Annie Payson Call - "Power Through Repose"

May Agnes Fleming - "The Midnight Queen"

A. Merritt - "The Metal Monster"

William Morris - "News from Nowhere"

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 and Human Nature

T >> Thomas Chandler Haliburton >> Nature and Human Nature




"Beg your pardon, Sir," said Jackson to the doctor, putting his hand
to his forehead, "if our sharp-shooters in Spain ad ad bows like
yours, in their scrimmages with the French light troops, they would
ave done more service and made less noise about it than they did." And
saluting me in the same manner, he said in an under-tone,

"If I ad ad one of them at Badajoz, Sir, I think I'd a put a pen in
that trooper's mouth to write the account of the way he lost his
elmet. A shower of them, Sir, among a troop of cavalry would have sent
riders flying, and horses kicking, as bad as a shower of grape. There
is no danger of shooting your fingers off with them, Sir, or firing
away your ramrod. No, there ain't, is there, Sir?"

"Tom, do'ee put on your hat now, that's a good soul," said his
attentive wife, who had followed him out a third time to remind him of
his danger. "Oh, Sir," said she, again addressing me, "what signifies
a armless thing like an harrow; that's nothin but a little wooden rod
to the stroke of the sun, as they calls it. See what a dreadful cut
it's given him."

Tom looked very impatient at this, but curbed in his vexation, and
said "Thankee, Betty," though his face expressed anything but thanks.
"Thankee, Betty. There, the doctor is calling you. She is as good a
creature, Sir, as ever lived," he continued; "and has seen a deal of
service in her day. But she bothers me to death about that stroke of
the sun. Sometimes I think I'll tell her all about it; but I don't
like to demean myself to her. She wouldn't think nothin' of me, Sir,
if she thought I could have been floored that way; and women, when
they begin to cry, throw up sometime what's disagreeable. They ain't
safe. She would perhaps have heaved up in my face that that dragoon
had slapped my chops for me, with his elmet. I am blowed, Sir, if I
can take a glass of grog out of my canteen, but she says, 'Tom, mind
that stroke of the sun.' And when I ave a big D marked agin my name in
the pension book, she'll swear, to her dying day, I was killed by that
are stroke."

"Why don't you put it on then," I said, "just to please her."

"Well, Sir, if I was at head-quarters, or even at han hout-post, where
there was a detachment, I would put it hon; because it wouldn't seem
decent to go bare-headed. But Lord bless you, Sir, what's the use of a
hat in the woods, where there is no one to see you?"

Poor fellow, he didn't know what a touch of human nature there was in
that expression, "what's the use of a hat in the woods, where there is
no one to see you?"

The same idea, though differently expressed, occurs to so many. "Yes,"
said I to myself, "put on your hat for your wife's sake, and your own
too; for though you may fail to get a stroke of the sun, you may get
not an inflammation of the brain, for there ain't enough of it for
that complaint to feed on, but rheumatism in the head; and that will
cause a plaguey sight more pain than the dragoon's helmet ever did, by
a long chalk."

But, to get back to my story, for the way I travel through a tale is
like the way a child goes to school. He leaves the path to chase a
butterfly, or to pick wild strawberries, or to run after his hat that
has blown off, or to take a shy at a bird, or throw off his shoes,
roll up his trousers, and wade about the edge of a pond to catch
polly-wogs; but he gets to school in the eend, though somewhat of the
latest, so I have got back at last, you see.

Mother used to say, "Sam, your head is always a woolgathering."

"I am glad of it," says I, "marm."

"Why, Sam," she'd say, "why, what on earth do you mean?"

"Because, marm," I'd reply, "a head that's alway a gathering will get
well stored at last."

"Do get out," the dear old soul would say, "I do believe, in my heart,
you are the most nimpent (impudent), idlest, good-for-nothingest boy
in the world. Do get along."

But she was pleased, though, after all; for women do like to repeat
little things like them, that their children say, and ask other
people, who don't hear a word, or if they do, only go right off and
laugh at 'em: "Ain't that proper 'cute now? Make a considerable smart
man when he is out of his time, and finished his broughtens up, won't
he?"

Well, arter the archery meeting was over, and the congregation
disparsed, who should I find myself a walkin' down to the lake with
but Jessie? How it was, I don't know, for I warn't a lookin' for her,
nor she for me; but so it was. I suppose it is human natur, and that
is the only way I can account for it. Where there is a flower, there
is the bee; where the grass is sweet, there is the sheep; where the
cherry is ripe, there is the bird; and where there is a gall,
especially if she is pretty, there it is likely I am to be found also.
Yes, it must be natur. Well, we walked, or rather, strolled off easy.
There are different kinds of gaits, and they are curious to observe;
for I consait sometimes I can read a man's character in his walk. The
child trots; the boy scarcely touches the ground with his feet, and
how the plague he wears his shoes out so fast I don't know. Perhaps
Doctor Lardner can tell, but I'll be hanged if I can, for the little
critter is so light, he don't even squash the grass. The sailor
waddles like a duck, and gives his trousers a jerk to keep them from
going down the masts (his legs) by the run; a sort of pull at the
main-brace. The soldier steps solemn and formal, as if the dead march
in Saul was a playin'. A man and his wife walk on different sides of
the street; he sneaks along head down, and she struts head up, as if
she never heard the old proverb, "Woe to the house where the hen
crows." They leave the carriage-way between them, as if they were
afraid their thoughts could be heard. When meetin' is out, a lover
lags behind, as if he had nothin' above particular to do but to go
home; and he is in no hurry to do that, for dinner won't be ready this
hour. But, as soon as folks are dodged by a blue bonnet with pink
ribbons ahead, he pulls foot like a lamplighter, and is up with the
gall that wears it in no time, and she whips her arms in hisn, and
they saunter off, to make the way as long as possible. She don't say,
"Peeowerful sermon that, warn't it?" and he don't reply, "I heerd
nothin' but the text, 'Love one another.'" Nor does he squeeze her arm
with his elbow, nor she pinch his with her little blue-gloved fingers.
Watch them after that, for they go so slow, they almost crawl, they
have so much to say, and they want to make the best of their time; and
besides, walking fast would put them out of breath.

The articled-clerk walks the streets with an air as much like a
military man as he can; and it resembles it almost as much as
electrotype ware does silver. He tries to look at ease, though it is a
great deal of trouble; but he imitates him to a hair in some things,
for he stares impudent at the galls, has a cigar in his mouth, dresses
snobbishly, and talks of making a book at Ascot. The young lawyer
struts along in his seven-league boots, has a white-bound book in one
hand, and a parcel of papers, tied with red tape, in the other. He is
in a desperate hurry, and as sure as the world, somebody is a dying,
and has sent for him to make his will. The Irish priest walks like a
warder who has the keys. There is an air of authority about him. He
puts his cane down on the pavement hard, as much as to say, Do you
hear that, you spalpeen? He has the secrets of all the parish in his
keeping; but they are other folk's secrets, and not his own, and of
course, so much lighter to carry, it don't prevent him looking like a
jolly fellow, as he is, arter all. The high-churchman has an M. B.
waistcoat on, is particular about his dress, and walks easy, like a
gentleman, looks a little pale about the gills, like a student; but
has the air of a man that wanted you to understand--I am about my
work, and I would have you to know I am the boy to do it, and do it
too without a fuss. If he meets a bishop, he takes his hat off, for he
admits his authority. If a beggar accosts him, he slips some charity
in his hands, and looks scared lest he should be seen.

The low-churchman hates the M. B. vestment, it was him who christened
it. He is a dab at nick-names. He meant it to signify the Mark of the
Beast. He likes the broad-brimmed beaver, it's more like a quaker, and
less like a pope. It is primitive. He looks better fed than the other,
and in better care. Preachin' he finds in a general way easier than
practice. Watch his face as he goes along, slowly and solemncoly
through the street. He looks so good, all the women that see him say,
"Ain't he a dear man?" He is meekness itself. Butter wouldn't melt in
his mouth. He has no pride in him. If there is any, it ain't in his
heart at any rate. Perhaps there is a little grain in his legs, but it
never got any higher. Sometimes, I suspect they have been touched with
the frost, for the air of a dining-room is colder under the table than
above it, and his legs do march stiff and formal like a soldier's, but
then, as he says, he is of the church militant. See what a curious
expression of countenance he has when he meets his bishop. Read it, it
says: "Now, my old Don, let us understand each other; you may ordain
and confirm, but don't you go one inch beyond that. No synods, no
regeneration in baptism, no control for me; I won't stand it. My idea
is every clergyman is a bishop in his own parish, and his synod is
composed of pious galls that work, and rich spinsters that give. If
you do interfere, I will do my duty and rebuke those in high places.
Don't rile me, for I have an ugly pen, an ugly tongue, and an ugly
temper, and nothing but my sanctity enables me to keep them under." If
he is accosted by a beggar, he don't, like the other, give him money
to squander, but he gives him instruction. He presents him with a
tract. As he passes on, the poor wretch pauses and looks after him,
and mutters--"Is it a prayer? most likely, for that tract must be
worth something, for it cost something to print."

Then there is the sectarian lay-brother. He has a pious walk, looks
well to his ways lest he should stumble, and casting his eyes down,
kills two birds with one stone. He is in deep meditation about a
contract for a load of deals, and at the same time regards his steps,
for the ways of the world are slippery. His digestion is not good, and
he eats pickles, for the vinegar shows in his face. Like Jehu Judd, he
hates "fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil," and it is lucky
he has a downcast look, for here come two girls that would shock him
into an ague.

Both of them have the colonial step and air, both of them too are
beautiful, as Nova Scotia girls generally are. The first is young and
delicate, and as blooming as a little blush-rose. She holds out with
each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was walking a minuet,
and it discloses a snow-white petticoat, and such a dear little foot
and ankle--lick! Her step is short and mincing. She has a new bonnet
on, just imported by the last English steamer. It has a horrid name,
it is called a kiss-me-quick. It is so far back on her head, she is
afraid people will think she is bare-faced, so she casts her eyes
down, as much as to say, "Don't look at me, please, I am so pretty I
am afraid you will stare, and if you do I shall faint, as sure as the
world, and if you want to look at my bonnet, do pray go behind me, for
what there is of it is all there. It's a great trial to me to walk
alone, when I am so pretty." So she compresses her sweet lips with
such resolution, that her dear little mouth looks so small you'd think
it couldn't take in a sugar-plum. Oh, dear, here are some officers
approaching, for though she looks on the pavement she can see ahead
for all that. What is to be done. She half turns aside, half is
enough, to turn her back would be rude, and she looks up at a print or
a necklace, or something or another in a shop window, and it's a
beautiful attitude, and very becoming, and if they will stare, she is
so intent on the show glass, she can't see them, and won't faint, and
her little heart flutters as one of them says as he passes, "Devilish
pretty gall, that, Grant, who is she?" and then she resumes her walk,
and minces on.

If any man was to take his Bible oath that that little delicate girl,
when she gets home, and the hall-door is shut, will scream out at the
tip eend of her voice, like a screetching paraquet, "Eliza Euphemia,
where in creation have you stowed yourself too?" and that Eliza
Euphemia would hear her away up in the third story, and in the same
key answer: "I can't come down, I ain't fit to be seen, nary way, for
I'm all open before, and onfastened behind, and my hair is all in
paper," I wouldn't believe him; would you?

The other young lady, that follows, is a little too much of Juno, and
somewhat too little of Venus. She is a tall, splendid-looking heifer,
as fine a gall as you will see in any country, and she takes it for
granted you don't need to inquire who she is. She ain't bold, and she
ain't diffident; but she can stare as well as you can, and has as good
a right too. Her look is scorny, as the snobocracy pass and do homage,
by bestowing on her an admiring look. Her step is firm, but elastic;
it is a decided step, but the pious lay-brother regards her not, and
moves not out of his way for her. So she stops that he may see his
error, and when he does look, he perceives that it would lead him into
further error if he gazed long, so he moves to the other side of the
path, but does it so slowly, she confronts him again. After a moment's
reflection, he tries to turn her flank--a movement that is
unfortunately anticipated by her, and there is a collision on the
track. The concussion dislocates his hat, and the red silk Bandannah
handkerchief, which acted as travelling-bag, and pocket-book,
discharges its miscellaneous contents on the pavement. That's onlucky;
for he was a going to shunt off on another line and get away; but he
has to stop and pick up the fragmentary freight of his beaver.

Before he can do this, he is asked by Juno how he dares to stop a lady
in that indecent manner in the street; and while he is pleading not
guilty to the indictment, the gentlemen that stared at the simpering
beauty, come to the aid of the fair prosecutrix. She knows them, and
they say, "Capital, by Jove--what a rum one he is!" Rum one; why he is
a member of a temperance society, walks in procession when to home,
with a white apron in front, and the ends of a scarf-like sash behind,
and a rosette as large as a soup-plate on his breast--a rum one; what
an infamous accusation!

The poor man stands aghast at this; he humbly begs pardon, and Juno is
satisfied. She takes one of the beaux by the arm, and says: "Do pray
see me home--I am quite nervous;" and to prove it she laughs as loud
as any of them. The joke is now being carried too far, and the young
sword-knots pick up, amid roars of laughter, his handkerchief, the
papers, the horn-comb, the fig of tobacco, the fractured pipe, the
jack-knife, and the clean shirt-collar, that was only worn once, and
toss them into his hat, which is carefully secured on his head, so low
as to cover his eyes, and so tight as nearly to shave off both his
ears. The lay-brother thinks, with great truth, that he would sooner
take five yoke of oxen, and tail a mast for a frigate through the
solid forest to the river, than snake his way through the streets of a
garrison-town. After re-adjusting his hat, he resumes his pious gait,
and Juno also goes her way, and exhibits her decided step.

Now, the step of Jessie and myself was unlike any of these--it was a
natural and easy one; the step of people who had no reason to hurry,
and, at the same time, were not in the habit of crawling. In this
manner we proceeded to the lake, and sought a point of land which
commanded a full view of it on both sides, and embraced nearly its
whole length. Here was a clump of trees from which the underwood had
been wholly cut away, so as to form a shade for the cattle depasturing
in the meadow. As we entered the grove, Jessie exclaimed:

"Oh! Mr Slick, do look! Here is a canoe--can you use a paddle?"

"As well as an oar," said I, "and perhaps a little grain better; for I
haven't been down all the New Brunswick and Nova Scotia rivers in 'em
for nothing, let alone Lake Michigan, George, Madawaska, and
Rossignol, and I don't know how many others. Step in, and let us have
at them on the water."

In a minute the canoe was launched, and away we flew like lightning.
Oh, there is nothing like one of those light, elegant, graceful barks;
what is a wherry or a whale-boat, or a skull or a gig, to them? They
draw no more water than an egg-shell; they require no strength to
paddle; they go right up on the beach, and you can carry them about
like a basket. With a light hand, a cool head, and a quick eye, you
can make them go where a duck can. What has science, and taste, and
handicraft ever made to improve on this simple contrivance of the
savage? When I was for two years in John Jacob Astor Fur Company's
employment, I knew the play of Jessie's tribe.

"Can you catch," said I, "Miss?"

"Can you?"

"Never fear."

And we exchanged paddles, as she sat in one end of the canoe and I in
the other, by throwing them diagonally at each other as if we were
passing a shuttle-cock. She almost screamed with delight, and in her
enthusiasm addressed me in her native Indian language.

"Gaelic," said I, "give me Gaelic, dear, for I am very simple and very
innocent."

"Oh, very," she said, and as she dropped her paddle into the water,
managed to give me the benefit of a spoonful in the eyes.

After we had tried several evolutions with the canoe, and had
proceeded homeward a short distance, we opened a miniature bay into
which we leisurely paddled, until we arrived at its head, where a
small waterfall of about forty feet in height poured its tributary
stream into the lake. On the right-hand side, which was nearest to the
house, was a narrow strip of verdant intervale, dotted here and there
with vast shady beeches and elms. I never saw a more lovely spot.
Hills rose above each other beyond the waterfall, like buttresses to
support the conical one that, though not in itself a mountain (for
there is not, strictly speaking, one in this province), yet loomed as
large in the light mist that enveloped its lofty peak. As this high
cliff rose abruptly from the lake, the light of smaller cascades was
discernible through the thin shrubbery that clothed its rocky side,
although their voice was drowned in the roar of that at its base.

Nothing was said by either of us for some time, for both were occupied
by different thoughts. I was charmed with its extraordinary beauty,
and wondered how it was possible that it should be so little known as
not even to have a name. My companion, on the other hand, was engaged
in sad reflections, which the similarity of the scene with her early
recollections of her home in the far west suggested to her mind.

"Ain't this beautiful, Jessie?" I said, "don't this remind you of
Canada, or rather your own country?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "me--me," for during the whole day there had been
a sad confusion of languages and idioms, "me very happy and very sad;
I want to laugh, I want to cry; I am here and there," pointing to the
north-west. "Laughing, talking, sporting with my father, and Jane, and
you, and am also by the side of my dear mother, far--far beyond those
hills. I see your people and my people; I paddle in our canoe, shoot
with our bows, speak our language; yes, I am here, and there also. The
sun too is in both places. He sees us all. When I die, perhaps I shall
go back, but I am not of them or of you--I am nothing," and she burst
into tears and wept bitterly.

"Jessie," said I, "let us talk about something else; you have been too
much excited this morning, let us enjoy what God gives us, and not be
ungrateful; let your sister come also, and try the canoe once more.
This is better than a hot room, ain't it?"

"Oh yes," she replied, "this is life. This is freedom."

"Suppose we dine here," I said.

"Oh yes," she replied, "I should like it above all things. Let us dine
on the grass, the table the great Spirit spreads for his children;"
and the transient cloud passed away, and we sped back to the lawn as
if the bark that carried us was a bird that bore us on its wings.

Poor Jessie, how well I understood her emotions. Home is a word, if
there is one in the language, that appeals directly to the heart. Man
and wife, father and mother, brothers and sisters, master and servant,
with all their ties, associations, and duties, all, all are contained
in that one word. Is it any wonder, when her imagination raised them
up before her, that the woman became again a child, and that she
longed for the wings of the dove to fly away to the tents of her tribe
in the far west? I am myself as dry, as seasoned, and as hard as the
wood of which my clocks are made. I am a citizen of the world rather
than of Slickville. But I too felt my heart sink within me when I
reflected that mine, also, was desolate, and that I was alone in my
own house, the sole surviving tenant of all that large domestic
circle, whose merry voices once made its silent halls vocal with
responsive echoes of happiness. We know that our fixed domicile is not
here, but we feel that it is and must continue to be our home, ever
dear and ever sacred, until we depart hence for another and a better
world. They know but little of the agency of human feelings, who in
their preaching attempt to lessen our attachment for the paternal
roof, because, in common with all other earthly possessions, it is
perishable in its nature, and uncertain in it's tenure. The home of
life is not the less estimable because it is not the home of eternity;
but the more valuable perhaps as it prepares and fits us by its joys
and its sorrows, its rights and its duties, and also by what it
withholds, as well as imparts, for that inheritance which awaits us
hereafter. Yes, home is a great word, but its full meaning ain't
understood by every one.

It ain't those who have one, or those who have none, that comprehend
what it is; nor those who in the course of nature leave the old and
found a new one for themselves; nor those who, when they quit, shut
their eyes and squinch their faces when they think of it, as if it
fetched something to their mind that warn't pleasant to recollect; nor
those who suddenly rise so high in life, that their parents look too
vulgar, or the old cottage too mean for them, or their former
acquaintances too low. But I'll tell you who knows the meaning and
feels it too; a fellow like me, who had a cheerful home, a merry and a
happy home, and who when he returns from foreign lands finds it
deserted and as still as the grave, and all that he loved scattered
and gone, some to the tomb, and others to distant parts of the earth.
The solitude chills him, the silence appals him. At night shadows
follow him like ghosts of the departed, and the walls echo back the
sound of his footsteps, as if demons were laughing him to scorn. The
least noise is heard over the whole house. The clock ticks so loud he
has to remove it, for it affects his nerves. The stealthy mouse tries
to annoy him with his mimic personification of the burglar, and the
wind moans among the trees as if it lamented the general desolation.
If he strolls out in his grounds, the squirrel ascends the highest
tree and chatters and scolds at the unusual intrusion, while the birds
fly away screaming with affright, as if pursued by a vulture. They
used to be tame once, when the family inhabited the house, and listen
with wonder at notes sweeter and more musical than their own. They
would even feed from the hand that protected them. His dog alone seeks
his society, and strives to assure him by mute but expressive gestures
that he at least will never desert him. As he paces his lonely
quarter-deck (as he calls the gravel-walk in front of his house), the
silver light of the moon, gleaming here and there between the stems of
the aged trees, startles him with the delusion of unreal white-robed
forms, that flit about the shady groves as if enjoying or pitying his
condition, or perhaps warning him that in a few short years he too
must join this host of disembodied spirits.

Time hangs heavily on his hands, he is tired of reading, it is too
early for repose, so he throws himself on the sofa and muses, but even
meditation calls for a truce. His heart laments its solitude, and his
tongue its silence. Nature is weary and exhausted, and sleep at last
comes to his aid. But, alas! he awakes in the morning only to resume
his dull monotonous course, and at last he fully comprehends what it
is to be alone. Women won't come to see him, for fear they might be
talked about, and those that would come would soon make him a subject
of scandal. He and the world, like two people travelling in opposite
directions, soon increase at a rapid rate the distance between them.
He loses his interest in what is going on around him, and people lose
their interest in him. If his name happens to be mentioned, it may
occasion a listless remark, "I wonder how he spends his time?" or,
"The poor devil must be lonely there."