Talbot Mundy - "King of the Khyber Rifles"

Gustave Droz - "Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v1"

Harold Brighouse - "Hobson's Choice"

Charles Edward Stowe - "The Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe"

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: Opening a Chestnut Burr

E >> Edward Payson Roe >> Opening a Chestnut Burr




And yet the sleeper, even in his dreams, was evidently at war with
himself, the world, and God. He was an example of the truth that good
comes from without and not from within us. It is heaven stooping to
men; heaven's messengers sent to us; truth quickened in our minds by
heavenly influence, even as sunlight and rain awaken into beautiful
life the seeds hidden in the soil; and, above all, impulses direct
from God, that steal into our hearts as the south wind penetrates ice-
bound gardens in spring.

But, alas! multitudes like Walter Gregory blind their eyes and steel
their hearts against such influences. God and those allied to Him
longed to bring the healing of faith and love to his wounded spirit.
He scowled back his answer, and, as he then felt, would shrink with
morbid sensitiveness and dislike from the kindest and most delicate
presentation of the transforming truth. But the divine love is ever
seeking to win our attention by messengers innumerable; now by the
appalling storm, again by a summer sunset; now by an awful providence,
again by a great joy; at times by stern prophets and teachers, but
more often by the gentle human agencies of which Annie was the type,
as with pitying face she bent over the worn and jaded man of the world
and hoped and prayed that she might be able to act the part of a true
sister toward him. Thorny and guarded was every avenue to his heart;
and yet her feminine tact, combined with the softening and purifying
influence of his old home, might gain her words acceptance, where the
wisest and most eloquent would plead in vain.

After dinner he again hastened forth for a walk, his purpose being to
avoid company, for he was so moody and morbid, so weak, nervous, and
irritable, that the thought of meeting and decorously conversing with
those whose lives and character were a continual reproach to him was
intolerable. Then he had the impression that the "keen-eyed, plain-
featured Miss Walton," as he characterized her in his mind, would
surely commence discoursing on moral and religious subjects if he gave
her a chance; and he feared that if she did, he would say or do
something very rude, and confirm the bad impression that he was sure
of having already made. If he could have strolled into his club, and
among groups engaged with cards, papers, and city gossip, he would
have felt quite at home. Ties formed at such a place are not very
strong as a usual thing, and the manner of the world can isolate the
members and their real life completely, even when the rooms are
thronged. As Gregory grew worn and thin and his pallor increased, as
he smoked and brooded more and more apart, his companions would shrug
their shoulders significantly and whisper, "It looks as if Gregory
would go under soon. Something's the matter with him."

At first good-natured men would say, "Come, Gregory, take a hand with
us," but when he complied it was with such a listless manner that they
were sorry they had asked him. At last, beyond mere passing
courtesies, they had come to leave him very much alone; and in his
unnatural and perverted state this was just what he most desired. His
whole being had become a diseased, sensitive nerve, shrinking most
from any effort toward his improvement, even as a finger pointed at a
festering wound causes anticipatory agonies.

At the club he would be let alone, but these good people would "take
an interest in him," and might even "talk religion," and probe with
questions and surmises. If they did, he knew, from what he had already
seen of them, that they would try to do it delicately and kindly, but
he felt that the most considerate efforts would be like the surgical
instruments of the dark ages. He needed good, decisive, heroic
treatment. But who would have the courage and skill to give it? Who
cared enough for him to take the trouble?

Not merely had Annie Walton looked with eyes of human pity upon his
sin-marred visage that morning. The Divine personality, enthroned in
the depths of her soul and permeating her life, looked commiseratingly
forth also. Could demons glare from human eyes and God not smile from
them?

As Annie thought much of him after her stolen glance in the morning,
she longed to do that which he dreaded she would try to do--attempt
his reformation. Not that she cared for him personally, or that she
had grown sentimentally interested in his Byronic style of
wretchedness. So far from it, her happy and healthful nature was
repelled by his diseased and morbid one. She found him what girls call
a "disagreeable man." But she yearned toward a sinning, suffering
soul, found in any guise. It was not in her woman's heart to pass by
on the other side.




CHAPTER VI

UNEXPECTED CHESTNUT BURRS



Gregory's afternoon walk was not very prolonged, for a shivering sense
of discomfort soon drove him back to the house. Although the morning
had been cool, the sun had shone bright and warm, but now the fore-
shadowing of a storm was evident. A haze had spread over the sky,
increasing in leaden hue toward the west. The chilly wind moaned
fitfully through the trees, and the landscape darkened like a face
shadowed by coming trouble.

Walter dreaded a storm, fearing it would shut him up with the family
without escape; but at last the sun so enshrouded itself in gloom that
he was compelled to return. He went to his room, for a book, hoping
that when they saw him engaged they would leave him more to himself.
But to his agreeable surprise he found a cheerful fire blazing on the
hearth, and an ample supply of wood in a box near. The easy-chair was
wheeled forward, and a plate of grapes and the latest magazine were
placed invitingly on the table. Even his cynicism was not proof
against this, delicate thoughtfulness, and he exclaimed, "Ah, this is
better than I expected, and a hundred-fold better than I deserve. I
make but poor return for their kindness. This cosey room seems to say,
'We won't force ourselves on you. You can be alone as much as you
like,' for I suppose they must have noticed my disinclination for
society. But they are wise after all, for I am cursed poor company for
myself and worse than none at all for others."

Eating from time to time a purple grape, he so lost himself in the
fresh thoughts of the magazine that the tea-bell rang ere he was
aware.

"In the name of decency I must try to make myself agreeable for a
little while this evening," he muttered, as he descended to the
cheerful supper-room.

To their solicitude for his health and their regret that the
approaching storm had driven him so early to the house, he replied, "I
found in my room a better substitute for the sunlight I had lost;
though as a votary of nature, Miss Walton, I suppose you will regard
this assertion as rank heresy."

"Not at all, for your firelight is the result of sunlight." answered
Annie, smiling.

"How is that?"

"It required many summers to ripen the wood that blazed on your
hearth. Indeed, good dry wood is but concentrated sunshine put by for
cold, gloomy days and chilly nights."

"That is an odd fancy. I wish there were other ways of storing up
sunshine for future use."

"There are," said Miss Walton, cheerfully; and she looked up as if she
would like to say more, but he instantly changed the subject in his
instinctive wish to avoid the faintest approach to moralizing. Still,
conversation continued brisk till Mr. Walton asked suddenly, "By the
way, Mr. Gregory, have you ever met Mr. Hunting of Wall Street?"

There was no immediate answer, and they all looked inquiringly at him.
To their surprise his face was darkened by the heaviest frown. After a
moment he said, with peculiar emphasis, "Yes; I know him well."

A chill seemed to fall on them after that; and he, glancing up, saw
that Annie looked flushed and indignant, Miss Eulie pained, and Mr.
Walton very grave. Even the little boy shot vindictive glances at him.
He at once surmised that Hunting was related to the family, and was
oppressed with the thought that he was fast losing the welcome given
him on his father's account. But in a few moments Annie rallied and
made unwonted efforts to banish the general embarrassment, and with
partial success, for Gregory had tact and good conversational powers
if he chose to exert them. When, soon after, they adjourned to the
parlor, outward serenity reigned.

On either side of the ample hearth, on which blazed a hickory fire, a
table was drawn up. An easy-chair stood invitingly by each, with a
little carpet bench on which to rest the feet.

"Take one of these," said Mr. Walton, cordially, "and join me with a
cigar. The ladies of my household are indulgent to my small vices."

"And I will send for your magazine," said Annie, "and then you can
read and chat according to your mood. You gee that we do not intend to
make a stranger of you."

"For which I am very glad. You treat me far better than I deserve."

Instead of some deprecatory remark, Annie gave him a quick, half-
comical look which he did not fully understand.

"There is more in her than I at first imagined," he thought.

Seated with the magazine, Gregory found himself in the enjoyment of
every element of comfort. That he might be under no constraint to
talk, Annie commenced speaking to her father and Miss Eulie of some
neighborhood affairs, of which he knew nothing. The children and a
large greyhound were dividing the rug between them. The former were
chatting in low tones and roasting the first chestnuts of the season
on a broad shovel that was placed on the glowing coals. The dog was
sleepily watching them lest in their quick movements his tail should
come to grief.

Gregory had something of an artist's eye, and he could not help
glancing up from his reading occasionally, and thinking what a pretty
picture the roomy parlor made.

"Annie," said Mr. Walton, after a little while, "I can't get through
this article with my old eyes. Won't you finish it for me? Shall we
disturb you, Mr. Gregory?"

"Not at all."

Gregory soon forgot to read himself in listening to her. Not that he
heard the subject-matter with any interest, but her sweet, natural
tones and simplicity arrested and retained his attention. Even the
statistics and the prose of political economy seemed to fall from her
lips in musical cadence, and yet there was no apparent effort and not
a thought of effect. Walter mused as he listened.

"I should like to hear some quiet, genial book read in that style,
though it is evident that Miss Walton is no tragedy queen."

Having finished the reading, Annie started briskly up and said, "Come,
little people, your chestnuts are roasted and eaten. It's bedtime. The
turkeys and squirrels will be at the nut-trees long before you to-
morrow unless you scamper off at once."

"O, Aunt Annie," chimed their voices, "you must sing us the chestnut
song first; you promised to."

"With your permission, Mr. Gregory, I suppose I must make my promise
good," said Annie.

"I join the children in asking for the song," he replied, glad to get
them out of the way on such easy conditions, though he expected a
nursery ditty or a juvenile hymn from some Sabbath-school collection,
wherein healthy, growing boys are made to sing, "I want to be an
angel." "Moreover," he added, "I have read that one must always keep
one's word to a child."

"Which is a very important truth: do you not think so?"

"Since you are using the word 'truth' so prominently, Miss Walton, I
must say that I have not thought much about it. But I certainly would
have you keep your word on this occasion."

"Aunt Annie always keeps her word," said Johnny, rather bluntly. By
some childish instinct he divined that Gregory did not appreciate Aunt
Annie sufficiently, and this added to his prejudice.

"You have a stout little champion there," Gregory remarked.

"I cannot complain of his zeal," she answered significantly, at the
same time giving the boy a caress. "Mr. Gregory, this is a rude
country ballad, and we are going to sing it in our accustomed way,
even though it shock your city ears. Johnny and Susie, you can join in
the chorus;" and she sang the following simple October glee:

Katydid, your throat is sore,
You can chirp this fall no more;
Robin red-breast, summer's past,
Did you think 'twould always last?
Fly away to sunny climes,
Lands of oranges and limes;
With the squirrels we shall stay
And put our store of nuts away.
O the spiny chestnut burrs! O the prickly chestnut burrs!
Harsh without, but lined with down,
And full of chestnuts, plump and brown.

Sorry are we for the flowers;
We shall miss our summer bowers;
Still we welcome frosty Jack,
Stealing now from Greenland back.
And the burrs will welcome him;
When he knocks, they'll let him in.
They don't know what Jack's about;
Soon he'll turn the chestnuts out.
O the spiny, etc.-

Turkey gobbler, with your train,
You shall scratch the leaves in vain;
Squirrel, with your whisking tail,
Your sharp eyes shall not avail;
In the crisp and early dawn,
Scampering across the lawn.
We will beat you to the trees,
Come you then whene'er you please.
O the spiny, etc.--

Gregory's expression as she played a simple prelude was one of
endurance, but when she began to sing the changes of his face were
rapid. First he turned toward her with a look of interest, then of
surprise. Miss Eulie could not help watching him, for, though she was
well on in life, just such a character had never risen above her
horizon. Too gentle to censure, she felt that she had much cause for
regret.

At first she was pleased to see that he found the ditty far more to
his taste than he had expected. But the rapid alternation from pleased
surprise and enjoyment to something like a scowl of despair and almost
hate she could not understand. Following his eyes she saw them resting
on the boy, who was now eagerly joining in the chorus of the last
verse. She was not sufficiently skilled to know that to Gregory's
diseased moral nature things most simple and wholesome in themselves
were most repugnant. She could not understand that the tripping little
song, with its wild-wood life and movement--that the boy singing with
the delight of a pure, fresh heart--told him, beyond the power of
labored language, how hackneyed and blase he had become, how far and
hopelessly he had drifted from the same true childhood.

And Miss Walton, turning suddenly toward him, saw the same dark
expression, full of suffering and impotent revolt at his destiny, as
he regarded it, and she too was puzzled.

"You do not like our foolish little song," she said.

"I envy that boy, Miss Walton," was his reply.

Then she began to understand him, and said, gently, "You have no
occasion to."

"I wish you, or any one, could find the logic to prove that."

"The proof is not in logic but in nature, that is ever young. They who
draw their life from nature do not fall into the only age we need
dread."

"Do you not expect to grow old?"

She shook her head half humorously and said, "But these children will
before I get them to bed."

He ostensibly resumed his magazine, but did not turn any leaves.

His first mental query was, "Have I rightly gauged Miss Walton? I half
believe she understands me better than I do her. I estimated her as a
goodish, fairly educated country girl, of the church-going sort, one
that would be dreadfully shocked at finding me out, and deem it at
once her mission to pluck me as a brand from the burning. I know all
about the goodness of such girls. They are ignorant of the world; they
have never been tempted, and they have a brood of little feminine
weaknesses that of course are not paraded in public.

"And no doubt all this is true of Miss Walton, and yet, for some
reason, she interests me a little this evening. She is refined, but
nowhere in the world will you meet drearier monotony and barrenness
than among refined people. Having no real originality, their little
oddities are polished away. In Miss Walton I'm beginning to catch
glimpses of vistas unexplored, though perhaps I am a fool for thinking
so.

"What a peculiar voice she has! She would make a poor figure, no doubt,
in an opera; and yet she might render a simple aria very well. But for
songs of nature and ballads I have never heard so sympathetic a voice.
It suggests a power of making music a sweet home language instead of a
difficult, high art, attainable by few. Really Miss Walton is worth
investigation, for no one with such a voice can be utterly
commonplace. Strange as it is, I cannot ignore her. Though she makes
no effort to attract my attention, I am ever conscious of her
presence."




CHAPTER VII

A CONSPIRACY



When Miss Walton returned to the parlor her father said, "Annie, I am
going to trespass on your patience again."

She answered with a little piquant gesture, and was soon reading in
natural, easy tones, without much stumbling, what must have been Greek
to her.

Gregory watched her with increasing interest, and another question
than the one of finance involved in the article was rising in his
mind.

"Is this real? Is this seeming goodness a fact?" It was the very
essence of his perverted nature to doubt it. Now that his eyes were
opened, and he closely observed Miss Walton, he saw that his
prejudices against her were groundless. Although not a stylish, pretty
woman, she was evidently far removed from the goodish, commonplace
character that he could regard as part of the furniture of the house,
useful in its place, but of no more interest than a needful piece of
cabinet work. Nor did she assert herself as do those aggressive,
lecturing females who deem it their mission to set everybody right
within their sphere.

And yet she did assert herself; but he was compelled to admit that it
was like the summer breeze or the perfume of a rose. He had resolved
that very day to avoid and ignore her as far as possible, and yet,
before the first evening in her presence was half over, he had left a
magazine story unfinished; he was watching her, thinking and surmising
about her, and listening, as she read, to what he did not care a straw
about. Although she had not made the slightest effort, some influence
from her had stolen upon him like a cool breeze on a sultry day, and
wooed him as gently as the perfume of a flower that is sweet to all.
He said to himself, "She is not pretty," and yet found pleasure in
watching her red lips drop figures and financial terms as musically as
a little rill murmurs over a mossy rock.

From behind his magazine he studied the group at the opposite table,
but it was with the pain which a despairing swimmer, swept seaward by
a resistless current, might feel in seeing the safe and happy on the
shore.

Gray Mr. Walton leaned back in his chair, the embodiment of peace and
placid content.

The subject to which he was listening and kindred topics had so far
receded that his interest was that of a calm, philosophic observer,
and Gregory thought, with a glimmer of a smile, "He is not dabbling in
stocks or he could not maintain that quiet mien."

His habits of thought as a business man merely made it a pleasure to
keep up with the times. In fact he was in that serene border-land
between the two worlds where the questions of earth are growing vague
and distant and those of the "better country" more real and
engrossing, for Gregory observed, later in the evening, that he took
the family Bible with more zest than he had bestowed on the motive
power of the world. It was evident where his most valued treasures
were stored. With a bitter sigh, Gregory thought, "I would take his
gray hairs if I could have his peace and faith."

Miss Eulie, to whom he gave a passing glance, seemed even less earthly
in her nature. Indeed, it appeared as if she had never more than half
belonged to the material creation. Slight, ethereal, with untroubled
blue eyes, and little puff curls too light to show their change to
gray, she struck Gregory unpleasantly, as if she were a connecting
link between gross humanity and spiritual existence, and his eyes
reverted to Miss Walton, and dwelt with increasing interest on her.
There at least were youth, health, and something else--what was it in
the girl that had so strongly and suddenly gained his attention? At
any rate there was nothing about her uncanny and spirit-like.

He did not understand her. Was it possible that a young girl, not much
beyond twenty, was happy in the care of orphan children, in the quiet
humdrum duties of housekeeping, and in reading stupid articles through
the long, quiet evenings, with few excitements beyond church-going,
rural tea-drinkings, and country walks and rides? With a grim smile he
thought how soon the belles he had admired would expire under such a
regimen. Could this be good acting because a guest was present? If so
it was perfect, for it seemed, her daily life.

"I will watch her," he thought. "I will solve this little feminine
enigma. It will divert my mind, and I've nothing else to do."

"My daughter spoils me, you see, Mr. Gregory," said Mr. Walton,
starting up as Annie finished a theory that would make every one rich
by the printing-press process,

"Don't plume yourself, papa," replied Annie, archly; "I shall make you
do something for me to pay for all this."

With a humorous look he replied, "No matter, I have the best of the
bargain, for I should have to do the 'something' anyway. But what do
you think of this theory, sir?" And he explained, not knowing that
Walter had been listening.

The gentlemen were soon deep in the mysteries of currency and finance,
topics on which both could talk well. Annie listened with polite
attention for a short time--indeed Gregory was exerting himself more
for her sake than for Mr. Walton's--and she was satisfied from her
father's face that his guest was interesting him; but as the subject
was mainly unintelligible to her she soon turned with real zest to
Miss Eulie's fancy-work, and there was an earnest whispered discussion
in regard to the right number of stitches. Walter noted this and
sneeringly thought, with a masculine phase of justice often seen,
"That's like a woman. She drops one of the deepest and most important
subjects of the day" (and he might have added, "As explained by me")--
"and gives her whole soul to a bit of thread lace;" and he soon let
Mr. Walton have the discussion all his own way.

In furtherance of his purpose to draw Annie out he said, rather
banteringly, "Miss Walton, I am astonished that so good a man as your
father should have as an ardent friend the profane and disreputable
character that I found living in the cottage opposite on the day of my
arrival."

"Profane, I admit he is," she replied, "but not disreputable. Indeed,
as the world goes, I think old Daddy Tuggar, as he is called in this
vicinity, is a good man."

"O, Annie!" said Miss Eulie. "How can you think so? You have broader
charity than I. He is breaking his poor wife's heart."

"Indeed?" said Annie, dryly; "I was not aware of it."

"I too am astonished," said Walter, in mock solemnity. "How is it that
a refined and orthodox young lady, a pillar of the church, too, I
gather, can regard with other than unmixed disapprobation a man who
breaks the third commandment and all the rules of Lindley Murray at
every breath?"

"I imagine the latter offence is the more heinous sin in your eyes,
Mr. Gregory," she said, scanning his face with a quick look.

"Oh, you become aggressive. I was under the impression that I was
making the attack and that you were on the defensive. But I can
readily explain the opinion which you, perhaps not unjustly, impute to
me. You and I judge this venerable sinner from different standpoints."

"You explain your judgment, but do not justify it," replied Annie,
quietly.

"Annie, I don't see on what grounds you call Daddy Tuggar a good man,"
said Miss Eulie, emphatically.

"Please understand me, aunty," said Annie, earnestly. "I did not say
he was a Christian man, but merely a good man as the world goes; and I
know I shall shock you when I say that I have more faith in him than
in his praying and Scripture-quoting wife. There, I knew I should,"
she added, as she saw Miss Eulie's look of pained surprise.

Mr. Walton was listening with an amused smile. He evidently understood
his quaint old friend and shared Annie's opinion of him.

Gregory was growing decidedly interested, and said, "Really, Miss
Walton, I must side with your aunt in this matter. I shall overwhelm
you with an awful word. I think you are latitudinarian in your
tendencies."

"Which Daddy Tuggar would call a new-fangled way of swearing at me,"
retorted Annie, with her frank laugh that was so genuinely mirthful
that even Aunt Eulie joined in it.

"I half think," continued Annie, "that the churchmen in the ages of
controversy did a good deal of worse swearing than our old neighbor is
guilty of when they hurled at each other with such bitter zest the
epithets Antinomian, Socinian, Pelagian, Calvinistic, etc."