The Magic Egg And Other Stories By Frank Stockton

THE MAGIC EGGAND OTHER STORIES BYFRANK R. STOCKTON CONTENTS THE MAGIC EGG“HIS WIFE’S DECEASED SISTER”THE WIDOW’S CRUISECAPTAIN ELI’S BEST EARLOVE BEFORE BREAKFASTTHE STAYING POWER OF SIR ROHANA PIECE OF RED CALICOTHE CHRISTMAS WRECKMY WELL AND WHAT CAME OUT OF ITMR. TOLMANMY UNWILLING NEIGHBOROUR ARCHERY CLUB THE MAGIC EGG The pretty little theatre attached to the building of the Unicorn Club had been hired for a certain January afternoon by Mr. Herbert Loring, who wished to give therein a somewhat novel performance, to which he had invited a small audience consisting entirely of friends and acquaintances. Loring was a handsome fellow about thirty years old, who had travelled far and studied much. He had recently made a long sojourn in the far East, and his friends had been invited to the theatre to see some of the wonderful things he had brought from that country of wonders. As Loring was a club-man, and belonged to a family of good social standing, his circle of acquaintances was large, and in this circle a good many unpleasant remarks had been made regarding the proposed entertainment–made, of course, by the people who had not been invited to be present. Some of the gossip on the subject had reached Loring, who did not hesitate to say that he could not talk to a crowd, and that he did not care to show the curious things he had collected to people who would not thoroughly appreciate them. He had been very particular in regard to his invitations. At three o’clock on the appointed afternoon nearly all the people who had been invited to the Unicorn Theatre were in their seats. No one had stayed away except for some very good reason, for it was well known that if Herbert Loring offered to show anything it was worth seeing. About forty people were present, who sat talking to one another, or admiring the decoration of the theatre. As Loring stood upon the stage–where he was entirely alone, his exhibition requiring no assistants–he gazed through a loophole in the curtain upon a very interesting array of faces. There were the faces of many men and women of society, of students, of workers in various fields of thought, and even of idlers in all fields of thought; but there was not one which indicated a frivolous or listless disposition. The owners of those faces had come to see something, and they wished to see it. For a quarter of an hour after the time announced for the opening of the exhibition Loring peered through the hole in the curtain, and then, although all the people he had expected had not arrived, he felt it would not do for him to wait any longer. The audience was composed of well-bred and courteous men and women, but despite their polite self-restraint Loring could see that some of them were getting tired of waiting. So, very reluctantly, and feeling that further delay was impossible, he raised the curtain and came forward on the stage. Briefly he announced that the exhibition would open with some fireworks he had brought from Corea. It was plain to see that the statement that fireworks were about to be set off on a theatre stage, by an amateur, had rather startled some of the audience, and Loring hastened to explain that these were not real fireworks, but that they were contrivances made of colored glass, which were illuminated by the powerful lens of a lantern which was placed out of sight, and while the apparent pyrotechnic display would resemble fireworks of strange and grotesque designs, it would be absolutely without danger. He brought out some little bunches of bits of colored glass, hung them at some distance apart on a wire which was stretched across the stage just high enough for him to reach it, and then lighted his lantern, which he placed in one of the wings, lowered all the lights in the theatre, and began his exhibition. As Loring turned his lantern on one of the clusters of glass lenses, strips, and points, and, unseen himself, caused them to move by means of long cords attached, the effects were beautiful and marvellous. Little wheels of colored fire rapidly revolved, miniature rockets appeared to rise a few feet and to explode in the air, and while all the ordinary forms of fireworks were produced on a diminutive scale, there were some effects that were entirely novel to the audience. As the light was turned successively upon one and another of the clusters of glass, sometimes it would flash along the whole line so rapidly that all the various combinations of color and motion seemed to be combined in one, and then for a time each particular set of fireworks would blaze, sparkle, and coruscate by itself, scattering particles of colored light as if they had been real sparks of fire. This curious and beautiful exhibition of miniature pyrotechnics was extremely interesting to the audience, who gazed upward with rapt and eager attention at the line of wheels, stars, and revolving spheres. So far as interest gave evidence of satisfaction, there was never a better satisfied audience. At first there had been some hushed murmurs of pleasure, but very soon the attention of every one seemed so completely engrossed by the dazzling display that they simply gazed in silence. For twenty minutes or longer the glittering show went on, and not a sign of weariness or inattention was made by any one of the assembled company. Then gradually the colors of the little fireworks faded, the stars and wheels revolved more slowly, the lights in the body of the theatre were gradually raised, and the stage curtain went softly down. Anxiously, and a little pale, Herbert Loring peered through the loophole in the curtain. It was not easy to judge of the effects of his exhibition, and he did not know whether or not it had been a success. There was no applause, but, on the other hand, there was no signs that any one resented the exhibition as a childish display of colored lights. It was impossible to look upon that audience without believing that they had been thoroughly interested in what they had seen, and that they expected to see more. For two or three minutes Loring gazed through his loophole, and then, still with some doubt in his heart, but with a little more color in his checks, he prepared for the second part of his performance. At this moment there entered the theatre, at the very back of the house, a young lady. She was handsome and well dressed, and as she opened the door–Loring had employed no ushers or other assistants in this little social performance–she paused for a moment and looked into the theatre, and then noiselessly stepped to a chair in the back row and sat down. This was Edith Starr, who, a month before, had been betrothed to Herbert Loring. Edith and her mother had been invited to this performance, and front seats had been reserved for them, for each guest had received a numbered card. But Mrs. Starr had a headache, and could not go out that afternoon, and for a time her daughter had thought that she, too, must give up the pleasure Loring had promised her, and stay with her mother. But when the elder lady dropped into a quiet sleep, Edith thought that, late as it was, she would go by herself, and see what she could of the performance. She was quite certain that if her presence were known to Loring he would stop whatever he was doing until she had been provided with a seat which he thought suitable for her, for he had made a point of her being properly seated when he gave the invitations. Therefore, being equally desirous of not disturbing the performance and of not being herself conspicuous, she sat behind two rather large men, where she could see the stage perfectly well, but where she herself would not be likely to be seen. In a few moments the curtain rose, and Loring came forward, carrying a small, light table, which he placed near the front of the stage, and for a moment stood quietly by it. Edith noticed upon his face the expression of uncertainty and anxiety which had not yet left it. Standing by the side of the table, and speaking very slowly, but so clearly that his words could be heard distinctly in all parts of the room, he began some introductory remarks regarding the second part of his performance. “The extraordinary, and I may say marvellous, thing which I am about to show you,” he said, “is known among East Indian magicians as the magic egg. The exhibition is a very uncommon one, and has seldom been seen by Americans or Europeans, and it was by a piece of rare good fortune that I became possessed of the appliances necessary for this exhibition. They are indeed very few and simple, but never before, to the best of my knowledge and belief, have they been seen outside of India. “I will now get the little box which contains the articles necessary for this magical performance, and I will say that if I had time to tell you of the strange and amazing adventure which resulted in my possession of this box, I am sure you would be as much interested in that as I expect you to be in the contents of the box. But in order that none of you may think this is an ordinary trick, executed by means of concealed traps or doors, I wish you to take particular notice of this table, which is, as you see, a plain, unpainted pine table, with nothing but a flat top, and four straight legs at the corners. You can see under and around it, and it gives no opportunity to conceal anything.” Then, standing for a few moments as if he had something else to say, he turned and stepped toward one of the wings. Edith was troubled as she looked at her lover during these remarks. Her interest was great, greater, indeed, than that of the people about her, but it was not a pleasant interest. As Loring stopped speaking, and looked about him, there was a momentary flush on his face. She knew this was caused by excitement, and she was pale from the same cause. Very soon Loring came forward, and stood by the table. “Here is the box,” he said, “of which I spoke, and as I hold it up I think you all can see it. It is not large, being certainly not more than twelve inches in length and two deep, but it contains some very wonderful things. The outside of this box is covered with delicate engraving and carving which you cannot see, and these marks and lines have, I think, some magical meaning, but I do not know what it is. I will now open the box and show you what is inside. The first thing I take out is this little stick, not thicker than a lead-pencil, but somewhat longer, as you see. This is a magical wand, and is covered with inscriptions of the same character as those on the outside of the box. The next thing is this little red bag, well filled, as you see, which I shall put on the table, for I shall not yet need it. “Now I take out a piece of cloth which is folded into a very small compass, but as I unfold it you will perceive that it is more than a foot square, and is covered with embroidery. All those strange lines and figures in gold and red, which you can plainly see on the cloth as I hold it up, are also characters in the same magic language as those on the box and wand. I will now spread the cloth on the table, and then take out the only remaining thing in the box, and this is nothing in the world but an egg–a simple, ordinary hen’s egg, as you all see as I hold it up. It may be a trifle larger than an ordinary egg, but then, after all, it is nothing but a common egg–that is, in appearance. In reality it is a good deal more. “Now I will begin the performance.” And as he stood by the back of the table, over which he had been slightly bending, and threw his eyes over the audience, his voice was stronger, and his face had lost all its pallor. He was evidently warming up with his subject. “I now take up this wand,” he said, “which, while I hold it, gives me power to produce the phenomena which you are about to behold. You may not all believe that there is any magic whatever about this little performance, and that it is all a bit of machinery; but whatever you may think about it, you shall see what you shall see. “Now with this wand I gently touch this egg which is lying on the square of cloth. I do not believe you can see what has happened to this egg, but I will tell you. There is a little line, like a hair, entirely around it. Now that line has become a crack. Now you can see it, I know. It grows wider and wider! Look! The shell of the egg is separating in the middle. The whole egg slightly moves. Do you notice that? Now you can see something yellow showing itself between the two parts of the shell. See! It is moving a good deal, and the two halves of the shell are separating more and more. And now out tumbles this queer little object. Do you see what it is? It is a poor, weak, little chick, not able to stand, but alive–alive! You can all perceive that it is alive. Now you can see that it is standing on its feet, feebly enough, but still standing. “Behold, it takes a few steps! You cannot doubt that it is alive, and came out of that egg. It is beginning to walk about over the cloth. Do you notice that it is picking the embroidery? Now, little chick, I will give you something to eat. This little red bag contains grain, a magical grain, with which I shall feed the chicken. You must excuse my awkwardness in opening the bag, as I still hold the wand; but this little stick I must not drop. See, little chick, there are some grains! They look like rice, but, in fact, I have no idea what they are. But he knows, he knows! Look at him! See how he picks it up! There! He has swallowed one, two, three. That will do, little chick, for a first meal. “The grain seems to have strengthened him already, for see how lively he is, and how his yellow down stands out on him, so puffy and warm! You are looking for some more grain, are you? Well, you cannot have it just yet, and keep away from those pieces of eggshell, which, by the way, I will put back into the box. Now, sir, try to avoid the edge of the table, and, to quiet you, I will give you a little tap on the back with my wand. Now, then, please observe closely. The down which just now covered him has almost gone. He is really a good deal bigger, and ever so much uglier. See the little pin-feathers sticking out over him! Some spots here and there are almost bare, but he is ever so much more active. Ha! Listen to that! He is so strong that you can hear his beak as he pecks at the table. He is actually growing bigger and bigger before our very eyes! See that funny little tail, how it begins to stick up, and quills are showing at the end of his wings. “Another tap, and a few more grains. Careful, sir! Don’t tear the cloth! See how rapidly he grows! He is fairly covered with feathers, red and black, with a tip of yellow in front. You could hardly get that fellow into an ostrich egg! Now, then, what do you think of him? He is big enough for a broiler, though I don’t think any one would want to take him for that purpose. Some more grain, and another tap from my wand. See! He does not mind the little stick, for he has been used to it from his very birth. Now, then, he is what you would call a good half-grown chick. Rather more than half grown, I should say. Do you notice his tail? There is no mistaking him for a pullet. The long feathers are beginning to curl over already. He must have a little more grain. Look out, sir, or you will be off the table! Come back here! This table is too small for him, but if he were on the floor you could not see him so well. “Another tap. Now see that comb on the top of his head; you scarcely noticed it before, and now it is bright red. And see his spurs beginning to show–on good thick legs, too. There is a fine young fellow for you! Look how he jerks his head from side to side, like the young prince of a poultry-yard, as he well deserves to be!” The attentive interest which had at first characterized the audience now changed to excited admiration and amazement. Some leaned forward with mouths wide open. Others stood up so that they could see better. Ejaculations of astonishment and wonder were heard on every side, and a more thoroughly fascinated and absorbed audience was never seen. “Now, my friends,” Loring continued, “I will give this handsome fowl another tap. Behold the result–a noble, full- grown cock! Behold his spurs! They are nearly an inch long! See, there is a comb for you! And what a magnificent tail of green and black, contrasting so finely with the deep red of the rest of his body! Well, sir, you are truly too big for this table. As I cannot give you more room, I will set you up higher. Move over a little, and I will set this chair on the table. There! Upon the seat! That’s right, but don’t stop. There is the back, which is higher yet! Up with you! Ha! There, he nearly upset the chair, but I will hold it. See! He has turned around. Now, then, look at him. See his wings as he flaps them! He could fly with such wings. Look at him! See that swelling breast! Ha, ha! Listen! Did you ever hear a crow like that? It fairly rings through the house. Yes, I knew it! There is another!” At this point the people in the house were in a state of wild excitement. Nearly all of them were on their feet, and they were in such a condition of frantic enthusiasm that Loring was afraid some of them might make a run for the stage. “Come, sir,” cried Loring, now almost shouting, “that will do. You have shown us the strength of your lungs. Jump down on the seat of the chair; now on the table. There, I will take away the chair, and you can stand for a moment on the table and let our friends look at you; but only for a moment. Take that tap on your back. Now do you see any difference? Perhaps you may not, but I do. Yes, I believe you all do. He is not the big fellow he was a minute ago. He is really smaller–only a fine cockerel. A nice tail that, but with none of the noble sweep that it had a minute ago. No, don’t try to get off the table. You can’t escape my wand. Another tap. Behold a half-grown chicken, good to eat, but with not a crow in him. Hungry, are you? But you need not pick at the table that way. You get no more grain, but only this little tap. Ha, ha! What are you coming to? There is a chicken barely feathered enough for us to tell what color he is going to be. “Another tap will take still more of the conceit out of him. Look at him! There are his pin-feathers, and his bare spots. Don’t try to get away; I can easily tap you again. Now then. Here is a lovely little chick, fluffy with yellow down. He is active enough, but I shall quiet him. One tap, and now what do you see? A poor, feeble chicken, scarcely able to stand, with his down all packed close to him as if he had been out in the rain. Ah, little chick, I will take the two halves of the egg- shell from which you came, and put them on each side of you. Come, now get in! I close them up. You are lost to view. There is nothing to be seen but a crack around the shell! Now it has gone! There, my friends; as I hold it on high, behold the magic egg, exactly as it was when I first took it out of the box, into which I will place it again, with the cloth and the wand and the little red bag, and shut it up with a snap. I will let you take one more look at this box before I put it away behind the scenes. Are you satisfied with what I have shown you? Do you think it is really as wonderful as you supposed it would be?” At these words the whole audience burst into riotous applause, during which Loring disappeared, but he was back in a moment. “Thank you!” he cried, bowing low, and waving his arms before him in the manner of an Eastern magician making a salaam. From side to side he turned, bowing and thanking, and then, with a hearty “Good-by to you; good-by to you all!” he stepped back and let down the curtain. For some moments the audience remained in their seats as if they were expecting something more, and then they rose quietly and began to disperse. Most of them were acquainted with one another, and there was a good deal of greeting and talking as they went out of the theatre. When Loring was sure the last person had departed, he turned down the lights, locked the door, and gave the key to the steward of the club. He walked to his home a happy man. His exhibition had been a perfect success, with not a break or a flaw in it from beginning to end. “I feel,” thought the young man, as he strode along, “as if I could fly to the top of that steeple, and flap and crow until all the world heard me.” That evening, as was his daily custom, Herbert Loring called upon Miss Starr. He found the young lady in the library. “I came in here,” she said, “because I have a good deal to talk to you about, and I do not want interruptions.” With this arrangement the young man expressed his entire satisfaction, and immediately began to inquire the cause of her absence from his exhibition in the afternoon. “But I was there,” said Edith. “You did not see me, but I was there. Mother had a headache, and I went by myself.” “You were there!” exclaimed Loring, almost starting from his chair. “I don’t understand. You were not in your seat.” “No,” answered Edith. “I was on the very back row of seats. You could not see me, and I did not wish you to see me.” “Edith!” exclaimed Loring, rising to his feet and leaning over the library table, which was between them. “When did you come? How much of the performance did you see?” “I was late,” she said. “I did not arrive until after the fireworks, or whatever they were.” For a moment Loring was silent, as if he did not understand the situation. “Fireworks!” he said. “How did you know there had been fireworks?” “I heard the people talking of them as they left the theatre,” she answered. “And what did they say?” he inquired quickly. “They seemed to like them very well,” she replied, “but I do not think they were quite satisfied. From what I heard some persons say, I inferred that they thought it was not very much of a show to which you had invited them.” Again Loring stood in thought, looking down at the table. But before he could speak again, Edith sprang to her feet. “Herbert Loring,” she cried, “what does all this mean? I was there during the whole of the exhibition of what you called the magic egg. I saw all those people wild with excitement at the wonderful sight of the chicken that came out of the egg, and grew to full size, and then dwindled down again, and went back into the egg, and, Herbert, there was no egg, and there was no little box, and there was no wand, and no embroidered cloth, and there was no red bag, nor any little chick, and there was no full-grown fowl, and there was no chair that you put on the table! There was nothing, absolutely nothing, but you and that table! Even the table was not what you said it was. It was not an unpainted pine table with four straight legs. It was a table of dark polished wood, and it stood on a single post with feet. There was nothing there that you said was there. Everything was a sham and a delusion; every word you spoke was untrue. And yet everybody in that theatre, excepting you and me, saw all the things that you said were on the stage. I know they saw them all, for I was with the people, and heard them, and saw them, and at times I fairly felt the thrill of enthusiasm which possessed them as they glared at the miracles and wonders you said were happening.” Loring smiled. “Sit down, my dear Edith,” he said. “You are excited, and there is not the slightest cause for it. I will explain the whole affair to you. It is simple enough. You know that study is the great object of my life. I study all sorts of things; and just now I am greatly interested in hypnotism. The subject has become fascinating to me. I have made a great many successful trials of my power, and the affair of this afternoon was nothing but a trial of my powers on a more extensive scale than anything I have yet attempted. I wanted to see if it were possible for me to hypnotize a considerable number of people without any one suspecting what I intended to do. The result was a success. I hypnotized all those people by means of the first part of my performance, which consisted of some combinations of colored glass with lights thrown upon them. They revolved, and looked like fireworks, and were strung on a wire high up on the stage. “I kept up the glittering and dazzling show–which was well worth seeing, I can assure you–until the people had been straining their eyes upward for almost half an hour. And this sort of thing–I will tell you if you do not know it–is one of the methods of producing hypnotic sleep. “There was no one present who was not an impressionable subject, for I was very careful in sending out my invitations, and when I became almost certain that my audience was thoroughly hypnotized, I stopped the show and began the real exhibition, which was not really for their benefit, but for mine. “Of course, I was dreadfully anxious for fear I had not succeeded entirely, and that there might be at least some one person who had not succumbed to the hypnotic influences, and so I tested the matter by bringing out that table and telling them it was something it was not. If I had had any reason for supposing that some of the audience saw the table as it really was, I had an explanation ready, and I could have retired from my position without any one supposing that I had intended making hypnotic experiments. The rest of the exhibition would have been some things that any one could see, and as soon as possible I would have released from their spell those who were hypnotized. But when I became positively assured that every one saw a light pine table with four straight legs, I confidently went on with the performances of the magic egg.” Edith Starr was still standing by the library table. She had not heeded Loring’s advice to sit down, and she was trembling with emotion. “Herbert Loring,” she said, “you invited my mother and me to that exhibition. You gave us tickets for front seats, where we would be certain to be hypnotized if your experiment succeeded, and you would have made us see that false show, which faded from those people’s minds as soon as they recovered from the spell, for as they went away they were talking only of the fireworks, and not one of them mentioned a magic egg, or a chicken, or anything of the kind. Answer me this: did you not intend that I should come and be put under that spell?” Loring smiled. “Yes,” he said, “of course I did. But then your case would have been different from that of the other spectators: I should have explained the whole thing to you, and I am sure we would have had a great deal of pleasure, and profit too, in discussing your experiences. The subject is extremely–” “Explain to me!” she cried. “You would not have dared to do it! I do not know how brave you may be, but I know you would not have had the courage to come here and tell me that you had taken away my reason and my judgment, as you took them away from all those people, and that you had made me a mere tool of your will– glaring and panting with excitement at the wonderful things you told me to see where nothing existed. I have nothing to say about the others. They can speak for themselves if they ever come to know what you did to them. I speak for myself. I stood up with the rest of the people. I gazed with all my power, and over and over again I asked myself if it could be possible that anything was the matter with my eyes or my brain, and if I could be the only person there who could not see the marvellous spectacle that you were describing. But now I know that nothing was real, not even the little pine table–not even the man!” “Not even me!” exclaimed Loring. “Surely I was real enough!” “On that stage, yes,” she said. “But you there proved you were not the Herbert Loring to whom I promised myself. He was an unreal being. If he had existed he would not have been a man who would have brought me to that public place, all ignorant of his intentions, to cloud my perceptions, to subject my intellect to his own, and make me believe a lie. If a man should treat me in that way once he would treat me so at other times, and in other ways, if he had the chance. You have treated me in the past as to-day you treated those people who glared at the magic egg. In the days gone by you made me see an unreal man, but you will never do it again! Good-by.” “Edith,” cried Loring, “you don’t–” But she had disappeared through a side door, and he never spoke to her again. Walking home through the dimly lighted streets, Loring involuntarily spoke aloud. “And this,” he said, “is what came out of the magic egg!” “HIS WIFE’S DECEASED SISTER” It is now five years since an event occurred which so colored my life, or rather so changed some of its original colors, that I have thought it well to write an account of it, deeming that its lessons may be of advantage to persons whose situations in life are similar to my own. When I was quite a young man I adopted literature as a profession, and having passed through the necessary preparatory grades, I found myself, after a good many years of hard and often unremunerative work, in possession of what might be called a fair literary practice. My articles, grave, gay, practical, or fanciful, had come to be considered with a favor by the editors of the various periodicals for which I wrote, on which I found in time I could rely with a very comfortable certainty. My productions created no enthusiasm in the reading public; they gave me no great reputation or very valuable pecuniary return; but they were always accepted, and my receipts from them, at the time to which I have referred, were as regular and reliable as a salary, and quite sufficient to give me more than a comfortable support. It was at this time I married. I had been engaged for more than a year, but had not been willing to assume the support of a wife until I felt that my pecuniary position was so assured that I could do so with full satisfaction to my own conscience. There was now no doubt in regard to this position, either in my mind or in that of my wife. I worked with great steadiness and regularity, I knew exactly where to place the productions of my pen, and could calculate, with a fair degree of accuracy, the sums I should receive for them. We were by no means rich, but we had enough, and were thoroughly satisfied and content. Those of my readers who are married will have no difficulty in remembering the peculiar ecstasy of the first weeks of their wedded life. It is then that the flowers of this world bloom brightest; that its sun is the most genial; that its clouds are the scarcest; that its fruit is the most delicious; that the air is the most balmy; that its cigars are of the highest flavor; that the warmth and radiance of early matrimonial felicity so rarefy the intellectual atmosphere that the soul mounts higher, and enjoys a wider prospect, than ever before. These experiences were mine. The plain claret of my mind was changed to sparkling champagne, and at the very height of its effervescence I wrote a story. The happy thought that then struck me for a tale was of a very peculiar character, and it interested me so much that I went to work at it with great delight and enthusiasm, and finished it in a comparatively short time. The title of the story was “His Wife’s Deceased Sister,” and when I read it to Hypatia she was delighted with it, and at times was so affected by its pathos that her uncontrollable emotion caused a sympathetic dimness in my eyes which prevented my seeing the words I had written. When the reading was ended and my wife had dried her eyes, she turned to me and said, “This story will make your fortune. There has been nothing so pathetic since Lamartine’s History of a Servant Girl.'” As soon as possible the next day I sent my story to the editor of the periodical for which I wrote most frequently, and in which my best productions generally appeared. In a few days I had a letter from the editor, in which he praised my story as he had never before praised anything from my pen. It had interested and charmed, he said, not only himself, but all his associates in the office. Even old Gibson, who never cared to read anything until it was in proof, and who never praised anything which had not a joke in it, was induced by the example of the others to read this manuscript, and shed, as he asserted, the first tears that had come from his eyes since his final paternal castigation some forty years before. The story would appear, the editor assured me, as soon as he could possibly find room for it. If anything could make our skies more genial, our flowers brighter, and the flavor of our fruit and cigars more delicious, it was a letter like this. And when, in a very short time, the story was published, we found that the reading public was inclined to receive it with as much sympathetic interest and favor as had been shown to it by the editors. My personal friends soon began to express enthusiastic opinions upon it. It was highly praised in many of the leading newspapers, and, altogether, it was a great literary success. I am not inclined to be vain of my writings, and, in general, my wife tells me, I think too little of them. But I did feel a good deal of pride and satisfaction in the success of “His Wife’s Deceased Sister.” If it did not make my fortune, as my wife asserted it would, it certainly would help me very much in my literary career. In less than a month from the writing of this story, something very unusual and unexpected happened to me. A manuscript was returned by the editor of the periodical in which “His Wife’s Deceased Sister” had appeared. “It is a good story,” he wrote, “but not equal to what you have just done. You have made a great hit, and it would not do to interfere with the reputation you have gained by publishing anything inferior to His Wife’s Deceased Sister,’ which has had such a deserved success.” I was so unaccustomed to having my work thrown back on my hands that I think I must have turned a little pale when I read the letter. I said nothing of the matter to my wife, for it would be foolish to drop such grains of sand as this into the smoothly oiled machinery of our domestic felicity, but I immediately sent the story to another editor. I am not able to express the astonishment I felt when, in the course of a week, it was sent back to me. The tone of the note accompanying it indicated a somewhat injured feeling on the part of the editor. “I am reluctant,” he said, “to decline a manuscript from you; but you know very well that if you sent me anything like His Wife’s Deceased Sister’ it would be most promptly accepted.” I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife, who was quite as much surprised, though, perhaps, not quite as much shocked, as I had been. “Let us read the story again,” she said, “and see what is the matter with it.” When we had finished its perusal, Hypatia remarked: “It is quite as good as many of the stories you have had printed, and I think it very interesting, although, of course, it is not equal to His Wife’s Deceased Sister.’” “Of course not,” said I; “that was an inspiration that I cannot expect every day. But there must be something wrong about this last story which we do not perceive. Perhaps my recent success may have made me a little careless in writing it.” “I don’t believe that,” said Hypatia. “At any rate,” I continued, “I will lay it aside, and will go to work on a new one.” In due course of time I had another manuscript finished, and I sent it to my favorite periodical. It was retained some weeks, and then came back to me. “It will never do,” the editor wrote, quite warmly, “for you to go backward. The demand for the number containing His Wife’s Deceased Sister’ still continues, and we do not intend to let you disappoint that great body of readers who would be so eager to see another number containing one of your stories.” I sent this manuscript to four other periodicals, and from each of them it was returned with remarks to the effect that, although it was not a bad story in itself, it was not what they would expect from the author of “His Wife’s Deceased Sister.” The editor of a Western magazine wrote to me for a story to be published in a special number which he would issue for the holidays. I wrote him one of the character and length he desired, and sent it to him. By return mail it came back to me. “I had hoped,” the editor wrote, “when I asked for a story from your pen, to receive something like His Wife’s Deceased Sister,’ and I must own that I am very much disappointed.” I was so filled with anger when I read this note that I openly objurgated “His Wife’s Deceased Sister.” “You must excuse me,” I said to my astonished wife, “for expressing myself thus in your presence, but that confounded story will be the ruin of me yet. Until it is forgotten nobody will ever take anything I write.” “And you cannot expect it ever to be forgotten,” said Hypatia, with tears in her eyes. It is needless for me to detail my literary efforts in the course of the next few months. The ideas of the editors with whom my principal business had been done, in regard to my literary ability, had been so raised by my unfortunate story of “His Wife’s Deceased Sister” that I found it was of no use to send them anything of lesser merit. And as to the other journals which I tried, they evidently considered it an insult for me to send them matter inferior to that by which my reputation had lately risen. The fact was that my successful story had ruined me. My income was at an end, and want actually stared me in the face; and I must admit that I did not like the expression of its countenance. It was of no use for me to try to write another story like “His Wife’s Deceased Sister.” I could not get married every time I began a new manuscript, and it was the exaltation of mind caused by my wedded felicity which produced that story. “It’s perfectly dreadful!” said my wife. “If I had had a sister, and she had died, I would have thought it was my fault.” “It could not be your fault,” I answered, “and I do not think it was mine. I had no intention of deceiving anybody into the belief that I could do that sort of thing every time, and it ought not to be expected of me. Suppose Raphael’s patrons had tried to keep him screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine Madonna, and had refused to buy anything which was not as good as that. In that case I think he would have occupied a much earlier and narrower grave than the one on which Mr. Morris Moore hangs his funeral decorations.” “But, my dear,” said Hypatia, who was posted on such subjects, “the Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings.” “Very true,” said I. “But if he had married as I did, he would have painted it earlier.” I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I met Barbel, a man I had known well in my early literary career. He was now about fifty years of age, but looked older. His hair and beard were quite gray, and his clothes, which were of the same general hue, gave me the idea that they, like his hair, had originally been black. Age is very hard on a man’s external appointments. Barbel had an air of having been to let for a long time, and quite out of repair. But there was a kindly gleam in his eye, and he welcomed me cordially. “Why, what is the matter, old fellow?” said he. “I never saw you look so woe-begone.” I had no reason to conceal anything from Barbel. In my younger days he had been of great use to me, and he had a right to know the state of my affairs. I laid the whole case plainly before him. “Look here,” he said, when I had finished; “come with me to my room; I have something I would like to say to you there.” I followed Barbel to his room. It was at the top of a very dirty and well-worn house, which stood in a narrow and lumpy street, into which few vehicles ever penetrated, except the ash and garbage-carts, and the rickety wagons of the venders of stale vegetables. “This is not exactly a fashionable promenade,” said Barbel, as we approached the house, “but in some respects it reminds me of the streets in Italian towns, where the palaces lean over toward each other in such a friendly way.” Barbel’s room was, to my mind, rather more doleful than the street. It was dark, it was dusty, and cobwebs hung from every corner. The few chairs upon the floor and the books upon a greasy table seemed to be afflicted with some dorsal epidemic, for their backs were either gone or broken. A little bedstead in the corner was covered with a spread made of New York “Heralds” with their edges pasted together. “There is nothing better,” said Barbel, noticing my glance toward this novel counterpane, “for a bed-covering than newspapers; they keep you as warm as a blanket, and are much lighter. I used to use Tribunes,’ but they rattled too much.” The only part of the room which was well lighted was one end near the solitary window. Here, upon a table with a spliced leg, stood a little grindstone. “At the other end of the room,” said Barbel, “is my cook- stove, which you can’t see unless I light the candle in the bottle which stands by it. But if you don’t care particularly to examine it, I won’t go to the expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good many odd pieces of bric-a-brac, around here, if you chose to strike a match and investigate. But I would not advise you to do so. It would pay better to throw the things out of the window than to carry them down-stairs. The particular piece of indoor decoration to which I wish to call your attention is this.” And he led me to a little wooden frame which hung against the wall near the window. Behind a dusty piece of glass it held what appeared to be a leaf from a small magazine or journal. “There,” said he, “you see a page from the Grasshopper,’ a humorous paper which flourished in this city some half-dozen years ago. I used to write regularly for that paper, as you may remember.” “Oh, yes, indeed!” I exclaimed. “And I shall never forget your Conundrum of the Anvil’ which appeared in it. How often have I laughed at that most wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it to my friends!” Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed to the frame. “That printed page,” he said solemnly, “contains the Conundrum of the Anvil.’ I hang it there so that I can see it while I work. That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I wrote for the Grasshopper.’ How I ever came to imagine it, I cannot tell. It is one of those things which occur to a man but once in a lifetime. After the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted that conundrum, my subsequent efforts met with hoots of derision. The Grasshopper’ turned its hind legs upon me. I sank from bad to worse,–much worse,–until at last I found myself reduced to my present occupation, which is that of grinding points on pins. By this I procure my bread, coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes and meat. One day while I was hard at work, an organ-grinder came into the street below. He played the serenade from Trovatore’ and the familiar notes brought back visions of old days and old delights, when the successful writer wore good clothes and sat at operas, when he looked into sweet eyes and talked of Italian airs, when his future appeared all a succession of bright scenery and joyous acts, without any provision for a drop-curtain. And as my ear listened, and my mind wandered in this happy retrospect, my every faculty seemed exalted, and, without any thought upon the matter, I ground points upon my pins so fine, so regular, and so smooth that they would have pierced with ease the leather of a boot, or slipped, without abrasion, among the finest threads of rare old lace. When the organ stopped, and I fell back into my real world of cobwebs and mustiness, I gazed upon the pins I had just ground, and, without a moment’s hesitation, I threw them into the street, and reported the lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money, but it saved me my livelihood.” After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed: “I have no more to say to you, my young friend. All I want you to do is to look upon that framed conundrum, then upon this grindstone, and then to go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of pins to grind before the sun goes down.” I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all relieved by what I had seen and heard. I had lost sight of Barbel for some years, and I had supposed him still floating on the sun- sparkling stream of prosperity where I had last seen him. It was a great shock to me to find him in such a condition of poverty and squalor, and to see a man who had originated the “Conundrum of the Anvil” reduced to the soul-depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I walked and thought, the dreadful picture of a totally eclipsed future arose before my mind. The moral of Barbel sank deep into my heart. When I reached home I told my wife the story of my friend Barbel. She listened with a sad and eager interest. “I am afraid,” she said, “if our fortunes do not quickly mend, that we shall have to buy two little grindstones. You know I could help you at that sort of thing.” For a long time we sat together and talked, and devised many plans for the future. I did not think it necessary yet for me to look out for a pin contract; but I must find some way of making money, or we should starve to death. Of course, the first thing that suggested itself was the possibility of finding some other business. But, apart from the difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work in occupations to which I had not been trained, I felt a great and natural reluctance to give up a profession for which I had carefully prepared myself, and which I had adopted as my life-work. It would be very hard for me to lay down my pen forever, and to close the top of my inkstand upon all the bright and happy fancies which I had seen mirrored in its tranquil pool. We talked and pondered the rest of that day and a good deal of the night, but we came to no conclusion as to what it would be best for us to do. The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the journal for which, in happier days, before the blight of “His Wife’s Deceased Sister” rested upon me, I used most frequently to write, and, having frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his advice. The editor was a good man, and had always been my friend. He listened with great attention to what I told him, and evidently sympathized with me in my trouble. “As we have written to you,” he said, “the only reason why we did not accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would have disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to publish another story like His Wife’s Deceased Sister.’ We felt, and we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy the fair fabric which you yourself have raised. But,” he added, with a kind smile, “I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation will be of little advantage to you if you should starve at the moment that its genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up.” “Its beams are not genial,” I answered. “They have scorched and withered me.” “How would you like,” said the editor, after a short reflection, “to allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public, would put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your reputation.” Joyfully I seized the noble fellow by the hand, and instantly accepted his proposition. “Of course,” said I, “a reputation is a very good thing; but no reputation can take the place of food, clothes, and a house to live in, and I gladly agree to sink my over-illumined name into oblivion, and to appear before the public as a new and unknown writer.” “I hope that need not be for long,” he said, “for I feel sure that you will yet write stories as good as His Wife’s Deceased Sister.'” All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal under the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a substitute for my own, permanently disabled. I made a similar arrangement with other editors, and John Darmstadt received the credit of everything that proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances now became very comfortable, and occasionally we even allowed ourselves to indulge in little dreams of prosperity. Time passed on very pleasantly. One year, another, and then a little son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or the earliest weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest and proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say that the same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and invention, which succeeded upon my wedding day came upon me now. As then, my ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for a story, and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was about six weeks old when the manuscript was finished, and one evening, as we sat before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room, with the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I read the story to my wife. When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my arms. “I was never so proud of you,” she said, her glad eyes sparkling, “as I am at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is, indeed I am sure it is, just as good as His Wife’s Deceased Sister.’” As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sensation crept over us both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I loved, vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each other with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had flashed upon us both. This story WAS as good as “His Wife’s Deceased Sister”! We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel’s super- pointed pins seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just as we had began to build them up. My wife approached me, and took my hand in hers, which was as cold as ice. “Be strong and firm,” she said. “A great danger threatens us, but you must brace yourself against it. Be strong and firm.” I pressed her hand, and we said no more that night. The next day I took the manuscript I had just written, and carefully infolded it in stout wrapping-paper. Then I went to a neighboring grocery store and bought a small, strong, tin box, originally intended for biscuit, with a cover that fitted tightly. In this I placed my manuscript, and then I took the box to a tinsmith and had the top fastened on with hard solder. When I went home I ascended into the garret and brought down to my study a ship’s cash-box, which had once belonged to one of my family who was a sea-captain. This box was very heavy, and firmly bound with iron, and was secured by two massive locks. Calling my wife, I told her of the contents of the tin case, which I then placed in the box, and having shut down the heavy lid, I doubly locked it. “This key,” said I, putting it in my pocket, “I shall throw into the river when I go out this afternoon.” My wife watched me eagerly, with a pallid and firm-set countenance, but upon which I could see the faint glimmer of returning happiness. “Wouldn’t it be well,” she said, “to secure it still further by sealing-wax and pieces of tape?” “No,” said I. “I do not believe that any one will attempt to tamper with our prosperity. And now, my dear,” I continued in an impressive voice, “no one but you, and, in the course of time, our son, shall know that this manuscript exists. When I am dead, those who survive me may, if they see fit, cause this box to be split open and the story published. The reputation it may give my name cannot harm me then.” THE WIDOW’S CRUISE The Widow Ducket lived in a small village about ten miles from the New Jersey sea-coast. In this village she was born, here she had married and buried her husband, and here she expected somebody to bury her; but she was in no hurry for this, for she had scarcely reached middle age. She was a tall woman with no apparent fat in her composition, and full of activity, both muscular and mental. She rose at six o’clock in the morning, cooked breakfast, set the table, washed the dishes when the meal was over, milked, churned, swept, washed, ironed, worked in her little garden, attended to the flowers in the front yard, and in the afternoon knitted and quilted and sewed, and after tea she either went to see her neighbors or had them come to see her. When it was really dark she lighted the lamp in her parlor and read for an hour, and if it happened to be one of Miss Mary Wilkins’s books that she read she expressed doubts as to the realism of the characters therein described. These doubts she expressed to Dorcas Networthy, who was a small, plump woman, with a solemn face, who had lived with the widow for many years and who had become her devoted disciple. Whatever the widow did, that also did Dorcas–not so well, for her heart told her she could never expect to do that, but with a yearning anxiety to do everything as well as she could. She rose at five minutes past six, and in a subsidiary way she helped to get the breakfast, to eat it, to wash up the dishes, to work in the garden, to quilt, to sew, to visit and receive, and no one could have tried harder than she did to keep awake when the widow read aloud in the evening. All these things happened every day in the summertime, but in the winter the widow and Dorcas cleared the snow from their little front path instead of attending to the flowers, and in the evening they lighted a fire as well as a lamp in the parlor. Sometimes, however, something different happened, but this was not often, only a few times in the year. One of the different things occurred when Mrs. Ducket and Dorcas were sitting on their little front porch one summer afternoon, one on the little bench on one side of the door, and the other on the little bench on the other side of the door, each waiting until she should hear the clock strike five, to prepare tea. But it was not yet a quarter to five when a one-horse wagon containing four men came slowly down the street. Dorcas first saw the wagon, and she instantly stopped knitting. “Mercy on me!” she exclaimed. “Whoever those people are, they are strangers here, and they don’t know where to stop, for they first go to one side of the street and then to the other.” The widow looked around sharply. “Humph!” said she. “Those men are sailormen. You might see that in a twinklin’ of an eye. Sailormen always drive that way, because that is the way they sail ships. They first tack in one direction and then in another.” “Mr. Ducket didn’t like the sea?” remarked Dorcas, for about the three hundredth time. “No, he didn’t,” answered the widow, for about the two hundred and fiftieth time, for there had been occasions when she thought Dorcas put this question inopportunely. “He hated it, and he was drowned in it through trustin’ a sailorman, which I never did nor shall. Do you really believe those men are comin’ here?” “Upon my word I do!” said Dorcas, and her opinion was correct. The wagon drew up in front of Mrs. Ducket’s little white house, and the two women sat rigidly, their hands in their laps, staring at the man who drove. This was an elderly personage with whitish hair, and under his chin a thin whitish beard, which waved in the gentle breeze and gave Dorcas the idea that his head was filled with hair which was leaking out from below. “Is this the Widow Ducket’s?” inquired this elderly man, in a strong, penetrating voice. “That’s my name,” said the widow, and laying her knitting on the bench beside her, she went to the gate. Dorcas also laid her knitting on the bench beside her and went to the gate. “I was told,” said the elderly man, “at a house we touched at about a quarter of a mile back, that the Widow Ducket’s was the only house in this village where there was any chance of me and my mates getting a meal. We are four sailors, and we are making from the bay over to Cuppertown, and that’s eight miles ahead yet, and we are all pretty sharp set for something to eat.” “This is the place,” said the widow, “and I do give meals if there is enough in the house and everything comes handy.” “Does everything come handy to-day?” said he. “It does,” said she, “and you can hitch your horse and come in; but I haven’t got anything for him.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said the man, “we brought along stores for him, so we’ll just make fast and then come in.” The two women hurried into the house in a state of bustling preparation, for the furnishing of this meal meant one dollar in cash. The four mariners, all elderly men, descended from the wagon, each one scrambling with alacrity over a different wheel. A box of broken ship-biscuit was brought out and put on the ground in front of the horse, who immediately set himself to eating with great satisfaction. Tea was a little late that day, because there were six persons to provide for instead of two, but it was a good meal, and after the four seamen had washed their hands and faces at the pump in the back yard and had wiped them on two towels furnished by Dorcas, they all came in and sat down. Mrs. Ducket seated herself at the head of the table with the dignity proper to the mistress of the house, and Dorcas seated herself at the other end with the dignity proper to the disciple of the mistress. No service was necessary, for everything that was to be eaten or drunk was on the table. When each of the elderly mariners had had as much bread and butter, quickly baked soda-biscuit, dried beef, cold ham, cold tongue, and preserved fruit of every variety known, as his storage capacity would permit, the mariner in command, Captain Bird, pushed back his chair, whereupon the other mariners pushed back their chairs. “Madam,” said Captain Bird, “we have all made a good meal, which didn’t need to be no better nor more of it, and we’re satisfied; but that horse out there has not had time to rest himself enough to go the eight miles that lies ahead of us, so, if it’s all the same to you and this good lady, we’d like to sit on that front porch awhile and smoke our pipes. I was a-looking at that porch when I came in, and I bethought to myself what a rare good place it was to smoke a pipe in.” “There’s pipes been smoked there,” said the widow, rising, “and it can be done again. Inside the house I don’t allow tobacco, but on the porch neither of us minds.” So the four captains betook themselves to the porch, two of them seating themselves on the little bench on one side of the door, and two of them on the little bench on the other side of the door, and lighted their pipes. “Shall we clear off the table and wash up the dishes,” said Dorcas, “or wait until they are gone?” “We will wait until they are gone,” said the widow, “for now that they are here we might as well have a bit of a chat with them. When a sailorman lights his pipe he is generally willin’ to talk, but when he is eatin’ you can’t get a word out of him.” Without thinking it necessary to ask permission, for the house belonged to her, the Widow Ducket brought a chair and put it in the hall close to the open front door, and Dorcas brought another chair and seated herself by the side of the widow. “Do all you sailormen belong down there at the bay?” asked Mrs. Ducket; thus the conversation began, and in a few minutes it had reached a point at which Captain Bird thought it proper to say that a great many strange things happen to seamen sailing on the sea which lands-people never dream of. “Such as anything in particular?” asked the widow, at which remark Dorcas clasped her hands in expectancy. At this question each of the mariners took his pipe from his mouth and gazed upon the floor in thought. “There’s a good many strange things happened to me and my mates at sea. Would you and that other lady like to hear any of them?” asked Captain Bird. “We would like to hear them if they are true,” said the widow. “There’s nothing happened to me and my mates that isn’t true,” said Captain Bird, “and here is something that once happened to me: I was on a whaling v’yage when a big sperm- whale, just as mad as a fiery bull, came at us, head on, and struck the ship at the stern with such tremendous force that his head crashed right through her timbers and he went nearly half his length into her hull. The hold was mostly filled with empty barrels, for we was just beginning our v’yage, and when he had made kindling-wood of these there was room enough for him. We all expected that it wouldn’t take five minutes for the vessel to fill and go to the bottom, and we made ready to take to the boats; but it turned out we didn’t need to take to no boats, for as fast as the water rushed into the hold of the ship, that whale drank it and squirted it up through the two blow-holes in the top of his head, and as there was an open hatchway just over his head, the water all went into the sea again, and that whale kept working day and night pumping the water out until we beached the vessel on the island of Trinidad–the whale helping us wonderful on our way over by the powerful working of his tail, which, being outside in the water, acted like a propeller. I don’t believe any thing stranger than that ever happened to a whaling ship.” “No,” said the widow, “I don’t believe anything ever did.” Captain Bird now looked at Captain Sanderson, and the latter took his pipe out of his mouth and said that in all his sailing around the world he had never known anything queerer than what happened to a big steamship he chanced to be on, which ran into an island in a fog. Everybody on board thought the ship was wrecked, but it had twin screws, and was going at such a tremendous speed that it turned the island entirely upside down and sailed over it, and he had heard tell that even now people sailing over the spot could look down into the water and see the roots of the trees and the cellars of the houses. Captain Sanderson now put his pipe back into his mouth, and Captain Burress took out his pipe. “I was once in an obelisk-ship,” said he, “that used to trade regular between Egypt and New York, carrying obelisks. We had a big obelisk on board. The way they ship obelisks is to make a hole in the stern of the ship, and run the obelisk in, p’inted end foremost; and this obelisk filled up nearly the whole of that ship from stern to bow. We was about ten days out, and sailing afore a northeast gale with the engines at full speed, when suddenly we spied breakers ahead, and our Captain saw we was about to run on a bank. Now if we hadn’t had an obelisk on board we might have sailed over that bank, but the captain knew that with an obelisk on board we drew too much water for this, and that we’d be wrecked in about fifty-five seconds if something wasn’t done quick. So he had to do something quick, and this is what he did: He ordered all steam on, and drove slam-bang on that bank. Just as he expected, we stopped so suddint that that big obelisk bounced for’ard, its p’inted end foremost, and went clean through the bow and shot out into the sea. The minute it did that the vessel was so lightened that it rose in the water and we easily steamed over the bank. There was one man knocked overboard by the shock when we struck, but as soon as we missed him we went back after him and we got him all right. You see, when that obelisk went overboard, its butt-end, which was heaviest, went down first, and when it touched the bottom it just stood there, and as it was such a big obelisk there was about five and a half feet of it stuck out of the water. The man who was knocked overboard he just swum for that obelisk and he climbed up the hiryglyphics. It was a mighty fine obelisk, and the Egyptians had cut their hiryglyphics good and deep, so that the man could get hand and foot-hold; and when we got to him and took him off, he was sitting high and dry on the p’inted end of that obelisk. It was a great pity about the obelisk, for it was a good obelisk, but as I never heard the company tried to raise it, I expect it is standing there yet.” Captain Burress now put his pipe back into his mouth and looked at Captain Jenkinson, who removed his pipe and said: “The queerest thing that ever happened to me was about a shark. We was off the Banks, and the time of year was July, and the ice was coming down, and we got in among a lot of it. Not far away, off our weather bow, there was a little iceberg which had such a queerness about it that the captain and three men went in a boat to look at it. The ice was mighty clear ice, and you could see almost through it, and right inside of it, not more than three feet above the waterline, and about two feet, or maybe twenty inches, inside the ice, was a whopping big shark, about fourteen feet long,–a regular man-eater,–frozen in there hard and fast. Bless my soul,’ said the captain, this is a wonderful curiosity, and I’m going to git him out.’ Just then one of the men said he saw that shark wink, but the captain wouldn’t believe him, for he said that shark was frozen stiff and hard and couldn’t wink. You see, the captain had his own idees about things, and he knew that whales was warm-blooded and would freeze if they was shut up in ice, but he forgot that sharks was not whales and that they’re cold-blooded just like toads. And there is toads that has been shut up in rocks for thousands of years, and they stayed alive, no matter how cold the place was, because they was cold-blooded, and when the rocks was split, out hopped the frog. But, as I said before, the captain forgot sharks was cold-blooded, and he determined to git that one out. “Now you both know, being housekeepers, that if you take a needle and drive it into a hunk of ice you can split it. The captain had a sail-needle with him, and so he drove it into the iceberg right alongside of the shark and split it. Now the minute he did it he knew that the man was right when he said he saw the shark wink, for it flopped out of that iceberg quicker nor a flash of lightning.” “What a happy fish he must have been!” ejaculated Dorcas, forgetful of precedent, so great was her emotion. “Yes,” said Captain Jenkinson, “it was a happy fish enough, but it wasn’t a happy captain. You see, that shark hadn’t had anything to eat, perhaps for a thousand years, until the captain came along with his sail-needle.” “Surely you sailormen do see strange things,” now said the widow, “and the strangest thing about them is that they are true.” “Yes, indeed,” said Dorcas, “that is the most wonderful thing.” “You wouldn’t suppose,” said the Widow Ducket, glancing from one bench of mariners to the other, “that I have a sea-story to tell, but I have, and if you like I will tell it to you.” Captain Bird looked up a little surprised. “We would like to hear it–indeed, we would, madam,” said he. “Ay, ay!” said Captain Burress, and the two other mariners nodded. “It was a good while ago,” she said, “when I was living on the shore near the head of the bay, that my husband was away and I was left alone in the house. One mornin’ my sister-in-law, who lived on the other side of the bay, sent me word by a boy on a horse that she hadn’t any oil in the house to fill the lamp that she always put in the window to light her husband home, who was a fisherman, and if I would send her some by the boy she would pay me back as soon as they bought oil. The boy said he would stop on his way home and take the oil to her, but he never did stop, or perhaps he never went back, and about five o’clock I began to get dreadfully worried, for I knew if that lamp wasn’t in my sister-in-law’s window by dark she might be a widow before midnight. So I said to myself, I’ve got to get that oil to her, no matter what happens or how it’s done.’ Of course I couldn’t tell what might happen, but there was only one way it could be done, and that was for me to get into the boat that was tied to the post down by the water, and take it to her, for it was too far for me to walk around by the head of the bay. Now, the trouble was, I didn’t know no more about a boat and the managin’ of it than any one of you sailormen knows about clear starchin’. But there wasn’t no use of thinkin’ what I knew and what I didn’t know, for I had to take it to her, and there was no way of doin’ it except in that boat. So I filled a gallon can, for I thought I might as well take enough while I was about it, and I went down to the water and I unhitched that boat and I put the oil-can into her, and then I got in, and off I started, and when I was about a quarter of a mile from the shore–“ “Madam,” interrupted Captain Bird, “did you row or–or was there a sail to the boat?” The widow looked at the questioner for a moment. “No,” said she, “I didn’t row. I forgot to bring the oars from the house; but it didn’t matter, for I didn’t know how to use them, and if there had been a sail I couldn’t have put it up, for I didn’t know how to use it, either. I used the rudder to make the boat go. The rudder was the only thing I knew anything about. I’d held a rudder when I was a little girl, and I knew how to work it. So I just took hold of the handle of the rudder and turned it round and round, and that made the boat go ahead, you know, and–” “Madam!” exclaimed Captain Bird, and the other elderly mariners took their pipes from their mouths. “Yes, that is the way I did it,” continued the widow, briskly. “Big steamships are made to go by a propeller turning round and round at their back ends, and I made the rudder work in the same way, and I got along very well, too, until suddenly, when I was about a quarter of a mile from the shore, a most terrible and awful storm arose. There must have been a typhoon or a cyclone out at sea, for the waves came up the bay bigger than houses, and when they got to the head of the bay they turned around and tried to get out to sea again. So in this way they continually met, and made the most awful and roarin’ pilin’ up of waves that ever was known. “My little boat was pitched about as if it had been a feather in a breeze, and when the front part of it was cleavin’ itself down into the water the hind part was stickin’ up until the rudder whizzed around like a patent churn with no milk in it. The thunder began to roar and the lightnin’ flashed, and three seagulls, so nearly frightened to death that they began to turn up the whites of their eyes, flew down and sat on one of the seats of the boat, forgettin’ in that awful moment that man was their nat’ral enemy. I had a couple of biscuits in my pocket, because I had thought I might want a bite in crossing, and I crumbled up one of these and fed the poor creatures. Then I began to wonder what I was goin’ to do, for things were gettin’ awfuller and awfuller every instant, and the little boat was a- heavin’ and a-pitchin’ and a-rollin’ and h’istin’ itself up, first on one end and then on the other, to such an extent that if I hadn’t kept tight hold of the rudder-handle I’d slipped off the seat I was sittin’ on. “All of a sudden I remembered that oil in the can; but just as I was puttin’ my fingers on the cork my conscience smote me. Am I goin’ to use this oil,’ I said to myself, `and let my sister-in-law’s husband be wrecked for want of it?’ And then I thought that he wouldn’t want it all that night, and perhaps they would buy oil the next day, and so I poured out about a tumblerful of it on the water, and I can just tell you sailormen that you never saw anything act as prompt as that did. In three seconds, or perhaps five, the water all around me, for the distance of a small front yard, was just as flat as a table and as smooth as glass, and so invitin’ in appearance that the three gulls jumped out of the boat and began to swim about on it, primin’ their feathers and lookin’ at themselves in the transparent depths, though I must say that one of them made an awful face as he dipped his bill into the water and tasted kerosene. “Now I had time to sit quiet in the midst of the placid space I had made for myself, and rest from workin’ of the rudder. Truly it was a wonderful and marvellous thing to look at. The waves was roarin’ and leapin’ up all around me higher than the roof of this house, and sometimes their tops would reach over so that they nearly met and shut out all view of the stormy sky, which seemed as if it was bein’ torn to pieces by blazin’ lightnin’, while the thunder pealed so tremendous that it almost drowned the roar of the waves. Not only above and all around me was every thing terrific and fearful, but even under me it was the same, for there was a big crack in the bottom of the boat as wide as my hand, and through this I could see down into the water beneath, and there was–“ “Madam!” ejaculated Captain Bird, the hand which had been holding his pipe a few inches from his mouth now dropping to his knee; and at this motion the hands which held the pipes of the three other mariners dropped to their knees. “Of course it sounds strange,” continued the widow, “but I know that people can see down into clear water, and the water under me was clear, and the crack was wide enough for me to see through, and down under me was sharks and swordfishes and other horrible water creatures, which I had never seen before, all driven into the bay, I haven’t a doubt, by the violence of the storm out at sea. The thought of my bein’ upset and fallin’ in among those monsters made my very blood run cold, and involuntary-like I began to turn the handle of the rudder, and in a moment I shot into a wall of ragin’ sea-water that was towerin’ around me. For a second I was fairly blinded and stunned, but I had the cork out of that oil-can in no time, and very soon–you’d scarcely believe it if I told you how soon–I had another placid mill-pond surroundin’ of me. I sat there a-pantin’ and fannin’ with my straw hat, for you’d better believe I was flustered, and then I began to think how long it would take me to make a line of mill-ponds clean across the head of the bay, and how much oil it would need, and whether I had enough. So I sat and calculated that if a tumblerful of oil would make a smooth place about seven yards across, which I should say was the width of the one I was in,–which I calculated by a measure of my eye as to how many breadths of carpet it would take to cover it,–and if the bay was two miles across betwixt our house and my sister-in-law’s, and, although I couldn’t get the thing down to exact figures, I saw pretty soon that I wouldn’t have oil enough to make a level cuttin’ through all those mountainous billows, and besides, even if I had enough to take me across, what would be the good of goin’ if there wasn’t any oil left to fill my sister-in-law’s lamp? “While I was thinkin’ and calculatin’ a perfectly dreadful thing happened, which made me think if I didn’t get out of this pretty soon I’d find myself in a mighty risky predicament. The oil-can, which I had forgotten to put the cork in, toppled over, and before I could grab it every drop of the oil ran into the hind part of the boat, where it was soaked up by a lot of dry dust that was there. No wonder my heart sank when I saw this. Glancin’ wildly around me, as people will do when they are scared, I saw the smooth place I was in gettin’ smaller and smaller, for the kerosene was evaporatin’, as it will do even off woollen clothes if you give it time enough. The first pond I had come out of seemed to be covered up, and the great, towerin’, throbbin’ precipice of sea-water was a-closin’ around me. “Castin’ down my eyes in despair, I happened to look through the crack in the bottom of the boat, and oh, what a blessed relief it was! for down there everything was smooth and still, and I could see the sand on the bottom, as level and hard, no doubt, as it was on the beach. Suddenly the thought struck me that that bottom would give me the only chance I had of gettin’ out of the frightful fix I was in. If I could fill that oil-can with air, and then puttin’ it under my arm and takin’ a long breath if I could drop down on that smooth bottom, I might run along toward shore, as far as I could, and then, when I felt my breath was givin’ out, I could take a pull at the oil-can and take another run, and then take another pull and another run, and perhaps the can would hold air enough for me until I got near enough to shore to wade to dry land. To be sure, the sharks and other monsters were down there, but then they must have been awfully frightened, and perhaps they might not remember that man was their nat’ral enemy. Anyway, I thought it would be better to try the smooth water passage down there than stay and be swallowed up by the ragin’ waves on top. “So I blew the can full of air and corked it, and then I tore up some of the boards from the bottom of the boat so as to make a hole big enough for me to get through,–and you sailormen needn’t wriggle so when I say that, for you all know a divin’-bell hasn’t any bottom at all and the water never comes in,–and so when I got the hole big enough I took the oil-can under my arm, and was just about to slip down through it when I saw an awful turtle a-walkin’ through the sand at the bottom. Now, I might trust sharks and swordfishes and sea-serpents to be frightened and forget about their nat’ral enemies, but I never could trust a gray turtle as big as a cart, with a black neck a yard long, with yellow bags to its jaws, to forget anything or to remember anything. I’d as lieve get into a bath-tub with a live crab as to go down there. It wasn’t of no use even so much as thinkin’ of it, so I gave up that plan and didn’t once look through that hole again.” “And what did you do, madam?” asked Captain Bird, who was regarding her with a face of stone. “I used electricity,” she said. “Now don’t start as if you had a shock of it. That’s what I used. When I was younger than I was then, and sometimes visited friends in the city, we often amused ourselves by rubbing our feet on the carpet until we got ourselves so full of electricity that we could put up our fingers and light the gas. So I said to myself that if I could get full of electricity for the purpose of lightin’ the gas I could get full of it for other purposes, and so, without losin’ a moment, I set to work. I stood up on one of the seats, which was dry, and I rubbed the bottoms of my shoes backward and forward on it with such violence and swiftness that they pretty soon got warm and I began fillin’ with electricity, and when I was fully charged with it from my toes to the top of my head, I just sprang into the water and swam ashore. Of course I couldn’t sink, bein’ full of electricity.” Captain Bird heaved a long sigh and rose to his feet, whereupon the other mariners rose to their feet “Madam,” said Captain Bird, “what’s to pay for the supper and–the rest of the entertainment?” “The supper is twenty-five cents apiece,” said the Widow Ducket, “and everything else is free, gratis.” Whereupon each mariner put his hand into his trousers pocket, pulled out a silver quarter, and handed it to the widow. Then, with four solemn “Good evenin’s,” they went out to the front gate. “Cast off, Captain Jenkinson,” said Captain Bird, “and you, Captain Burress, clew him up for’ard. You can stay in the bow, Captain Sanderson, and take the sheet-lines. I’ll go aft.” All being ready, each of the elderly mariners clambered over a wheel, and having seated themselves, they prepared to lay their course for Cuppertown. But just as they were about to start, Captain Jenkinson asked that they lay to a bit, and clambering down over his wheel, he reentered the front gate and went up to the door of the house, where the widow and Dorcas were still standing. “Madam,” said he, “I just came back to ask what became of your brother-in-law through his wife’s not bein’ able to put no light in the window?” “The storm drove him ashore on our side of the bay,” said she, “and the next mornin’ he came up to our house, and I told him all that had happened to me. And when he took our boat and went home and told that story to his wife, she just packed up and went out West, and got divorced from him. And it served him right, too.” “Thank you, ma’am,” said Captain Jenkinson, and going out of the gate, he clambered up over the wheel, and the wagon cleared for Cuppertown. When the elderly mariners were gone, the Widow Ducket, still standing in the door, turned to Dorcas. “Think of it!” she said. “To tell all that to me, in my own house! And after I had opened my one jar of brandied peaches, that I’d been keepin’ for special company!” “In your own house!” ejaculated Dorcas. “And not one of them brandied peaches left!” The widow jingled the four quarters in her hand before she slipped them into her pocket. “Anyway, Dorcas,” she remarked, “I think we can now say we are square with all the world, and so let’s go in and wash the dishes.” “Yes,” said Dorcas, “we’re square.” CAPTAIN ELI’S BEST EAR The little seaside village of Sponkannis lies so quietly upon a protected spot on our Atlantic coast that it makes no more stir in the world than would a pebble which, held between one’s finger and thumb, should be dipped below the surface of a millpond and then dropped. About the post-office and the store–both under the same roof–the greater number of the houses cluster, as if they had come for their week’s groceries, or were waiting for the mail, while toward the west the dwellings become fewer and fewer, until at last the village blends into a long stretch of sandy coast and scrubby pine-woods. Eastward the village ends abruptly at the foot of a windswept bluff, on which no one cares to build. Among the last houses in the western end of the village stood two neat, substantial dwellings, one belonging to Captain Eli Bunker, and the other to Captain Cephas Dyer. These householders were two very respectable retired mariners, the first a widower about fifty, and the other a bachelor of perhaps the same age, a few years more or less making but little difference in this region of weather-beaten youth and seasoned age. Each of these good captains lived alone, and each took entire charge of his own domestic affairs, not because he was poor, but because it pleased him to do so. When Captain Eli retired from the sea he was the owner of a good vessel, which he sold at a fair profit; and Captain Cephas had made money in many a voyage before he built his house in Sponkannis and settled there. When Captain Eli’s wife was living she was his household manager. But Captain Cephas had never had a woman in his house, except during the first few months of his occupancy, when certain female neighbors came in occasionally to attend to little matters of cleaning which, according to popular notions, properly belong to the sphere of woman. But Captain Cephas soon put an end to this sort of thing. He did not like a woman’s ways, especially her ways of attending to domestic affairs. He liked to live in sailor fashion, and to keep house in sailor fashion. In his establishment everything was shipshape, and everything which could be stowed away was stowed away, and, if possible, in a bunker. The floors were holystoned nearly every day, and the whole house was repainted about twice a year, a little at a time, when the weather was suitable for this marine recreation. Things not in frequent use were lashed securely to the walls, or perhaps put out of the way by being hauled up to the ceiling by means of blocks and tackle. His cooking was done sailor fashion, like everything else, and he never failed to have plum-duff on Sunday. His well was near his house, and every morning he dropped into it a lead and line, and noted down the depth of water. Three times a day he entered in a little note-book the state of the weather, the height of the mercury in barometer and thermometer, the direction of the wind, and special weather points when necessary. Captain Eli managed his domestic affairs in an entirely different way. He kept house woman fashion–not, however, in the manner of an ordinary woman, but after the manner of his late wife, Miranda Bunker, now dead some seven years. Like his friend, Captain Cephas, he had had the assistance of his female neighbors during the earlier days of his widowerhood. But he soon found that these women did not do things as Miranda used to do them, and, although he frequently suggested that they should endeavor to imitate the methods of his late consort, they did not even try to do things as she used to do them, preferring their own ways. Therefore it was that Captain Eli determined to keep house by himself, and to do it, as nearly as his nature would allow, as Miranda used to do it. He swept his doors and he shook his door-mats; he washed his paint with soap and hot water; he dusted his furniture with a soft cloth, which he afterwards stuck behind a chest of drawers. He made his bed very neatly, turning down the sheet at the top, and setting the pillow upon edge, smoothing it carefully after he had done so. His cooking was based on the methods of the late Miranda. He had never been able to make bread rise properly, but he had always liked ship- biscuit, and he now greatly preferred them to the risen bread made by his neighbors. And as to coffee and the plainer articles of food with which he furnished his table, even Miranda herself would not have objected to them had she been alive and very hungry. The houses of the two captains were not very far apart, and they were good neighbors, often smoking their pipes together and talking of the sea. But this was always on the little porch in front of Captain Cephas’s house, or by his kitchen fire in the winter. Captain Eli did not like the smell of tobacco smoke in his house, or even in front of it in summer-time, when the doors were open. He had no objection himself to the odor of tobacco, but it was contrary to the principles of woman housekeeping that rooms should smell of it, and he was always true to those principles. It was late in a certain December, and through the village there was a pleasant little flutter of Christmas preparations. Captain Eli had been up to the store, and he had stayed there a good while, warming himself by the stove, and watching the women coming in to buy things for Christmas. It was strange how many things they bought for presents or for holiday use–fancy soap and candy, handkerchiefs and little woollen shawls for old people, and a lot of pretty little things which he knew the use of, but which Captain Cephas would never have understood at all had he been there. As Captain Eli came out of the store he saw a cart in which were two good-sized Christmas trees, which had been cut in the woods, and were going, one to Captain Holmes’s house, and the other to Mother Nelson’s. Captain Holmes had grandchildren, and Mother Nelson, with never a child of her own, good old soul, had three little orphan nieces who never wanted for anything needful at Christmas-time or any other time. Captain Eli walked home very slowly, taking observations in his mind. It was more than seven years since he had had anything to do with Christmas, except that on that day he had always made himself a mince-pie, the construction and the consumption of which were equally difficult. It is true that neighbors had invited him, and they had invited Captain Cephas, to their Christmas dinners, but neither of these worthy seamen had ever accepted any of these invitations. Even holiday food, when not cooked in sailor fashion, did not agree with Captain Cephas, and it would have pained the good heart of Captain Eli if he had been forced to make believe to enjoy a Christmas dinner so very inferior to those which Miranda used to set before him. But now the heart of Captain Eli was gently moved by a Christmas flutter. It had been foolish, perhaps, for him to go up to the store at such a time as this, but the mischief had been done. Old feelings had come back to him, and he would be glad to celebrate Christmas this year if he could think of any good way to do it. And the result of his mental observations was that he went over to Captain Cephas’s house to talk to him about it. Captain Cephas was in his kitchen, smoking his third morning pipe. Captain Eli filled his pipe, lighted it, and sat down by the fire. “Cap’n,” said he, “what do you say to our keepin Christmas this year? A Christmas dinner is no good if it’s got to be eat alone, and you and me might eat ourn together. It might be in my house, or it might be in your house–it won’t make no great difference to me which. Of course, I like woman housekeepin’, as is laid down in the rules of service fer my house. But next best to that I like sailor housekeepin’, so I don’t mind which house the dinner is in, Cap’n Cephas, so it suits you.” Captain Cephas took his pipe from his mouth. “You’re pretty late thinkin’ about it,” said he, “fer day after to-morrow’s Christmas.” “That don’t make no difference,” said Captain Eli. “What things we want that are not in my house or your house we can easily get either up at the store or else in the woods.” “In the woods!” exclaimed Captain Cephas. “What in the name of thunder do you expect to get in the woods for Christmas?” “A Christmas tree,” said Captain Eli. “I thought it might be a nice thing to have a Christmas tree fer Christmas. Cap’n Holmes has got one, and Mother Nelson’s got another. I guess nearly everybody’s got one. It won’t cost anything–I can go and cut it.” Captain Cephas grinned a grin, as if a great leak had been sprung in the side of a vessel, stretching nearly from stem to stern. “A Christmas tree!” he exclaimed. “Well, I am blessed! But look here, Cap’n Eli. You don’t know what a Christmas tree’s fer. It’s fer children, and not fer grown-ups. Nobody ever does have a Christmas tree in any house where there ain’t no children.” Captain Eli rose and stood with his back to the fire. “I didn’t think of that,” he said, “but I guess it’s so. And when I come to think of it, a Christmas isn’t much of a Christmas, anyway, without children.” “You never had none,” said Captain Cephas, “and you’ve kept Christmas.” “Yes,” replied Captain Eli, reflectively, “we did do it, but there was always a lackment–Miranda has said so, and I have said so.” “You didn’t have no Christmas tree,” said Captain Cephas. “No, we didn’t. But I don’t think that folks was as much set on Christmas trees then as they ‘pear to be now. I wonder,” he continued, thoughtfully gazing at the ceiling, “if we was to fix up a Christmas tree–and you and me’s got a lot of pretty things that we’ve picked up all over the world, that would go miles ahead of anything that could be bought at the store fer Christmas trees–if we was to fix up a tree real nice, if we couldn’t get some child or other that wasn’t likely to have a tree to come in and look at it, and stay awhile, and make Christmas more like Christmas. And then, when it went away, it could take along the things that was hangin’ on the tree, and keep ’em fer its own.” “That wouldn’t work,” said Captain Cephas. “If you get a child into this business, you must let it hang up its stockin’ before it goes to bed, and find it full in the mornin’, and then tell it an all-fired lie about Santa Claus if it asks any questions. Most children think more of stockin’s than they do of trees–so I’ve heard, at least.” “I’ve got no objections to stockin’s,” said Captain Eli. “If it wanted to hang one up, it could hang one up either here or in my house, wherever we kept Christmas.” “You couldn’t keep a child all night,” sardonically remarked Captain Cephas, “and no more could I. Fer if it was to get up a croup in the night, it would be as if we was on a lee shore with anchors draggin’ and a gale a-blowin’.” “That’s so,” said Captain Eli. “You’ve put it fair. I suppose if we did keep a child all night, we’d have to have some sort of a woman within hail in case of a sudden blow.” Captain Cephas sniffed. “What’s the good of talkin’?” said he. “There ain’t no child, and there ain’t no woman that you could hire to sit all night on my front step or on your front step, a-waitin’ to be piped on deck in case of croup.” “No,” said Captain Eli. “I don’t suppose there’s any child in this village that ain’t goin’ to be provided with a Christmas tree or a Christmas stockin’, or perhaps both–except, now I come to think of it, that little gal that was brought down here with her mother last summer, and has been kept by Mrs. Crumley sence her mother died.” “And won’t be kept much longer,” said Captain Cephas, “fer I’ve hearn Mrs. Crumley say she couldn’t afford it.” “That’s so,” said Captain Eli. “If she can’t afford to keep the little gal, she can’t afford to give no Christmas trees nor stockin’s, and so it seems to me, cap’n, that that little gal would be a pretty good child to help us keep Christmas.” “You’re all the time forgettin’,” said the other, “that nuther of us can keep a child all night.” Captain Eli seated himself, and looked ponderingly into the fire. “You’re right, cap’n,” said he. “We’d have to ship some woman to take care of her. Of course, it wouldn’t be no use to ask Mrs. Crumley?” Captain Cephas laughed. “I should say not.” “And there doesn’t seem to be anybody else,” said his companion. “Can you think of anybody, cap’n?” “There ain’t anybody to think of,” replied Captain Cephas, “unless it might be Eliza Trimmer. She’s generally ready enough to do anything that turns up. But she wouldn’t be no good–her house is too far away for either you or me to hail her in case a croup came up suddint.” “That’s so,” said Captain Eli. “She does live a long way off.” “So that settles the whole business,” said Captain Cephas. “She’s too far away to come if wanted, and nuther of us couldn’t keep no child without somebody to come if they was wanted, and it’s no use to have a Christmas tree without a child. A Christmas without a Christmas tree don’t seem agreeable to you, cap’n, so I guess we’d better get along just the same as we’ve been in the habit of doin’, and eat our Christmas dinner, as we do our other meals in our own houses.” Captain Eli looked into the fire. “I don’t like to give up things if I can help it. That was always my way. If wind and tide’s ag’in’ me, I can wait till one or the other, or both of them, serve.” “Yes,” said Captain Cephas, “you was always that kind of a man.” “That’s so. But it does ‘pear to me as if I’d have to give up this time, though it’s a pity to do it, on account of the little gal, fer she ain’t likely to have any Christmas this year. She’s a nice little gal, and takes as natural to navigation as if she’d been born at sea. I’ve given her two or three things because she’s so pretty, but there’s nothing she likes so much as a little ship I gave her.” “Perhaps she was born at sea,” remarked Captain Cephas. “Perhaps she was,” said the other; “and that makes it the bigger pity.” For a few moments nothing was said. Then Captain Eli suddenly exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what we might do, cap’n! We might ask Mrs. Trimmer to lend a hand in givin’ the little gal a Christmas. She ain’t got nobody in her house but herself, and I guess she’d be glad enough to help give that little gal a regular Christmas. She could go and get the child, and bring her to your house or to my house, or wherever we’re goin’ to keep Christmas, and–“ “Well,” said Captain Cephas, with an air of scrutinizing inquiry, “what?” “Well,” replied the other, a little hesitatingly, “so far as I’m concerned,–that is, I don’t mind one way or the other,–she might take her Christmas dinner along with us and the little gal, and then she could fix her stockin’ to be hung up, and help with the Christmas tree, and–“ “Well,” demanded Captain Cephas, “what?” “Well,” said Captain Eli, “she could–that is, it doesn’t make any difference to me one way or the other–she might stay all night at whatever house we kept Christmas in, and then you and me might spend the night in the other house, and then she could be ready there to help the child in the mornin’, when she came to look at her stockin’.” Captain Cephas fixed upon his friend an earnest glare. “That’s pretty considerable of an idea to come upon you so suddint,” said he. “But I can tell you one thing: there ain’t a- goin’ to be any such doin’s in my house. If you choose to come over here to sleep, and give up your house to any woman you can find to take care of the little gal, all right. But the thing can’t be done here.” There was a certain severity in these remarks, but they appeared to affect Captain Eli very pleasantly. “Well,” said he, “if you’re satisfied, I am. I’ll agree to any plan you choose to make. It doesn’t matter to me which house it’s in, and if you say my house, I say my house. All I want is to make the business agreeable to all concerned. Now it’s time fer me to go to my dinner, and this afternoon we’d better go and