Karl May - "My Life and My Efforts"

H. Rider Haggard - "Nada the Lily"

Joel Chandler Harris - "Uncle Remus"

James Clerk Maxwell - "Five of Maxwell's Papers"

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




"Give me your hand, Mr. Tuggar. I hope we shall be the best of
friends. I am coming over to have a smoke with you, and see if I can't
fill your pipe with some tobacco that is like us both, 'in a state of
natur.'"

A white-faced woman appeared at the door, and courtesying low to Miss
Walton, called, "Husband, it's too late for you to be out; I fear your
health will suffer."

"She's bound up in me, you see," said the old man, with a curious
grimace. "Nothing but the reading of my will will ever comfort her
when I die."

"Daddy, Daddy," said Annie, reproachfully, "have charity. Good-night;
I will send you something nice for to-morrow."

An amused smile lingered on Gregory's face as they pursued their way
homeward, now in the early twilight; but Annie's aspect was almost one
of sadness. After a little he said, "Well, he is one of the oddest
specimens of humanity I ever met."

She did not immediately reply, and he, looking at her, caught her
expression.

"Why is your face so clouded, Miss Annie?" he asked. "You are not
given to Mrs. Tuggar's style of 'solemn joy'?"

"What a perplexing mystery life is after all!" she replied, absently.
"I really think poor old Daddy Tuggar speaks truly. He is a 'well-
meaning' man, but he and many others remind me of one not having the
slightest ear for music trying to catch a difficult harmony."

"Why is the harmony so difficult?" asked Gregory, bitterly.

"Perhaps it were better to ask, Why has humanity so disabled itself?"

"I do not think it matters much how you put the case. It amounts to
the same thing. Something is required of us beyond our strength. The
idea of punishing that old man for being what he is, when in the first
place he inherited evil from his parents, and then was taught it by
precept and example. I think he deserves more credit than blame."

"The trouble is, Mr. Gregory, evil carries its own punishment along
with it every day. But I admit that we are surrounded by mystery on
every side. Humanity, left to itself, is a hopeless problem. But one
thing is certain: we are not responsible for questions beyond our ken.
Moreover, many things that were complete mysteries to me as a child
are now plain, and I ever hope to be taught something new every day.
You and I at least have much to be grateful for in the fact that we
neither inherited evil nor were taught it in any such degree as our
poor neighbor."

"And you quietly prove, Miss Walton, by your last remark, that I am
much more worthy of blame than your poor old neighbor."

"Then I said more than I meant," she answered, eagerly. "It is not for
me to judge or condemn any one. The thought in my mind was how favored
we have been in our parentage--our start in existence, as it were."

"But suppose one loses that vantage-ground?"

"I do not wish to suppose anything of the kind."

"But one can lose it utterly."

"I fear some can and do. But why dwell on a subject so unutterably sad
and painful? You have not lost it, and, as I said before to-day, I
will not dwell upon the disagreeable any more than I can help."

"Your opinion of me is poor enough already, Miss Walton, so I, too,
will drop the subject."

They had now reached the house, and did ample justice to the supper
awaiting them.

Between meals people can be very sentimental, morbid, and tragical.
They can stare at life's deep mysteries and shudder or scoff, sigh or
rejoice, according to their moral conditions. They can even grow cold
with dread, as did Gregory, realizing that he had "lost his vantage-
ground," his good start in the endless career. "She is steering across
unknown seas to a peaceful, happy shore. I am drifting on those same
mysterious waters I know not whither," he thought. But a few minutes
after entering the cheerfully lighted dining-room he was giving his
whole soul to muffins.

These homely and ever-recurring duties and pleasures of life have no
doubt saved multitudes from madness. It would almost seem that they
have also been the innocent cause of the destruction of many. There
are times when the mind is almost evenly balanced between good and
evil. Some powerful appeal or startling providence has aroused the
sleeping spirit, or some vivifying truth has pierced the armor of
indifference or prejudice, and quivered like an arrow in the soul, and
the man remembers that he is a man, and not a brute that perishes. But
just then the dinner-bell sounds. After the several courses, any
physician can predict how the powers of that human organization must
of necessity be employed the next few hours, and the partially
awakened soul is like one who starts out of a doze and sleeps again.
If the spiritual nature had only become sufficiently aroused to
realize the situation, _life_ might have been secured. Thought and
feeling in some emergencies will do more than the grandest pulpit
eloquence quenched by a Sunday dinner.




CHAPTER XV

MISS WALTON'S DREAM



The hickory fire burned cheerily in the parlor after tea, and all drew
gladly around its welcome blaze. But even the delights of roasting
chestnuts from the abundant spoils of the afternoon could not keep the
heads of the children from drooping early.

Gregory was greatly fatigued, and soon went to his room also.

Sabbath morning dawned dim and uncertain, and by the time they had
gathered at the breakfast-table, a northeast rain-storm had set in
with a driving gale.

"I suppose you will go to church 'in sperit' this morning, as Mr.
Tuggar would say," said Gregory, addressing Annie.

"If I were on the sick list I should, but I have no such excuse."

"You seriously do not mean to ride two miles in such a storm as this?"

"No, not seriously, but very cheerfully and gladly."

"I do not think it is required of you, Miss Walton. Even your Bible
states, 'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'"

"The 'sacrifice' in my case would be in staying at home. I like to be
out in a storm, and have plenty of warm blood to resist its chilling
effects. But even were it otherwise, what hardship is there in my
wrapping myself up in a waterproof and riding a few miles to a
comfortable church? I shall come back with a grand appetite and a
double zest for the wood fire."

"But it is not fair on the poor horses. They have no waterproofs or
wood fires."

"I think I am not indifferent to the comfort of dumb animals, and
though I drive a good deal, father can tell you I am not a 'whip.' Of
all shams the most transparent is this tenderness for one's self and
the horses on Sunday. I am often out in stormy weather during the
week, and meet plenty of people on the road. The farmers drive to the
village on rainy days because they can neither plow, sow, nor reap.
But on even a cloudy Sabbath, with the faintest prospect of rain,
there is but one text in the Bible for them: 'A righteous man
regardeth the life of his beast.' People attend parties, the opera,
and places of amusement no matter how bad the night. It is a miserable
pretence to say that the weather keeps the majority at home from
church. It is only an excuse. I should have a great deal more respect
for them if they would say frankly, 'We would rather sleep, read a
novel, dawdle around _en deshabille_, and gossip.' Half the time when
they say it's too stormy to venture out (oh, the heroism of our
Christian age!), they should go and thank God for the rain that is
providing food for them and theirs.

"And granting that our Christian duties do involve some risk and
hardship, does not the Bible ever speak of life as a warfare, a
struggle, an agonizing for success? Do not armies often fight and
march in the rain, and dumb beasts share their exposure? There is more
at stake in this battle. In ancient times God commanded the bloody
sacrifice of innumerable animals for the sake of moral and religious
effect. Moral and religious effect is worth just as much now. Nothing
can excuse wanton cruelty; but the soldier who spurs his horse against
the enemy, and the sentinel who keeps his out in a winter storm, are
not cruel. But many farmers about here will overwork and underfeed all
the week, and on Sunday talk about being 'merciful to their beasts.'
There won't be over twenty-five out to-day, and the Christian heroes,
the sturdy yeomanry of the church, will be dozing and grumbling in
chimney-corners. The languid half-heartedness of the church
discourages me more than all the evil in the world."

Miss Walton stated her views in a quiet undertone of indignation, and
not so much in answer to Gregory as in protest against a style of
action utterly repugnant to her earnest, whole-souled nature. As he
saw the young girl's face light up with the will and purpose to be
loyal to a noble cause, his own aimless, self-pleasing life seemed
petty and contemptible indeed, and again he had that painful sense of
humiliation which Miss Walton unwittingly caused him; but, as was
often his way, he laughed the matter off by saying, "There is no need
of my going to-day, for I have had my sermon, and a better one than
you will hear. Still, such is the effect of your homily that I am
inclined to ask you to take me with you."

Annie's manner changed instantly, and she smilingly answered, "You
will find an arm-chair before a blazing fire in your room upstairs,
and an arm-chair before a blazing fire in the parlor, and you can
vacillate between them at your pleasure."

"As a vacillating man should, perhaps you might add."

"I add nothing of the kind."

"Will you never let me go to church with you again?"

"Certainly, after what you said, any pleasant day."

"Why can't I have the privilege of being a martyr as well as
yourself?"

"I am not a martyr. I would far rather go out to-day than stay at
home."

"It will be very lonely without you."

"Oh, you are the martyr then, after all. I hope you will have
sufficient fortitude to endure, and doze comfortably during the two
hours of my absence."

"Now you are satirical on Sunday, Miss Walton. Let that burden your
conscience. I'm going to ask your father if I may go."

"Of course you will act at your pleasure," said Mr. Walton, "but I
think, in your present state of health, Annie has suggested the wiser
and safer thing to do."

"I should probably be ill on your hands if I went, so I submit; but I
wish you to take note, Miss Walton, that I have the 'sperit to go.'"

The arm-chairs were cosey and comfortable, and the hickory wood
turned, as is its wont, into glowing and fragrant coals, but the house
grew chill and empty the moment that Annie left. Though Mr. Walton and
Miss Eulie accompanied her, their absence was rather welcome, but he
felt sure that Annie could have beguiled the heavy-footed hours.

"She has some unexplained power of making me forget my miserable
self," he muttered.

And yet, left to himself, he had now nothing to do but think, and a
fearful time he had of it, lowering at the fire, in the arm-chair,
from which he scarcely stirred.

"I have lost my vantage-ground," he groaned--"lost it utterly. I am
not even a 'well-meaning man.' I purpose evil against this freshest,
purest spirit I have ever known since in this house I looked into my
mother's eyes. I am worse than the wild Arab of the desert. I have
eaten salt with them; I have partaken of their generous hospitality,
given so cordially for the sake of one that is dead, and in return
have wounded their most sacred feelings, and now propose to prove the
daughter a creature that I can go away and despise. Instead of being
glad that there is one in the world noble and good, even though by
accident--instead of noting with pleasure that every sweet flower has
not become a weed--I wish to drag her down to my own wretched level,
or else I would have her exhibit sufficient weakness to show that she
would go as far as she was tempted to go. A decent devil could hardly
wish her worse. I would like to see her show the same spirit that
animates Miss Belle St. Glair of New York, or Mrs. Grobb, my former
adored Miss Bently--creatures that I despise as I do myself, and what
more could I say? If I could only cause her to show some of their
characteristics the reproach of her life would pass away, and I should
be confirmed in my belief that humanity's unutterable degradation is
its misfortune, and the blame should rest elsewhere than on us. How
absurd to blame water for running down hill! Give man or woman half a
chance, that is, before habits are fixed, and they plunge faster down
the inclined moral plane. And the plague of it is, this seeming axiom
does not satisfy me. What business has my conscience, with a lash of
scorpion stings, to punish me this and every day that I permit myself
to think? Did I not try for years to be better? Did I not resist the
infernal gravitation? and yet I am falling still. I never did anything
so mean and low before as I am doing now. If it is my nature to do
evil, why should I not do it without compunction? And as I look
downward--there is no looking forward for me--there seems no evil
thing that I could not do if so inclined. Here in this home of my
childhood, this sacred atmosphere that my mother breathed, I would
besmirch the character of one who as yet is pure and good, with a
nature like a white hyacinth in spring. I see the vileness of the act,
I loathe it, and yet it fascinates me, and I have no power to resist.
Why should a stern, condemning voice declare in recesses of my soul,
'You could and should resist'? For years I have been daily yielding to
temptation, and conscience as often pronounces sentence against me.
When will the hateful farce cease? Multitudes appear to sin without
thought or remorse. Why cannot I? It's my mother's doings, I suppose.
A plague upon the early memories of this place. Will they keep me upon
the rack forever?"

He rose, strode up and down the parlor, and clenched his hands in
passionate protest against himself, his destiny, and the God who made
him.

A chillness, resulting partly from dread and partly from the wild
storm raging without, caused him to heap up the hearth with wood. It
speedily leaped into flame, and, covering his face with his hands, he
sat cowering before it. A vain but frequent thought recurred to him
with double power.

"Oh that I could cease to exist, and lose this miserable
consciousness! Oh that, like this wood, I could be aflame with
intense, passionate life, and then lose identity, memory, and
everything that makes _me_, and pass into other forms. Nay, more, if I
had my wish, I would become nothing here and now."

The crackling of flames and the rush of wind and rain against the
windows had caused the sound of wheels, and a light step in the room,
to be unheard.

He was aroused by Miss Walton, who asked, "Mr. Gregory, are you ill?"

He raised his woe-begone face to hers, and said, almost irritably,
"Yes--no--or at least I am as well as I ever expect to be, and perhaps
better." Then with a sudden impulse he asked, "Does annihilation seem
such a dreadful thing to you?"

"What! the losing of an eternity of keen enjoyment? Could anything be
more dreadful! Really, Mr. Gregory, brooding here alone has not been
good for you. Why do you not think of pleasant things?"

"For the same reason that a man with a raging toothache does not have
pleasant sensations," he answered, with a grim smile.

"I admit the force of your reply, though I do not think the case
exactly parallel. The mind is not as helpless as the body. Still, I
believe it is true that when the body is suffering the mind is apt to
become the prey of all sorts of morbid fancies, and you do look really
ill. I wish I could give you some of my rampant health and spirits to-
day. Facing the October storm has done me good every way, and I am
ravenous for dinner."

He looked at her enviously as she stood before him, with her
waterproof, still covered with rain-drops, partially thrown back and
revealing the outline of a form which, though not stout, was
suggestive of health and strength. She seemed, with her warm, high
color, like a hardy flower covered with spray. Instead of shrinking
feebly and delicately from the harsher moods of nature, and coming in
pinched and shivering, she had felt the blood in her veins and all the
wheels of life quickened by the gale.

"Miss Walton," he said, with a glimmer of a smile, "do you know that
you are very different from most young ladies? You and nature
evidently have some deep secrets between you. I half believe you never
will grow old, but are one of the perennials. I am glad you have come
home, for you seem to bring a little of yesterday's sunshine into the
dreary house."

As they returned to the parlor after dinner, Gregory remarked, "Miss
Walton, what can you do to interest me this afternoon, for I am
devoured with ennui?"

She turned upon him rather quickly and said, "A young man like you has
no business to be 'devoured with ennui.' Why not engage in some
pursuit, or take up some subject that will interest you and stir your
pulse?"

With a touch of his old mock gallantry he bowed and said, "In you I
see just the subject, and am delighted to think I'm going to have you
all to myself this rainy afternoon."

With a half-vexed laugh and somewhat heightened color she answered, "I
imagine you won't have me all to yourself long."

She had hardly spoken the words before the children bounded in,
exclaiming, "Now, Aunt Annie, for our stories."

"You see, Mr. Gregory, here are previous and counter-claims already."

"I wish I knew of some way of successfully disputing them."

"It would be difficult to find. Well, come, little people, we will go
into the sitting-room and not disturb Mr. Gregory."

"Now, I protest against that," he said. "You might at least let me be
one of the children."

"But the trouble is, you won't be one, but will sit by criticising and
laughing at our infantile talk."

"Now you do me wrong. I will be as good as I can, and if you knew how
long and dreary the day has been you would not refuse."

She looked at him keenly for a moment, and then said, a little
doubtfully, "Well, I will try for once. Run and get your favorite
Sunday books, children."

When they were alone he asked, "How can you permit these youngsters to
be such a burden?"

"They are not a burden," she answered.

"But a nurse could take care of them and keep them quiet."

"If their father and mother were living they would not think 'keeping
them quiet' all their duty toward them, nor do I, to whom they were
left as a sacred trust."

"That awful word 'duty' rules you, Miss Walton, with a rod of iron."

"Do I seem like a harshly driven slave?" she asked, smilingly.

"No, and I cannot understand you."

"That is because your philosophy of life is wrong. You still belong to
that old school who would have it that sun, moon, and stars revolve
around the earth. But here are the books, and if you are to be one of
the children you must do as I bid you--be still and listen."

It was strange to Gregory how content he was to obey. He was surprised
at his interest in the old Bible stories told in childish language,
and as Annie stopped to explain a point or answer a question, he found
himself listening as did the eager little boy sitting on the floor at
her feet. The hackneyed man of the world could not understand how the
true, simple language of nature, like the little brown blossoms of
lichens, has a beauty of its own.

At the same time he had a growing consciousness that perhaps there was
something in the reader also which mainly held his interest. It was
pleasant to listen to the low, musical voice. It was pleasant to see
the red lips drop the words so easily yet so distinctly, and chief of
all was the consciousness of a vitalized presence that made the room
seem full when she was in it, and empty when she was absent, though
all others remained.

He truly shared the children's regret when at last she said, "Now I am
tired, and must go upstairs and rest awhile before supper, after which
we will have some music. You can go into the sitting-room and look at
the pictures till the tea-bell rings. Mr. Gregory, will my excuse to
the children answer for you also?"

"I suppose it must, though I have no pictures to look at."

She suddenly appeared to change her mind, and said, briskly, "Come,
sir, what you need is work for others. I have read to you, and you
ought to be willing to read to me. If you please, I will rest in the
arm-chair here instead of in my room."

"I will take your medicine," he said, eagerly, "without a wry face,
though an indifferent reader, while I think you are a remarkably good
one; and let me tell you it is one of the rarest accomplishments we
find. You shall also choose the book."

"What unaccountable amiableness!" she replied, laughing. "I fear I
shall reward you by going to sleep."

"Very well, anything so I am not left alone again. I am wretched
company for myself."

"Oh, it is not for my sake you are so good, after all!"

"You think me a selfish wretch, Miss Walton."

"I think you are like myself, capable of much improvement. But I wish
to rest, and you must not talk, but read. There is the 'Schonberg-
Cotta Family.' I have been over it two or three times, so if I lose
the thread of the story it does not matter."

He wheeled the arm-chair up to the fire for her, and for a while she
listened with interest; but at last her lids drooped and soon closed,
and her regular breathing showed that she was sleeping. His voice sank
in lower and lower monotone lest his sudden stopping should awaken
her, then he laid down his book and read a different story in the pure
young face turned toward him.

"It is not beautiful," he thought, "but it is a real, good face. I
should not be attracted toward it in a thronged and brilliant drawing-
room. I might not notice it on Fifth Avenue, but if I were ill and in
deep trouble, it is just such a face as I should like to see bending
over me. Am I not ill and in deep trouble? I have lost my health and
lost my manhood. What worse disasters this side death can I
experience? Be careful, Walter Gregory, you may be breaking the one
clew that can lead you out of the labyrinth. You may be seeking to
palsy the one hand that can help you. Mother believed in a special
Providence. Is it her suggestion that now flashes in my mind that God
in mercy has brought me to this place of sacred memories, and given me
the companionship of this good woman, that the bitter waters of my
life may be sweetened? I do not know from whom else it can come.

"And yet the infernal fascination of evil! I cannot--I will not give
up my purpose toward her. Vain dreams! Miss Walton or an angel of
light could not reclaim me. My impetus downward is too great.

"Oh, the rest and peace of that face! Physical rest and a quiet, happy
spirit dwell in every line. She sleeps there like a child, little
dreaming that a demon is watching her. But she says that she is
guarded. Perhaps she is. A strong viewless one with a flaming sword
may stand between her and me.

"Weak fool! Enough of this. I shall carry out my experiment fully, and
when I have succeeded or failed, I can come to some conclusion on
matters now in doubt.

"I should like to kiss those red parted lips. I wonder what she would
do if I did?" Annie's brow darkened into a frown. Suddenly she started
up and looked at him, but seemed satisfied from his distance and
motionless aspect.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. I had a dream," she said, with a slight flush.

"Please tell it," he said, though he feared her answer.

"You will not like it. Besides, it's too absurd."

"You pique my curiosity. Tell it by all means."

"Well, then, you mustn't be angry; and remember, I have no faith in
sleeping vagaries. I dreamed that you were transformed into a large
tiger, and came stealthily to bite me."

He was startled as he recalled his thought at the moment of her
awaking, but had the presence of mind to say, "Let me interpret the
dream."

"Well."

"You know, I suppose, that dreams go by contraries. Suppose a true
friend wished to steal a kiss in your unconsciousness."

"True friends do not steal from us," she replied, laughing. "I don't
know whether it was safe to let you read me to sleep?"

"It's not wrong to be tempted, is it? One can't help that. As Mr.
Tuggar says, I might have the 'sperit to do it,' and yet remain
quietly in my chair, as I have."

"You make an admission in your explanation. Well, it was queer," she
added, absently.

Gregory thought so too, and was annoyed at her unexpected clairvoyant
powers. But he said, as if a little piqued, "If you think me a tiger
you had better not sleep within my reach, or you may find your face
sadly mutilated on awaking."

"Nonsense," she said. "Mr. Gregory, you are a gentleman. We are
talking like foolish children."

The tea-bell now rang, and Gregory obeyed its summons in a very
perplexed state. His manner was rather absent during the meal, but
Annie seemed to take pains to be kind and reassuring. The day, so far
from being a restraint, appeared one of habitual cheerfulness, which
even the dreary storm without could not dampen.