W. S. Harris - "Mr. World and Miss Church Member"

Mrs. C. F. Fraser - "Master Sunshine"

Christian Rosencreutz - "Les Noces Chimiques"

Anton Chekhov - "Letters of Anton Chekhov"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Nature\'s Serial Story

E >> E. P. Roe >> Nature\'s Serial Story




"I yield," said Burtis, with a careless laugh. "Len shall bring home the
little chick, and put her under his wife's wing. I should probably
misrepresent the family, and make a bad first impression; and as for
Webb, you might as well send the undertaker for her."

"I don't think she will feel strange among us very long," said Leonard's
wife. "She shall hang up her stocking to-night, like the other children,
and I have some nice little knick-knacks with which to fill it. These,
and the gifts which the rest of you have provided, will delight her, as
they do all little people, and make her feel at once that she is part of
the family."

"Maggie expresses my purpose fully," concluded Mr. Clifford. "As far as
it is within our power, we should make her one of the family. In view of
my friend's letters, this is the position that I desire her to sustain,
and it will be the simplest and most natural relation for us all. Your
mother and I will receive her as a daughter, and it is my wish that my
sons should treat her as a sister from the first."

Amy Winfield, the subject of the above remarks, was the only daughter of a
gentleman who had once been Mr. Clifford's most intimate friend, and also
his partner in many business transactions. Mr. Winfield had long resided
abroad, and there had lost the wife whom he had married rather late in
life. When feeling his own end drawing near, his thoughts turned wistfully
to the friend of his early manhood, and, as he recalled Mr. Clifford's
rural home, he felt that he could desire no better refuge for his child. He
had always written of her as his "little girl," and such she was in his
fond eyes, although in fact she had seen eighteen summers. Her slight
figure and girlish ways had never dispelled the illusion that she was still
a child, and as such he had commended her to his friend, who had responded
to the appeal as to a sacred claim, and had already decided to give her a
daughter's place in his warm heart. Mr. Winfield could not have chosen a
better guardian for the orphan and her property, and a knowledge of this
truth had soothed the last hours of the dying man.

It struck Leonard that the muffled figure he picked up at the station and
carried through the dusk and snow to the sleigh was rather tall and heavy
for the child he was expecting; but he wrapped her warmly, almost beyond
the possibility of speaking, or even breathing, and spoke the hearty and
encouraging words which are naturally addressed to a little girl. After
seeing that her trunks were safely bestowed in a large box-sledge, under
the charge of black Abram, one of the farm-hands, he drove rapidly
homeward, admonishing Alfred, on the way, "to be sociable." The boy,
however, had burrowed so deep under the robes as to be invisible and
oblivious. When Leonard was about to lift her out of the sleigh, as he
had placed her in it, the young girl protested, and said:

"I fear I shall disappoint you all by being larger and older than you
expect."

A moment later he was surprised to find that the "child" was as tall as
his wife, who, with abounding motherly kindness, had received the girl
into open arms. Scarcely less demonstrative and affectionate was the
greeting of old Mr. Clifford, and the orphan felt, almost from the first,
that she had found a second father.

"Why, Maggie," whispered Leonard, "the child is as tall as you are!"

"There's only the more to welcome, then," was the genial answer, and,
turning to the young girl, she continued, "Come with me, my dear; I'm not
going to have you frightened and bewildered with all your new relations
before you can take breath. You shall unwrap in your own room, and feel
from the start that you have a nook where no one can molest you or make
you afraid, to which you can always retreat;" and she led the way to a
snug apartment, where an air-tight stove created summer warmth. There was
a caressing touch in Mrs. Leonard's assistance which the young girl felt
in her very soul, for tears came into her eyes as with a deep sigh of
relief she sat down on a low chair.

"I feared I should be a stranger among strangers," she murmured; "but I
already feel as if I were at home."

"You are, Amy," was the prompt reply, spoken with that quiet emphasis
which banishes all trace of doubt. "You are at home as truly as I am.
There is nothing halfway in this house. Do you know we all thought that
you were a child? I now foresee that we shall be companions, and very
companionable, too, I am sure."

There was a world of grateful good-will in the dark hazel eyes which Amy
lifted to the motherly face bending over her.

"And now come," pursued Mrs. Leonard; "mother Clifford, the boys, and the
children are all eager to see you. You won't find much ice to break, and
before the evening is over you will feel that you belong to us and we to
you. Don't be afraid."

"I am not afraid any more. I was, though, on my way here. Everything looked
so cold and dismal from the car windows, and the gentleman in whose care I
was had little to say, though kind and attentive enough. I was left to my
own thoughts, and gave way to a foolish depression; but when your husband
picked me up in his strong arms, and reassured me as if I were a little
girl, my feeling of desolation began to pass away. Your greeting and dear
old Mr. Clifford's have banished it altogether. I felt as if my own father
were blessing me in the friend who is now my guardian, and of whom I have
heard so often; and, after my long winter journey among strangers, you've
no idea what a refuge this warm room has already become. Oh, I know I shall
be happy. I only wish that dear papa knew how well he has provided for me."

"He knows, my dear. But come, or that incorrigible Burt will be bursting
upon us in his impatience, and the little mother must not be kept
waiting, either. You will soon learn to love her dearly. Weak and gentle
as she is, she rules us all."

"Mother's room" was, in truth, the favorite haunt of the house, and only
her need of quiet kept it from being full much of the time. There was
nothing bleak or repelling in the age it sheltered, and children and
grandchildren gathered about the old people almost as instinctively as
around their genial open fire. This momentous Christmas-eve found them
all there, a committee of reception awaiting the new inmate of their
home. There was an eager desire to know what Amy was like, but it was a
curiosity wholly devoid of the spirit of criticism. The circumstances
under which the orphan came to them would banish any such tendency in
people less kindly than the Cliffords; but their home-life meant so much
to them all that they were naturally solicitous concerning one who must,
from the intimate relations she would sustain, take from or add much to
it. Therefore it was with a flutter of no ordinary expectancy that they
waited for her appearance. The only one indifferent was Leonard's youngest
boy, who, astride his grandpa's cane, was trotting quietly about,
unrestricted in his gambols. Alfred had thawed out since his return from
the station, and was eager to take the measure of a possible playmate; but,
with the shyness of a boy who is to meet a "strange girl," he sought a
partial cover behind his grandfather's chair. Little "Johnnie" was flitting
about impatiently, with her least mutilated doll upon her arm; while her
uncle Burtis, seated on a low stool by his mother's sofa, pretended to be
exceedingly jealous, and was deprecating the fact that he would now be no
longer petted as her baby, since the child of her adoption must assuredly
take his place. Webb, who, as usual, was somewhat apart from the family
group, kept up a poor pretence of reading; and genial Leonard stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, beaming upon all, and
waiting to shine on the new-comer. Only Mr. Clifford seemed uninfluenced by
the warm, bright present. He gazed fixedly into the flickering blaze, and
occasionally took off his spectacles to wipe away the moisture that
gathered in his eyes. His thoughts, evidently, were busy with years long
past, and were following that old, tried friend who had committed to his
hands so sacred a trust.

The door opened, and Mrs. Leonard led Amy forward. The latter hesitated a
moment, bewildered by the number of eyes turned toward her, and the new
relations into which she was entering. She proved that she was not a
child by her quick, blushing consciousness of the presence of two young
men, who were as yet utter strangers; and they, in turn, involuntarily
gave to the lender, brown-haired girl quite a different welcome from the
one they had expected to bestow upon a child. Old Mr. Clifford did not
permit her embarrassment to last a moment, but, stepping hastily forward,
and encircling her with his arm, he led her to his wife, who brought
tears into the eyes of the motherless girl by the gentle warmth of her
greeting. She monopolized her ward so long that impatient Burtis began to
expostulate, and ask when his turn was coming. The young girl turned a
shy, blushing face toward him, and her cheeks, mantling under the full
rays of the lamp, rendered the exquisite purity of her complexion all the
more apparent. He also began to feel that he was flushing absurdly, but
he carried it off with his usual audacity.

"I am much embarrassed and perplexed," he said. "I was led to expect a
little sister that I could romp with, and pick up and kiss; but here is a
young lady that almost paralyzes me with awe."

"I'd like to see you paralyzed from any such cause just once," Leonard
remarked, laughingly. "Go kiss your sister, like a little man."

The young fellow seemed to relish the ceremony exceedingly, and responsive
mirthfulness gleamed for a moment in Amy's eyes. Then he dragged Webb
forward, saying, "Let me introduce to you the grave and learned member of
the family, to whom we all speak with bated breath. You must not expect him
to get acquainted with you in any ordinary way. He will investigate you,
and never rest until he has discovered all the hidden laws of your being.
Now, Webb, I will support you while Amy kisses you, and then you may sit
down and analyze your sensations, and perhaps cipher out a method by which
a kiss can be rendered tenfold more effective."

Unmoved by his brother's raillery, Webb took the young girl's hand, and
looked at her so earnestly with his dark, grave eyes, that hers drooped.
"Sister Amy," he said, gently, "I was prepared to welcome you on general
principles, but I now welcome you for your own sake. Rattle-brain Burt
will make a good playmate, but you will come to me when you are in
trouble;" and he kissed her brow.

The girl looked up with a swift, grateful glance; it seemed odd to her,
even at that moment of strong and confused impressions, and with the
salutes of her guardians still warm upon her cheek, that she felt a sense
of rest and security never known before. "He will be my brother in very
truth," was the interpretation which her heart gave to his quiet words.
They all smiled, for the course of the reticent and undemonstrative young
man was rather unexpected. Burtis indulged in a ringing laugh, as he
said:

"Father, mother, you must both feel wonderfully relieved. Webb is to look
after Amy in her hours of woe, which, of course, will be frequent in this
vale of tears. He will console you, Amy, by explaining how tears are
formed, and how, by a proper regard for the sequence of cause and effect,
there might be more or less of them, according to your desire."

"I think I understand Webb," was her smiling answer.

"Don't imagine it. He is a perfect sphinx. Never before has he opened his
mouth so widely, and only an occasion like this could have moved him. You
must have unconsciously revealed a hidden law, or else he would have been
as mum as an oyster."

Leonard, meanwhile, had seated himself, and was holding little Ned on his
knee, his arm at the same time encircling shy, sensitive Johnnie, who was
fairly trembling with excited expectancy. Ned, with his thumb in his
mouth, regarded his new relative in a nonchalant manner; but to the
little girl the home-world was _the_ world, and the arrival in its midst
of the beautiful lady never seen before was as wonderful as any fairy
tale. Indeed, that such a June-like creature should come to them that
wintry day--that she had crossed the terrible ocean from a foreign realm
far more remote, in the child's consciousness, than fairy-land--seemed
quite as strange as if Cinderella had stepped out of the storybook with
the avowed purpose of remaining with them until her lost slipper was
found. Leonard, big and strong as he was, felt and interpreted the
delicate and thrilling organism of his child, and, as Amy turned toward
him, he said, with a smile:

"No matter about me. We're old friends; for I've known you ever since you
were a little girl at the station. What if you did grow to be a young
woman while riding home! Stranger things than that happen every day in
storybooks, don't they, Johnnie? Johnnie, you must know, has the advantage
of the rest of us. She likes bread-and-butter, and kindred realities of our
matter-of-fact sphere, but she also has a world of her own, which is quite
as real. I think she is inclined to believe that you are a fairy princess,
and that you may have a wand in your pocket by which you can restore to her
doll the missing nose and arm."

Amy scarcely needed Leonard's words in order to understand the child, for
the period was not remote when, in her own mind, the sharp outlines of
fact had shaded off into the manifold mysteries of wonderland. Therefore,
with an appreciation and a gentleness which won anew all hearts, she took
the little girl on her lap, and said, smilingly:

"I have a wee wand with which, I'm sure, I can do much for you, and
perhaps something for dolly. I can't claim to be a fairy princess, but I
shall try to be as good to you as if I were one."

Webb, with his book upside down, looked at the young girl in a way which
proved that he shared in Johnnie's wonder and vague anticipation. Alfred,
behind his grandfather's chair, was the only one who felt aggrieved and
disappointed. Thus far he had been overlooked, but he did not much care,
for this great girl could be no companion for him. Amy, however, had
woman's best grace--tact--and guessed his trouble. "Alf," she said,
calling him by his household name, and turning upon him her large hazel
eyes, which contained spells as yet unknown even to herself--"Alf, don't
be disappointed. You shall find that I am not too big to play with you."

The boy yielded at once to a grace which he would be years in learning to
understand, and which yet affected him subtilely, and with something of
the same influence that it had upon Webb, who felt that a new element was
entering into his life. Mercurial Burtis, however, found nothing peculiar
in his own pleasant sensations. He had a score of young lady friends, and
was merely delighted to find in Amy a very attractive young woman,
instead of a child or a dull, plain-featured girl, toward whom brotherly
attentions might often become a bore. He lived intensely in the present
hour, and was more than content that his adopted sister was quite to his
taste.

"Well, Amy," said Mr. Clifford, benignantly, "you seem to have stepped in
among us as if there had always been a niche waiting for you, and I think
that, after you have broken bread with us, and have had a quiet sleep
under the old roof, you will feel at home. Come, I'm going to take you
out to supper to-night, and, Burt, do you be as gallant to your mother."

The young fellow made them all laugh by imitating his father's old-style
courtesy; and a happy circle of faces gathered around the board in the
cheerful supper-room, to which a profuse decoration of evergreens gave a
delightfully aromatic odor. Mr. Clifford's "grace" was not a formal
mumble, but a grateful acknowledgment of the source from which, as he
truly believed, had flowed all the good that had blessed their life; and
then followed the genial, unrestrained table-talk of a household that, as
yet, possessed no closeted skeleton. The orphan sat among them, and her
mourning weeds spoke of a great and recent sorrow, which might have been
desolation, but already her kindling eyes and flushed cheeks proved that
this strong, bright current of family life would have the power to carry
her forward to a new, spring-like experience. To her foreign-bred eyes
there was an abundance of novelty in this American home, but it was like
the strangeness of heaven to the poor girl, who for months had been so
sad and almost despairing. With the strong reaction natural to youth
after long depression, her heart responded to the glad life about her,
and again she repeated the words to herself, "I'm sure--oh, I am sure I
shall be happy here."




CHAPTER III

A COUNTRY FIRESIDE


After supper they all gathered for a time in the large general
sitting-room, and careful Leonard went the rounds of the barn and
out-buildings. Mr. Clifford, with considerate kindness, had resolved to
defer all conversation with Amy relating to her bereavement and the
scenes that had ensued. At this holiday-time they would make every effort
within their power to pierce with light and warmth the cold gray clouds
that of late had gathered so heavily over the poor child's life. At the
same time their festivities would be subdued by the memory of her recent
sorrow, and restricted to their immediate family circle. But, instead of
obtrusive kindness, they enveloped her in the home atmosphere, and made
her one of them. The manner in which old Mrs. Clifford kept her near and
retained her hand was a benediction in itself.

Leonard was soon heard stamping the snow from his boots on the back
piazza, and in a few moments he entered, shivering.

"The coldest night of the year," he exclaimed. "Ten below zero, and it
will probably be twelve before morning. It's too bad, Amy, that you have
had such a cold reception."

"The thermometer makes a good foil for your smile," she replied. "Indeed,
I think the mercury rose a little while you were looking at it."

"Oh no," he said, laughing, "even you could not make it rise to-night.
Heigho, Ned! coming to kiss good-night? I say, Ned, tell us what mamma
has for Amy's stocking. What a good joke it is, to be sure I We all had
the impression you were a little girl, you know, and selected our gifts
accordingly. Burt actually bought you a doll. Ha! ha! ha! Maggie had
planned to have you hang up your stocking with the children, and such a
lot of little traps and sweets she has for you!"

The boy, to whom going to bed at the usual hour was a heavy cross on this
momentous evening, promptly availed himself of a chance for delay by
climbing on Amy's lap, and going into a voluble inventory of the contents
of a drawer into which he had obtained several surreptitious peeps. His
effort to tell an interminable story that he might sit up longer, the
droll havoc he made with his English, and the naming of the toys that
were destined for the supposed child, evoked an unforced merriment which
banished the last vestige of restraint.

"Well, I'm glad it has all happened so," said Amy, after the little
fellow had reluctantly come to the end of his facts and his invention
also. "You make me feel as if I had known you for years--almost,
indeed, as if I had come to you as a little girl, and had grown up among
you. Come, Ned, it shall all turn out just as you expected. I'll go with
you upstairs, and hang my stocking beside yours, and mamma shall put into
it all the lovely things you have told me about. Santa Claus does not
know much about my coming here, nor what kind of a girl I am, so your
kind mamma meant to act the part of Santa Claus in my behalf this year,
and give him a chance to get acquainted with me. But he knows all about
you, and there's no telling how soon he may come to fill your stocking.
You know he has to fill the stockings of all the little boys and girls in
the country, and that will take a long time. So I think we had better go
at once, for I don't believe he would like it if he came and found you up
and awake."

This put a new aspect upon going to bed early, and having seen his short,
chubby stocking dangling with a long, slender one of Amy's by the
chimney-side, Ned closed his eyes with ineffable content and faith. Amy
then returned to the sitting-room, whither she was soon followed by Maggie,
and after some further light and laughing talk the conversation naturally
drifted toward those subjects in which the family was practically
interested.

"What do you think, father?" Leonard asked. "Won't this finish the peach
and cherry buds? I've always heard that ten degrees of cold below zero
destroyed the fruit germs."

"Not always," replied the man of long experience. "It depends much upon
their condition when winter sets in, and whether, previous to the cold
snap, there have been prolonged thaws. The new growth on the trees
ripened thoroughly last fall, and the frost since has been gradual and
steady. I've known peach-buds to survive fifteen below zero; but there's
always danger in weather like this. We shall know what the prospects are
after the buds thaw out."

"How will that be possible?" Amy asked, in surprise.

"Now, Webb, is your chance to shine," cried Burtis. "Hitherto, Amy, the
oracle has usually been dumb, but you may become a priestess who will
evoke untold stores of wisdom."

Webb flushed slightly, but again proved that his brother's banter had
little influence.

"If you are willing to wait a few days," he said, with a smile, "I can
make clear to you, by the aid of a microscope, what father means, much
better than I can explain. I can then show you the fruit germs either
perfect or blackened by the frost."

"I'll wait, and remind you of your promise, too. I don't know nearly as
much about the country as a butterfly or a bird, but should be quite as
unhappy as they were I condemned to city life. So you must not laugh at
me if I ask no end of questions, and try to put my finger into some of
your horticultural pies."

His pleased look contained all the assurance she needed, and he resumed,
speaking generally: "The true places for raising peaches--indeed, all the
stone-fruits--successfully in this region are the plateaus and slopes of
the mountains beyond us. At their height the mercury never falls as low
as it does with us, and when we have not a peach or cherry I have found
such trees as existed high up among the hills well laden."

"Look here, uncle Webb," cried Alf, "you've forgotten your geography. The
higher you go up the colder it gets."

The young man patiently explained to the boy that the height of the
Highlands is not sufficient to cause any material change in climate,
while on still nights the coldest air sinks to the lowest levels, and
therefore the trees in the valleys and at the base of the mountains
suffer the most. "But what you say," he concluded, "is true as a rule.
The mercury does range lower on the hills; and if they were a thousand or
fifteen hundred feet higher peaches could not be grown at all."

Amy mentally soliloquized: "I am learning not only about the mercury, but
also--what Alf has no doubt already found out--that Webb is the one to go
to if one wishes anything explained. What's more, he wouldn't, in giving
the information, overwhelm one with a sense of deplorable ignorance."

In accordance with his practical bent, Webb continued: "I believe that a
great deal of money could be made in the Highlands by raising peaches. The
crop would be almost certain, and the large late varieties are those which
bring the extraordinary prices. What is more, the mountain land would
probably have the quality of virgin soil. You remember, father, don't you,
when peaches in this region were scarcely troubled by disease?"

"Indeed I do. There was a time when they would live on almost like
apple-trees, and give us an abundance of great luscious fruit year after
year. Even with the help of the pigs we could not dispose of the crops,
the bulk of which, in many instances, I am sorry to say, went into
brandy. What was that you were reading the other day about peaches in
Hawthorne's description of the Old Manse?"

Webb took the book and read: "Peach-trees which, in a good year, tormented
me with peaches neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and
perplexity, to be given away."

"That hits it exactly," resumed the old gentleman, laughing, "only every
year was a good year then, and we had not the New York market within
three hours of us. Even if we had, a large modern orchard would have
supplied it. One of the most remarkable of the changes I've witnessed in
my time is the enormous consumption of fruit in large cities. Why, more
is disposed of in Newburgh than used to go to New York. But to return to
peaches; our only chance for a long time has been to plant young trees
every year or two, and we scarcely secured a crop more than once in three
years. Even then the yellows often destroyed the trees before they were
old enough to bear much. They are doing far better of late along the
Hudson, and there is good prospect that this region will become the
greatest peach-growing locality in the country."