lan­guid and half closed, and the features, in appear­ance, wan and humid.

"Now, sir !" said the Professor, leading the limp Sweeney forward, and addressing him in a quick sharp tone of voice.—"Now, sir, you are a great contractor—own large factories, and with untold business interests. Just look out there ! [pointing out across the expectant audience] look there, and see the countless minions toiling servilely at your dread mandates. And yet—ha! ha! See ! see !­They recognize the avaricious greed that would thus grind them in the very dust ; they see, alas ! they see themselves, half-clothed—half-fed, that you may glut your coffers. Half-starved, they listen to the wail of wife and babe, and with eyes upraised in prayer, they see you rolling by in gilded coach, and

AT ZEKESBURY                      2649

swathed in silk attire. But—ha! again ! Look—look ! they are rising in revolt against you! Speak to them before too late ! Appeal to them—quell them with the promise of the just advance of wages they demand !"

The limp figure of Sweeney took on something of a stately and majestic air. With a graceful and commanding gesture of the hand, he advanced a step or two ; then, after a pause of some seconds duration, in which the lifted face grew pale, as it seemed, and the eyes a denser black, he said :

"But yesterday

I looked away

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay In golden blots,

Inlaid with spots

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots."

The voice was low, but clear, and even musical. The Professor started at the strange utterance, looked extremely confused, and, as the boisterous crowd cried "Hear, hear !" he motioned the sub­ject to continue, with some gasping comment inter­jected, which, if audible, would have run thus : "My God ! It's an inspirational poem 1"

"My head was fair With flaxen hair—"

resumed the subject.

"Yoop-ee !" yelled an irreverent auditor.

"Silence! silence !" commanded the excited Pro‑

2650                  AT ZEKESBURY

fessor in a hoarse whisper ; then, turning enthusi­astically to the subject—"Go on, young man! Go on!—`Thy head was fair with flaxen hair—' "

"My head was fair

With flaxen hair,

And fragrant breezes, faint'and rare, And, warm with drouth

From out the south,

Blew all my curls across my mouth."

The speaker's voice, exquisitely modulated, yet resonant as the twang of a harp, now seemed of it­self to draw and hold each listener ; while a certain extravagance of gesticulation—a fantastic move­ment of both form and feature—seemed very near akin to fascination. And so flowed on the curious utterance :—

"And, cool and sweet,

My naked feet

Found dewy pathways through the wheat;

And out again

Where, down the lane,

The dust was dimpled with the rain."

In the pause following there was a breathlessness almost painful. The poem went on :

"But yesterday

I heard the lay

Of summer birds, when I, as they With breast and wing,

All quivering

With life and love, could only sing.

AT ZEKESBURY                       2651

"My head was leant Where, with it, blent

A maiden's, o'er her instrument;

While all the night, From vale to height,

Was filled with echoes of delight.

"And all our dreams

Were lit with gleams

Of that lost land ^•of reedy streams, Along whose brim

Forever swim

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him."

And still the inspired singer held rapt sway.

"It is wonderful !" I whispered, under breath.

"Of course it is !" answered my friend. "But listen ; there is more :"

"But yesterday!..............

m     blooms of May,

And summer roses—where away?

m     stars 'above;

And lips of love,

And all the honeyed sweets thereof!

"0 lad and lass,

And orchard pass,

And briered lane, and daisied grass!

m     gleam and gloom,

And woodland bloom,

And breezy breaths of all perfume !—

"No more for me

Or mine shall be

Thy raptures—save in memory,

No more—no more—. Till through the Door

Of Glory gleam the days of yore."

2652                          AT ZEKESBURY

This was the evident conclusion of the remark­able utterance, and the Professor was impetuously fluttering his hands about the subject's upward-staring eyes, stroking his temples, and snapping his fingers in his face.

"Well," said Sweeney, as he stood suddenly awakened, and grinning in an idiotic way, "how did the old thing work ?" And it was in the conse­quent hilarity and loud and long applause, perhaps, that the Professor was relieved from the explanation of this rather astounding phenomenon of the ideal­istic workings of a purely practical brain—or, as my impious friend scoffed the incongruity later, in a particularly withering allusion, as the "blank-blanked fallacy, don't you know, of staying the hunger of a howling mob by feeding 'em on spring poetry !"

The tumult of the audience did not cease even with the retirement of Sweeney, and cries of "Hed­rick ! Hedrick !" only subsided with the Professor's high-keyed announcement that the subject was even then endeavoring to make himself heard, but could not until utter quiet was restored, adding the further appeal that the young man had already been a long time under the mesmeric spell, and ought not be so detained for an unnecessary period. "See," he concluded, with an assuring wave of the hand toward the subject, "see ; he is about to address you. Now, quiet !—utter quiet, if you please !"

"Great heavens !" exclaimed my friend stiflingly ; "just look at the boy ! Get on to that position for a

AT ZEKESBURY                     2653

poet ! Even Sweeney has fled from the sight of him !"

And truly, too, it was a grotesque pose the young man had assumed ; not wholly ridiculous either, since the dwarfed position he had settled into seemed more a genuine physical condition than an affected one. The head, back-tilted, and sunk be­tween the shoulders, looked abnormally large, while the features of the face appeared peculiarly child­like—especially the eyes—wakeful and wide apart, and very bright, yet very mild and very artless ; and the drawn and cramped outline of the legs and feet, and of the arms and hands, even to the shrunken, slender-looking fingers, all combined to convey most strikingly to the pained senses the fragile frame and pixy figure of some pitiably afflicted child, un­conscious altogether of the pathos of its own de­formity.

"Now, mark the cuss, Horatio !" gasped my friend.

At first the speaker's voice came very low, and somewhat piping, too, and broken—an eery sort of voice it was, of brittle and erratic timbre and undu­lant inflection. Yet it was beautiful. It had the ring of childhood in it, though the ring was not pure golden, and at times fell echoless. The spirit of its utterance was always clear and pure and crisp and cheery as the twitter of a bird, and yet forever ran an undercadence through it like a low-pleading prayer. Half garrulously, and like a shallow brook

2654                  AT ZEKESBURY

might brawl across a shelvy bottom, the rhythmic little changeling thus began :‑

"I'm thist a little crippled boy, an' never goin' to grow An' git a great big man at all !—'cause Aunty told me so. When I was thist a baby onc't I failed out of the bed

An' got 'The Curv'ture of the Spine'—'at's what the Doc‑

tor said.

I never had no Mother nen—fer my Pa runned away

An' dassn't come back here no more—'cause he was drunk one day

An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine!

An' nen my Ma she died—an' I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine'!"

A few titterings from the younger people in the audience marked the opening stanza, while a certain restlessness, and a changing to more attentive posi­tions seemed the general tendency. The old Pro­fessor, in the meantime, had sunk into one of the empty chairs. The speaker went on with more gai­ety :‑

"I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet1—

Last birthday I weighed thirty-three !—An' I weigh thirty yet !

I'm awful little fer my size—I'm purt' nigh littler 'an Some babies is !—an' neighbers all calls me 'The Little Man' !

An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: 'I 'spect, first think you know,

You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!' An' nen I laughed—till I looked round an' Aunty was a­cryin'—

Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got `Curv'ture of the Spine'!"

AT ZEKESBURY                     2655

Just in front of me a great broad-shouldered countryman, with a rainy smell in his cumbrous overcoat, cleared his throat vehemently, looked startled at the sound, and again settled forward, his weedy chin resting on the knuckles of his hands as they tightly clutched the seat before him. And it was like being taken into a childish confidence as the quaint speech continued :—

"I set—while Aunty's washin'—on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys an' girls a-skippin' by to school; An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say: `Who wants to fight The Little Man at dares you all to‑

day?'

An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through,

An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feard o' you!'

An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine

They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine' !"

"Well," whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought, "of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time, don't you?"

"I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of a child that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, as he surely must ! There ; listen !" And the plaintive gaiety of the homely poem ran on :—

2656                  AT ZEKESBURY

"At evening, when the ironin"s done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire,

An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it higher,

An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' locked the kitchen door,

An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the floor

She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea, An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg fer me; An' sometimes—when I cough so hard—her elderberry

wine

Don't go so bad fer little boys with `Curv'ture of the Spine'!"

"Look !" whispered my friend, touching me with his elbow. "Look at the Professor !"

"Look at everybody !" said I. And the artless little voice went on again half quaveringly

"But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see, I'm 'most afeard she'll be took down—an"at's what bothers me

!‑

'Cause of my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die, I don't know what she'd do in Heaven—till I come, by an' by :—

Fer she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know, An' no one there like me, to nurse an' worry over so !­'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong

an' fine,

They's nary angel 'bout the place with `Curv'ture of the Spine'!"

The old Professor's face was in his handkerchief ; so was my friend's in his ; and so was mine in mine,

AT ZEKESBURY                      2657

as even now my pen drops and I reach for it again.

I half regret joining the mad party that had gath­ered an hour later in the old law office where these two graceless characters held almost nightly revel, the instigators and conniving hosts of a reputed banquet whose menu's range confined itself to her­rings, or "blind robins," dried beef, and cheese, with crackers, gingerbread, and sometimes pie ; the whole washed down with anything but

"-Wines that heaven knows when Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun, And kept it through a hundred years of gloom Still glowing in a heart of ruby."

But the affair was memorable. The old Professor was himself lured into it and loudest in his praise