chatty style, without any hint of attempt to cover a subject either
  completely or logically, that they approach the essay form.=

  =_Washington on Horseback_ is an article that closely resembles an
  essay. It is discursive, anecdotal, wandering and is much like a
  pleasant talk about Washington and his love of horses. Although the
  writer keeps himself entirely behind the scenes it is evident that
  he is a man who admires horses as well as manliness and courage.=

“The best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that
could be seen on horseback,” was Thomas Jefferson's opinion of his
great fellow-Virginian, George Washington. From his early boyhood, a
passionate fondness for the horse was a strong and lasting trait of our
foremost American.

When a little boy of eight, he was given his first riding-lessons on
his pony Hero by Uncle Ben, an old servant (perhaps a slave) of his
father's.

On one occasion, when under the paternal eye, he tried over and over
again to leap his pony. When he finally succeeded in doing so, both
rider and pony fell; but jumping up, the boy was quickly in the saddle
again, his father, a masterful man who hated defeat, exclaiming, “That
was ill ridden; try it again!” This happening near their home, his
mother rushed out, greatly alarmed, and begged them to stop. Finding
her entreaties were unheeded, she returned to the house protesting that
her boy would “surely be murdered!” And during all of her long life
this dread of the dangers her son incurred was one of her striking
characteristics.

This early training in riding, however, was greatly to the boy's
advantage; for his satisfaction in conquering horses and training them
made him a fine horseman and prepared him for the coming years when he
was to be so much in the saddle.

A notable instance of early intrepidity in the tall and athletic boy,
in his early teens, in mastering a wild, unmanageable colt is related
by G. W. P. Custis,[52] Washington's adopted son. The story goes that
this colt, a thoroughbred sorrel, was a favorite of Washington's
mother, her husband having been much attached to him. Of a vicious
nature, no one had thus far ventured to ride him; so before breakfast
one morning, George, aided by some of his companions, corraled the
animal and succeeded in getting bit and bridle in place.

Leaping on his back, the venturesome youth was soon tearing around the
enclosure at breakneck speed, keeping his seat firmly and managing his
mount with a skill that surprised and relieved the fears of the other
boys. An unlooked-for end to the struggle came, however, when, with a
mighty effort, the horse reared and plunged with such violence that he
burst a blood-vessel and in a moment was dead.

Looking at the fallen steed, the boys asked “What's to be done? Who
will tell the tale?” The answer soon had to be given; for when they
went in to the morning meal, Mrs. Washington asked if they had seen her
favorite horse. Noting their embarrassment, she repeated the question;
when George spoke up and told the whole story of the misadventure.
“George, I forgive you, because you have had the courage to tell the
truth at once,” was her characteristic reply.

Upon their father's death, his accomplished brother Lawrence took an
active interest in George's education and development. The boy had
taken a strong hold on Lawrence's affection, which the younger brother
returned by a devoted attachment. Among other accomplishments, George
was encouraged to perfect his horsemanship by the promise of a horse,
together with some riding clothes from London--especially a red coat
and a pair of spurs, sure to appeal to the spirit and daring of the
youth.

His first hunting venture, as told by Dr. Weir Mitchell[53] in “The
Youth of Washington,” occurred on a Saturday morning,--a school
holiday even in those days,--when, there being none to hinder, George
having persuaded an old groom to saddle a hunter, he galloped off to
a fox-hunting “meet” four miles away. Greatly amused, the assembled
huntsmen asked if he could stay on, and if the horse knew he had a
rider? To which George replied that the big sorrel he rode knew his
business; and he was in at the kill of two foxes. On the way back
the horse went lame, and on arriving at the stable the rider saw an
overseer about to punish Sampson, the groom, for letting the boy take
a horse that was about to be sold. He quickly dismounted and snatched
the whip from the overseer's hand, exclaiming that he was to blame and
should be whipped first. The man answered that his mother would decide
what to do; but the boy never heard of the matter again. The anger he
showed on this occasion caused old Sampson to admonish him never to
“get angry with a horse.”

When about sixteen, George lived a great part of the time at Mount
Vernon, Lawrence's home, where he made many friends among the “Old
Dominion” gentry, the most prominent of them being Thomas, Lord
Fairfax, an eccentric old bachelor, residing with his kindred at
Belvoir, an adjoining estate on the Potomac. As this had been the
home of Anne Fairfax, Lawrence's wife, the brothers were ever welcome
guests. Attracted to each other by the fact that both were bold and
skilful riders and by their love of horses, a lifelong friendship was
formed between the tall Virginian, a stripling in his teens, and the
elderly English nobleman, and many a hard ride they took together, with
a pack of hounds, over the rough country, chasing the gray foxes of
that locality.

Settled at Mount Vernon, in the years following his marriage and up
to the beginning of the War for Independence, Washington found great
pleasure in his active, out-of-door life, his greatest amusement being
the hunt, which gratified to the full his fondness for horses and dogs.

His stables were full, numbering at one time one hundred and forty
horses, among them some of the finest animals in Virginia. Magnolia,
an Arabian, was a favorite riding-horse; while Chinkling, Valiant,
Ajax, and Blue-skin were also high-bred hunters. His pack of hounds was
splendidly trained, and “meets” were held three times a week in the
hunting season.

After breakfasting by candle-light, a start was made at daybreak.
Splendidly mounted, and dressed in a blue coat, scarlet vest, buckskin
breeches, and velvet cap, and in the lead,--for it was Washington's
habit to stay close up with the hounds,--the excitement of the chase
possessed a strong fascination for him.

These hunting parties are mentioned in many brief entries in his
diaries. In 1768, he writes: “Mr. Bryan Fairfax, Mr. Grayson, and Phil
Alexander came home by sunrise. Hunted and catched a fox with these:
Lord Fairfax, his brother, and Colonel Fairfax and his brother; all of
whom with Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Wilson of England dined here.” Again, on
November 26 and 29: “Hunted again with the same party.” 1768,--January
8: “Hunting again with the same company--started a fox and run him four
hours.” Thus we learn from his own pen how frequently this manly sport,
that kept him young and strong, was followed by the boldest rider in
all Virginia.

A seven-years absence during the war caused the hunting establishment
of Mount Vernon to run down considerably; but on returning in 1783,
after peace came, the sport was renewed vigorously for a time.

Blue-skin, an iron-gray horse of great endurance in a long run, was
the general's favorite mount during those days. With Billy Lee, the
huntsman, blowing the big French horn, a present from Lafayette,--the
fox was chased at full speed over the rough fields and through such
tangled woods and thickets as would greatly astonish the huntsmen of
to-day.

What with private affairs, official visits, and the crowd of guests at
his home, Washington felt obliged to give up this sport he so loved,
for his last hunt with the hounds is said to have been in 1785.

To return to his youthful days. At sixteen he was commissioned to
survey Lord Fairfax's vast estates, and soon after was appointed
a public surveyor. The three years of rough toil necessitated by
his calling were spent continually in the saddle. Those youthful
surveys, being made with George's characteristic thoroughness, stand
unquestioned to this day.

The beginning of his active military career started with a long,
difficult journey of five hundred miles to the French fort on the Ohio,
most of which was made in the saddle. It was hard traveling for the
young adjutant general of twenty-one accompanied by a small escort.
On the return journey, the horses were abandoned, and it was when
traveling on foot that his miraculous escapes from a shot fired by a
treacherous Indian guide and from drowning, occurred.

When, in 1755, the British expedition against the French fort on
the Monongahela, commanded by General Braddock, started out from
Alexandria, Washington, acting as one of the general's aides, was
too ill to start with it; but when the day of action came, the day
that the French and Indians ambushed the “red-coats,” the young
Virginia colonel, although still weak, rode everywhere on the field of
slaughter, striving to rally the panic-stricken regulars; and although
two horses had been shot under him, he was the only mounted officer
left at the end of the fight.

On the occasion of Washington's first visit to Philadelphia, New
York, and Boston, in 1756, he rode the whole distance, with two aides
and servants, to confer with Governor Shirley of Massachusetts and
settle with him the question of his army rank. He was appropriately
equipped for his mission, and the description of the little cavalcade
is very striking. Washington, in full uniform of a Virginia colonel, a
white-and-scarlet cloak, sword-knot of red and gold, his London-made
holsters and saddle-cloth trimmed with his livery “lace” and the
Washington arms, his aides also in uniform, with the servants in their
white-and-scarlet liveries, their cocked hats edged with silver,
bringing up the rear, attracted universal notice. Everywhere he was
received with enthusiasm, his fame having gone before him. Dined
and fêted in Philadelphia and New York, he spent ten days with the
hospitable royal governor of Massachusetts. The whole journey was a
success, bringing him, as it did, in contact with new scenes and people.

It seems noteworthy that in accounts of the campaigns and battles of
the Revolution such frequent mention is made of the commander-in-chief
on horseback. From the time he rode from Philadelphia to take command
of the army at Cambridge, in 1775, down to the capitulation of Yorktown
in 1783, his horses were an important factor in his campaigns. Among
many such incidents, a notable one is that which occurred when, after
the defeat of the Americans at Brooklyn and their retreat across the
river to New York, Washington in his report to Congress wrote: “Our
passage across the East River was effected yesterday morning; and for
forty-eight hours preceding that I had hardly been off my horse and
never closed my eyes.” He was, in fact, the last to leave, remaining
until all his troops had been safely ferried across.

An all-night ride to Princeton, in bitter cold, over frozen roads, and,
when day dawned, riding fearlessly over the field to rally his men,
reining in his charger within thirty yards of the enemy, forms another
well-known incident.

At the battle of Brandywine an old farmer was pressed into service to
lead the way to where the battle was raging, and he relates that as his
horse took the fences Washington was continually at his side, saying
repeatedly: “Push along, old man; push along!” Shortly after the
defeat at Brandywine, General Howe's advance regiments were attacked
at Germantown; and here, as at Princeton, Washington, in spite of the
protests of his officers, rode recklessly to the front when things were
going wrong.

After the hard winter at Valley Forge, and when in June of 1778 the
British abandoned Philadelphia he took up the march to Sandy Hook,
Washington resolved to attack them on their route. On crossing the
Delaware in pursuit of the enemy, Governor William Livingston of New
Jersey presented to the commander-in-chief a splendid white horse, upon
which he hastened to the battle-field of Monmouth.

Mr. Custis in his “Recollections of Washington,” states that on the
morning of the twenty-eighth of June, he rode, and _for that time only_
during the war, a white charger. Galloping forward, he met General
Charles Lee,[54] with the advanced guard, falling back in confusion.
Indignant at the disobedience of his orders, Washington expressed his
wrath in peremptory language, Lee being ordered to the rear. Riding
back and forth through the fire of the enemy, animating his soldiers,
and recalling them to their duty he reformed the lines and turned the
battle tide by his vigorous measures. From the overpowering heat of
the day, and the deep and sandy soil, his spirited white horse sank
under him and expired. A chestnut mare, of Arabian stock, was quickly
mounted, this beautiful animal being ridden through the rest of the
battle. Lafayette, always an ardent admirer of Washington, told in
later years of Monmouth, where he had commanded a division, and how his
beloved chief, splendidly mounted, cheered on his men. “I thought then
as now,” said the enthusiastic Frenchman, “that never had I beheld so
superb a man.”

Of all his numerous war-horses, the greatest favorite was Nelson--a
large, light sorrel, with white face and legs, named after the patriot
governor of Virginia. In many battles,--often under fire,--Nelson had
carried his great master and was the favored steed at the crowning
event of the war--the capitulation of Yorktown.

Living to a good old age, and never ridden after Washington ceased
to mount him, the veteran charger was well taken care of, grazing in
a paddock through the summers. And often, as the retired general and
President made the rounds of his fields, the old war-horse would run
neighing to the fence, to be caressed by the hand of his former master.

During the eight years of his Presidency, Washington frequently took
exercise on horseback, his stables containing at that time as many as
ten coach- and saddle-horses.

When in Philadelphia, then the seat of government, the President owned
two pure white saddle-horses, named Prescott and Jackson, the former
being a splendid animal, which, while accustomed to cannon-fire, waving
flags, or martial music, had a bad habit of dancing about and shying
when a coach, especially one containing ladies, would stop to greet the
President. The other white horse, Jackson, was an Arab, with flowing
mane and tail, but, being an impetuous and fretful animal, he was not a
favorite.

A celebrated riding-teacher used to say that he loved “to see the
general ride; his seat is so firm, his management of his mount so easy
and graceful, that I, who am a professor of horsemanship, would go to
him and _learn to ride_.”

Since his early boyhood, the only recorded fall from a horse that
Washington had was once on his return to Mount Vernon from Alexandria.
His horse on this occasion, while an easy-gaited one, was scary. When
Washington was about to mount and rise in the stirrup, the animal,
alarmed by the glare of a fire by the roadside, sprang from under his
rider, who fell heavily to the ground. Fearing that he was hurt, his
companions rushed to his assistance, but the vigorous old gentleman,
getting quickly on his feet, assured them that, though his tumble was
complete, he was unhurt. Having been only poised in his stirrup and not
yet in the saddle, he had a fall no horseman could prevent when a scary
animal sprang from under him. Vicious propensities in horses never
troubled Washington; he only required them to go along.

An amusing anecdote is told of one of Washington's secretaries,
Colonel David Humphreys. The colonel was a lively companion and a
great favorite, and on one of their rides together he challenged his
chief to jump a hedge. Always ready to accept a challenge of this
sort, Washington told him to “go ahead,” whereupon Humphreys cleared
the hedge, but landed in the ditch on the other side up to his
saddle-girth. Riding up and smiling at his mud-bespattered friend,
Washington observed, “Ah, Colonel, you are too deep for me!”

On the Mount Vernon estates, during the years of retirement from all
public office, his rides of inspection were from twelve to fourteen
miles a day, usually at a moderate pace; but being the most punctual
of men, he would, if delayed, display the horsemanship of earlier days
by a hard gallop so as to be in time for the first dinner-bell at a
quarter of three.

A last glimpse of this great man in the saddle, is as an old gentleman,
in plain drab clothes, a broad-brimmed white hat, carrying a hickory
switch, with a long-handled umbrella hung at his saddle-bow--such was
the description given of him by Mr. Custis to an elderly inquirer who
was in search of the general on a matter of business.

                         SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

     1. What is the effect of the opening quotation?

     2. Point out all the ways in which the article resembles an essay.

     3. Show that the article does not follow a strictly logical plan.

     4. Show in what respects the article differs from ordinary magazine
        articles.

     5. What characterizes the style of the article?

     6. How does the writer make the article interesting?

     7. What hints of the writer's personality does the article give?

     8. What does the article say concerning the character of
        Washington?

     9. Summarize what is said concerning Washington as a horseman.

    10. How much is said about the biography of Washington?

                    SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

      1. U. S. Grant as a Horseman         11. William Morris as a
                                                  Workman
      2. Alexander the Great               12. Charles Dickens as
            as a Horseman                         a Humanitarian
      3. Napoleon as a Horseman            13. Shakespeare as a Punster
            Story Teller
      4. Abraham Lincoln as a              14. Milton as a Husband
      5. Longfellow as a Lover of          15. Robert Louis Stevenson
            Children                              as a Traveler
      6. Ralph Waldo Emerson as a          16. Samuel Johnson
            Neighbor                              as a Friend
      7. Henry David Thoreau               17. Jack London as a Wanderer
            as an Explorer
      8. Benjamin Franklin as an           18. Theodore Roosevelt
            Originator                            as a Fighter
      9. Charles Lamb as a Brother         19. Mark Twain as a Humorist
     10. Queen Elizabeth as a Woman        20. Edison as an Inventor

 [Illustration: =Colonel Humphreys landed in the ditch.=]   (_page 116_)

                        DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

Select both a subject and a theme in which you are interested. Take
your note-book and consult encyclopedias, histories, and books of
biography, noting down everything that has relation to your particular
subject and theme. Hunt especially for interesting anecdotes; if they
are humorous,--so much the better.

You will do well to introduce your article with an appropriate
quotation. Make your writing as conversational and as anecdotal as
possible. Don't be in the least bit encyclopedic. Be gossipy.

                              FOOTNOTES:

[52] George Washington Parke Custis (1781-1857). The adopted son of
George Washington.

[53] Dr. S. Weir Mitchell (1829-1914). An American physician and
novelist. His novel, _Hugh Wynne_, concerns the life of Washington.

[54] General Charles Lee (1731-1782). An American Revolutionary General
court-martialed for disobedience at the battle of Monmouth, 1778.

                         THE HISTORICAL STORY

                           HAVELOK THE DANE
                        By GEORGE PHILIP KRAPP

    _(1872--). Professor of English in Columbia University. He is
    a member of many scholarly societies, and has written much on
    English. Among his books are_ The Elements of English Grammar; In
    Oldest England; The Rise of English Literary Prose.

  =The story of _Havelok the Dane_ is one of the oldest of English
  stories; for the story that is here told is only a re-telling
  of a narrative that originated nearly a thousand years ago. The
  first story of Havelok was probably written in Anglo-Saxon in the
  eleventh century or in the first half of the twelfth century. It
  was told in French about 1150, and re-told in English about 1300.
  Some critics find close relation between the story of Havelok and
  the story of Hamlet.=

  =In all probability there was a real Havelok who may have lived in
  the latter part of the tenth century, and who may have participated
  in events like those told in the story. It is probable that as
  stories of his romantic career were repeated they increased,--just
  as gossip increases. The facts became lost in a body of romantic
  events. The Havelok of the story is therefore a character of
  fiction.=

  =The story is interesting in many ways. First of all, it is a
  remarkably good story, very human and capable of awakening
  sympathy, full of quick event, centered around the fascinating
  subjects of youth, adventure and love, and picturesque in its
  details and episodes. Then it is an old story,--ten centuries
  old,--and is interesting as a relic of the past. In addition, it
  shows remarkably well what sort of stories preceded the short
  stories and the novels of to-day, and how the old stories sometimes
  grew from a mingling of fact and imagination.=

  =In reading the story of _Havelok the Dane_ we stand, as it were,
  in the presence of one of the story tellers of the extreme past.
  Around us we feel castle walls and the presence of rough fighting
  men. The flames of the great fireplace flare on our faces, and we
  listen with childlike interest.=

Many years ago, in the days of the Angles and Saxons, there was once a
king of England whose name was Athelwold. In that time a traveler might
bear fifty pounds of good red gold on his back throughout the length
and breadth of England, and no one would dare molest him. Robbers and
thieves were afraid to ply their calling, and all wrong-doers were
careful to keep out of the way of King Athelwold's officers. That was a
king worth while.

Now this good King Athelwold had no heir to his throne but one young
daughter, and Goldborough was her name. Unhappily, when she was just
old enough to walk, a heavy sickness fell upon King Athelwold, and he
saw that his days were numbered. He grieved greatly that his daughter
was not old enough to rule and to become queen of England after him,
and called all the lords and barons of England to come to him at
Winchester to consult concerning the welfare of his kingdom and of his
daughter.

Finally it was decided that Godrich, Earl of Cornwall, who was one
of the bravest, and, everybody said, one of the truest, men in all
England, should take charge of the child Goldborough and rule the
kingdom for her until she was old enough to be made queen. On the
Holy Book, Earl Godrich swore to be true to this trust which he had
undertaken, and he also swore, as the king commanded, that when
Goldborough reached the proper age, he would marry her to the highest,
the fairest, and the strongest man in the kingdom. When all this was
done, the king's mind was at rest, for he had the greatest faith in the
honor of Earl Godrich. It was not long thereafter that the end came.
There was great grief at the death of the good king, but Godrich ruled
in his stead and was the richest and most powerful of all the earls in
England. We shall say no more about him while Goldborough is growing
older, and in the end we shall see whether Earl Godrich was true to his
trust and to the promises he had given to Goldborough's father.

Now it happened, at this same time, that there was a king in Denmark
whose name was Birkabeyn. Three children he had, who were as dear
to him as life itself. One of these was a son of five years, and he
was called Havelok. The other two were daughters, and one was named
Swanborough and the other Elflad. Now when King Birkabeyn most wished
to live, the hand of death was suddenly laid upon him. As soon as he
realized that his days in this life were over, he looked about for some
one to take care of his three young children, and no one seemed so fit
for this office as the Earl Godard. To Godard, therefore, he intrusted
the care of his three children, and Godard faithfully promised to guard
them until the boy Havelok was old enough to become king of Denmark.

Scarcely, however, was the body of King Birkabeyn laid away in
the grave, before the faithless Godard began to plot evil, and he
determined to be himself king of Denmark. So he took Havelok and his
two sisters and cast them into prison in a great stone castle.

In this prison the poor little children almost perished from cold and
hunger, but they little knew that still worse misfortune was in store
for them. For one day Earl Godard went to the castle where they were
imprisoned, and Havelok and his sisters fell on their knees before him
and begged for mercy. “What do you want?” said Godard. “Why all this
weeping and howling?” And the children said they were very hungry. “No
one comes to give us of food and drink the half part that we need. We
are so hungry that we are well nigh dead.”

When Godard heard this, his heart was not touched, but, on the
contrary, it grew harder within him. He led the two little girls away
with him, and took away the lives of these innocent children; and he
intended to do the same with young Havelok. But the terrified boy again
fell on his knees before Godard and cried: “Have pity upon me, Earl
Godard! Here I offer homage to you. All Denmark I will give to you if
you will but let me live. I will be your man, and against you never
raise spear nor shield.”

Now when Godard heard this and when he looked down at young Havelok,
the rightful heir to the throne of Denmark, his arm grew weak, though
his heart was as hard as ever. He knew that if he was ever to become
king, Havelok must die; but he could not bring himself to the point of
taking the life of his lawful sovereign.

So he cast about in his mind for some other way to get rid of him. He
sent for a poor fisherman whose name was Grim. Now Grim was Godard's
thrall, or slave, and was bound to do whatever Godard asked of him.
When Grim had come to him, Godard said: “Thou knowest, Grim, thou art
my thrall, and must do whatever I bid thee. To-morrow thou shalt be
free and a rich man if thou wilt take this boy that I give thee and
sink him to-night deep down in the sea. All the sin I will take upon
myself.”

Grim was not a bad man, but the promise of his freedom was a sore
temptation, and besides, Godard, his master, had said that he would be
responsible for the deed. So Grim took Havelok, not knowing, of course,
who he was, and put him in a sack and carried him off to his little
cottage by the seashore, intending that night to row out to deep water
and throw him overboard.

Now when it came midnight, Grim got up from his bed, and bade his wife,
Dame Leve, bring a light for he must go out and keep his promise to
Earl Godard. But when Leve went into the other room, where Havelok was
lying bound and gagged, what was her surprise to see that there was
already a light in the room. Right over Havelok's head it seemed to
stand; but where it came from, she could not guess.

“Stir up, Grim,” she cried, “and see what this light is here in our
cot!”

And Grim came running in, and he too saw the strange light and was as
surprised as Leve had been. Then he uncovered Havelok, and there on his
right shoulder he saw a birthmark, bright and fair, and knew from this,
right away, that this boy was Havelok, the son of King Birkabeyn. When
Grim realized this, he fell on his knees before Havelok and said, “Have
mercy on me and on Leve, my wife, here by me! For thou art our rightful
king and therefore in everything we should serve thee.” Then when Grim
had unbound him and had taken the gag out of his mouth, Havelok was a
happy boy again; and the first thing he asked for was something to eat.
And Dame Leve brought bread and cheese, and butter and milk and cookies
and cakes, and for the first time in many a long day Havelok had all he
wanted to eat. Then when Havelok had satisfied his hunger, Grim made a
good bed for him and told him to go to sleep and to fear nothing.

Now the next morning, Grim went to the wicked traitor Godard and
claimed his reward. But little he knew the faithlessness of Godard.

“What!” cried Godard, “wilt thou now be an earl? Go home, and be as
thou wert before, a thrall and a churl. If I ever hear of this again,
I will have thee led to the gallows, for thou hast done a wicked deed.
Home with you, and keep out of my way, if you know what is good for
you!”

When Grim saw this new proof of the wickedness of Earl Godard, he
ran home as fast as he could. He knew that his life was not safe in
Godard's hands, especially if the earl should ever find out that
Havelok was still alive. Grim had hoped to get money from Earl Godard
with which to escape to some other country, but now he saw that he
would have to depend on his own means. Secretly he sold all that he had
and when he had got the ready money for it, he bought him a ship and
painted it with tar and pitch, and fitted it out with cables and oars
and a mast and sail. Not a nail was lacking that a good ship should
have. Last of all Grim put in this ship his good wife Dame Leve, and
his three sons and two daughters and Havelok, and off they sailed to
the open ocean. They had not been sailing very long, however, before a
wind came out of the north and drove them toward England. At the river
Humber they finally reached land, and there on the sand near Lindesey,
Grim drew his ship up on the shore. A little cot he straightway built
for his family; and since this was Grim's home, the town that gradually
grew up there in later days came to be named Grimsby, and if you will
look on the map, you will find that so it is called to this very day.

Now Grim was a very good fisherman, and he decided to make his living
here in England by fishing. Many a good fish he took from the sea, with
net and spear and hook. He had four large baskets made, one for himself
and one for each of his three sons, and when they had caught their
fish, off they carried them to the people in the towns and country,
to sell them. Sometimes they went as far inland as the good town of
Lincoln.

Thus they lived peacefully and happily for ten years or more, and
by this time Havelok was become a youth full grown. But Grim never
told Havelok who he was, nor did he tell any of his three sons or two
daughters. And Havelok soon entirely forgot all about what had happened
to him in Denmark. And so he grew up, happy as the days were long,
and astonishingly healthy and strong. He was big of bone and broad of
shoulder and the equal of a man in strength.

Now after a time, Havelok began to think to himself that Grim was
working very hard to make a living, while he was amusing himself in
ease and idleness. “Surely,” said he to himself, “I am no longer a
boy. I am big and strong, and alone I eat more than Grim and his five
children. It's high time for me to bear baskets and work for my living.
No longer will I stay at home, but to-morrow I too shall go forth and
sell fish.” And so in the morning, as soon as it was light of day, he
put a basket on his back, as the others did, piled high with fish, as
much as a good strong man might carry. But Havelok bore the burden
well, and he sold the fish well, and the money he brought back home
to Grim, every penny of it. Thus Havelok became a fisherman; he went
forth every day with his basket on his back and sold fish, and was the
tallest and strongest monger of them all.

Now it happened after a time that Grim fared not so well With his
fishing. The fish would not come to his nets, and with no fish in the
nets, there was none for the baskets and for market. To make matters
worse, at this same time there was a great famine in the land, and poor
people suffered greatly from lack of food to eat. These were hard times
for Grim and his houseful of children. Yet less for his own did Grim
grieve than for the sturdy Havelok. Moreover, Grim had long thought
that this work of fishing and fish-selling, though good enough for
himself and his three sons, was hardly the right life for Havelok, who,
though he knew nothing about it, was nevertheless a king's son.

“Havelok, my boy,” said he, at length, “it is not well for thee to
dwell here too long with us. Though it will grieve us sorely to have
thee go, out into the world thou must venture, and perhaps there
thou shalt make thy fortune. Here thou seest we are but miserable
fisher-folk; but at Lincoln, the fine city, there thou mayst find some
great man whom thou canst serve. But, alas!” he added, “so poor are we
that thou hast not even a coat wherein to go.”

Then Grim took down the shears from the nail and made Havelok a coat
out of the sail to his boat, and this was Grim's last gift to Havelok.
No hose and no shoes had Havelok to wear, but barefoot and naked,
except for his long coat of sail-cloth, he left his good friends Grim
and Dame Leve and their five children and set out for the town of
Lincoln.

When Havelok reached Lincoln, he wandered about bewildered in the
streets of the city. But nobody seemed to have any use for him; nobody
wanted to exchange the strength of his powerful arms for food to eat.
As he wandered from one street to another, Havelok grew hungrier and
hungrier. By great good chance, however, he passed by the bridge where
the market was, and there stood a great earl's cook, who was buying
fish and meat and other food for the earl's table. Now he had just
finished buying when Havelok happened along, and the cook shouted,
“Porter, porter!” for somebody to come to carry his marketing home.
Instantly ten or a dozen jumped for the chance, for there were plenty
of men looking for work in Lincoln. But Havelok got ahead of them all;
he pushed them this way and that and sent them sprawling head over
heels, and seized hold of the cook's baskets, without so much as a “By
your leave.” Rough and ready was the young Havelok, as strong as a bear
and as hungry as a savage. He made quick time of the journey to the
cook's kitchen, and there he was well fed as pay for his labor.

By the next day, however, Havelok's stomach was again empty. But he
knew the time at which the earl's cook came to the market, and he
waited there for him. Again when the cook had finished buying, he
called out “Porter, porter!” and again the husky Havelok shoved the
rest right and left and carried off the cook's baskets. He spared
neither toes nor heels until he came to the earl's castle and had put
down his burden in the kitchen.

Then the cook, whose name was Bertram, stood there and looked at
Havelok and laughed. “This is certainly a stalwart fellow enough,” he
thought. “Will you stay with me?” he said finally to Havelok. “I will
feed you well, and well you seem to be able to pay for your feeding.”

And Havelok was glad enough to take the offer. “Give me but enough to
eat,” he answered, “and I will build your fires and carry your water,
and I can make split sticks to skin eels with, and cut wood and wash
dishes, and do anything you want me to do.”

The cook told Havelok to sit down and eat as much as he wanted, and you
can be sure Havelok was not slow in accepting this invitation. When
he had satisfied his hunger, Havelok went out and filled a large tub
of water for the kitchen, and, to the cook's great astonishment, he
carried it in, without any help, in his own two hands. Such a cook's
knave had never been seen in that kitchen before!

So Havelok became a kitchen-boy in a great earl's castle. He was always
gay and laughing, blithe of speech and obliging, for he was young and
thoughtless and healthy, and happy so long as he had something to put
into his stomach. He played with the children and they all loved him,
for, with all his great strength and stature, he was as gentle as the
gentlest child among them. And Bertram, the cook, seeing that Havelok
had nothing to wear except his old sail-cloth coat that Grim had made
for him, bought Havelok a brand-new coat and hose and shoes; and when
Havelok was dressed up in his new clothes, there was not a finer fellow
in the whole country. He stood head and shoulders above the rest when
the youths came together for their games at Lincoln, and no one ever
tried a round at wrestling with Havelok without being thrown almost
before he knew it. He was the tallest and strongest man in all that
region, and, what was better, he was as good and gentle as he was
strong.

Now, as it happened, the earl in whose kitchen Havelok served as
kitchen-boy to Bertram the cook was that very Earl Godrich to whom old
King Athelwold had entrusted his daughter, Goldborough, for protection.
Goldborough was now a beautiful young princess, and Godrich realized
that something must soon be done for her. But Godrich had become the
strongest baron in all England; and though he had not forgotten his
promises to Athelwold, little did he think to let the power, to which
he had grown so accustomed, pass into the hands of another. For though
the beautiful Goldborough was now old enough to be made queen, the
traitorous Godrich had decided in his heart that queen she should never
be, but that when he died, his son should be made king after him.

Just about this time it happened that Earl Godrich summoned a great
parliament of all the nobles of England to meet at Lincoln. When the
parliament met, there was a great throng of people there from all over
England, and the bustling city was very gay and lively. Many young men
came thither with their elders, bent on having a good time, strong
lads fond of wrestling and other such games. Now these young men were
amusing themselves one day in one way and another, and finally they
began to “put the stone.” The stone was big and heavy, and it was not
every man who could lift it even as high as his knees. But these strong
fellows who had come to Lincoln in the train of the mighty barons could
lift it up and put it a dozen or more feet in front of them; and the
one who put it the farthest, if it was only an inch ahead of the rest,
he was counted the champion at putting the stone.

Now these stout lads were standing around and boasting about the best
throws, and Havelok stood by listening. He knew nothing about putting
the stone, for he had never done it or seen it done before. But his
master, Bertram the cook, was also there, and he insisted that Havelok
should have a try at it. So Havelok took up the great stone, and at the
first throw, he put it a foot and more beyond the best throw of the
others.

The news of Havelok's record throw in some way spread abroad, how he
had beaten all these strong lads, and how tall and powerful he was. And
finally the knights in the great hall of the castle began speaking of
it, and Earl Godrich listened, for he had suddenly thought of a way to
keep his promise. In a word, it was this: King Athelwold had made him
swear on the Holy Book that he would give his daughter in marriage to
the highest and strongest in the realm of England. Now where could he
find a higher and stronger than this Havelok? He would marry the king's
daughter to this kitchen-boy, and thus, though in a way that the old
king never dreamed of, he would keep his promise and still leave the
road free for himself and his son after him.

Godrich straightway sent for Goldborough, and told her that he had
found a husband for her, the tallest and fairest man in all England.
And Goldborough answered that no man should wed her unless he was a
king or a king's heir.

At this Godrich grew very angry. “Thou shalt marry whom I please!”
he commanded. “Dost thou think thou shalt be queen and lady over me?
I will choose a husband for thee. To-morrow shalt thou wed my cook's
kitchen-boy and none other, and he shall be lord over thee.”

Goldborough wept and prayed; but she could not turn Godrich from his
shameful purpose.

Then Godrich sent for Havelok, and when he had come before him, he
said, “Fellow, do you want a wife?”

“Nay, truly,” said Havelok, “no wife for me! What should I do with a
wife? I have neither clothing nor shoes nor food for her, neither house
nor home to put her in. I own not a stick in the world, and even the
coat I bear on my back belongs to Bertram the cook.”

But Godrich told Havelok he must marry the wife he had chosen for him,
willy-nilly, or he should suffer for it. And finally Havelok, for
fear of his life, consented, and Goldborough was sent for, and the
Archbishop of York came, and soon they were married, one as unwilling
as the other.

But when the wedding was over, and gifts had been given to Goldborough,
rich and plenty, Havelok was perplexed. He beheld the beauty of
Goldborough and was afraid to remain at Godrich's castle for fear of
treachery that might befall her. For Goldborough now had only Havelok
to protect her, since the kitchen-boy had become her lord and master,
and Havelok, with a man's courage, determined to defend her to the best
of his ability. The first thing to do, as it seemed to him, was to go
back to Grim's cottage, there to think over the matter carefully before
acting further. And straightway, in company with Goldborough, he set
out secretly for the little cot by the seashore.

When Havelok and Goldborough came to Grim's house, he found that
there had been many sad changes during the time he had been living
in Lincoln. In the first place, the good Grim had died, and also his
wife, Dame Leve. But the three sons of Grim and his two daughters were
still living at Grimsby, and they still caught the fish of the sea and
carried them about in baskets to sell them. The oldest of these sons
was called Robert the Red, and, of the remaining two, one was named
William Wendout, and Hugh the Raven the other. They were filled with
joy when they found that their foster-brother, Havelok, had come back
to them, and they prepared a fine dinner for him and Goldborough. And
Robert the Red begged Havelok now to stay with them at Grimsby and be
their chief and leader. They promised to serve him faithfully, and
their two sisters were eager to care for all the needs of Goldborough,
his wife. But for the time being, Havelok put them off, for he had not
yet decided what would be the best course for him to follow.

Now that night, as Goldborough lay awake, sad and sorrowful, she was
suddenly aware of a bright light, surrounding, as it seemed, the head
of the sleeping Havelok. Then at the same time, there came a voice, she
could not tell whence, which said to her: “Goldborough, be no longer
sorrowful, for Havelok, who hath wedded thee, is a king's son and heir.
Upon his shoulder he bears a royal birthmark to prove it. The day shall
come when he will be king both in Denmark and in England, and thou
shalt be of both realms queen and lady.”

Now just at this same time, Havelok dreamed a strange dream; and when
he awoke, he told his dream to Goldborough. He dreamed that he was
sitting on a high hill in Denmark, and when he stretched out his arms,
they were so long that they reached to the farthest limits of the
land; and when he drew his arms together to his breast, everything in
Denmark, all the towns, and the country, and the lordly castles, all
cleaved to his arms and were drawn into his embrace. Then he dreamed
that he passed over the salt sea with a great host of Danish warriors
to England, and that all England likewise came into his power.

When Goldborough heard this dream, she thought straightway of the
strange light she had seen over Havelok's head and the voice that she
had heard, and she interpreted it to mean that Havelok should be king
over Denmark and afterward over England.

She knew not how this should come to pass, but unhesitatingly advised
Havelok to prepare to set sail for Denmark. Her plan was this: that
they should buy a ship, and take Grim's three sons, Robert the Red,
William Wendout, and Hugh the Raven, with them, and, when they came to
Denmark, pretend that they were merchants until they could find out
what course to follow. And when this plan was told to the three sons
of Grim, they immediately agreed to it, for they were ready to follow
Havelok wherever he went. And now, also, Havelok for the first time
learned who his father was, and that he was really heir to the throne
of Denmark. For Grim, before he left Denmark, had told all of Havelok's
story to a cousin of his, and she now, for she was still alive and had
come to stay with Grim's family at Grimsby, told Havelok all about Earl
Godard's treachery. Happy indeed was Goldborough when she heard this
story, and they were all more anxious than ever to set out for Denmark.
They got a good ship ready, and it was not long before all were well on
their way.

When the ship reached Denmark, they all went up on land and journeyed
forth until they came to the castle of the great Danish baron, Earl
Ubbe. Now Ubbe had been a good friend of Havelok's father, the former
King Birkabeyn, and a good man and true was he. When they reached
Ubbe's castle, Havelok sent word that they were merchants, come to
trade in Ubbe's country, and, as a present, he sent in to Ubbe a gold
ring with a precious stone in the setting.

When Ubbe had received this generous gift, he sent for Havelok to
come to see him. When the young man came, Ubbe was greatly struck by
Havelok's broad shoulders and sturdy frame, and he said to himself:
“What a pity that this chapman is not a knight! He seems better
fitted to wear a helmet on his head and bear a shield and spear than
to buy and sell wares.” But he said nothing of this to Havelok, and
only invited him to come and dine in the castle and to bring his
wife, Goldborough, with him. And Ubbe promised that no dishonor
should be done either to one or the other, and pledged himself as
their protector. And when the dinner was over, Ubbe, who had taken a
great liking to both Havelok and Goldborough, entrusted them to the
safe-keeping of one of his retainers, a stout and doughty warrior whose
name was Bernard the Brown. To Bernard's house, therefore, Havelok and
Goldborough went, and there too were lodged Robert the Red and William
Wendout and Hugh the Raven.

Now when they had reached Bernard's house, and Bernard and Havelok and
Goldborough were sitting there peacefully at supper, the house was
suddenly attacked by a band of fierce robbers. Travelers were not as
safe in Denmark as they were in England in the days of the strong King
Athelwold, and these robbers, thinking that Havelok must be a very
rich man, since he had given so valuable a ring to the Earl Ubbe, were
come now, a greedy gang, to see if they could get hold of some of his
treasure. Before Bernard and his guests were aware of them, the robbers
had reached the door, and they shouted to Bernard to let them in or
they would kill him. But the valiant Bernard recalled that his guests
were in his safe-keeping; and shouting back that the robbers would
have to get in before they could kill him, he jumped up and put on his
coat of mail and seized an ax and leaped to the doorway. Already the
robbers were battering at the door, and they took a huge boulder and
let it fly against the door, so that it shivered to splinters. Then
Havelok mixed in the fray. He seized a heavy wooden door-tree, which
was used to bar the door, and when the robbers tried to break through
the door, he laid on right and left. It was not long before Robert and
William and Hugh, in the other part of the house, heard the din and
came rushing up; and then the fight was on, fast and furious. Robert
seized an oar and William and Hugh had great clubs, and these, with
Bernard's ax and Havelok's door-tree, made it lively enough for the
robbers. But especially Havelok and his door-tree made themselves felt
there. The robbers, for all they were well armed with shields and good
long swords, were compelled to give way before the flail-like strokes
of Havelok's door-tree. When they saw their comrades falling right and
left, those that were still able to do so took to their legs and ran
away. Some harm they did, however, while the fray lasted, for Havelok
had a severe sword-wound in his side, and from several other gashes the
blood was flowing freely.

In the morning, when Bernard the Brown told Ubbe of the attacks of the
robbers, Ubbe swore that he would bring them to punishment; and he also
took further measures to protect Havelok. When he heard that Havelok
was wounded, he had him brought to his own castle and gave him a room
right next to his own.

Now that night, when Havelok lay asleep in his room and Ubbe in the
room next to it, about the middle of the night Ubbe was awakened, and
thought he saw a light on the other side of the door. “What's this?” he
said to himself. “What mischief are they up to in there?” And he got up
to see if everything was all right with his new friend the chapman.

Now when Ubbe peeped through a crack in the door, he saw a strange
sight. For there was Havelok peacefully sleeping, and over his head
there gleamed the miraculous light that Goldborough had seen and that
had caused Grim to spare his life when he was a little child. And
looking closer, Ubbe saw something more. For the cover was thrown
back, and he saw on Havelok's shoulder the royal birthmark, and he
knew immediately that this was the son of his old friend and king,
Birkabeyn, and the rightful heir to the throne of Denmark. Eagerly he
broke open the door and ran in and fell on his knees beside Havelok,
acknowledging him as his lawful lord.

As soon as Havelok realized that he was not dreaming, he saw that good
fortune had at last put him in the way of winning back his rights.

And it had indeed, for Ubbe immediately set to work getting together
an army for Havelok. It was not long before Havelok had a fine body of
fighters ready to follow wherever he led them, and then he thought it
was time to seek out his old enemy, Earl Godard. Before this, however,
there was another thing to be done, and that was to make knights of
Robert and William and Hugh. They were given the stroke on the shoulder
with the flat of the sword by Earl Ubbe and thus were dubbed knights.
They were granted land and other fee, and they became as brave and
powerful barons as any in Denmark.

When Havelok had his plans all made, he set out to find Earl Godard. It
was Robert the Red who had the good fortune first to meet with him. But
Godard was no coward, and was not to be taken without struggle for his
freedom. He defended himself as best he could, but his followers soon
became frightened and took to their heels, leaving the wretched Godard
a helpless prisoner in the hands of Robert. Havelok was glad enough
to have Godard in his power at last, but he made no effort to punish
Godard for the injuries he had done to him personally. It was as a
traitor to his king and his country that Godard was now held prisoner.
When the time of the trial came, by the judgment of his peers, Godard
was convicted of treason and sentence of death was passed upon him.

When peace had again been restored throughout Denmark, then the
people all joyfully accepted Havelok as their king and the beautiful
Goldborough as their queen.

One thing still remained for Havelok to do in England after affairs had
all been settled in Denmark--there still remained an accounting with
Earl Godrich. And so, as soon as he had got his army together, Havelok
and Goldborough went on board ship and sailed over the sea, and soon
they were again back at Grimsby. The earl was ready for him, too, for
he had heard of Havelok's arrival in England, and he thought he could
make quick work of his former kitchen-boy. But Havelok the man, with
a Danish army at his back, was a quite different person from Havelok
the boy, who carried the cook's baskets from market and distinguished
himself only by his record at putting the stone. And this difference
Earl Godrich was soon to discover.

It was Ubbe, this time, who had the first meeting with Godrich. Ubbe
claimed Godrich as his prisoner, but Godrich immediately drew his
sword in self-defense. They fought long and fiercely, and Godrich was
decidedly getting the better of it, when Havelok fortunately appeared
upon the scene. Havelok demanded that Godrich should yield himself as
his prisoner, but for answer Godrich only rushed at Havelok all the
more fiercely with his drawn sword, and so violent was his attack, that
he succeeded in wounding Havelok. At this, Havelok's patience gave out,
and exerting all his powerful strength, in a short time he overcame
Godrich and disarmed him and bound him hand and foot. Then Havelok had
Godrich carried before a jury of his peers in England, where he was
made to answer to the charge of treason, just as Godard had been made
to do in Denmark.

All the English barons acknowledged that Goldborough was their true
queen, and that Godrich was a tyrant and usurper. And since not only
plain justice, but also the welfare of the kingdom, demanded it, the
barons passed the sentence of death upon the traitorous Earl Godrich.
With much feasting and celebration, Havelok and Goldborough were taken
in triumph to London, and there were crowned king and queen of England.
Thus Goldborough's dream had come to pass, for she was now queen and
lady and Havelok was lord and king over both Denmark and England.

But since Havelok could not be in both countries at one time, and
since his Danish friends were eager to get back again to Denmark, now
that their work in England was finished, Havelok made Ubbe ruler over
Denmark in his place, and he remained in England. Moreover there were
other old friends who were also richly deserving of reward. Of these,
one was Bertram the cook, Havelok's former master, who had fed him when
he was starving. Bertram was made a rich baron, and he was married to
one of Grim's daughters, who were still living at Grimsby, but who, of
course, had now become great ladies. The other daughter was married to
Reynes, Earl of Chester, who was a brave young bachelor and glad enough
to get so beautiful and so highly favored a wife as Havelok gave him.
Robert the Red and William Wendout and Hugh the Raven all remained
in England, where they married rich and beautiful wives, and became
Havelok's right-hand men in the good government of the country.

And you can be sure the country was now again well governed. As in
the days of the good King Athelwold, a traveler might bear a bag full
of red gold on his shoulder from one end of England to the other, and
be as safe as though he were guarded by an army of soldiers. Loved
by their subjects and feared by their enemies, thus in peace and
contentment King Havelok and Queen Goldborough dwelt together many a
long year in England, and their children grew up around them. They had
passed through their trials and tribulations, and at last only good
days were in store for them.

This is the end.

                         SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

     1. What advantage does the author gain by using a somewhat archaic
        style?

     2. Why does he tell the story with almost the same simplicity that
        marks the original story?

     3. What events show the character of Havelok?

     4. What is the character of Grim?

     5. What is the character of Goldborough?

     6. In what respects are Earl Godrich and Earl Godard alike?

     7. Show that the story is like some of the familiar nursery
        legends.

     8. Outline the principal events of the narrative.

     9. Which events are most impressive?

    10. Point out local allusions in the story.

    11. In what respects is Havelok truly royal?

    12. Point out any uses of the supernatural.

    13. Is Bertram a realistic or a romantic character?

    14. Point out exceedingly human touches in the story.

    15. Point out the emphasis of noble characteristics.

    16. Show how description adds to the effectiveness of the story.

    17. Show how the story resembles other stories you have read.

    18. What reasons have made the story live for a thousand years?

                    SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

      1. Uncle Tom's Cabin                  11. Robinson Crusoe
      2. Washington's Boyhood               12. Rip Van Winkle
      3. The Story of Treasure Island       13. The Story of Portia
      4. The Story of Ivanhoe               14. The Story of Rosalind
      5. The Vision of Sir Launfal          15. The Story of Viola
      6. Lancelot and Elaine                16. Silas Marner
      7. Robin Hood and His Men             17. The Ancient Mariner
      8. Huckleberry Finn                   18. The Black Knight
      9. Tom Sawyer                         19. King Arthur
     10. Ben Hur                            20. Joan of Arc

                        DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

You are to re-tell an old story. Select one with which you are
entirely familiar. Tell it very simply and plainly, but try very hard
to give it the quality of human interest. Make your readers sympathize
with your hero and heroine. Tell a number of dramatic
episodes, selecting those that do most to emphasize character. Make
your story move very quickly, and make its action very vivid and
intense. Give emphasis to good characteristics.

                            THE STORY ESSAY

                          POLITICS UP TO DATE
                       By FREDERICK LEWIS ALLEN

    _(1890-). A contributor to many magazines. At different times he
    served as Instructor in English at Harvard, and as a member of the
    editorial staff of_ The Atlantic Monthly, _and of_ The Century.

  =The short story and the essay may be combined in what may be called
  the story-essay or the dialogue-essay. Many of Addison's _Sir Roger
  de Coverley_ essays illustrate such a combination.=

  =_Politics Up To Date_ is really a critical essay, directed against
  certain tendencies in political campaigns in the United States,
  but it is presented in the form of a dialogue between a young
  politician and an old politician. It is very effective in its
  satire.=

“So you've come to me for advice, have you?” said the Old Politician to
the Young Politician. “You want to know how to succeed in politics, do
you?”

The Young Politician inclined his head.

“I do,” he replied. “Will you tell me?”

The Old Politician was silent for a moment.

“Times change,” he said at last, “and I dare say there are new issues
now in politics that there weren't in the good old days. The technic is
somewhat different, too. However, the basic principles remain the same,
and, after all, the issues don't really matter; it's what you say about
them that counts, and I can tell you what to say about them. Very well,
I'll advise you. First of all, if you're running for office in these
days, you must run as a hundred-per-cent. American candidate.”

The Young Politician's eye clouded with perplexity.

“What is Americanism,” he asked, “and how does one figure it on a
percentage basis?”

The Old Politician brought down his fist on the table with a crash.

“You aspire to political office, and ask questions like that!” he
exclaimed in a voice of wrath. “Never question what hundred-per-cent.
Americanism is, even to yourself. If you do, somebody else will
question, too. Nothing could be more fatal. Don't try to define
it; assert it. Say you're hundred per cent. and your opponent
isn't. Intimate that if George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and
Abraham Lincoln went over your opponent with a slide rule and an
adding-machine, they couldn't make him add up to more than ninety-nine
per cent. If he's out for a seven-cent fare or a new set of municipal
waterworks, tell the people that such things are un-American. Say that
he's dodging the issue, and the issue is Americanism.” He paused. “If
you were my opponent, and asked what Americanism is, I'd double you up.
'Think of it, my fellow-citizens! He doesn't even know what Americanism
is! Is that the kind of man to hold office in the country of Washington
and Lincoln?'”

The Young Politician looked round uneasily to make sure that they were
indeed alone, for the Old Politician was almost shouting.

“Please,” said the Young Politician, “not so loud. I won't ask that
question again. I see your point. What else do you advise?”

“You must learn,” continued the Old Politician, “to be a good
denouncer.”

“A good what?”

“Denouncer. Keep your eyes open for objects of popular disapproval,
and when you're sure you've got hold of something that is heartily
disapproved by the great majority of the people, denounce it. At
present I should advise you to denounce the high cost of living, the
profiteers, and the Bolshevists. Next year, of course, the list may be
quite different, but for the present those three are the best objects
of denunciation.”

“What bothers me,” suggested the Young Politician in a hesitating
voice, “is that it may be rather hard to drag those things into the
campaign. Suppose, for example, I'm pledged to broaden the Main Street
of the city upon my election to the city council. Won't it be rather
hard to tie the Main Street and the Bolshevists together?”

The Old Politician looked upon the troubled face of the Young
Politician with disgust.

“You're a great politician, you are,” he said wearily. “Tie them
together? Don't be so ridiculously logical.” He rose to his feet, and
as he did so he smote the table once more with his fist. “Gen-tle-men,”
he cried hoarsely, surveying an imaginary audience with his glittering
eye, “there is a movement on foot in this very county, this very State,
nay, this very city, to undermine our Congress, to topple over the
Constitution, to put a bomb under our President! Confronted by such a
menace to our democratic institutions, what, gentlemen, shall be our
answer? Let us broaden Main Street, as Washington would have broadened
it, as Lincoln would have broadened it, and let us put down the red
flag wherever it shows its head!”

“Its mast,” corrected the Young Politician, visibly moved. “Thank you
for those courageous, those hundred-per-cent. words. I shall try to
strike that note. But there is something else I want to ask. Suppose
I am elected. What shall I do while I hold office in order that I may
become ultimately eligible for still higher office?”

“In that case,” replied the old man, who by this time had subsided into
his chair, “you must not merely denounce the high cost of living, the
profiteers, and the Bolshevists; you must campaign against them.”

“But suppose I am a commissioner of roads or an attorney-general,”
queried the Young Politician. “In that case, clearly such things lie
outside my province. How can I campaign against them?”

“My dear young man,” said the Old Politician, with a weary smile,
“don't bother about your province, as you call it. Your job will
undoubtedly be uninteresting and the public won't know anything about
it or care anything about it, and the test of your success will be
your ability to conduct campaigns which have nothing to do with your
job, and therefore stand some chance of interesting the public. There
is no reason why even an attorney-general shouldn't campaign against
anything, provided he handle his campaign right.

“The principal thing to bear in mind is that you must begin your
campaigns noisily and end them so quietly that the sound of their
ending is drowned in the noise of the next campaign's beginning. Let's
say you begin with a campaign against the high cost of living. First
come out with a statement that you, as attorney-general or commissioner
of roads or what not, are going to knock the high cost of living to
bits, and the whole force of the Government will be behind you. That
will put you on the front page once. Then send out telegrams calling
a conference to take steps against the cost of living. That will put
you on the front page again. Then when the conference meets, address
them, and tell them they've got to make conditions better, simply got
to. By the way, you ought to have a couple of able secretaries to help
you with these speeches, or, better still, to do the routine work of
your office so that there will be nothing to divert your mind from your
campaigns. Then, after you have the conference well started, step out.
Don't stay with them; they may begin asking you for constructive ideas.
Step clear of the thing, and start a new campaign.

“I can't over-emphasize the fact that when the conference is well
started, you must help the public to forget about it, and stir up
interest in something new. Flay the profiteer for a month or two,
and get a conference going on profiteers. Rap the Bolshevists, and
telegraph for a crowd of citizens to come and probe the Bolshevists
while you're deciding what your next campaign shall be. Don't let the
people's minds run back to the high cost of living, or they'll be
likely to notice that it hasn't gone down. Refer constantly to the
success of your own campaigns, and keep the public mind moving.”

The Young Politician was visibly impressed, but apparently a doubt
still lingered in his mind.

“There's one thing I'm afraid I don't quite understand,” he said at
last. “All this denouncing and rapping and probing--isn't it likely
to look rather destructive? Will people want to vote for a man whose
pleasantest mood is one of indignation?”

“My dear young man,” replied the Old Politician, “I fear that you
misunderstood me. A politician must be always pleasant to the people
who are about him, and denounce only persons who are not present. You
should compliment your audience when speaking. Be sure to make the
right speech in the right place; don't get off your profiteer speech to
the Merchants' Association, or they may begin to wonder whether they
agree with you, but draw their hearts to yours with your anti-Bolshevik
speech; assure them that you and they are going to save the nation from
red ruin. Denunciation is pleasant if it's somebody else who is getting
denounced. Tell the merchants or the newspaper publishers or the party
committeemen, or whoever it is that you are addressing, that they are
the most important element in the community and that the war could not
have been won if they had not stepped forward to a man and done their
duty. That's good to hear.

“Finally, give them a little patriotic rapture. Tell them this is
a new age we're in. Picture to them the capitalist and working-man
walking hand in hand with their eyes on the flag. Make the great heart
of America throb for them. Unpleasant? Why, if you top off with a
heart-throb, you can make the most denunciatory speech delightful for
one and all.”

The Young Politician rose.

“I see,” he said. “Thank you. Have you any other advice?”

“Merely one or two minor hints,” said the Old Politician. “If the
photographers want to take your picture teaching your baby to walk, let
them do it; the public loves the home life of its leader. Always be
affable to the reporters, but never state your views explicitly, or you
may find them embarrassing at some later date. Stick to generalities.
I think that's all.”

“Thank you again,” said the Young Politician, putting out his hand.
“You are very good. You're--” An idea seemed to seize his mind, and
his bearing perceptibly altered. “You, sir, are a good American. I'm
always delighted to have an evening with a man who is absolutely
one-hundred-per-cent. patriotic American to the core.”

“Good night,” said the Old Politician. “You're getting it very nicely.
I think you'll do well.”

                         SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

     1. What advantage is gained by presenting the thought through the
        medium of dialogue?

     2. What is the character of the Old Politician?

     3. Explain the writer's satire of the use of “Americanism.”

     4. What are the Old Politician's principles concerning
        denunciation?

     5. What are the writer's principles?

     6. In what ways does the writer satirize the American public?

     7. How does the writer satirize political campaigns?

     8. How does the writer satirize hypocrisy in political life?

     9. How would the writer have a political campaign conducted?

    10. How would the writer have an office holder act?

                    SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

        1. The Good American            11. The Right Kind of Leader
        2. Campaign Speaking            12. Testing Political Speeches
        3. Political Beliefs            13. Good Citizens
        4. Honesty in Public Life       14. How to Vote Conscientiously
        5. A Worthy Office Holder       15. A Genuine Statesman
        6. Political Methods            16. Patriotic Speeches
        7. Denunciation                 17. Soap-box Orators
        8. A Political Campaign         18. Diverting Attention
        9. Sincerity                    19. Public Servants
       10. Deceiving the Public         20. The American People

                        DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

Think of a series of principles in which you strongly believe.
Imagine two people who will represent definite attitudes toward the
principles that you have in mind. Write a dialogue between the
two people, presenting your real thought in the disguise of satire.
Let your work represent both the beginning and the ending of the
conversation. As in all other writing, make the ending effective.

                                 FREE!
                        By CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

    _(1877--). Managing editor of_ McClure's Magazine. _He has written
    many delightful books, among which are:_ The Quiet Singer, and
    Other Poems; Jolly Jaunts with Jim; Autumn Loiterers; Shaking Hands
    with England.

  =Over two hundred years ago Joseph Addison imagined a character
  whom he called “The Spectator” meeting with various friends and
  discussing with them the life of the times. Through what was said
  by these imaginary beings Addison gave his own shrewd comments on
  foibles and follies. Mr. Towne's “young-old philosopher” is a sort
  of modern “Spectator.” He talks of the drudgery of work, and the
  glowing joy of a holiday, and comes to the sudden realization that
  the world is a world of work in which every one must play his part
  if he is to have real contentment. The essay is Mr. Towne's comment
  both on a life of unvaried drudgery and on a life of idleness.=

  =“I have wondered what it would seem like to be ... jogging along
  with nowhere to go save where one pleased.”=

The young-old philosopher was speaking.

“I had a strange experience yesterday. To have spent twenty years or so
at office work, and then suddenly to arrange one's affairs so that a
portion of the week became one's own--that is an experience, isn't it?”

We admitted that it was an achievement to be envied.

“How did you manage it?” was the natural question.

“That is a detail of little importance,” he replied. “Let the fact of
one's sudden liberty be the point dwelt upon. I found myself walking
up the avenue at the miraculous hour of eleven in the morning, and not
going to a desk! I was headed for the park, where I knew the trees had
long since loaded their branches with leaves, and the grass was so
green that it made the heart ache with its loveliness. You know how
perfect yesterday was, a summer day to remember and to be grateful for.

“To you who have never known what it is to drudge day in and day out,
this may seem a trifling thing to speak of. For myself, a miracle
had happened. I could not believe that this golden hour was mine
completely. I had never seen shop-windows with quite this slant of the
sun on them. Always I had viewed them early or late, or wistfully at
noon, when the streets were so crowded with other escaped office men
that I could take no pleasure in what I beheld. Shop-windows at eleven
in the morning were for the elect of the earth. That hour had always
heretofore meant for me a manuscript to be read or edited, a conference
to be attended, a telephone call to be answered, a visit from some one
seeking advice--something, at any rate, that made it impossible for me
to call it my own. I have looked often from a high window at that hour,
and seen the people in the streets as they trailed like ribbons round
and round the vast city, and I have wondered what it would seem like
to be one of them, not hurrying on some commercial errand, but jogging
along with nowhere to go save where one pleased.

“At last my dream had come true, and when I found myself projected upon
that thrilling avenue, and realized that I had nothing, absolutely
nothing, to do until luncheon-time, and I could skip that if I wished,
I could scarcely believe that it was I who had thus broken the traces.

“The green of the park greeted me, and, like Raleigh's cloak,[55] a
gay pattern of flowers was laid at the entrance for even my unworthy
feet metaphorically to tread. And to think that these bright blooms
unfolded here day after day and I had so seldom seen them! An old man
dozed on a bench near at hand, oblivious to the beauty around him; and
a septuagenarian gardener leaned over the circular border, just as
Narcissus[56] looked into the pool. Perhaps he saw some image of his
youth in the uplifted face of a flower.

“I know that I saw paths and byways everywhere that reminded me of
my vanished boyhood; for I am one of those who have always lived in
Manhattan, and some of the happiest days I ever spent were those in
the park as a child, seeing the menagerie, feeding the squirrels, and
rolling a hoop on a graveled pathway.

“I remembered Rossetti's line,[57] 'I have been here before,' as I
walked along on this exultant morning; and it indeed seemed as if
in some previous incarnation, and not in this life, I had known my
footsteps to take this perfumed way. For in the hurry of life and
in the rush of our modern days we forget too soon the leisure of
childhood, plunging as we do into the rough-and-tumble of an agonized
manhood.

“And all this was while the park, like a green island set in a
throbbing sea, had waited for me to come back to it! No lake isle of
Innesfree[58] could have beguiled the poet more. Anchored at a desk,
I had dreamed often of such an hour of freedom; and now that it was
really mine, I determined that I would not analyze it, but that I would
simply drink in its wonder. It would have been as criminal as to pluck
a flower apart.

“Policemen went their weary rounds, swinging their sticks, and it
suddenly came to me that even in this sylvan retreat there was stern
labor to be done. Just as some one, some time, must sweep out a
shrine,--possibly nowadays with a vacuum-cleaner!--so papers must be
picked from God's grass, and pick-pockets must be diligently looked
for in holiday crowds. Men on high and practical sprinkling-carts must
keep the roadways clean, and emissaries of the law must see to it
that motorists do not speed too fast. You think of ice-cream as being
miraculously made in a park pavilion, and unless you visit the city
woodland at the hour of eleven or so in the morning, you may keep your
dream. But I beheld a common ice-wagon back up to the door of that
cherished house of my childhood, and a strong, rough fellow proved
himself the connecting-link between the waitress and her eager little
customers.

“At this hour it was as though I had gone behind the scenes of a
theater while the stage-hands were busy about their necessary labors.
Wiring had to be done,--I had forgotten that they have telephones even
in the park,--and a mason was repairing a crumbling wall. How much
better to let it crumble, I thought. But all my practicality, through
my sense of strange freedom, had left me, and I was ardent for a mad,
glad world, where for a long time there would be nothing for anybody
to do. I wanted masons and policemen and icemen and nurse-maids and
electricians and keepers of zoölogical gardens to be as free as I,
forever and ever.

“You see, my unexpected holiday had gone to my head, and it was a
summer morning, and I felt somehow that I ought to be working rather
than loitering here.

“I suppose I shall be sane to-morrow, but I wonder if I want to be.”

And we all wondered if we didn't like him better when he was just this
way, a child with a new toy, or, rather, a child with an old toy that
he had almost but not quite forgotten how to play with.

                         SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

     1. What advantage does the essayist gain by using characters to
        express his own thoughts?

     2. What made the philosopher's holiday so notable?

     3. What had been his daily life?

     4. Comment on the various thoughts and fancies that came to the
        philosopher on his holiday.

     5. What is meant by the expression, “An Agonized Manhood”?

     6. What joys does the philosopher find?

     7. Show how his thoughts come back to the idea of work.

     8. In what did his lack of “sanity” consist?

     9. Does the expression, “I suppose I shall be sane to-morrow,” mean
        that he will wish to work, or wish to have a holiday, or wish
        for something else?

    10. What was the toy that he had almost forgotten how to play with?

    11. What is the author's purpose?

    12. What evils in modern life does the essay criticize?

                    SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

        1. School Athletics            11. Selfishness
        2. Home Study                  12. School Spirit
        3. Exercise                    13. Good Manners
        4. Reading                     14. Playing Jokes
        5. Writing Letters             15. Carefulness
        6. Aiding Others               16. Honesty in School Work
        7. Politeness                  17. Thoughtfulness
        8. Using Reference Books       18. Practising Music Lessons
        9. Going to Bed Early          19. Looking Out for Number One
       10. Obedience                   20. “Bluffing”

                        DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

When you have selected a subject that interests you, write out,
in a single sentence, your one most important thought on that subject.
Then plan to write an essay that will embody that thought.

If you are to imitate Mr. Towne's method you will think of a typical
character who will express your own thought. As soon as you have
introduced your character--notice how quickly Mr. Towne introduced the
“young-old philosopher”--lead him to relate an experience that made him
think about the subject. Write his meditations in such a way that they
will show all view-points. Let the end of your essay indicate, rather
than state, the view-point that you wish to emphasize.

Mr. Towne gives his essay many elements of originality and much beauty
of thought and expression. Imitate his style as well as you can.

                              FOOTNOTES:

[55] Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have laid his cloak in the mud so
that Queen Elizabeth might pass without soiling her garments.

[56] Narcissus. A Greek myth tells of a young man named Narcissus who,
leaning over a pool, fell in love with his own reflection, and changed
into a flower.

[57] Dante Gabriel Rosetti (1828-1882). An English poet of Italian and
English descent. His poems are marked by beauty of form, symbolism and
color.

[58] Innesfree. The Irish poet, William Butler Yeats (1864--) wrote
_The Lake Isle of Innisfree_ in which he imagines Innisfree as an
island of perfect peace, a place for which he longs when “on the
roadway, or on the pavements gray.”

                        THE STORY OF ADVENTURE

                         PRUNIER TELLS A STORY
                        By T. MORRIS LONGSTRETH

    _An American author and lover of natural scenery. His books on_ The
    Adirondacks, _and_ The Catskills _are enticements into the mountain
    world. He is a writer for many periodicals._

  =The romantic story of adventure deals with events that are far from
  being the events of daily life. Usually such a story has for its
  setting an unusual scene.=

  =_Prunier Tells a Story_ deals with events that come into very
  few lives; its setting is a region into which very few people
  penetrate. The principal character, the French-Canadian Prunier, is
  likewise a type of person with whom few are acquainted.=

  =At the same time, the story is told with a degree of naturalness
  that makes it seem real. The French-Canadian is brought into touch
  with daily life by the presence of his two listeners, who are
  people of the ordinary world, and one of whom is a boy.=

  =The story is not told merely for wild event: it hangs upon
  character and upon noble purpose. It emphasizes courage, ability,
  self-sacrifice and faith.=

  =The setting of the story is so used that it contributes in a marked
  degree to the entire effect. As one reads he feels himself in the
  icy north, in the grip of cold and darkness where wild events are
  altogether probable.=

                                PART I
                      THE PILLAR OF CLOUD BY DAY

It was after supper one November evening, at Wilderness House, with the
sleet dancing on the eaves and the great forest of Wildyrie closing us
about with its dark presence, when Essex Lad and I stumbled by chance
on the fact that we didn't have to read books for adventure, but merely
touch Prunier in some-story-telling place, and then--listen.

Prunier, you remember, is the blue-shirted, black-hatted
French-Canadian who lives with us and thinks he works. He is a
broad-shouldered, husky, simple-faced man of forty, who never opens his
mouth unless it be to point out a partridge we are overlooking or to
put in his black pipe. He spent his youth in the great Northland, where
adventures are as common as black flies in a swamp, and yet he had
never even explained the scar across his cheek, or the white patch on
his scalp where some other excitement had been registered, until that
evening when I had closed the Bible.

“Tink dat true?” he had suddenly asked.

I had been reading them how the Lord God had led Moses and the children
of Israel across that other wilderness by a pillar of cloud by day and
a pillar of fire by night. It had roused him strangely.

“I know it true,” he said, “for _le bon Dieu_ show me way by pillars
of cloud and fire _aussi_. If you want story, I tole you dat wan,
_moi-même_.”

It was our turn to be excited. Here was luck--a vacant evening, a
hearth fire, and Prunier promising _une longue histoire_, as he called
it. We formed a semi-circle before the blazing birch, and, with the
dull beat of the sleet above us for accompaniment, listened for the
first word that would launch the black-eyed man upon his tale. It was
long coming. He relit the pipe, recrossed his legs, muttered once “Pore
ole Pierre,” and stopped. We ceased to breathe; for though I could
command him to cut wood and wash dishes, I could not force from him a
syllable about “Pore ole Pierre” until he was good and ready.

“Monsieur Moses _et moi_, we have purty hard times in wilderness widout
doze pillars,” he said.

The Lad and I gave a nervous laugh. I could not fancy myself personally
conducting forty thousand Hebrews, even through Wildyrie, without much
assistance.

“Yaas,” he said, “purty hard. I now begin.”

And begin he did, slowly and with his quaint talk seasoned with his
habitant French, which I'll have to omit in my retelling.

“It was a night just like this, in my little cabin on Wolf River. It
had rained and then frozen, and the dark closed in with sleet. A very
good night to be indoors, thought ole Pierre and I. Ole Pierre was my
best friend, an old husky, who had been trapping with me four--five
years. He knew all that men know, I think, as well as all that dogs
understand, and he could smell a werewolf in the twilight.”

“A werewolf, what's that?” was on the very opening of the Lad's lips,
but he held back the question.

“A werewolf, you know,” went on Prunier, “is worse than real wolf, for
it is in the air--a ghost-wolf. That is why ole Pierre sometimes howled
in his sleep and kept her from visiting us. That is why I put a candle
in the window every dusk-time. As you shall see, it was lucky habit.

“_Eh bien_, that night I was sorting over my traps, for I thought it
would turn cold after the storm. Then I would cross Breknek Place and
begin the winter's trapping.

“Breknek Place is its name, because the sides of Wolf River come very
close together, almost so near a man can jump. Indeed its name is
really because a trapper like me was surprised by the wolves and ran
for it. But he was too scared, and missed. They never got his body, the
wolves, because the river runs so fast down to the Smoky Pool. Smoky
Pool is a warm cove in the St. Lawrence that freezes last, and from
which clouds of vapor rise on still days into the colder air.

“I never intended to be washed down that way, and in the summer I
felled a tree from bank to bank, a broad hemlock, big enough to run
a sledge over, almost; and that save many miles walking up river to
Portage du Loup. I never intended, either, to be run by the wolves, you
bet! And ole Pierre and I were pretty-very careful to be inside at the
candle-lighting time.

“That night our cabin was very quiet, like this, for the sleet was a
little pleasant sound, and ole Pierre was dreaming of old hunts, and I
was on the floor with the traps, when both the dog and I were brought
out of our thoughts by a wild cry, very faint and far away, but as
sharp and sudden as a cut of lightning on a summer night.

“The hair on the back of my neck rises just like ole Pierre's, for I
know it is the werewolf. And he looks at me and whines, for he knows
it, too. I rush and light a second candle, though I have not too many,
and look out the pane. But of course, there is nothing to be seen,
nothing to be heard, except the moaning of wind in the dark. Yet
later I hear a noise, very weak, very unsteady, as if a person was
approaching.

“Ole Pierre howls low in his throat and scratches on the door. I
reprove him: 'Are you possessed, ole Pierre? There is no soul within
sixty--seventy miles. And you and I have done nothing that should let
the werewolf in.'

“But it was fearful hearing that stealthy approach, stopping long, then
many steps, and a groan. I get out the Bible and read fast. But there
comes a _tap-tap_ at the door, and I tremble so the book almost falls
from my hand, and ole Pierre, he calls to his saints, too.

“What is the use of looking out, for who can see a werewolf?

“Presently there is no noise. The _tap-tap_ stops; and except for a
noise as of a bundle of something dropping against the door, there
is nothing to hear except the dull sleet on the eaves, ole Pierre
crying in his throat, and the _trip-trip_ of my heart that goes like a
werewolf pounding on my ribs. A voice inside me says open the door. But
another voice says 'That is a werewolf trick and you will be carried
away, Prunier.' Twenty times my hand is on the bolt.

“At last I can stand it no longer,--that voice inside saying to me to
open,--and I rush to it and throw it open before I have time to think,
and a body falls in, against my legs. A long, thin body it is, and I
hesitate to touch it, for a werewolf can take any form. But a groan
comes from it, and I have not the heart to push it out into the dark. I
prop it by the fire and its eyes droop open. 'Food--tie up food.' That
is the first word it says.

“I push some medicine for weakness into his mouth, and his life comes
back little by little. 'You must take food to her,' he says; and soon
again, 'The ship by Smoky Pool--she starves in it--my sister.'

“Indeed, I soon saw that he was faint from long travel and no feeding,
and perhaps a sickness past thrown in, for he faints much between
parts of his account. But I gather the news that he had come very far
from some deserted ship in which a sister was starving to death; and
alone, since his three partners had cleared out. He begged of me to
leave him and take food for her. He cried out that he was dying, and
I had to believe him; for death's shadows sat at the entrance to his
eyes. I made him glad by placing bread beside him, and by putting on my
Mackinaw and the pack after it, in which I had put food.

“A fever of uneasiness stirred him between faints until I had lit a
lantern and called to ole Pierre to follow. Then joy shone in his worn
eyes, and a blessing on us both followed us out into the icy night.

“With a last look through the window at the stranger, who had now, as
I thought, closed his eyes in surrender to the end, ole Pierre and I
turned into the endless forest on our long trail to the Smoky Pool.
The sleet was freezing as it fell, and the rays of my lantern lit the
woods, which seemed made of marble, the dark trunks glistening, the
laden boughs hanging down like chandeliers in a cathedral, and the
shrubs glittering like ten million candles as we passed. In such a
place, I thought, no werewolf dare attack us.

“Instead, I thought of the trail ahead, the long miles till we come to
Breknek Place, the long miles after to the ice-locked arm of the St.
Lawrence near by the Smoky Pool. On such an errand we had nothing to
fear, though outside the lantern-shine it was as dark as the one of
Monsieur Moses' bad plagues you have read to the Lad so lately.

“We had got within three--four miles of Wolf River, ole Pierre
slip-slipping on the ice in front of me, the lantern swinging, my pack
beginning to feel like a rest, when for the second time that night a
cry shivers across the distance, an awful sound for a lonely man to
hear in the night forest.

“It is a long howl, fierce and almost gladsome, like when the evil one
is clutching a new victim. And it is answered from the other side of
the night by another howl, and then a chorus from both sides at once.
And then the trail turns, and I know the pack of them is not chasing
deer far away, but chasing _me_, _us_. For ole Pierre knows it, too,
and crouches whining at my feet. Ole Pierre knows there is no escape,
like me.

“Have you ever seen a wolf-pack run down a deer by turns, leap at its
throat, and pull it down? I have once, near _Trois Rivières_, from
a safe place on a mountain. And it was bad enough to be in the safe
place, only watching. But that night how much worse! I pat ole Pierre
on the head and tell him to cheer up, there is no use dying three--four
times ahead of time. And as I say that, I think of that other man
chased by wolves who had tried to leap at Breknek Place.

“_'Tiens!_ ole Pierre,' I cry, 'let us do better!' And off I start at
a dead run, feet slipping sideways, lantern swinging, pack rising,
falling, like a rabbit's hind leg, with ole Pierre chasing after. It
is less than a mile to the narrow gorge. Could we make that, perhaps I
could throw the big hemlock in and stop them from crossing after us. A
revolver is no good against a pack, and going up a tree is only putting
off till to-morrow their big feast on habitant.

“The quick motion of our running put courage in our blood, and after
a little while even ole Pierre's brush waves higher in the air, as if
he had remembered some fight of old, and we gallop. We gallop, but the
wolves they gallop too. First on one side far off, then on the other
nearer, and ever as the trail winds in a new direction they sound like
pack on pack of them, although there might have been less than ten. It
is only late in the winter with us, when the snow is deep, that they
gather into big packs to pull down the moose.

“At length, breathless, very tired, but still ahead of them, ole Pierre
and I come out into the clear space just before the river. It was very
slippery with frozen sleet, and I fall once--twice; and ole Pierre
slide here--there, like a kitten on new ice. Ahead of us roars the
river through the deep gorge. Behind on two sides the howling comes
from the forest, and once, when I look back, I see them. But that can't
be, for it is so dark. Yet I imagine I see them--black, racing forms,
tongues out, muzzles sharp and red, and a green-yellow fire from the
eyes.

“And it was so. For before we reach the fallen hemlock, our bridge to
safety, two come between us and the river. With a yell, I fire straight
where they were, but it is too dark, too slippery to hit, and they only
circle back to wait till their partners come up. I fling myself down
breathless, weak, for just two seconds' wind.

“'Cross ole Pierre, cross over, _mon enfant_!' And he trotted to the
long log, but crawled back with his tail dragging, and whined about me.
Black shadows, five, ten, twelve maybe, circled outside the ring of my
lantern-light, and the green-yellow eyes were no imagination now. But
they were quiet, intent on closing in. With the lantern, which was our
only salvation from their fangs, in one hand and my revolver in the
other, I backed to the hemlock, calling to ole Pierre to follow. He is
trembling, and I soon know why; for when I put my foot on our bridge
to safety, it cannot stay, and I nearly plunge headlong into the rocky
stream thirty feet below. The log was slippery with frozen mist. We
were trapped. At our backs, a river not to be crossed; about us, a crew
of wolves getting bolder every minute.

“'Courage, ole Pierre!' I cried; and I fired once into them. There
was a shrill howl and cry, and several made a rush toward us, instead
of away. I drop the lantern to load my revolver. Ole Pierre brushes
against it, and in a second it starts to glide down the slope on the
sleet-ice. It goes faster, I gaping after it, slips with a flicker over
the edge, and we hear it crash and tinkle on the rocks down there!

“_Quel horreur!_ It was savage. The kerosene flares up, and for once
I see the whole scene plainly: the gorge, a great leap wide at its
narrowest, spouting light; the ice-silvered hemlock-bridge leading to
safety, but uncrossable except for a circus-dancer; a fringe of bushes,
with the sudden-illuminated forms of strong-shouldered wolves cowering
in their surprise at the light.

“Ole Pierre and I had three minutes,--I thought the kerosene would last
that long,--then darkness, a rush from the dark, hot fangs feeling for
the throat, and there would be no ole Pierre, no Prunier to rescue the
girl in the ship from starvation.

“And at the thought of her came the picture of my little cabin, the
fire we had left, the coziness of it. It made me mad--to die!

“'Quick, ole Pierre,' I say. '_Allons!_ We will crawl over the bridge,'
and I kneel on it. But my knees slip. I sit on it and push myself
along, until I can see the wrecked lantern, going slowly out. I call to
ole Pierre, and he comes out two--three paces, whines, cries, lies down
and trembles. The light is fading and when it goes it is our end. But I
cannot leave ole Pierre.

“I crawl back and take him in my arms, a very big arm-load. The light
is fading. I cannot see the bushes. And the eyes of the indistinct
brutes again begin to gleam. They approach the end of the tree. Ole
Pierre is too big to carry, and I set him down to fix my cartridges so
that I can get them easily. It is not so long to dawn. If we can hold
them at the end of the bridge till dawn, we might live.

“Suddenly a fearful thing happens: the kerosene flares up in a dying
leap, then the dark rushes at us, and, with a concert of snarls, the
pack comes with it. Ole Pierre is brave, but, as they reach us, the
rush of them cannot stop on the ice, and I feel the hair of one, I hear
his jaws. I know that they are pushing toward the edge, and in the dark
I have to feel for ole Pierre.

“There is an awful melée, and I fire. By the flash I see ole Pierre by
the brink, with two big wolves upon him. I drop my revolver to clutch
at him. A dark form leaps at me. I have my knife in my teeth. I drive
it hard and often, sometimes growling like a wolf myself, sometimes
calling to ole Pierre.

“Once more the lantern flares enough to show the blood on my knife,
the heap of struggling forms flung on my dog, and as it dies for the
last time I fancy them sliding--sliding. I rush to save him, but must
beat back a great hot-breathed creature whose jaws just scrape my
scalp. We are all sliding together now, faster, faster, toward the edge
of the gorge. A dripping muzzle tears my cheek,--it is this scar you
see,--but with both hands I throttle it; and clutching with a sort of
madness, I hold as we go over the edge--down, all together down--Poor
ole Pierre!”

Prunier stopped. For an hour Essex Lad and I had listened, more and
more intently, until now, when the subdued sound of his slow-speaking
ceased, we were both gripping the edge of our chairs, falling over the
edge of that gorge with him, sympathetically. I could have imagined the
least noise into the click of jaws.

But there was no noise, the Lad sitting perfectly rigid, speechless,
staring at the man. Presently he put out a hand, slowly, and touched
the guide as if to make sure that the fall had not been fatal. And
still neither of us spoke. Prunier was going to recommence. He opened
his mouth, but it was only to yawn.

“_Mon Dieu_,” he said, “but I sleep! It ees very late.” And the man
actually rose.

“But '_mon Dieu_,'” I said, “you can't leave us falling over a
precipice! What happened? Tell us at least what happened. And you
haven't even mentioned the pillar of fire or of smoke.”

“_C'est une très longue histoire._” [“It is a very long story.”]

“Poor ole Pierre!” said the Lad, as if coming out of a dream; “did it
kill him?”

Prunier shook his head, no. “It kill only the wolves we landed
on--_geplump!_ We had stopped on a gravel ledge, with the cold breath
of the river rushing by a foot away. I never lose sense. I begin chuck
wolves into the river. Three--four--five, in they go, my back bending,
my back straightening, and _gesplash!_ another howl down-stream! I
think I never lose sense. But I did.” He stopped again, and rubbed a
slow hand across his summer-tanned brow. “I must have losed sense. In
the morning there are _no_ animals on the ledge.”

“You mean--” began the Lad, and did not finish. Prunier nodded.

“But he would not have lived anyway,” I said, to ease the pain in his
memory. “Ole Pierre could not have lived with all the wolf-bites he
must have had.”

“I hope he know I was not in my sense,” said Prunier. “_Alors_, dawn
came soon, and I cross the stream on big rocks and climb up birch
sapling to the opposite bank. I look back. No sign of wolves. I look
forward, no sign of life to the north pole, no forest even, just
endless plain to the frozen river endless far away.

“I give a big groan, for there is no strength in my legs, no courage in
my heart, and I feel like falling on my knees and asking _le bon Dieu_
to show me the way. And it was as if He had heard, for suddenly my eye
is caught by a thin pillar of white ascending into the gray sky.

“'Courage,' I said, 'it is His sign.' I fixed my torn pack, bound up my
cheek and scalp, and made over the glassy surface of the plain straight
where the pillar led me. On and on I stumbled. I would never have
reached my errand's end but for that pillar of smoke. And if I had not
reached it.--” Again there was a pause. Then, “I will tell some other
time,” he said, “_c'est une longue histoire_.”

Not another word could we get from him, and we soon turned in. The last
thing I remember was the Lad's voice coming to me from his bed, “Don't
forget, Lucky, we'll get his pillar of fire out of him, too.”

                                PART II
                      THE PILLAR OF FIRE BY NIGHT

By next morning our storm of sleet had turned into a half-blizzard
of snow and we put another great birch log on the fire, got out a
new can of Prunier's favorite pipe tobacco, and generally made
ready to extract the rest of his story from him when he had finished
straightening up the kitchen.

“Yaas,” he said, “the next day to the day I was telling you about was
just such another as this. All that morning I walked toward _le bon
Dieu's_ pillar of smoke, and in the afternoon I reached it, rising from
the great whirling pool of steaming water into the gray sky that was
thickening for a great snow--the real beginning of winter.

“Not far from the Smoky Pool, just as the dead man had said it would
be, rode the schooner in the ice-locked cove where she had been
wrecked. All was as still as a scared mouse. Behind me rose that white
wavering pillar; and in front the vessel leaned a little, as if to
subside into a wave-trough that would never receive her. But silence
covered all, and I dreaded to enter that ship for fear of what I should
see.

“But the dead man had been a better brother than he had been a
ship-pilot, for he had left his sister most of the food; and when my
foot-falls sounded uncannily loud upon the deck, she came running out
of the cabin, a thin-cheeked, pale, slim woman. How she smiled! How the
smile died from her face when she saw it was not her brother, but a
stranger, torn, bloody-bandaged, ready to drop for fatigue!

“'Tell me, tell me quickly, what has happened. Who are you?' She
steadied herself against the cabin doorway. 'Is my brother--not living?'

“I had not the heart or the words to tell her at that moment that I had
left her brother closing his eyes in death in my little cabin so far
away. I think I asked _le bon Dieu_ to put words in my mouth that would
not cause her to faint. Anyway, the words came from me: 'Your brother
sent me. I left him--happy.'

“'I knew God would not desert me entirely,' she said. 'When will he
return?'

“'When _le bon Dieu_ leads the way,' I said, and I told her about the
pillar of cloud which had guided me to her.

“She pointed aloft, and I saw a lantern tied to the masthead. 'I have
put it there to light every night until he returns,' she said. 'It
will be lit many a night,' said I to myself; and I must have sighed
aloud, for she looked curiously at me. 'I am cruel!' she exclaimed; 'I
must show you your room.' She said it with almost a laugh, for it was
a funny little bunk she led me to. Into it I crawled, and off to sleep
I went, scarcely conscious that she washed the blood from my face and
ministered to my other wounds. When I woke, it was the next day.

“And such a day as it was! one thick smother of snow coming up the
great valley of the St. Lawrence on a bitter wind. And bitter cold it
was, too, in the little cabin of our schooner, though the fire in the
stove did its best. I was too sick, though, to know much what was going
on. Several times I heard the chopping of a hatchet. Several times she
came to me with hot food. And as the day passed, strength came back
to my blood and I got up. I surprised her lighting the lantern and
taking it out into the wild evening. I tried to stop that, fearing some
accident to her in the roar and rush of the storm, but she said her
brother must be lighted back, and so in the end it was I who had to
haul the swaying lantern to the masthead.

“For three days the snow flew by and heaped an ever-increasing drift
across the deck, around the cabin door. On the fourth day we looked
out on a scene of desolation. The sun shone dimly in skies of pinching
cold. There was no pillar of smoke, the pool having at last been frozen
over. There was a wide river of ice, piled in fantastic floes, a wider
plain, spotted here and there with thickets. And far off ran the
dark line of forest, inhabited by wolves which would speedily become
fiercer. In the forest far away stood my little cabin with its dead man
keeping guard. It would be long before I should see it, if I ever did.
Without snow-shoes, it would be impossible to cross the forest now;
without food, we could live only a short time longer on the ship. And
then I made the discovery that our stove fire was being maintained by
schooner wood. That had accounted for her chopping and for her grave
face as she carried in the wood. She had been breaking up a part of the
ship each day to keep the fire going!

“The responsibilities upon me made me forget my sorrows, the death
of ole Pierre, the lost time for trapping, the pinch of hunger. I
made a makeshift pair of skees from two plankings of the schooner,
and journeyed daily to some thicket by the shore wherein I had set my
snares, and we lived on rabbit stew. With much labor I cut a hole in
the ice, through which, with much patience, she fished. But days went
by when it was too stormy either to hunt or to fish, and we sat huddled
about the stove in which we burned as little wood as we could to keep
from freezing.

“During such times we talked, but not of the future, only of the past.
She told me how they, she and her brother, had set out on a rumor of
gold in the Laurentians; how the crew had deserted in a body with most
of the stores; how she and her brother had been unable to man the ship
sufficiently to keep it from this disaster. A dozen times she described
the scene where he had said farewell to her on the morning of the
day he had found me. A hundred times she asked me to tell her of our
meeting; and a thousand, I may well say, she wondered how soon he would
return.

“Every evening she had me hang the lantern to the mast to guide him
back. I could not prevent it, except by telling of his death, and that
I could not do. I feared that the news, coupled with our desperate
situation, would end her life. As it was, she was far too weak to
travel now, even if I had had the snow-shoes for her.

“Thus passed the first days. Then I saw that something must be done or
else we should soon have burned up the house that sheltered us, deck,
mast, and hull, before Christmas. Even then we were beginning on the
walls of the schooner, since she would not let me chop down the mast.

“'There will be no place to hang the lantern if you destroy that!' she
cried, when she had rushed out on deck one morning, to find me half-way
through the strong oak.

“'Your brother will not travel by night,' I said.

“'How do you know?' she asked, a new harshness in her tired voice;
'you, who will tell me so little about my brother!'

“This was an unkind reproach, for I had indeed stretched the facts too
much already in order to comfort her.

“'We cannot freeze,' I replied. 'You would not want him to arrive and
find us dead. I have measured out the fuel and know it is unwise not to
begin on these unnecessary parts of the ship first.'

“'Do you call my signal-mast unnecessary?' she called, her two thin
hands beating upon the wood. 'You are cruel. You would keep my brother
from me.'

“From that morning there began a sullenness between us, which was
nourished by too little food, and by being shut up in that bit of a
schooner cabin too long together. For relief's sake, when I was not
off snaring rabbits or looking for some stray up-river seal with my
revolver in my hand, I began building an igloo, a hut of snow you know,
not far from the ship. I thought that the time must be prepared for
when we should have chopped up our shelter, and have pushed our home
piecemeal into that devouring stove.

“She made no comment on my preparations. In fact, we did not talk
now, except to say the most necessary things. I was not sorry, for it
relieved me from telling over and over that impossible story of her
brother's return. I was convinced now that he had died, and my heart
grieved for her final discovery of the news. But the saddest thing was
to see the hunger for him grow daily stronger on her face. And it was
pitiful, too, to watch her light the lantern with hands weak enough to
tremble, to attach it to the signal-rope, and pull it to the masthead.
She would never let me assist her in this act.

“'To-morrow we must move,' I said one night. 'I have completed the
igloo. It will economize our fuel.'

“She nodded, weakly, as if she cared little what happened on the morrow.

“'And unless we catch a seal, we must save oil,' I added. The waste
of burning a lantern to attract a dead man's notice had got upon my
nerves. 'Please do not light it to-night, else we will go into the new
year dark.'

“'I shall not give up my brother!' she cried, with all her strength,
'for he will not give up me. But why does he not come? Why does he not
come?'

“It was heart-wringing to see her--to know what was in store. But it
would have been less kind of me to let this deception go on.

“'He will never come,' I said, as softly as I could; 'there is no use
in the light. Let us save oil.'

“Her weary, searching eyes questioned my face for the first time in
days, and then she struck a match and applied it to the wick.

“'He will come,' she said calmly, 'for God will guide him, and I am
helping God.' She went out into the dusk, and I heard the futile
lantern being pulled up to the masthead. I could not bear to interfere.

“So, since save fuel we must, I began practising deceit by stealing
out the next evening, lowering the signal and extinguishing it, then
hoisting the black lantern into place. But she guessed; and on the
second night, as I had my hand upon the rope to lower it, she grasped
my arm, her eyes flashing, her weak voice vibrant like the storm-wind.

“'Do you dare?' she said; 'do you dare betray me? You do not _want_
my brother.' And with fury she grasped the rope and jerked it from my
hand. A sudden anger filled me.

“'Unreasonable woman,' I cried, 'we must have the mast for firewood; we
must have the oil for light in the igloo! Let me alone.'

“'Let _me_ alone!' she screamed, struggling for the rope.

“It must have been insecurely fastened. At any rate, we had not been
contending many seconds in the darkness for the control of the light
above our heads when we heard a rattle and saw it coming down upon us.
I pushed her away just in time. The lantern struck some metal, burst,
and the spattering oil caught fire in the swiftness of a thought.

“For the first moment we were dumb; in the second, horror-struck. As
a serpent darts its tongue, rills of oil spread down the plank-seams
of the deck; and from each rill, flame leaped and ran about the ship.
With a wild shriek, the woman began to carry snow from a drift on the
prow and sprinkle it on the spreading conflagration. She might as well
have tried to extinguish it with her tears. In two minutes, yellow
tongues were running up the mast--that mast I had hoped would warm our
igloo for a fortnight. In three, there was no hope of a splinter of the
cold-dried boat remaining. I made one plunge into the cabin and grabbed
an arm-load of clothes and food, and ran with them to the igloo. But
when I had returned, there was no chance for a second try. The cabin
was a furnace of eager flame.

“The woman, the weeping cause of this, and I were beaten back by the
heat, and at the opening of our only refuge now, the hut of snow, we
stood and watched the swift destruction of the schooner's hulk. About
us, the night's darkness was driven to its dusky horizons. Overhead,
the zenith was lit by the up-roaring pillar of fire which had so lately
been a mast, a deck, a ship. We looked in silence, while the tower
of flame rushed into the sky, like a signal to the wilderness. But a
signal of what? Two houseless individuals, robbed of their store of
food, with no means of moving, and nowhere to move.”

Prunier paused, and Essex Lad drew a long breath. It was his first for
minutes.

“So that was your pillar of fire?” I said, “It seems to me more like
one of Satan's than the Lord's.”

Prunier made an expressive gesture with his pipe. “_Le bon Dieu_ does
all things for the best,” he said reverently. “_Alors._ We stood there
watching, the heat reaching us, and even eating maliciously into the
white walls of our last hiding-place. But that did not go on long, for
the ship was pouring its soul too lavishly into that hot pyre to last.

“'Quick,' I said to my fellow-outcast, 'drink in all the heat you can,
for this is the end.'

“'And it is my fault!' she said; 'can you forgive me?'

“'Can _you_?' I asked. 'We must be brave now. Let us warm ourselves
while there are coals to warm us. Let us warm our wits and think, for
before day dawns we must have a plan.'

“'It is too hard,' she said hopelessly.

“'Trust God for one night more. Perhaps I can make a sledge and pull
you to my cabin. There is food there.'

“'You are too weak,' she said. And I knew that she was right.

“As the pillar of fire died down until it was a mere bright spiral
of gilded smoke, and after the sides of the schooner had burned to
the water-line, leaving great benches of blackened ice about, we drew
nearer and nearer to the lessening warmth. Darkness and cold and the
northern silence shut us in.

“We spoke in whispers, but hope died in me with the fading fire. What
chance for escape was there with a half-starved woman across a great
snow-plain; and then through forests deep with the first snows and
roamed by wolves, whose savageries I had tasted?

“Luckily there was no wind. Smaller and smaller was the circle of
light, weaker and weaker the heat. And tireder and more tired grew our
heads that could see no light of safety ahead.

“I think, sitting close together there, we dozed. Certainly not for
long, however, because the pillar of fire, though now a mere thread,
was still pointing a finger into _le bon Dieu's_ heaven, when I heard a
_crunch_, _crunch_!

“'Wolves!' I said to myself, coming to my senses with a jerk. I felt
for a revolver, but the only one had been left in the cabin.

“'Dear Lord,' I prayed, 'spare us this.'

“But the crunch came nearer, nearer, like the soft foot-falls of many
beasts, yet not quite like them either. I grasped a black-charred
spar; ran it into a heap of red ashes to make it as deadly a weapon as
possible. A little flame sprang from the pile, and in its light I went
to grapple with this new danger.

“The woman had heard, and, with a little scream, sprang to her feet and

       [Illustration: =“'You made a fine signal'.”=]    (_page 165_)

quickly came up behind me, put her hand upon me, and cried: 'He has
come! It is my brother who has come!'

“And, as in the Bible, where Monsieur Moses spoke to the rock and the
water gushed from it, so the woman cried into the dark and an answering
voice sprang from it--a voice as from the dead.

“I stood trembling, too weak to move.

“'You made a fine signal,' the voice said. 'Thank God for it!'

“'Yes, thank _le bon Dieu_, for it was His pillar of fire,' I said.
'Who are you?'

“'The rescued come to rescue,' he replied; 'her brother.'

“His sister had sunk upon the snow. As he bent to pick her up, I saw
the extra pairs of snow-shoes on his back, I noticed my toboggan that
he was pulling, and the stores of food upon it.

“'You are strong again,' I said, wishing to pinch him to see whether he
was he, or a trick of some werewolf who was deceiving me.

“'Thanks to your food,' “'But you have been long coming, brother,' said
she, weakly. 'Why so long?'

“'All the bays are much alike,' he explained; 'and when the Smoky Pool
was frozen, I lost my only clue. I was getting always farther away on
my hunt, when the Lord turned and led me here by His pillar of fire.'

“And the three of us, standing there in the dark of earliest dawn
beneath the Great Bear, we keep still and say three--four prayers from
ourselves to that same Jehovah who had guided Monsieur Moses, for the
making of us safe.”

Prunier ceased abruptly and knocked out his pipe upon the hearth-side,
then gazed reminiscently out into the falling snow.

I was busy with the picture in my brain of that blackened hulk, the
frail woman and her almost helpless companion standing there in the
midst of that gray waste of coming dawn. But the Lad's mind had already
gone scouting on before.

“And were you made safe, Prunier?” he asked.

“Oh, _certainement_!” said the guide, almost drolly. “_Voyez_, I am
here.”

“Then tell us--” commanded the insatiable youth.

“_Mais, cette une longue histoire_,” was all we heard.

                         SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS

     1. What means does the author employ to lead naturally into the
        story of romantic adventure?

     2. What is the advantage of introducing two ordinary people in the
        very beginning of the story?

     3. What is the character of Prunier?

     4. How do Prunier's peculiar characteristics aid the story?

     5. How does the author indicate Prunier's way of speaking?

     6. Why is the entire story not told in dialect?

     7. How does the author present the setting of the story?

     8. What part does the dog play in the story?

     9. What part does superstition play?

    10. Point out the three or four most exciting parts of the story.

    11. Explain how the characters are saved from threatening dangers.

    12. In what respects is the story a narrative of contest?

    13. Why is the narrative divided into two sections?

    14. Why are the two ordinary people mentioned throughout the story?

    15. What part does religious faith play?

    16. In what respects is the second part of the story more intense
        than the first part?

    17. What is the character of the sister?

    18. What is the character of the brother?

    19. How does misfortune turn into blessing?

    20. How is the climax made emphatic?

    21. What did Prunier omit?

    22. Point out the most romantic episodes in the story.

    23. Point out the most realistic touches in the story.

    24. What noble qualities does the story emphasize?

    25. How does the story affect the reader?

                    SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION

       1. Prunier's Return               11. Prunier's First Moose
       2. The Brother's Adventures       12. Why Prunier Lived in
                                                the North
       3. The Story of the Shipwreck     13. The Sister's Return to
                                                Civilization
       4. The Mutiny of the Crew         14. In Prunier's Hut
       5. Prunier's Boyhood              15. The Strange Visitor
       6. How Prunier Obtained Pierre    16. The End of the Wolves
       7. Prunier's Longest Journey      17. Prunier Tells Another Story
       8. Why Prunier Was Superstitious  18. The Sister Tells a Story
       9. The Rescue of Pierre           19. The Fate of the Deserters
      10. How Prunier Lost a Companion   20. Prunier's Last Day

                        DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING

In the introduction of your romance use familiar scenes, events or
characters that will lead naturally to a narrative of startling events.
Say enough to indicate the setting of your story and to make it a
vital factor in producing effect but do not write any long-drawn
descriptions or explanations. Let your characters tell the story
and present its setting.

Make all the action hinge on worthy effort, and contribute to awakening
respect for the characters. Tell a series of most unusual events. In
telling every incident make full use of suspense and of climax. Tell
the incidents in such a way that one will lead naturally to another.

Your story will produce the most startling effect if you show your hero
apparently defeated but able, at the last moment, to find a means of
escape from danger.

Keep your story true to human nature, and to the best ideals of human
nature.

                          THE DIDACTIC ESSAY

                           THE AMERICAN BOY
                         By THEODORE ROOSEVELT

    _(1858-1919). Twenty-sixth President of the United States. One of
    the most vigorous, courageous and picturesque figures in the public
    life of his day. Soon after his graduation from Harvard, and from
    Columbia Law School he entered public life, and gave invaluable
    service in many positions, becoming President in 1901, and again
    in 1904. His work as an organizer of the “Rough Riders,” his skill
    in horsemanship, his courage as an explorer and hunter, and his
    staunch patriotism and high ideals all made him both interesting
    and beloved. His work as an author is alone sufficient to make
    him great. Among his many books are_ The Winning of the West; The
    Strenuous Life; African Game Trails; True Americanism.

  =_The American Boy_ is a didactic essay,--an essay that expresses
  the writer's individuality and opinions and at the same time
  conveys instruction in the form of inspiration. Such an essay
  approaches the oration and the treatise. It differs from the
  oration in being less strongly didactic, and from the treatise in
  being less formal and comprehensive.=

  =Mr. Roosevelt's personality is particularly evident in _The
  American Boy_. In every paragraph the reader feels the virile
  strength, the masterful force, the firm-set manhood, the
  broad-minded attitude toward all things that are good, and the
  intense hatred of cowardice and evil that always characterized Mr.
  Roosevelt. The writer is not so much telling a boy what to do as he
  is telling what sort of boy he admires.=

  =The force of such an essay is great. No one, boy or man, can read
  _The American Boy_ without being the better for it, without himself
  admiring manliness, the right balance between athletics and study,
  and the ideals of courage and fair-play.=

Of course, what we have a right to expect of the American boy is that
he shall turn out to be a good American man. Now, the chances are
strong that he won't be much of a man unless he is a good deal of a
boy. He must not be a coward or a weakling, a bully, a shirk, or a
prig. He must work hard and play hard. He must be clean-minded and
clean-lived, and able to hold his own under all circumstances and
against all comers. It is only on these conditions that he will grow
into the kind of American man of whom America can be really proud.

There are always in life countless tendencies for good and for
evil, and each succeeding generation sees some of these tendencies
strengthened and some weakened; nor is it by any means always,
alas! that the tendencies for evil are weakened and those for good
strengthened. But during the last few decades there certainly have
been some notable changes for good in boy life. The great growth in
the love of athletic sports, for instance, while fraught with danger
if it becomes one-sided and unhealthy, has beyond all question had an
excellent effect in in-reared manliness. Forty or fifty years ago the
writer on American morals was sure to deplore the effeminacy and luxury
of young Americans who were born of rich parents. The boy who was well
off then, especially in the big Eastern cities, lived too luxuriously,
took to billiards as his chief innocent recreation, and felt small
shame in his inability to take part in rough pastimes and field sports.
Nowadays, whatever other faults the son of rich parents may tend to
develop, he is at least forced by the opinion of all his associates of
his own age to bear himself well in manly exercises and to develop his
body--and therefore, to a certain extent, his character--in the rough
sports which call for pluck, endurance, and physical address.

Of course, boys who live under such fortunate conditions that they
have to do either a good deal of outdoor work or a good deal of what
might be called natural outdoor play, do not need this athletic
development. In the Civil War the soldiers who came from the prairie
and the backwoods and the rugged farms where stumps still dotted the
clearings, and who had learned to ride in their infancy, to shoot
as soon as they could handle a rifle, and to camp out whenever they
got the chance, were better fitted for military work than any set
of mere school or college athletes could possibly be. Moreover, to
mis-estimate athletics is equally bad whether their importance is
magnified or minimized. The Greeks were famous athletes, and as long
as their athletic training had a normal place in their lives, it was
a good thing. But it was a very bad thing when they kept up their
athletic games while letting the stern qualities of soldiership and
statesmanship sink into disuse. Some of the boys who read this paper
will certainly sometime read the famous letters of the younger Pliny,
a Roman who wrote, with what seems to us a curiously modern touch,
in the first century of the present era. His correspondence with
the Emperor Trajan is particularly interesting; and not the least
noteworthy thing in it is the tone of contempt with which he speaks
of the Greek athletic sports, treating them as the diversions of an
unwarlike people which it was safe to encourage in order to keep the
Greeks from turning into anything formidable. So at one time the
Persian kings had to forbid polo, because soldiers neglected their
proper duties for the fascinations of the game. To-day, some good
critics have asserted that the reverses suffered by the British at the
hands of the Boers in South Africa are in part due to the fact that
the English officers and soldiers have carried to an unhealthy extreme
the sports and pastimes which would be healthy if indulged in with
moderation, and have neglected to learn as they should the business
of their profession. A soldier needs to know how to shoot and take
cover and shift for himself--not to box or play football. There is,
of course, always the risk of thus mistaking means for ends. English
fox-hunting is a first-class sport; but one of the most absurd things
in real life is to note the bated breath with which certain excellent
Englishmen, otherwise of quite healthy minds, speak of this admirable
but not over-important pastime. They tend to make it almost as much of
a fetish as, in the last century, the French and German nobles made the
chase of the stag, when they carried hunting and game-preserving to a
point which was ruinous to the national life. Fox-hunting is very good
as a pastime, but it is about as poor a business as can be followed by
any man of intelligence. Certain writers about it are fond of quoting
the anecdote of a fox-hunter who, in the days of the English Civil War,
was discovered pursuing his favorite sport just before a great battle
between the Cavaliers and the Puritans, and right between their lines
as they came together. These writers apparently consider it a merit
in this man that when his country was in a death-grapple, instead of
taking arms and hurrying to the defense of the cause he believed right,
he should placidly have gone about his usual sports. Of course, in
reality the chief serious use of fox-hunting is to encourage manliness
and vigor, and keep a man so that in time of need he can show himself
fit to take part in work or strife for his native land. When a man so
far confuses ends and means as to think that fox-hunting, or polo, or
football, or whatever else the sport may be, is to be itself taken as
the end, instead of as the mere means of preparation to do work that
counts when the time arises, when the occasion calls--why, that man had
better abandon sport altogether.

No boy can afford to neglect his work, and with a boy work, as a rule,
means study. Of course, there are occasionally brilliant successes
in life where the man has been worthless as a student when a boy. To
take these exceptions as examples would be as unsafe as it would be
to advocate blindness because some blind men have won undying honor
by triumphing over their physical infirmity and accomplishing great
results in the world. I am no advocate of senseless and excessive
cramming in studies, but a boy should work, and should work hard,
at his lessons--in the first place, for the sake of what he will