the craftsman - 1908 - 02 - february.pdf

7/27/2019 The Craftsman - 1908 - 02 - February.pdf

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GUSTAV STICHLEY. EDITOR AND PUBLISHERVOLUME XIII FEBRUARY, 1908 NUMBER 5

THE VISIT:FREDERICK

AN OJIBWAY ROMANCE: BYR. BUR.TON

IJTUMN had been busy in the forest. Its somberaisles were now ablaze; birches and chestnuts inwarm, flaming yellow, maples in red and crimson ;and all around and behind them the grave pines andhemlocks, the tamaracks and balsam, saying to theirfantastic neighbors, We know the winter is coming,and we shall not put off our cloaks of green; flauntyour gay raiment, if you will ; the winter is coming when you willshiver in your nakedness.the winter comes, we sleep. The birches and maples said: WhenWhat know we of nakedness then TAnd the pines breathed deep sighs of reproof for their folly. Yourdresses will fade, they said. Not till we have cast them off, criedthe maples. The-retreating sun looked back with a cheering smile.Aye, the winter is coming, said he; but I shall return and bringyou fresh coats from the southla.nd. And Autumn nodded acrossthe hills to Winter and said she was nearly ready for him.0 D Megissun viewed the phenomena of the season with acritical rather than an appreciative eye. It will be a hardwinter, said he. The snow will be deep, and it will lielong. We must be ready for it. Most provident of Indians, heyet looked with discontent upon his store of provisions and skins,both accumulating rapidly as the result of huntinhimself and his sons, and the unremitting toil of Si% and fishing byequay, his wife.Even now there was abundance to assure them against need in amost prolonged winter. Want had never yet knocked at Megissunswigwam, and never should as long as he could drag his stiff limbsto the runways of the deer, or to the wild-life haunts where he builthis traps. But something was lacking, and his soul was ill at ease.Sibequay watched his restless movements and listened to hisgrumbling for the most part in silence.in the old mans mind. She knew what was stirringIt was ever thus when the leaves bega.n to

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THE VISIT : AN OJIBWAY STORYturn. Xot one autumn season had passed since she became hissquaw that he had not reverted to an episode of long before her ac-quaintance with him ; for Megissun was many years her senior.When I was a young man, he muttered, rather to himself thanto her, I hunted the buffalo on the great plains a hundred daysjourney to the westward.Yes, said she, and Shingebis was with you. Shingebis owes me four buffalo skins! he cried, querulously.That was f&y summers ago. It is time he paid his debt. Gayget, (yes, indeed) she responded, tranquilly, it is. Fifty summers ! growled Megissun. It is a long time to owefour buffalo skins. Shingebis is getting to be an old man now;if he does not take care he will die before he pays. I must go and seehim.Often enough had he said so. Sibequay could count not lessthan twenty-five autumns that her husband had announced his firmintention of dunning the delinquent debtor. She had no belief thathe would modify hrs usual procedure at this time, but after a few$X%s of silent brooding on the subject, Megissun remarked, abruptly,e will pay a vrsrt to my cousin, Sohangetaha.Now Sohan etaha lived about seven days journey to the north-ward in the vi1 age of Odenu-beshowad-sagaigan (the village besidean inland lake) and there also dwelt Shingebis. Lets start tomorrow !son, eager to see the world. exclaimed Maskenozha, the youngestSibequay gave him a reproving look. The boy had spoken beforehis elders, and he was old enough to know better. It was a bad sign,and Sibequay was apprehensive, for it was not the only way in whrchhe manifested disregard of her authority and of the customs of hispeople.Sohangetaha visited us three winters ago, said Megissun. Itis quite time that we should go to him. It is not well to stay everin one place. And Sohangetaha is growing old. Some day he willdie and then we could not visit him. Shingebis is also growing old, remarked Sibequay, inconse-quentially.Me issun gazed gravely into the fire, but if he had looked at hissquaw %e might have seen the ghost of a twinkle in her fun-lovingeyes. Well she understood that this proposal to visit Sohangetaha,and the labored argument in support of it, were inventions to excuseputting himself in the way of Shingebis, rather than the expression494



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THE VISIT: AN OJIBWAY STORYsupply of unk for the igniting sparks, and the pack of skins for cover-%Ing at nig t. And there were garments to redecorate, and gifts tomake ready for the unsuspecting cousin and his family.It was some days before everything was in readiness, but at lastthe time of departure was at hand, and on the dawn of that daySibequay went to a rock by the lake shore in which the rains of cen-turies had drilled a hollow place like a bowl. Therein she placed to-bacco and burned it as an offering to ap ease the nmnitos of thunderKnd lightning that they might not bestir t emselves during the voyageacross the lake to the river.After breakfast, the canoe was launched and the freight put in it.Then Megissun beat his drum, and such of the villagers as were notalready at the shore assembled to witness the setting forth. Thevoyagers stood in a circle about the old man. There were Teku-me ezhik and Anakwade%a Ruay, his squaw; Tebikoosa and his bride,ngequay; Sibequay, t e mother, and Ibenese and Maskenozha,the unmarried sons. Megissun drummed until all his neighbors werein view, meantime singing over and over the meaningless syllables, heyah, heyah , which were the prelude to his travelers song, and atlength he broke into the words which had been a subject of muchstudy with him since the evening when it was decided to make thejourney. I am going, he sang, I am going, going away in mycanoe. In my canoe 1 am going away. I am going across the lakeand up the river. I shall come back when my canoe returns andtell you all about it. I am going away in my canoe.Presently the members of his family caught the run of the words,fitted to a tune known for untold centuries to all Ojibways, and theirvoices joined his in an unsteady unison. As the chorus swelled, Meg-issun be an to move.a Slowly his aged feet shuffled along the marginof the la e, his body bending, and slowly the others, bending, shuf-fled after him. The young men had their paddles which, as theybent, they moved as if thethough empty-handed, P were propelling a canoe, and the women,a so moved then arms as if paddling.Three times around a circle they went, barely lifting their feet fromthe ground, ever giving the motions of paddling, ever singing, I amgoing away in my canoe. And at length Megissun beat a seriesof rapid strokes on the drum, and song and dance ended in a dis-cordant yell.

Then the travelers stowed themselves into the canoe, old manand women in the middle, young men in the ends, and the journeywas begun, while the villagers on shore waved their hands and shouted496



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THE W3IT: AN OJIBWAY STORYfarewells. swiftly the canoe passed the nearby islands, swiftly itsB

ed across the yawning mouth of a bay and around the headlandt at marked its farthest limit.As evening approached they skirted a broad marsh where reedsgrew man high from the water, and when the distant trees werestretchin then shadows across it they turned into a placid river thatwound s uggishly to the lake through some miles of flat land afterits strenuous rushing from the hills that lay beyond. They campedthat night where the forest came to the marshs ed e.Bn the afternoon of the seventh day they made tand embarked upon a lake whose opposite shore was eir last portagecrlainly visible.Smoke rose lazily from a plain between two hills, an presently thetoits of wgwams were distinguishable in the shadow of the trees.en IMegrssun a ain had to resort to his drum, and after a longintroduction of me odious heyahs he sang: Who sits at the waters edAnd his family, catching e may hear me singing-heyah hey!1 is words, sariY with him. As thechorus and the drum beats floated across the si ent water, from everywigwam came the curious people, drifting to the shore, shading theireyes with their hands, and wondering who the visitors might be.Sohangetaha knew, but for some minutes he allowed his ner hborsto speculate vainly as to the identity of the coming guests. 1 t lasthe said:It is the visiting song of Mewith his family to dwell in my loFlissun. He comes from Mitigwakige. Megissun shall be welcome.His neighbors manifested interest in the event each in his ownway. Those who were given to joking laughed boisterously, not atany fun in the present wtuation, but in antrcipation of the fun thatwas sure to come. Grave old men smiled reminiscently. Three orfour squaws waved their hands and uttered shrill cries. Childrenscamit wit1ered excitedly about and threw stones in the water, or lashedtheir sticks. And when the canoe at last reached shore, therewas handshaking and a babe1 of voices in greeting that lasted forquite an hour, by which time the sun was down and Sohangetahasaged squaw had supper ready.

ITHE evening the whole village gathered about the fire beforeSohangetahas wigwam, and stories and songs and dancing filled

and the hours until the dawn of another day. Shingebis was there,Waboos, his son, and they fraternized with the family of Megissunas if there were no outstanding debt of fifty years to raise a barrier497



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THE VISIT: AN OJIBWAY STORYbetween them. In the flood of reminiscences poured forth fromold mens lips there was no mention of the ancient buffalo hunt.There was one at least in the family of Megissun who speedily forgotthe underlying purpose of the visit. Tales of the cha.se and of war,songs of heroes, the pranks of jesters, all passed unheard and un-noticed by Maskenozha. His attention was concentrated early withall the ardor of eighteen summers on a shy young creature who camewith Shingebis to the feast of welcome. She sat silent, hour afterhour, as much alone, apparently, as if the trees were her only com-panions. In the firelight her cheeks showed no trace of Indian color,but her eyes were lustrous black. Her nose was straight and thin,but her cheek bones were high and her lips full. Her hair was abun-dant and dark, but it was not the glossy black of the Ojibway, and itwas not coarse.

No need to tell Maskenozha that she was a half-breed. He quicklylearned her name and history: Eliza Robinson, orphan, found bya son of Shingebis in Sault Ste. Marie. He had known her motherin his boyhood, and when he came upon Eliza, homeless and wellnigh friendless, he adopted her and took her to his fathers wigwam.A conventional story among the Ojibways; they are forever adopt-ing waifs in whom there is a trace of their own blood.Before the festivities of the long night were over, Maskenozhahad seated himself beside the,.pale girl and was trying to talk with her.She spoke Oibway imgreater than ll erfectly, but her knowledge of it was muchis of Eng ish, and for that matter mere words were ofas little consequence ,to them as they have been to myriads of otherswhom youth and Nature have drawn together. To her undoubtedlythere was joy in the very presence of a stranger who felt an interestin her, for Eliza, in her new home, was as lonely as she had beenin the old.Sibequay, wise old woma.n, looked across the fire and frownedwhen she saw them. From that moment she lost interest in the oldmens tales and the young mens songs. She watched for a timeand then called her son to her. Maskenozha reluctantly arose, wentaround the circle and stood inquiringly by his mother. Sit down,she said. I was sitting down, he responded. Sit down here!With a growl of discontent he threw hrmself upon the turf besideher, his back to the fire, and gazed moodily into the darkness; butpresently the magnet across the circle was too strong for his woundedpride, and he turned so that he could keep his eyes upon the younghalf-breed.498



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had come to (*all upon him. 1Ze v-as cheery ad unconcerned, andoflercd his pipe to 3Iegissun with evident cordiality. Xlegissun took:t few whifls ant1 passed the pipe to lekumegezhik, who puffed andpassed it to lbenese, and so it went from one to another until Shingebishad it again. After this ceremony, a token that they met in goodwill, 8 long silence ensued.At length Xegissun cleared his throat and began: \Vhen 1 was a young man I hunted the buffalo on the great plainsa hundred days journey to the westward.Shingebis nodded gravely. 1 remember, said he.Thus encouraged, Megissun repeated his tale.It was a bargain, he concluded. Yes, said Shingebis, it was a bargain.There was another long silence.

That was a long time ago, said Shingebis.A loyg time to owe four buffalo skins, said 3Zegissun.By this time Maskenozha, who had seated himself modestly alittle apart from his elders, had hitched himself so far from the con-ferees that he could rise without attracting their attention. Indeed,he had managed to place the wigwam between himself and them, andhe gave himself to the task of teaching Eliza how to use the beadloom . 1 have traveled much since that hunt, said Shingebis. Theskin of the buffalo does not last forever.It was a, fair bargain, said Megissun.I have had some bad seasons, added Shingebis. One doesnot kill every time he goes upon the hunt.One does not make a bargain to break it, said Blegissun. You will pay.I have no buffalo skins now, Shingebis responded. 1 aman old man, and the plains where the buffalo run are far away. \ye think you should pay, said AIegissun, and he looked at hisSOllS. Each of them assented in turn to this view, and Tekume-gezhik asked Wahoos for his opinion. \ya,boos shifted his positionuncomfortably. It seems there was a bargain, he said, but it was a long timeago. and now there are no buffalo skins.You have many moose and caribou skins, suggested Tebi-koosa, and that was the text for a discussion that endured untilCWIliIlg. Wahooss squaw came home from an errand into thebush ( and. with Elizas help, prepared food for the men. They ate,500



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and smoked and talked, Fveighing the pro3 ~1llCl COllS of uvcrv sug-(7estion until, with entire amicaGility, a compromise was eiyectedCy which Shingebis settled his debt with three IUOOS~ skins, one cari-bou, and five of the red deer. And when it ~-as all decided, and thepipe was passed a&n, Maskcnozha was called from his bead weavingbehind the wigwam to help carry the paTme& to Sohangetshas.It had been a profitable afternoon ior the youncrstcr.b IIe maynot have learned over much in his aged fathers way of doing business,but he had made good progress in his own, and Eliza looked 1onf;inglyafter him as he strode down the village with a pile of skins upon hisshoulder.Sibequays delight at the successful issue of the negotiation wasundisguised.It was a good bargain, she said repeatedly, and she so flatteredher husband that a pleased smile seemed likely never to leave hiswrinkled features.I have my due, he declared, contentedly. They are notbuffalo skins, but they will do very well, and it was all agreed be-tween us as it should be. So there is no fault to find on either side.And tomorrow we can start for home, said Sibequay.llle old mans jaw dropped and his satisfied smile vanished.. Xot so soon ! he exclaimed. One does not travel seven davs:;r~l rest only three. Our visit has hardly begun. See how we crowd Sohangetahas F;igwam, she argued. Youhave gained what you came for, so now it is time to go back. But one does not wait fifty summers for four buflalo skins andtltcn huryy away as soon as the debt is paid.He did not deign to rebut her plea for Sohangetahas comfort,for he knew that it was insincere. Hospitality was hospitality inone place the same as in another. When Sohangetaha was a guestfor a month in Mitigwaki, Sibequay never murmured because thewigwam was overcrowded. Such an excuse for a hasty departurewas not to be discussed, for it would be extremely offensive to Sohan-get&n. and Sibequay knew it. And as for returning because a bar-gain had been successfully consummated, that was so utterly foreignto Indian custom as to be preposterous. It was unworthy of argu-ment, and therefore they argued about it for hours.Riegissun, whose mind was tuned to compromise, suggested thatthe women might go home, if they liked; the sooner the better if hislife was to be made miserable bv their staving; he and the boys wouldrL>znainuntil the visit could 1,; terminatetl with due regard to the

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THE VISIT: A4N OJIBWAY STORYproprieties.liking. That proposition, naturally, was not at all to SibequaysThe one thing that urcustoms of her people was her t ed her to do violence to the hos itableesire to have the boys-one of !i em-safe at home, and, thinking of that, where was he? She asked herhusband, but Megissun had not seen him since supper time.Sibequay stralghtway gave over the argument and set out forthe wigwam of Shingebis. In the villa e she met Maskenozha.Where have you been ? she deman f ed.Up there, he answered vaguely with a jerk of his head.Youve been to see that ale-facedYes, I have been to see ;, irl who lives with Shin ebis.er, said 1 laskenozha. fI shal makeher my squaw.The mothers heart sank pitifully. She saw the last of her sonsin danger, and she had a momentary fear that his wilfulness wouldsubvert her authority. Foolish, foolish boy!I dont see why, she groaned, and almost sobbed.he muttered, stubbornly. Shes the best-looking maiden I ever saw, and its no fault of hers and no harm toher that shes part white. Part white ! scoffed Sibequay ;Ojibway in her-- I should say there was nobut the old woman knew better. She is notfit to be an Ojibways squaw, she concluded.Shes more fit than anybody I know, said Maskenozha.Many youve seen! cried the mother; youre only a boy.Ive seen enough, and Im as tall as my brothers.She tried another course. Listen, Maskenozha: you have yetto pass your nineteenth summer; Ibenese, your brother, is two sum-mers older than you, and he has not yet brought a maiden to mywigwam- Ibenese is slow,heeding. he interrupted, sulkily, but she went on, un-It will be time enough when three more summers have gone.By that time the daughter of our chief will be old enough to marry-Maskenozha laughed outright as he saw his mothers purpose.Nothing could be more unprepossessing to one of his age than thelank, undeveloped child of the chief at home. He would soonerthink of marrying an elderly widow.Well, then, said Sibequay, sharply, understand this: no half-breed woman will ever sleep in my wigwam.It was then the turn of Maskenozhas heart to sink. All wellenough to let his inclinations run their course, and in the transport

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THE VISIT: AN OJLBWAY STORYof young love to set at naught the traditions of his people; but heknew well by hearsay the difficulties that beset such 9,s himself. Hismother could turn his bride away, and that she would do it in herpresent mood he was sure. The boy had sudden recourse to plead-ing. He begged for appreciation for Eliza as a child begs for a toy;and the mother, wise old woman, smiled grimly in the darkness,for she saw that her ultimate power over her son was yet unbroken.See no more of the girl, she advised. It will be the betterfor you. Once back in Mitigwaki you will forget.Maskenozha protested that he could not forget, but he gave nosign of intended disobedience, and Sibequay, therefore, permittedthe visit to run a fairly normal course.In spite of her watchfulness and direct commands, the boy sawmuch of Eliza during the days that followed, and on the evening pre-ceding departure he made another effort to shake his mothers opposi-tion.See, he urged, the canoe can easily hold one more. Let metake Eliza with US. I shall never marry the chiefs daughter, youmay be sure. If I cant have Eliza Ill have nobody. Ill go away-to Manitoulin, or the Soo. Come! Its a long journey betweenhere and home. Lets take Eliza now.And Sibequays answer was the same. No half-breed womanwill ever sleep in my wigwam.The morning came, and the villagers gathered at the shoreyto seethe visitors depart. Maskenozha did his share in the carrying offreight to the canoe, but his step was slow, his face set in sullen, help-less rebellion. In movement and feelinto the youth who helped load at Mitigwa a he was as unlike as possiblepoisoned now with its bitterness. i, eager then to see the world,Apulse to cut loose, to dash into the Hain and again he felt the im-orest and stay there until theothers, weary of hunting or waiting for him, should have departed.It was not conscious res ect for tradition that withheld him fromthis course. The inherite I!upon him. tendencies of untold generation&wereThey know little of the free life of the wild Indianwho imagine that independence was any part of it. Strong as washis determination to wed none other than the half-breed, Ehza Rob-inson, the full blood Maskenozha knew no way to break the strongerthan tyrants chains that bound him to his family.

But when the aged Megissun was singing his parting song, theboy slipped, unto the rear of tKerceived for a moment, out of the circle, and spede assembled villagers where stood Eliza.503



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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPS WITHGREAT MEN: NOTES CULLED FROM HISDIARY: BY CHARLOTTE EATON

THE year of eighteen hundred and seventy-eight,he late Wyatt Eaton went to Concord to paint theportrait of Emerson for Tize Century Magamne. Themeeting between the poet and painter was broughtabout by Mr. F. B. Sanborn, of Concord, who is nowthe last leaf upon the tree of that brilliant group ofmen who were Emersons personal friends. In speak-ing of this meeting, Mr. Eaton says in his notes: Mr. Sanbornentered heartily into the prospect of my painting Emersons portrait,yet with some misgivings as to the opportunity of accpmplishing it,tellin me that Emerson had not taken on the usual picturesquenessof 01 age, that he had been failing rapidly of late and was muchbroken in appearance. This did not discourage me, however, forto me at least Emerson was bound always to be a figure of real in-terest, a man with personality great enough to override the ravagesof years.Mr. Sanborn took me over to Emersons house in the evenin .We waited for him in a large sitting room. It was not quite dar1and the lamps were not lighted. As he entered we came forwardto greet him- it was indeed the real, the living Emerson. Whereanother man would hardly have been recognizable in the dim light,the quality of his personality was but accentuated-his tall, slightlydrooping fi re, his long neck and sloping shoulders, his strongfeatures an dgwell-formed head coming out with prominence in thequiet light. But it was not wholly his appearance that impressedme; it was rather his large and simple manner. I felt most trulyin the presence of a great man.But little time was spent in formalities. Turnin to Mr. San-born, Emerson reminded him of a promise that he, merson, hadimade to read something from his notes written during a visit to Wash-ington in the early part of Lincolns presidency ; if we would likeit he would be glad to read them to us now. This was evidentlya long antici ated pleasure.x Lights were brought in and Emersonreadily foun his note books in the study adjoining, and seatinghimself by a large lamp had soon drawn us with him back againinto Lincolns administration, those most perplexing times inWashington.Thus I saw Emerson at his best and in a rare mood, for whilereading of those scenes of long past conflict, he seemed again to be

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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPSliving them over, full of life and interest, surrounded by his oldestand dearest friends, men whom he admired and revered, of the samegreat aims as himself. I found in the course of the readin B thatduring his visit at Washington Emerson was the guest of C arlesSumner, and it was evident from the frankness of Lincoln andthose closely associated with him, in the presence of Emerson, thatthe integrity of the man was well understood. Never, however,in these notes did Emerson refer to his own relations or conversationswith Lincoln or the other chiefs; he was always the listener.uT IS visit of mine was within two years of the time of Emersonsdeath, and the great man was at times a little forgetful anddistrait in manner. The only faculty that seemed dimmedwas his memory of names and places. It was this consciousness of alack of freedom of expression that made him diffident before company.When alone with a few friends he would talk so interestingly andaddress them so directly that work was almost out of the question.Turning to me one morning, he asked: Who is your favorite poet ?Fortunately, I was saved from answering, as he went on to say, Ofcourse, we must all except Shakespeare and Burns. Taking upBurns, he spoke of him as almost as great in some qualities as Shakes-peare.Mr. Sanborn was frequently with us while we were at work, andhe knew well the subjects that would interest Emerson. Mr. Alcottwould sometimes join us, and these rare morning talks became sucha delight to me that I seemed to work without effort and almostwithout consciousness. Just at this time Dr. Jones, author of Glimpses of Thoreau, had arrived in Concord for a visit, and anumber of friends were invited one morning to Mr. Sanborns to hearDr. Jones take up again the discussion of Plato, which he had touchedupon at a previous gathering. At the end of his talk he turned toEmerson and asked if he would say a few words on the subject. Invery broken sentences Emerson replied that he no longer had thoughtsupon these subjects, and Mrs. Emerson hastened to add, You meanto say that you no longer allow yourself to express your ideas inpublic, and Emerson pathetically answered, Yes, that is what Imeant to say.One day Mrs. Emerson gave a tea, at which I imagine all thebest friends in Concord were present. It was to be followed by aconversaxione. Before the guests had left the dining room I wentupon some errand to the study. There I found Emerson alone,sofj



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WYATT EATONS FRIENIXHIPSdeeply absorbed in some *papers. He had slipped away from thecompany unobserved, hopmg to accomplish a little work before theevening. As I went into the room, he said to me, You must getthrough this work as quickly as possible. (meaning my portrait ofhim), for I am very old and I have but a little longer time to live andso much to do. And then he explained that it was not new workhe wished to do, but the arrangement of all the work of past years.At first it seemed stran f e to me to hear Carlyle spoken of inthis home almost in terms o comradeship. Emerson told me thathe had corresponded with Carlyle for forty years, I believe it was.In speaking of his own works, Emerson said, I have always beena great writer. I have written all of these books, indicating someshelves under one of his study windows-closely packed note books.And now, he added, sadly, I shall write no more.

The portrait finished, I left Concord, Mr. Eaton says, en-chanted with the sloping hills, the broad valleys, the sweet meadows,Walden Pond and its road and the fragrant woods, the walk by theOld Manse down to the battle round and on to the river; the cattleon the river banks and the naa ed little boys in swimming, and theriver, the most quiet, the most peaceful, the most inviting of allrivers.SON after this Mr. Eaton was given an order for portraits ofthe other significant New England poets-Bryant, Whittier,Longfellow and Holmes (Lowell was then in Europe). FromMr. Eatons notes it can readily be understood that, after Emerson,the man whom he enjoyed most was the genial and sympatheticOliver Wendell Holmes. Mr. Eaton went to Boston on Christmasnight to see Dr. Holmes, and called on him the next morning. Ac-cording to the notes: His cordial manner removed at once all feelingof my being a stranger, and his bright face and his clear gray-blueeyes shining with tenderness were irresistible, filling me with delight.For a work room we fixed upon his study with the windows lookingout on the Charles River. It was a delightful room, and at thatseason of the year the ice in greatwith seagulls hovering about. blocks was floating with the tide,Work was kept up every day, some-times in both morning and afternoon. For this sitter I needed no oneto help me or to relieve me from the weight of conversation. Dr.Holmes did not need entertaining He talked delightfully and keptme in the mood for work, his face never diminishing in brightnessfor a second. Our talks were on literature, the arts. anatomy in its

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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPSexternal forms, people and places. The pleasure and interest thatHolmes could take in other peoples stories was an entertainment initself, and I realized with him for the first time how many good onesI could tell, an inspiration which I fear lasted for that one week onlyand never returned.I was just then fresh from the students quarter in Paris, andthis revived the poets memory of his own life in the Latin Quarter.A closet opening into the study was filled with varieties of boots,which recalled to him a remark of the elder Dumas about his son:Alexander will never amount to anything; he has nine pairs ofboots and keeps them all in a row. Later he remembered a sayingof the younger Dumas that my father is a baby I had when veryyou; .YM weeks experience with Holmes would lead me to say thatthe charm of his wit is that it comes from a man of seriousness, andthe charm of his seriousness that it comes from a man of wit. Duringmy stay with him he showed me the models for his improved stereo-scope, the one which finally came into general use. He seemed tohave no regret at not having patented his inventions, which wouldhave brought him a fortune. It was just at this time that hisbiography of John Lothrop Motley came out. In it the author feltthat he had a threefold difficulty to deal with; loyalty to his Republi-can Party, loyalty to his President, General Grant, and justice to hisfriend. I had never asked anyone for an autogra h; I had a verygreat desire to have one of Holmes and yet I coul x not ask him forit. But on going away he gave me a copy of his Life of Motleywith a full inscri tion upon the flyleaf, and also a photoK raph of theportrait of Dorot y Quincy, carrying an autograph. fit us left richin souvenirs as well as in memories. In all the ground we coveredduring this week of diversified talk, Dr. Holmes never repeateda story or a remark, and what is still more exceptional, gave no signof fatigue at the long sittings, and when I left him I could not butfeel that I was actually taking away something of the man himselfin my drawing.A THE time Mr. Eaton called upon William Cullen Bryant, ac-companied by Mr. Richard Watson Gilder, the poet was inhis eighty-fifth year, the last of his life. My most vividmemory of him, Mr. Eaton says, was the first time I saw him.It was on a Sunday afternoon. Bryant came toward me from theback parlor, rather tall, gaunt a.nd high shouldered, his whole figurejO8



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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPSseeming somewhat detached from his white bushy beard. His man-ner was marked by great quietness. He consented readily to Mr.Gilders request for sittings. I ofiered to work at his house, but heshowed a preference for my studio, which necessitated his climbinfour flights of stairs, but this did not seem an objection to him an3our appointments were made at once. In my studio, Bryants headcame out a ainst the background with wonderful picturesqueness!I had never B ad such a model. It would have been a delight to ha&made some studies of him in oil with all the strong effects of lightand shade, but this was not the purpose of the sittings.usually came at nine in the morning, alwa Mr. Bryants on the ,minnte, andl,Ifound that he walked all the way in all Einds #of weather,. Oncehe disappointed me, and I called later to find him inconsolable athaving forgotten his appointment. He had reached that, periodof old age when the soul is preoccupied with its own reveries, whenpeople and things of the hour make but a slight impression. Oneday he repeated some poetry to me in a deep, sonorous voice. Heseemed very old, not eighty-four. but a hundred or two or three hun-dred, and I felt myself as much of a strang;r to him at the endof the sittings as I had on our first meeting.Owing to the pressure of engagements Mr. Eaton was unableto go on with the portraits of the other poets until late in June ,ofthe following summer. Of Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Eaton writes mhis notes: I found him in his house in Cambrid on the morr$nof my arrival in Boston. He had already receive r i letter in regar 8to my coming from his brother and my friend, the Rev. SamuelLongfellow. I was at once struck by a way Longfellow had.of look;ing at one in the pauses of conversation with great intentness, #almoststaring, his eyes brilliant as if he were looking you through, and. it wadthis look that I tried to get into the ortrait.time over sevent Longfellow~wasat thidB , and recently ha B had a severe illness ; but to mehe seemed won erfully youthful and active, his. mind always alertand his speech ready. His head gave the impression of age,. bu.this eyes were those of youth and his conversation was full of quaintremarks and quotations. An English lord had just visited Cam-bridge; Longfellow spoke of his interest in the fine arts but I comrplained of the unfortunate art Lord D,. had patronized in the market;to which Longfellow replied: He is perhaps like Ia certain &hercelebrity who was said to have a great deal of taste, but that;unfor-tunately, it was all bad. I could never think of Longfellow. as an oldman. His years of life and experience seemed unreal and a*mysteq

gm-l



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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPSto me. Our talks were generally during the rests from work orbefore and after sittings, when Longfellow would take me about thehouse showing me objects of interest, works of art, and talkmg freelyabout poetry, poets and translations. Everything was a subjectof reminiscence to him of other times and other countries. A pictureof Robert Buchanan occasioned the remark that he was a muchbetter painter than poet (and I had always heard from artists whohad known Buchanan that he was a much better poet than pamter).The day of my last sitting was very warm, and that I mighthave a little more time Len fellow allowed me to continue at workin the afternoon. During ta e day a violent storm broke over us.It was too dark for work, and Loqfellow went about the house tolook after the windows, while I went out on the verandati;tzh:was, sheltered from the rain but could enjoy the storm.sky grew lighter, I found Longfellow in the library in his chair. Hismanner was very uiet, and presently in a deep, subdued voice hesaid, I believe I lix e nothing that is violent.The finishing of my portrait of Longfellow was hurried, com-plains Mr. Eaton. I have often regretted that I could not followhim to Portland, for my whole summer should have been given tothis work, rather than three weeks.44 F OM Cambridge I immediately went on to Danville-thenew name for Salem Village-a walk of over a mile or sothrough country roads with stone fences and apple orchardsbrought me to a highly cultivated estate with well-kept lawns andtrees of many countries. Oak Knoll was the name of the place, ownedby ladies, cousins of Whittier, with whom he lived and who caredfor him and humored him like a spoiled child. (They once told me ofthe difficulty they had in making him attend his seventieth birthdaydinner given by his Boston friends, how they had actually to dress him,force him into the carriage and finally to shove him onto the train.)Whittier received me very kindly, but at first seemed unwillin togive me the sittings. He brought out a recent photograph whit f heshowed me with much satisfaction. It was one of those hard re-touched things, hardly reco nizable.There, now, why can t you iti Hayding it tp fne, he said,o your portrait from this? I felt verymuch like accepting this as a refusal and going away, but I persistedand soon things were arranged.I never found in Whittier that ruggedness which I had imagined,but I soon grew to like him very much. I worked every day, andSO



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WYATT EATONS FRIENDSHIPSWhittier was a good sitter, but I was afraid of tiring him and I thinkwe spent more time out on the lawn than inside at work. My friend,Mr. Francis Lathrop, who was doing some landscapes in the neigh-borhood, often joined us, and we were a merry company under thetrees of the old estate. Whittier was a reat novel reader, it wouldseem, and much admired the works oP George Parsons Lathrop.He was delighted when he found that my artist friend was a brotherof the author. During these talks he was li ht and joyous, and itwas a charming experience and memory to % ave lounged througha hot summer out in the midst of the most beautiful verdure withsympathetic companions and a man of so great interest and so fullof memories, who seemed to have no cares or preoccupations, ap-parently desiring nothing but to sit in the shade on the grass, talkingof writers and artists, and telling of the happenings of his past life.He was much pleased when he found that I knew some of his poetryby heart. Of his poem, Maud Muller, he told me that he wasonce driving along a country road with his sister when they cameupon a pretty girl raking hay. They stowhile standing before them the girl very sKped and spoke to her, andyly raked a little hay overher bare feet, and I told the poet that I thought his appreciation ofthe act quite as delightful as the poem. One day, while Whittierwas making fun of certain ladies difficulties with their bonnets,one of them said to him: A man who has to go to Philadelphiato get his coats cut should not be surprised at a little worry about awomans bonnet.Whittier spoke with

freat

poraries, but particularly opraise of all his important contem-

Holmes.IS in some res Why, he would say, HolmeslYects the greatest of us all. And so Oak Knoll and itspleasant inha itants will always remain with me a fond memory.This group ofCole, and appeare cf ortraits by Mr. Eaton was engraved by Timothyas full-page illustrations in Th e Cent ur y M agazin e.It is a matter of general regret that they were never exhibited as awhole, but they were the personal pro8 rty of Dr. Holland, who thenowned the magazine, and after his eath they were boxed up andsent to his son, living in the West on atheir wealth of memories and of deligKrairie ranch, so that with alltful comradeship they havegone beyond the reach of artists and art lovers, except for the fewwho remember their reproduction in the magazine for which theywere made.



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THE YOUNGER AMERICAN PAINTERS: ARETHEY CREATING A NATIONAL ART? BYGILES EDGERTON

N AMERICA we have already produced our own typeof men inevitable from a civilization crude, brilliant,selfish, kind, self-conscious, amiable, born out ofphysical conditions of a country of boundless wealthand boundless space, without traditions. Havingevolved a type to suit the land, we have set ourselves tothe development of a machinery requisite to meet anelectric state of change in products and methods of production; wehave created departures in agricultural enterprise; we have beenfearless in revolutionizing educational processes; we have commencedto tell the truth in our architecture, to build shops and houses suitedto our climate, our business and our home ideals ; we have evolveda type of beauty that is born out of our own blue skies and mountaintops and wild winds ; we have recreated athletics for our boys andgirls, and the prize cups of many nations are in our club houses;Paris may no longer set our fashions ;these lines of national development. we think for ourselves along allBut when it comes to the question of art, only the exceptionalman or woman among us thinks at all. This is true even amongour artists. In painting, sculpture and music the blight of imitationis still upon us. We are afraid, most of us, to think the truth orrecognize the truth. Through and through we are disingenuous inour art; we disguise our race and our personalitcopy a Corot tree or a Velasquez complexion, 9

; we are proud toa though neither thetree nor the complexion expresses anything we have ever remotelythought or experienced, or that ever will have the slightest relationto our own way of thinking or living. If regarded as anything beyonda process of acquiring technical skill this method of mimicry suggestsa quality of cheerful mental slavery about as important to a nationsart development as the making of a tidy frock from a ten-cent pattern.Rut fortunately for the future of art conditions in this country,there has grown,u K among us a few artists who value the convictionthat America has t e same art prerogative as all other lands, primitiveor civilized; namely, that her art should be her own, achieved throughthe fdlness or the meagerness of her own progress or failure, as m-

evitably related to her own conditions as an individual perfume isto its flower. The importance to a nation of this point of view is noteasily mtlasured; it is the difference between mdigenous growth



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PFrom a Photografih by Gcrtrrtde K& bier.

MR. ROBERT HENRL



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UK. WILLIAM 5. GLACKENS,



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MR. ERNEST R. LAWSON.



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F? 0131 llrotogmph by Grrtrmir K,rsrhicr.

MR. ARTHUR B. DAVIES.



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From (I Photografih by Gertr ude Kaebier.

MR. J OHN SLOAN.



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From a Phorografih by Gertrude K& b ier .

MR. MAURICE B. PRENDERGAST.



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From a Photograph by Gertru de Kii sebicr.

MR. GEORGE B. LUKS.



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THE YOUNGER AMERICAN PAINTERSalld exotic graft. A man must paint best what he feels and knowsand understands best, and if hempaints the life that he thrills in answerto, hc puts upon canvas cond$ons that have developed him into theracial type he IS, and 1x-rhe doing he expresses 111sown point of viewabout the conditions. He has become as inevitably a definite partof the growth of his country as its fruits and flowers, its system ofgovernment, its dwelling houses. No country can afford an expres-sion in art, however clever or brilliant, that is purely artificial, super-ficial, unemotional, pedantic. The art that is worth recognizing as aphase of national life is as insular as the ty e of the people, as thelanguage, as the nays of hfe; it shows equal y the conditions of city;and country.Here in America such art must present from time to time a hill-side green in misty spring ; a lumberman working in russet woods ;a farmhouse mossy, empty and still, with a fading garden ; a road-way leading to a mysterious hilltop; men at work m the mines, reck-less and frightened; ragged children romping on city squares, tawdrywomen singing to leering men in East Side cafes ; city streets insnow and sleet at night; saturnine lines of cars rushing through duskand shadow overhead ; a cheerful apple woman in ragged clothes ; abeggar pleading for alms, with one hand open to receive and the otherclenched to strike; pretty women in Easter flower markets; menstanding hopeless and sinister in the bread line on a rainy midnight ;girls with haughty eyes and fluttering laces, motoring away to musicand dances ;-beauty very proud and very unheeding and some-times cruel, if the artist sees it so; but still more often the humblefolk and the vulgar folk, all finding their rightful place on the canvasthat is to stand as a permanent expression of how the: life of thisperiod seemed to men of imagination and interesting individuality.\%atever sings among us or struggles or laughs or fights, whateverstrikes a note of ecstasy or sinks back into bleak back-grounds, what-ever SLOWS joy and beauty or .&u&king depths of p:un or ignominy,all the warp and the woof of present-day human existence, these arethe subjects and inspirations for the men who contend that while~10 true art can be hlstoricnl, all great art must be history.By these men, tradition and influence are relegated to their propersp]lew as important phases of culture, but never allowed to paradeas an understudy to inspiration. There are no *great varieties oftheories among these men, rather one very manifest and definitepurpose, to paint truth and to paint it with strength and fearlessnessand individuality-for one artist differs from another not so much

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THE YOUNGER AMERICAN PAINTERSin what he sees as in how he sees it, and his right to recognition mustdepend upon the manner in which he presents what he sees throughthe channel of his own cultivated individuality-all of which youare quite right in thinking will never lead very directly to that goalof popular achievement, the matin6e idol of art. These men whohave found a hemisphere big enough to furnish them inspiration haverelinquished the hope of a bright popular reward for artistic effort.T E work of the best of these artists is occasionally seen at theAcademy-not of ten ; sometimes in individual exhibits, toreceive the heartiest recognition from the understanding, butseldom brought together en masse for those who would most appre-ciate it and enjoy such a showin 7 of their work.proach to such an exhibition wil The nearest ap-be held February third, at theMacbeth Gallery in New York. Only eight of the men exhibit,but they are artists whose work is representative of the best thatAmerica has yet achieved in painting. Their work shows the widestrange of interest in subject and inspiration, that rare technique whichis not a personal idiosyncrasy but a development of art that expressesvarying inspiration, and also that simplicity which one has grownto look for among the men who are not afraid to put into their workthe big, vital, simple conditions and experiences of life.What these men have had to fight against will be best understoodby presenting a E oint of view that is almost universal in relation toAmerican art. ess than a year ago a professional Englishwomanof culture and wide interest in life was heard to say, seriously: Itis really most extraordinary why you Americans fuss so about anart of your own. Does it matter at all whether your artists paintalways in Holland or France or England? If our art is so reallyfiner than yours, why isnt it better for your men to copy our subjectsand technique than to do something quite poor at home?Khen it was suggested to her that France had not accomplishedmuch during her pathetic classic revival under David, and thatEngland was still suffering from the blight of Pre-Raphaelitism, inspite of the honest purpose and delightful-personality of most of thosecharming and gracious men known as the Pre-Raphaelites, and thathistory had over and over again proved that the splendor of art ineach nation was achieved at the time when the expression was mostfrankly provincial, in at least one sense of that word, the E.lglish ladyonly made answer: But have you really Seen the paintings of thePre-Raphaelites? Why, London gives up whole galleries to them.522



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THE YOUNGER AMERICAN PAINTERSAnd what use to have said to her that art cannot flourish on husks,that mere clever imitation is but a pleasant pastime to an unthinking

mind, that art must be great or small, according as a nation is greator small, that the Navajo weaving the life of his people into his bril-liant blanket is as genuine an artist (just rimitrve instead of com-plex) as Millet uttm the life of his peop e on canvas or Glackensptp a whiry of I! Past Side children on Washington Square orenrl s owing a laughin ~ child so painted that the smile seems bornout of a merry heart-o what use?

A D yet, once away from the uncomprehending lorgnette of theBritish lady, the old perplexity mevitably returns. EitherAmerica may have an art of her own, as the eight you menat the Macbeth Gallery believe, or she may copy Burne-Jones piadiesand Secessionist landscapes. If this high pnvile of all nationsback through Greece to Assyria and zigdwellers is to be granted to us, then our one ging 8 wn to the caveope is in a homegrownart, out of our own soil, as much as our own brand of maidens androses are. As an encoura ement to our artists who associate artonly with the Seine, or the f sar or the Thames or the fjords, we offerthem an endless variety of inspiration at home,-the sweet serenityof New England as Tryon paints it; the very last height of Natureselusive wonder, as Twachtman felt it where ocean and meadowsmeet out on the Connecticut shore; vivid East Side life in NewYork as George Luks splashes it on canvas, beauty that glows outof shadows, as all beauty in the East Side must; the tragedy and theunquiet of the lains, where a race of noble people are vanishinginto history, as ii emington and Borglum know the story ; the cafionand the desert with their purple mists and golden sands. And Pren-dergast will give them a lesson on painting children out of doorswith such beauty and atmosphere, with such gaiety, with such rela-tion of sunlight to laughter, that they will recognize him as a teachernot to be found in the Latin Quarter. Sloan will show them a phaseof sordid existence painted with that sort of fine art which Rem-brandt knew long years ago. They will wonder at first at Daviespictures, but if they study them andand by feel the color in them as thou %et to know them they will by7 it were a chime of bells, andif they continue to wonder they will a so ere long understand. Law-son will teach them again that they cant escape beauty anywhere,that it is just thinking straithat tells your own story. ifiht and seeing clear and using a brushe will show them all the roar and the

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THE YOUNGER AMERICAN PAINTERSconfusion and the blare and the somberness that a great city holds,and he likes doing it much better than sketching an Italian landscapeor a French cottage in the Provence. Not one of these eight menwho exhibit at the Macbeth Gallery this month complain of lack ofsubjects in America; the whole continent, North, South, East andWest, is posing for them.If they will talk about their work at all, any one of them will tellyou that just now there is no civilization in the world comparablein interest to ours; none so meteoric, so voluble, so turbulent, sounexpected, so instinct with life, so swift of change, so full of riotousconhut, in light or shade. We have vivacity and bleakness, subtlereserve and brutal frankness, gorgeous color and pathetic dreariness.,We, are .magnetic through our great surging of life from ocean toocean... . We have grown humorous balancing our greatness againstOUJ: defects. .We are enthusiastic and fickle, and we are ;ilAstbegin-ning to.understand our power, our beauty and our blunders and thefact. that we have just as good aright to regard ourselves as a sourceof inspiration as. of revenue only.I3T in so representing the need of an art for ourselves, thereis perhaps danger of a slight misunderstanding; for instance,that we are suggesting that American art should be patriotic (!),limited to American, subjects only, our artists forbidden to acquireknowledge in Paris or Munich, to paint a pretty Dutch girl, or sketchthe B.ay of Naples in twilight.(one of the eight exhibitors), And yet, according to Mr. Henrialthough our artists must be individ-ual, they must also be students, men who think a great deal aboutlife, who read, study, men of the widest possible attainment, andwho are constantly engaged in finding the special means of expressionbest suited to the thing they have to say. And he contends also thatalways art must deal with life, and it becomes important as theideas of the artist are significant. Art to every man must be hispersonal confession of life as he feels it and knows it. The lack ofhuman quality in painting or sculpture means the lack of that vital-ity which makes for permanence. Why is it, Mr. Henri asks,that the New York public prefers the Horse Show with its compel.-line; attraction to the average lecture or the ordinary Academy ex-hibit? It is the human quality of it. It is life at a brilliant, beauti-ful and intoxicating moment instead of some pedantic point of viewabout unreal things. And so it seems that the basis of future Ameri-can art lies in our artists appreciation of the value of the human524



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./ i ,k 4- rLr

HUDSON RIVER IN WINTER:ERNE ST R. LAWSON, PAINTE R.THE PROMENADE : MAURICEB. PRRNDERGAST, PAINTER.



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A MARCH DAY ON WASHINGTON SQUAREWILL IAM J . GLACKENS, PAINTER.THE DUET : EVERETT SHINN, PAINTER.



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hc



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I . ..* . . -* y~:y .-.2 zi . . ,n:7,1_.

PORTRAIT OF A GIRL:ROBERT HENRI, PAINTER



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.-



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WHAT A WORK OF ART OUGHT TO BEbiggest emotional quality that is conceivable. If so, then thesemen are unacademic as Franz Hals was, and Velasquez and Millet;and unacademic, of course, from the point of view of the Beaux htsand the Royal Academy.Andclass), et it is to these unacademic men (and others of theirCEscul ilde Hassam, Lathrop, Eugene Higgins, etc., and to thetors who are working out on our plains and in the mountains,mo Beling in heroic marble and miniature bronze the restless prog-ress, the humor, the audacity of the people and the times that areAmerican, that America must turn for all the art that she can trulyclaim as her own, through which she may seek to prove her rightto the immemorial prerogative of all nations.

WHAT A WORK OF ART OUGHT TO BE66T INGS (in a picture) must not have the appearance of beingbrought together by chance or for a purpose, but must havea necessary and inevitable connection. I desire that thecreations which 1 depict should have the air of being dedicated totheir situation, so that one could not imagine that they would dreamof being anything else than what they are.be all one piece, and the men and thm A work of art ought tofor a reason. . . . It were better tT in it should always be thereat things weakly said shouldnot be said at all, because in the former case they are only, as it were,deflowered and spoiled. . . . Beaut does not consrst so muchin the things represented, as in the needyone has had of expressithem; and this need it is which creates the degree of force witwhich one acquits oneself of the work.is beautiful rovided One may say that everythingin its own p ace; the thing turns up in its own proper time andand contrariwise, that nothing can be beautiful ar-riving inappropriately. . . .Socrates. Let Apollo be Apollo, and SocratesWhich is the more beautiful, a straight tree or a crookedtree? Whichever is most in Pace. This, then, is my conclusion:The beautiful is that which is m place.

JEAN FRANCOIS MILLET.,

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ENGLANDS FIELDS ARE GREEN

EGLANDS cliffs are white like milk,But Englands fields are green ;The grey fogs creep across the moors,But warm suns stand between.And not so far from London Town beyond the brimming streetA thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.

Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,The hedges are aglow;The daisies climb the windy hillsTill all grow white like snow.And when the slim pale moon slides up and dreamy night his nearTheres a whisper in the beaches for lonely hearts to hear.Poppies burn in ItalAnd suns grow roun cf and high ;The black pines of PosilipoAre gaunt upon the sky-And yet I know an Bnglish elm beside an English laneThat calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.Tell me why the meadow-landsBecome so warm in June ;Why the tangled roses breatheSO softly to the moon ;,4nd when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day

Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May.Weary, we have wandered back-And we have traveled far-Above the storms and over seasGleamed ever one bright star-0, England, when our hearts grow cold and will no longer roam,We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round green fields of home.I,LOYD ROBERTS.



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EVANGELINES TOWN, WHERE THE ACA-DIAN LOVERS MET: THE TRUE STORY OFLONGFELLOWS POETICAL ROMANCE: BYCAMPBELL MACLEODVANGELINE is to the imaginative Acadian or Ca-jun, as he is more generally called, more than adream maiden. The people believe she lived amongthem many years ago in the eden of Louisiana, a nearand dear relative, m honor of whom eight out of tengirls of today in that section are named-and Gabri-els are quite as plentiful among the village iiouths.The sad story of this Acadian maiden was told about rude earth-stones up and down the Bayou Teche lon before Longfellow immor-talized it in his sympathetic love poem. f ndeed, the youth who toldthe story, as he had heard it at home, to Longfellow, is still living inSt. Martinville today. Edward Simon, now Judge Simon, one of theleading jurists of Louisiana, was under Mr. Longfellows instructionat Harvard, and ha pened one day to tell him some of the tales thathave been identifie x with the Teche country since it was first settledby its different bands of picturesque adventurers. Among these sto-ries, that of Evangeline made the strongest im ression upon the poetprofessor. From the same source he heard o the wonderful beautyof Louisiana prairie lands, the Broper stage setting for a legend thatoffered to him wide scope for is romantic enius.8 Judge Simon,with the characteristic modesty of the true reole, has steadily de-clined to write the story of this friendship with his instructor or to givehimself any prominence as being the true inspiration of Evangeline.The tale that Judge Simon told Longfellow was the one he hadoften heard from Cajun lips-the maiden in the case being calledEmeline Labiche, and her lover, Louis Arceneaux. After the despoil-ing of Grande Prd, Emeline saw Louis wounded and borne away on astrange ship. She herself drifted to Maryland and then later to Louis-iana, even as Longfellow describes, looking for her lover. At last shemet him under an oak that still stands on the banks of the bayou nearSt. Martinville. Because of her gentleness and religious devotion shehad been renamed in the meantime by her companions, Evan-meline, which means Gods little angel. They still tell, the oldCajun qrandes m&res, how she almost died of joy at the sight of thelover for whom she had sought so long.But Louis, the story goes, manlike, had forgotten to grieve, andwhen Evangeline ran to him, calling him beloved, his face went534



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EVANGELINES TOWNulhite with anguish as he confessed his unworthiness and told her hisheart now belonged to another. The shock unhinged the mind of themaiden, and although she lived for several years after that, she alwaysfancied herself still a girl of sixteen, as she wandered up and downthe banks of the shining bayou, pluckin f wild flowers and talking toherself of the happy day when she shou d find Louis. It was Jud eSimon who described to Longfellow the eden of Louisiana so 8 %ically that he was enabled to sketch pen pictures of it with a rap -delitythat makes it almost unbelievable that he had never seen the Teche,nor known the charm and mystery that brood over the prairie landsof Louisiana.St. lLIartinville today repays a visit, for it is the 7uaintest, mostpicturesque of Louisianas bayou towns, and, strange y enough, notone view of it has yet found a place on a souvenir postal card. Youmay buy postals of Nia 1tore, but when you as ara Falls and Atlantic City at the corner drugif they havent one of the village itself theclerk opens wide his eyes with astonishment-the chances are that heis a stranger himself and hasnt yet been told the lovely old townsclaims to distinction.T E sleepy little train reaches St. Martinville at two oclock in theafternoon. As soon as you put foot forth on the platform youare surrounded by a horde of small negro boys beseeching inexecrable French-for everybody in the place speaks French andonly a few English-to let them show you the way to the hotel, to letthem carr

%your bag, to let them hold your parasol, to please for

Gawds sa e give them a nickel. Then it is you begin to realize thatthis is Evangelines town. The hotel is called the Evangeline House,and you are piloted in the course of the afternoon to the grave ofEvangeline under one corner of the church, and to the Evangelineoak, under which, tradition says, the meeting between the saintedmaiden and her lover took place. This tree, by the way, looks toorecent to be convincing, but the difficulty is explained by the legendthat the original tree was blown down and that this one sprang fromits roots. An unpatriotic citizen last year trimmed all the lowerbranches away because it interfered with his view of the peoplecrossing the bridge further down the bayou!The land lyin,0 along this part of the stream has been bought bythe Evangeline Literary Society for a park which will be called, ofcourse, the Evangeline Park. At this point the bayou is so narrowthat smokestacks of the steamboats sometimes get tangled in over-

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EVANGELINES TOWNhanging trees and shrubbery. Just up the bank rests the EvangelineInn, now converted into a convent. It is a quaint old building andwithin its portals many distinguished guests have been entertainedby Madame Louise, the fame of whose omelettes and citron pre-serves has gone abroad.writing rofession. Madame has many grievances against theDudley Py She almost weeps when she tells how CharlesWarner, arner misrepresented her hostelry. He say, dat Mr.she wrung her plump hands twenty years after he had saidit in helpless wrath at him, zat we had red calico curtains for doors,and sanded floors. Observe ze magnificence of ze portal, pointingto a really handsome old entrance,bare. and only ze floors of ze kitchenThe City Hall is a tiny building set at the end of a group of typi-cal country stores. Before these is a long rack at which the shopalways hitch their horses. The mansion of the mayor of the P

ersquite eclipses all the other residences in size and stateliness. vi1 ageIt is justopposite the first opera house built in America. And next to that isthe original building of the old Fort of the Attakapas.Much of the interest of the town centers about the old church,which for nearly half a century was under the gentle rule of FatherJean, to whom a beautiful statue has been erected in the churchyard.The priests house sits dozing away the years in a quiet, sun-fleckedgarden nearby. If the hour is near five in the afternoon, you will seethe velvet-eyed Creole girls and the madonna-faced matrons quietlytaking their way churchward. And here, as the worshipers sliii forthin the twilight in their pale pink and blue frocks, like so many owersof the field, one realizes that it is the old-time piety, the reverence andchildish devotion untouched by modern unbelief and a nosticism.%he church records preserved in the original Frenc and Spanishfor nearly two hundred years embalm many a romance, many a storythat if given to the world would be of more interest even than thestrange, true stories that have come to light in Louisiana. For it wasin and about St. Martinville that Cable collected the material for hiswonderful stories of Creole life.T E entle priest, if he sees you are a stran er, will leave hisbi do s an jam you, that he may point out Ifvangelines grave.The burying ground has been removed to the other side of thebayou, but her grave has been left untouched. Peace to her ashes ifshe rests here, or wherever she may rest! Her beauty, whether real orimaginary, has added to the poetry of the world-and done more.536



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CONCERNING GHOST BOUQUETS ANDTHE THINGS OF SHORTENING DAYS: BYGRACE E. WARD

N THB Kingdom of the Lone Elm, nothin ever comesrudely or abruptly. There is alwa s %eBehold, I give you a sign. A wE warning,little while, it seems, there was a sin ile ago, a veryle scarlet branchdown in the swamp land, an acci f ent, a freak, wetermed it euphemistically.writing upon the wall. Then, one day-the hand-Red fireballs of foliageburned on Temple Hill, and even through a drenching rain, mocksunshine illumined the road, pouring down from. the pure gold leavesof a double line of maples. And now for the la,st few days, bars aredown, pastures are deserted and cows are browsing sociably in mow-ings close to houses. Long furrows of rich black loam, the fallplowing, stretch darkly past the pallid fluttering pennants of the fewremaining corn-shocks. Something has filched the emerald fromthe fields, covered now with the soft bloom of bleached grass-blades,not as yet monotonously dry and sere.We cross the stubble, almost treading before we know it on awee nest, resting tipsily on the very ground itself, a slack abode hastilythrown together, already disintegrating, and, of course, tenantless.We turn it over gently with the foot, reflecting upon the shallowlittle sli1 shod, shiftless thing, and pass it by.our me itations As we look up fromwe are suddenly aware that there is. growing uponthe land an astonishing bareness and openness. Stone walls, morethan ever manifest, emphasize boundary lines. Shorn of all itsdrapery of vines, the watering trough seems to poke its practicalself farther into the road than usual, conspicuously black and ugly.Houses jump out from the landscape where earlier in the year weshould hardly have suspected a habitation.ness, distances, too, seem to have altered. In this clarifying open-There is no path or roadwhere we walk and do not feel that we are conspicuous, that some-body, from somewhere, is looking at us.We walk upon a thick matting of fallen leaves, leaves of everydesign and hue, mottled and streaked, dull and ashy, yellow, red,russet, wine-colored, light scarlet, tan, and cardinal-a royal wasteof color. In the hollow, westward, where the last leaves have alreadydropped, naked dead-gray branches of the deciduous growth givea smoky appearance to the valley. The mill pond is leaden, dullyreflecting the lifeless brown trees around its edge. Cardina.1 flowers538



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THE WHIM SEIZES US TO GATHER A GHOST-DOUOUET AND IN A TRICE SHADES OF THEGOLDENRODS, TEE ASTERS, THE HAWK-WEEDS,THE THIMBLE -WEED, AND THE STARRY LIFE -EVER-LASTING OFFER THEMSELVE S AS CANDIDATES.



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GHOST BOUQUETSno longer fringe its banks with tongues of fire-it is a vale of misery.liere on the heights, leaves yet cling to partially denuded branches;no more vivid scarlet and gold, however, things have sobered downto soft maroons, bronze, and tones of burnished copper. The chest-nuts and the oaks show no willingness tothe leaves flutter there like little tough f:art with their foliage, buttanned by the winds and frosts. its of leather thorou,ghlyWe cannot resist the gloss of thebig fat acorns,the frisk of a and as we pick them up, the glint of a bright little eye,red tail, and the swift hurrying scratch of little paws inimpetuous retreat to the other side of the tree trunk assure us that thesquirrels too have an eye to the harvest.

TE sky is clear, but for a broad belt just above the horizon,dark blue clouds with long, sharp, straight, uncompromising

ed es.19 The wind is straight out of the north, piercing andkeen. here is a sting in the air. Every few seconds, a leaf wei hsanchor and sets sail upon an adventurous course earthward. 9 01~can hear the sharp little tap-tap-tap-of more leaves striking uponone another in their fall. They sift into every crack and corner inthe rocks, every hollow among the gnarled roots of trees.The a ing of the year, even -as our own, brings a keener sense ofvalues. ! Yith the depreciation of color values in the last few days,outline values have risen fifty per cent., so that the craftsmanshipof Nature is never more apparent than now, in the architecture ofthe trees and the infinite interlacing of twigs etched upon a blue sky.Here and there, in a crotch of the branches, little dark wads showconspicuously against the sky-background, the craftsmanship offeathered architects. There, out of reach but in plain sight, is thedainty structure of a red-eyed vireos nest, which the most carefulscrutiny had failed to discover among the thick foliage of the nestingseason. It is pendant from a forked branch, firmly attached to atwig on each side, round and well knit, though not firmly, and dottedon the outside with trimmings of white plant-down.From the outermost branches of the next tree swings the hangingnest of the oriole whose favorite perch for matins and vespers wasthe dead branch of the maple opposite the house.No longer, of course, are there any bird-notes that can be termedsongs, only sharexpostulate. P

-voiced calls now and then. Jays shriek, scold, andT le sharp, short tweet of an excited robin ringsfar different from his spring carol. In the corn stubble, one pompouscrow struts up and down delivering occasional harsh putturals.

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GHOST BOUQUETSSot only in the tall trees but also in the lower growth of shrubberyl)y the roadside, empty nests confront us in such open and even rashlyimprovident places that we are humiliated by a sense of our ownstupidity in overlooking them heretofore. To investigate the neatlittle cup-shaped home of a redstart brood, fastened to a sumacbush ridiculously near the road, we cross the gutter, all innocent ofthe commotion we are to raise. Instantly a cloud of flying plant-down whirls around us, released from innumerable stalks bythe jar of our step or contact with our clothing.w-cl1 covered, in veritable Santa Claus trimmings. Indeed, we emergeAll along the wayside, shadowy replicas of brilliant blossomsmake a ghostly parade as of all the departed spirits of summer flowers.Soft, round pompons of fuzz, nebulous whorls of down, fantasticErinrres and dainty tassels, are contrasted with the Van Dyke brown

of t i;e small brittle alder-cones, and the stiff formal steeples of thehardhack, cinnamon brown.HE whim seizes us to gather a ghost-bouquet and in a triteshades of the goldenrods, the asters, the hawk-weeds, thethimble-weed, and the starry life-everlasting offer themselves

; 1 candidates.Not by any means, however, is everything dead and colorless.There is no reason why the house should lack decoration even thou hwe cannot afford hot-house flowers. The witch-hazels leafless stala sare feathery with yellow bloom. Pale blue, pebbly-coated bay-berries, thickly clustered, are almost as beautiful as a bunch of forget-me-not3 The oval leaves of the mountain laurel are green andglossy, and the naked stems of the so-called black alder, really theilex, are ablaze with scarlet berries. !The bijar in the living room, filled with a mixture of 7 , old-fashioned ginger-aurel and alder-berries,will make glorious a certain corner for many a winter day, and thesame cheerful berries with plumes of pine will make a greetingbouquet for the hall.But dear, dear! Can we get the berries ?where ! Water, water, every-Everywhere is the voice of many waters. Small rills andfair-sized torrents tumble along down from the heights and emptythemselves into the humble little stream that was wont in summerda.ys to creep modestly alon ,orrasinnnl %ap at a ford. l!f

screened by rank alders except for anow, the little brook is no more, and thewhole mea ow is one broad blue lake, as if some giant, stalking over,had lost a great sapphire solitaire from his ring. But farther on,

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GHOST BOUQUETSperched precariously on the last tuft of solid turf and aided by thecrook of a cane-handle, we manage to acquire the gay branches.True, we are almost precipitated into the water at the critical momentof our angling, by the crack of a rifle unpleasantly close.The cry of hounds comes, borne upon autumn winds. Over theknoll, a fi ure all in russet browns moves into silhouette against theskyline. !tIe brings the warmth of life, action, companionship, intothe landscape. It is the hunter, in loose baggy clothes and heavyboots, with sagging game-bag and rifle at trail. He takes his bear-ings, sights the Lone Elm, and strikes off into a belt of pines. Run,little hare! Make off, Sir Fox! There is one on the trail.We stroll into the pines and hemlocks, where the keen nip of the\\-inds softened and warm brown needles, just as if in summer, sendout a soothing fragrance. Feathery green sprays move in the breeze.&ra.ps of blue sky show through, and we pace those aisles of duskylight with a peaceful consciousness of being in some sanctuary,some place of refuge. It might really be July.Up in that tall pine is lodged a bristly bunch of heterogeneousmaterials. It has no pretensions to beauty or even neatness. Itsonly excuse for being is that last spring Monsieur the Crow rearedthere a brood of uncouth, coarse-voiced brawlers, and they will beamong the few braves that will bivouac in the pines this winter.This moment, amonbegin swift, stealthy 8 the green low-flung branches of young pines,ights of dusky pinions. From every tree theycome, by threes, by fives, by sevens, and presently overhead soundthe fierce anathemas and ribald jeers of a thousand crows indignantat our presence.We cannot walk here many times more this season. It is dis-heartening to feel that this may be the last time we pass this way, thelast time we see the mountain without a ca of snow.We emerge into the open again. The Eroad pink sun rests uponthe horizon line, diffusing a pinkish purple glow through the mistyhaze fast rising in the November afternoon. Long smoky cloudsstreak the western sky, turning lurid crimson on the edges.We give a little shiver, hug our armful of woodland treasurescloser, and scamper for the open hearth fire.Later, in the midnight hours, with thrilling blood we wakensuddenly to a strange weird call- Honk-honk-honk! Therethey go-the wild geese in trailing, shadowy flight, and in the morning--the mountain is white.

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THE TKANSPLANTING OF ANN YOUNG: ASTORY: BY LUCRETIA D. CLAPPcc AM TIIE Resurrection and the Life. The min-

isters voice in solemnly rising inflections camethrough the open window. It was an afternoonin early summer. Long pulsating lines of heatbeat down from a cloudless sky on the dusty roadand the dry fields. The flowers in the smallshowed gray with square front yard and the lilac bush bj- the gatedust. The whir of locusts and the d&vsy droneof bees filled the sleepy silence. I am the Resurrection and the Life. Amelia Younp sittingin the front room in her place among the mourners looked a i out herat the assembled company.fitting black dress. She sat very straight and stiff in her plain-The ministers voice in its irritating monotonecame to her as from afar. 1Vith a strange sense of detachment shetried to bring herself to realize that the still form lying before her inall the insignia of death was her father, and that this was her fathersfuneral sermon; his just due and tribute after years of homely toil.The room smelt damp and musty. The two north windows hadbeen thrown open to admit the light and each object in the roomtook on a startling familiarity.between the windows. There was a marble-topped tableIt had a bead mat on it and a lamp. Theren-as a china card-basket and two books bound in red and blue.Amelia found herself trying to read their titles, although she knewthem by heart.white vases. On a shelf with a lambrequin were tall red andThey held bunches of dried grasses. There were somesmall shells on the shelf and a string of gilded cones. Over on thefloor in the corner was a huge conch shell. Amelia rememberedthe few rare occasions of her childhood when the best room had beenopened and she had been allowed to hold the shell to her ear. Evennow she could hear the sound of the sea. There were some pictureson the walls; portraits of her mothers people, and one, a picture ofher father as a young man.Amelias eyes rested on each of her relatives in turn. AuntMaria and Uncle John and their two children sat together on the hair-cloth sofa. They had driven over that morning. Aunt RIaria wascrying softly. Uncle John shifted his feet noti and then uncom-forta

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