Rabindranath Tagore - "The Post Office"

Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v2"

George Bernard Shaw - "How He Lied to Her Husband"

Elizabeth Gaskell - "The Poor Clare"

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: Happy Hawkins

R >> Robert Alexander Wason >> Happy Hawkins




"It's a damned outrage!" sez Jabez, his eyes flashin'. "Take
'thought' an' through,' an' 'though'--why, it's enough to ruin the
morals of the best child the' is. Hang it, I--"

"Well, you had your own way about it," sez I. "You've had three
different teachers here this term."

"Who built the school?" sez Jabez. "Didn't I build it with my own
money, just so I'd have it handy, an' didn't I offer to pay the
teacher if they'd put it right here at the ranch?"

"You ain't got money enough to bring the world here to her feet,
Jabez," sez I, "an' it wouldn't be the best thing for her if you
could."

Well, I sat there the whole blessed night, cheerin' him up. Every
time he'd get to thinkin' about his arm or his leg, I'd say
somethin' to rile him an' take his mind off his afflictions, an'
along about dawn he fell asleep. Spider Kelley had found the doctor
almost in our neighborhood, an' he arrived with him by ten in the
mornin'. He paid me a high compliment on the leg, an' after he'd
rounded up a few splinters it wasn't no trouble at all to set it;
but Jabez was in for a good long spell of it, an' the Spring round-
up in sight. You might think that this would rile him up too; but he
took it like a hero, an' I kept him in touch with everything.

We didn't have a regular foreman at the Diamond Dot. George
Hendricks took charge around the house, an' Omaha was a sort of
ridin' over-see-er; but Jabez himself tended to even little details
when he felt like it. When he didn't feel that way, any one else who
thought of it did. After the round-up Flap Jack decided to go on a
bender. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted, an' finally
I sent him into Jabez.

Flappy came away just tearin' mad. "He's the hardest-hearted old
tyrant ever breathed," sez Flappy to me.

"What now?" sez I.

"Last time I came back I was a day late," sez Flappy. "He fair
frothed at the mouth at it, an' made me promise to give him a
month's notice next time. How's a man to know a month ahead when
he's goin' to be in the notion for a bender. I'm fair ravin' for it
now; but like's not I'll be all out o' the notion in a month."

"Then you'll be a sight o' money ahead," sez I.

"Money? What's money for? Can you buy a thirst like mine with money?
Why, I could take this thirst o' mine to a city an' get independent
rich, just rentin' it out by the night. I've watched fellers
drinkin' when they didn't crave it, an' it hurt 'em somethin'
dreadful. If you don't want it, you can't enjoy it until you're
under the influence of it, an' after you're under the influence of
it half the fun o' drinkin' it is gone."

Flappy had studied this question more'n airy other man I ever see,
an' it was edicatin' to hear him lecture on it.

"The's only one way to get around ol' Cast Steel," sez I, winkin';
so he got Barbie to beg for him when she went in that evenin', an'
she got Jabez to let him go next day; but after Jabez'd had time to
think it over, he sez to me, "Now see what I've done--I've let that
child wheedle me into changin' my mind an' lettin' a man break his
word."

"Well, he needed it mighty bad," sez I.

"An' another thing; it ain't no fit thing for a gal child to be
beggin' for a man to go get drunk," sez Jabez. "Maybe not," sez I,
"but he sure needed it."




CHAPTER EIGHT

THE LETTER


It all came about through me bein' edicated. Most any one can read
print words, if they're of a reasonable size,--the words I mean,--
but I could read handwritin' too. I never was no great mathematician
when you got above fractions, an' I was some particular in what I
read; but if I 'd been minded that way, I reckon I could have waded
through purty much any kind of a book ever was written. At that
time, however, I was still middlin' young in some things, an' I sure
was suspicious of any kind of book 'at looked like a school book.

If you'd have school books did up in paper with the right kind of
pictures on the covers you could easy get children to peruse 'em.
Did you ever notice bear cubs gettin' an edication? They ain't beat
into it, they has to be helt back. Same with the Injun kids; they
was up on edge to learn until they got to schoolin' 'em, then they
fought again it just like the white kids. The reason is that we make
children learn things they ain't curious about. I bet if you was to
try an' keep it a secret about George Washington bein' made
President because he wouldn't lie about choppin' down that cherry
tree, the kids would stay awake nights to pry into it. Kids is only
human, any way you take 'em.

But this business was sure a fetcher to me, an' Barbie, she just
stumbled on it too. One afternoon me an' her went for a little ride
up into the foothills, an' after we'd built our fire, like we allus
did, no matter how hot it was, she lay there rollin' cigarettes for
me to smoke, like she allus did--the little scamp used to get on the
lee side o' me so the smoke would blow in her face; but we never
mentioned it.

Well, after a while she begun to talk of romances, an' to ask me
questions about 'em. I told her as many as I could remember, an' the
one what suited her best was "Claud, the Boy Hero of Gore Gulch." It
allus used to fret her to think 'at the' wasn't nothing she could do
to make her a boy, an' she tried to even up by plannin' to herself
what she'd have done if so be she had been a boy. We talked along
about as usual; but I see the' was somethin' on her mind. She wasn't
the one to flare up an' shout for information. She allus talked in a
circle like an Injun when she really needed news.

After a while she fished out a funny old letter. It wasn't put into
an envelope, it was just wrapped inside itself an' stuck fast with a
gob o' some kind o' wax which had been broke before it was opened.
The' had been a name on the outside, but it had been rubbed out.
Inside at the beginning was the name "Rose Cottage, San Francisco,"
and a date; but I've forgotten the date. The letter began, "Dearest
George." I read that much an' then I looked at Barbie. "Where'd you
get this?" sez I.

She reddened a little, an' then she looked me straight in the face,
and sez "I found it in the attic. I wanted a new box to put my
cigarettes in, an' one day Daddy left the attic door open an' I went
in. The' was just a dandy chest there an' he had left the key in it.
I opened it an' this letter was on top. He goes to the attic alone
every now an' again,--mostly at night,--an' he won't never let me go
with him."

"I suppose that was the reason you thought he wanted you to go alone
to the attic, too," sez I. She flushed again. "If a person don't
trust me he ain't got no call to be surprised when I don't suit
him."

I shook my head. Now in talkin' to her you forgot she was a child,
'cause she didn't talk broken like most of 'em do--nor she didn't
think broken neither; but when you looked at her, little and slim
an' purty as a picture, you couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't
got her soul changed off with some one else, like what they say the
Chinese believe. She had the same rules that I did for so many
things that it floored me to understand how she got 'em that young,
me havin' had to figger 'em out with a heap o' sweat.

"Was the letter to you?" I sez, gettin' around to facts.

"No, it wasn't; but I read it, an' I wisht I knew what it means."

"I ain't a-goin' to read it," sez I.

"You 're a coward," sez she.

"That's nothing," sez I; "if it wasn't for the cowards the' would be
a heap o' vacant land in this country," sez I.

"I thought you was my friend," sez she, takin' back the letter an'
holdin' it open in her hand. "If Spider Kelley could read he would
read it for me."

"So would Hawkins, your pinto," sez I, grinnin'. "What you ought to
do is to tell your Dad that you have the letter. If you don't tell
him, I reckon I'll have to."

At first she was mad as hops, an' then she looked into my eyes an'
laughed. "I'll dare you to," sez she. The' was some woman in her
even then.

The' wasn't no way to bluff her, so I said serious, "Well, what do
you intend to do about it?"

"I don't know," said she. "Dad has lost so many other things beside
his temper, stumpin' around with that cane, that he thinks he has
lost the key to the chest. He goes around grumblin' an' lookin' for
it; but he don't ask if any one has found it. Why do you suppose
that is?"

"It ain't any of my supposin'," sez I. "What are you goin' to do
about it?"

"As soon as I get through with this letter--an' make up my mind not
to hunt through the chest--I'm goin' to slip the key into his
pocket--an' then watch his face when he finds it."

"You oughtn't to treat your own father so, Barbara," sez I.

She laughed. "Barbara! that's a good soundin' name on your tongue,
Happy," sez she. Then she sobered. "I don't care nothing for what
you say or what he says; the' 's things I'm goin' to find out; an' I
have a right to. I never told him why it was that I whopped those
two girls over at school last winter, an' I never told even you. I
whopped 'em 'cause they said I never had a mother. Everything has to
have a mother, even a snake, an' I had one too. Why don't he tell me
about her? Why does he allus turn me off when I ask about her? I
don't intend to just let him tell me that she was the most beautiful
woman in the world an' too good to stay here, an' such things. I am
going to find out who she was, an' if you wasn't a coward you'd help
me. Now."

It was true what she said, an' I might have known she was studyin'
about it. I might, if I'd had the sense of a hoss, have known that
this was what made her old-like--studyin' about things she never
ought to have been forced to study about.

"Does that letter tell about her, Barbie?" I asked.

"That's what I want to know; but you ain't got the sand to read it,
an' I can't make it out. Here, read it."

I took it an' read it. The writin' was fine an' like what was in
Barbie's writin' book along the top. It sounded like as if a young
girl had written it partly against her will, although it was purty
lovesome too. It told about how lonely she was, an' that she hadn't
never been able to tell whether it was Jack or him she was most in
love with until Jack had asked her, an' then after Jack had deceived
her an' he had been so kind, she found out 'at he was the one she
had loved the most all the time. She reminded him 'at she had
written to him before acceptin' Jack, an' that now if he was still
sure he wanted her, she would accept him; but she could never live
near the Creole Belle. She closed with love, an' signed herself
Barbara.

I kept on lookin' at the page a long time after I had read it. I
remembered what Monody had said when I thought he was out of his
head--about George Jordan an' Jack Whitman, an' the Creole Belle. I
knew 'at Barbie was studyin' my face, an' I pertended to spell out
the words a letter at a time until I could get full control o'
myself.

"What kind of a bell is a Creole Bell?" sez I. "She ain't got it
spelled right neither."

"A Creole Belle is a beautiful woman of French an' Spanish blood who
lives in New Orleans," sez Barbie. "What do you make out about it?"

I was thinkin' fast as I could, but I still pertended to read the
letter. So Jabez had been in a scrape with some cross-breed woman,
an' he an' this Jack Whitman had loved the same girl, an' the' was a
bad mix-up somewhere.

"Little girl," I sez, "the' 's a lot o' wickedness in this world you
don't know about--"

"An' the' a lot o' wickedness I do know about 'at I ain't supposed
to," she snaps in. "Do you reckon I could knock around this ranch
the way I have an' not know nothin' except about flowers an'
moonlight? You cut out the little girl part an' play square."

"Well, you look here," I sez. "I don't know what you do know an' I
don't know what you don't know; but I do know 'at lots of the things
you think you know ain't so, if you picked it up from the fool
stories some o' these damn cow punchers tell; an' you ought to be
ashamed to listen to 'em."

"Oh, yes, of course!" she fires up. "I am the one what ought to be
ashamed of the stories the cow punchers tell! That's the way from
one end to the other; somebody else says somethin' an' I ought to be
ashamed 'cause I ain't too deaf to hear it. Now the' 's a lot of
questions I'm goin' to ask you as soon as I get time. I want to know
why--"

"No, you don't!" I yells, jumpin' to my feet an' blushin' clear to
my ears. "I ain't neither one o' your parents an' I ain't your
teacher. If you want to know things you ask Melisse. If you don't
put a curb on yourself I'm goin' to flop myself on Starlight an'
streak for the Lion Head this very minute, an' I won't stop before
reachin' the Pan Handle."

She knew enough to stop bettin' up a pair o' tens when she see the
other feller wasn't to be bluffed; so she sez, "Well, I'm goin' to
find it out some way or other--I'm going to find out everything I
want to know before I'm done. I love my Daddy, but he don't always
play fair; an' I'm goin' to find out what I want to find out--
whether he wants me to or not."

I was in a sweat. "Barbie," I sez at last, "supposin' he is playin'
fair? Supposin' he has sacrificed his own happiness to keep sorrow
out of your life, an' supposin' you nose around an' discover it--
who'd be the one 'at played un-fair then? You're powerful young yet;
you're a heap younger'n you realize, an' you can't know it all in a
day. He'll tell you when he can, an' you ought to trust him. He
loves you more'n anything else in this wide world. You ought to
trust him, Barbie."

She trembled tryin' to steady herself, an' I looked off into the
valley for a moment. "I know he loves me, an' I wouldn't hurt him
for the world; but I think I'm old enough to know, an' I'm goin' to
ask him. If he won't tell me now he has to set a date to tell me. I
ain't goin' to have no dirty-faced school kids askin' me questions I
can't answer."

"I reckon all you want to know is in that chest in the garret," sez
I; "an' I reckon it's kept for you to read after--well some day; but
if I was you, I'd put back the letter an' I'd not think about it any
more'n I could help. Supposin' your Dad had had to kill a man to
save your mother, an' didn't want you to know 'at he had ever killed
a man--"

"Humph!" she snaps in. "Didn't Claud kill fourteen men in Gore
Gulch, an' didn't I think it was fine? If he's killed a man I'd be
proud of it."

"It's different in real life," sez I. "I like to read about Claud
myself, but I wouldn't want to slaughter men in the quantities he
does."

"You killed a man oncet yourself," sez she.

"When?" sez I.

"You killed at least one o' the Brophy gang with the butt of your
gun," sez she.

"It couldn't be proved," sez I.

"It couldn't be denied," sez she. "If that's all you think it is I'm
goin' to ask him."

"Supposin' your mother had made him promise not to tell you until
you came of age,--you know what store he sets on keepin' his word,--
would you be glad to know 'at you had made him break it? This
Barbara might have been his sister, an' some one else might have
been your mother."

"Oh, I see it now--my mother was the Creole Belle, the beautiful
lady. He allus said she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman in
the world--" She sat there with her eyes flashin', but I didn't want
to let her make up things 'at wasn't so an' then be disappointed.
"Who do you suppose George was, an' Jack?" sez I quiet.

She drew her brows together an' sat diggin' her spur into the dirt.
"That's so, too," she said, thinkin' aloud. "But Barbara certainly
did have something to do with me, an' I wisht I knew! Oh, I wish I
could grow as big as I feel--I hate this bein' a child. I hate it!"

"Will you put the letter back an' try to forget it?" I said at last.

"I'll put it back at once, I'll give him the key at once; that is,
I'll slip it into his pocket, an' I won't pester him about it--now;
but you got to promise to tell me if you ever find it out. Will ya?"

"Yes," sez I. "If I ever find it all out I'll tell you, honest
across my heart."

"An' you won't say nothin' about this letter to Daddy, until I let
you?" she said, fixin' her eyes on me.

"No, I won't say a word about that until you tell me to," sez I.

"Now, then, let's play tag goin' back to the house," she said, with
her lip stiff again. Oh, she had a heart in her, that child had.

"You know the pinto has Starlight beat on turns an' twists," sez I.

"Yes," she sez, "an' on a two-hundred mile race, too." She played
away through the summer an' never spoke a word on the subject again;
but she hid it most too careful, and Jabez saw the' was somethin' on
her mind. "Have you any idea what the child's thinkin' about?" he
asked me one day when we was figurin' some on the beef round-up.

I didn't answer straight off, an' he noticed it. "What is she
studyin' about?" sez he, mighty shrewd.

"How can a body tell what that child is studyin' about?" sez I.

"You're with her most of the time--fact is, about all you do is to
play with her these days."

"Any time my work here don't suit you," I began; but he snaps in,
"It ain't a question o' work. If you amuse her you're worth more to
me'n any other ten men; but I have some rights. I want to know what
you think."

"Have you asked her?" sez I.

"I'm askin' you," sez he.

"Well, I want you to understand 'at I ain't no spy," sez I, glad of
a way out. "I don't know all 'at 's on her mind, an' I don't propose
to guess; and if I did know, I wouldn't tell unless she told me to.
If you know any way to make me tell, why go ahead and I'll stand by
and watch the proceedin's."

Well, he ranted up an' down a while, an' finally he pulls himself
down an' sez, "Now look here, Happy, the' 's a difference between a
parent an' anybody else."

"I own too to that," sez I; "but what have I got to do with it?"

"Well, you can sort of hint around until you find out what's on her
mind, an' if it ain't somethin' fit, you can tell her so; because if
it comes to a show down, she thinks I ought to tell her anything she
wants to know."

"Well, hadn't you?" sez I.

"Yes, sometime, I suppose--but hang it, it's mighty hard to answer
some of her questions, or to give reasons why I can't answer 'em."

"Have you asked her what's on her mind this time?" sez I.

He fidgeted around a while, an' then he sez, "Yes, I asked her."

"What did she say?" sez I.

"She looked me plumb in the eyes, an' said, 'Do you want me to ask
you what I want to find out?'"

"What did you say?" sez I.

"Why, I said, 'Yes, Barbara, if it is something you ought to know.'"

"Well?" I sez, after waitin' a bit.

"Why, she flared up," sez Jabez, "an' went on sarcastic about it
bein' strange to her why girls was so much different from other
folks, an' there bein' so many things 'at they wasn't fit to know;
an' finally she said to me point blank, 'Do you want me to ask you
what I want to know, an' if I do ask you will you answer?'"

"What did you say?" I sez.

"I didn't know what to say," sez Jabez. "She looked different from
any way she had ever looked before, and after a minute I sez, 'No,
Barbara, I don't think you had better ask me, an' I don't think you
had better think of it any more.' Don't you think I did right?"

"No," sez I, "you did not. You simply side-stepped; you wilted under
fire, an' she hates a coward as much as you do. Why didn't you face
it right then?"

"Happy," he sez, an' his voice wrung my heart, "the' 's things
she'll have to know sometime, but she ain't old enough to know 'em
yet." He stopped, an' his face grew hard as stone when he went on.
"But the' 's some things that she never can know, an' I don't want
her to even learn that there are such things. That's why you have to
find out what's on her mind."

"Now you know, Jabez, that I have my own ideas on what I have to do;
but you tell me what kind o' things there are that she mustn't ever
learn, an' maybe I'll see your way of it."

Jabez looked down at the ground, an' the sweat broke out on his
forehead before he answered me. When he did the' wasn't a trace of
friendliness in his tone. "You have done a heap for me, Happy, and
if there's anything in the money line that you think I owe you, why,
name it an' it's yours; but you can see for yourself that we can't
go on this way. I haven't asked you to do anything unreasonable and
you have refused point blank. I don't intend to explain myself to
one of my own men, and I don't intend to have an argument with him
every time I want anything done my way. This is my ranch and as long
's my own way suits me, that's the only man it has to suit."

"Yes, you own this ranch," sez I; "but you don't own the earth, so
I'll move on."

"I haven't fired you," sez Jabez. "You're welcome to work here as
long as you want to; but you'll have to be like the other men from
this on. You've been like one of the family so long 'at we don't
pull together any more, and so if you stay I'll have to send you out
with the riding gangs."

I looked into his face and laughed, though even then I was sorry for
him. He led a lonely life, an' I knew 'at he'd miss me; but we was
both as we was, so I rolled up my stuff, loaded up Starlight, an'
said good-bye to little Barbie. That was the hard part of it. She
didn't cry when I told her I was goin'--that would 'a' been too
girlish-like for her; she just breathed hard an' jerky for a couple
o' minutes while we looked in opposite directions, an' then she
said, "How'll you come back next time, Happy? It's over three years
ago since you left that other time, an' you came back just as you
said, ridin' on a black hoss with silver trimmed leather. How'll you
come back next time?"

"I don't know, Barbie," I said, "but I'll sure come back, true to
you."

"Yes," she said, "an' I'll sure be true to you, all the time you're
away and when you come back."

"Barbie," I said, "you haven't treated your father right. You've let
him see that you're worryin' about somethin', an' it bothers him."

"I ain't made out o' wood," she snaps out fierce. "I try to be
contented, but I get tired o' bein' a girl. I've half a mind to go
with you, Happy."

"Yes, but the other half of your mind is the best half, Barbie," I
said. "Now I'm goin' to tell you a secret; your daddy is twice as
lonesome as you are, and he's been through a heap of trouble
sometime. You miss the mother that you never did see, but he misses
the mother that he knew and loved; and I want you to promise to do
all you can to cheer him up and make him happy."

"I never thought o' that before," said she, "I'll do the best I can-
-but you'll come back to me sometime, won't you, Happy?"

"I sure will," I said, an' we shook hands on it. Then I decided that
I'd leave Starlight with her. He wasn't as good for knockin' around
as a range pony, and I didn't know what I'd be doin', so I took my
stuff off him, picked out a tough little mustang from the home herd,
shook hands with her again, an' started. I glanced up toward old
Savage, and she read my thoughts. "I'll take flowers to him now and
again," sez she, "and I'll go up there and talk to him about you;
and Happy, Happy, we'll both be lonesome until you come back!" And
so I kissed her on the lips, and rode away the second time.




CHAPTER NINE

ADRIFT AGAIN


Well, I rode purty tol'able slow. Some way I didn't want to go back
to the Lion Head Ranch. I knew 'at Jim would be glad to see me, but
I knew I'd be lonesomer there than among total strangers; so I just
floated, punchin' cows most o' the time, but not runnin' very long
over the same range.

It was just about this period that I begun to lose my serious view
o' life and get more man-like. The usual idea is that a boy is a
careless, happy, easy-goin' sort of a creature, and a man is a
steady, serious minded, thoughtful kind of an outfit; but just the
reverse. A boy starts out believin' most o' what's told him an'
thinkin' that it's his duty to reform the world; an' about the only
thing he is careless of is human life--his own or any one else's.
Fact o' the matter is that if you watch him close enough you'll find
out that even in his games a boy is about the solemnest thing on
earth, an' you have to know the game purty thorough to tell when it
drifts into a real fight. That's why all wars have been fought by
boys. They believe in any cause 'at looks big enough to lay down
their lives for, an' that's their chief ambition. A man, though;
gets to see after a time that the' 's most generally somebody up
behind who's working the wires, an' he gets so 'at he don't want to
lay down ANYBODY's life, except as a last resort. He looks favorable
upon amusement, an' after a while he kind o' sort o' gets hardened
to the fact that the whole thing's a joke and he'd rather laugh than
shoot. Why, I'd be more afraid of a boy with a popgun than I 'd be
of a man with a standin' army.

So as I said, it was just about this time in my life that I begun to
hunt up pleasant places to eat and sleep; an' if I heard of trouble
in the next county I turned out an' went around. I did a little of
everything; even lugged a chain in a surveyor outfit, but the'
wasn't enough chance in that. I got to have a trace of gamblin' in
anything I do; so the first thing I knew I was down in Nevada
lookin' for the treasure 'at Bill Brophy had buried there. The last
of his gang had tried to describe the place, but his description
would have done for 'most any place in Nevada--she not bein' what
you might call free-handed in the way of variety.