THE DUTIFUL MARINER[4]
BY WALLACE IRWIN
'Twas off the Eastern Filigrees-- Wizzle the pipes o'ertop!-- When the gallant Captain of the Cheese Began to skip and hop.
"Oh stately man and old beside, Why dost gymnastics do? Is such example dignified To set before your crew?"
"Oh hang me crew," the Captain cried, "And scuttle of me ship. If I'm the skipper, blarst me hide! Ain't I supposed to skip?
"I'm growing old," the Captain said; "Me dancing days are done; But while I'm skipper of this ship I'll skip with any one.
"I'm growing grey," I heard him say, "And I can not rest or sleep While under me the troubled sea Lies forty spasms deep.
"Lies forty spasms deep," he said; "But still me trusty sloop Each hour, I wot, goes many a knot And many a bow and loop.
"The hours are full of knots," he said, "Untie them if ye can. In vain I've tried, for Time and Tied Wait not for any man.
"Me fate is hard," the old man sobbed, "And I am sick and sore. Me aged limbs of rest are robbed And skipping is a bore.
"But Duty is the seaman's boast, And on this gallant ship You'll find the skipper at his post As long as he can skip."
And so the Captain of the Cheese Skipped on again as one Who lofty satisfaction sees In duty bravely done.
[Footnote 4: From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin.Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.]
MELINDA'S HUMOROUS STORY
BY MAY McHENRY
Melinda was dejected. She told herself that she was groping in the valeof despair, that life was a vast, gray, echoing void. She decided thatambition was dead--a case of starvation; that friendship had slippedthrough too eagerly grasping fingers; that love--ah, _love_!--
"You'd better take a dose of blue-mass," her aunt suggested when she hadsighed seven times dolefully at the tea table.
"Not _blue_-mass. Any other kind of mass you please, but _not_ blue,"Melinda shuddered absently.
No; she was not physically ill; the trouble was deeper--soul sickness,acute, threatening to become chronic, that defied allopathic doses offavorite and other philosophers, that would not yield even to hourlyrepetition of the formula handed down from her grandmother--"If you cannot have what you want, try to want what you have." Yet she could layher finger on no bleeding heart-wound, on no definite cause. It was truethat the deeply analytical, painstakingly interesting historical novelon which she had worked all winter had been sent back from thepublishers with a briefly polite note of thanks and regrets; but as shehad never expected anything else, that could not depress her. Also, theslump in G.C. Copper stock had forced her to give up her long-plannedsouthern trip and even to forego the consolatory purchase of a springgown; but she had a mind that could soar above flesh-potdisappointments. Then, the Reverend John Graham;--but what John Grahamdid or said was nothing--absolutely nothing, to her.
So Melinda clenched her hands and moaned in the same key with the eastwind and told the four walls of her room that she could not endure it;she must _do_ something. Then it was, that in a flash of inspiration, itcame to her--she would write a humorous story.
The artistic fitness of the idea pleased her. She had always understoodthat humorists were marked by a deep-dyed melancholy, that the height ofunhappiness was a vantage-ground from which to view the joke ofexistence. She would test the dictum; now, if ever, she would writehumorously. The material was at hand, seething and crowding in her mind,in fact--the monumental dullness and complacent narrowness of thevillagers, the egoism, the conceit, the bland shepherd-of-his-flockpomposity of John Graham. What more could a humorist desire? Yes; shewould write.
Thoughts came quick and fast; words flowed in a fiery stream like lavathat glows and rushes and curls and leaps down the mountain, sweepingall obstacles aside. (The figure did not wholly please Melinda, foreverybody knows how dull and gray and uninteresting lava is when itcools, but she had no time to bother with another.) She felt theexultation, the joy and uplifting of spirit that is the reward--usually,alas, the sole reward--of the writer in the work of creation.
Then before the lava had time to cool she sent the story to the firstmagazine on her list with a name beginning with "A." It was her customto send them that way, though sometimes with a desire to be impartialshe commenced at "Z" and went up the list.
At the end of two weeks the wind had ceased blowing from the east.Melinda decided that though life for her must be gray, echoing, void,yet would she make an effort for the joy of others. She would liftherself above the depression that enfolded her even as the buoyanthyacinths were cleaving their dark husks and lifting up the beauty andfragrance of their hearts to solace passers-by. Therefore she ceasedparting her hair in the middle and ordered a simple little frock fromD----'s--hyacinth blue _voile_ with a lining that should whisper andrustle like the glad winds whisking away last year's leaves.
Then the day came when she strolled carelessly and unexpectantly downthe village street to the post-office and there received a letter thatbore on the upper left-hand corner of the envelope the name of themagazine first on her list beginning with "A." A chill passed alongMelinda's spine. That humorous story--Could this mean?--It was toohorrible to contemplate.
She took a short cut through the orchard and as she walked she tore offa corner and peeped into the envelope. Yes, there was a pale-blue slipof paper with serrated edges. She leaned against a Baldwin apple-tree tothink.
How true it is that one should be prepared for the unexpected. Melindahad sent out many manuscripts freighted with tingling hopes and eageraspirations and with the postage stamps that insured their promptreturn; how was she to know, by what process of reasoning could sheinfer that this, that had been offered simply from force of habit, wouldbe retained in exchange for an aesthetically tinted check? Sheanathematized the magazine editor. (That seems the proper thing to dowith editors.) She wanted to know what business he had to keep thatstory after having led her to believe that it was his unbreakable customto send them back. It was deception, she told the swelling Baldwin buds,base, deep-dyed, subtle deception. After baiting her on with his little,pink, printed rejection slips, he suddenly sprung a wicked trap.
It was some time before Melinda grew calm enough to read the editorialletter. It ran:
_"Dear Madam--We are glad to have your tender and delicately sympathetic picture of village life. There is a note of true sentiment and a generous appreciation of homely virtue marking this story for which we desire to add an especial word of praise. Check enclosed._
_"Very truly yours, "The Editor of A----."_
Melinda sank limply on the bleached, last year's grass at the foot ofthe tree. "Tender and delicately sympathetic picture"--"Generousappreciation!" She laughed feebly. The editor was pleased to befacetious. Having a fine sense of humor himself he showed hisrealization of the story by acknowledging it in the same vein of subtlesatire.
She reread the letter and unfolded the slip of paper with serratededges with changing emotions. After all it was not such a very badstory. She permitted herself to recall how humorous it was, howcleverly and keenly it laid bare the ridiculous, the unexpected, howit scintillated with wit and abounded in droll and subtle distinctionsand descriptions--all--all at the expense of her nearest relatives andher dearest friends.
Melinda thought she would return the check and demand that her story besent back to her or destroyed; but, reflecting that Punch's advice isapplicable to other things than matrimony and suicide, she didn't. Sheresolutely put her literary Frankenstein behind her. She reasoned thatin all probability the story would not be published during the lifetimeof any of the originals of the characters; that even if the worst cameto the worst, Mossdale was likely to remain in ignorance that would beblissful. The villagers were not wont to waste time on the printed word;in fact, such was the profu
ndity of their unenlightenment, few of themhad heard of the magazine with a name beginning with "A." Even JohnGraham paid little attention to the secular periodicals; besides, ifabsolutely necessary, John's attention might be diverted.
So Melinda went away on a visit. Her health demanded it. The doctor wasunable to name her malady, but she herself diagnosed it as_magazinitis_.
Toward fall Melinda, entirely recovered, returned to Mossdale. Entirelyrecovered, yet she turned cold, unseeing eyes on the newsboy when hepassed through the car with his towering load of varicoloredperiodicals, and rather than be forced to the final resort of theunaccompanied traveler, she welcomed the advent of an acquaintancepossessed of volubility of an ejaculatory, eruptive variety. After manygentle jets and spurts of gossip much remained to be told, as the ladyhastily gathered up her impedimenta preparatory to alighting at her homestation.
"How like me in the joy of seeing you, to forget! What a sweet, cleverstory! And to think of _you_ having something published in 'A----'! Inever was more surprised than when Mr. Ferguson brought home themagazine. Those delicious Mossdale people! I could not endure that thedear things should not see and know at once. The lovely hamlet is so--soremote, and I knew you were traveling. What a pleasure to send them halfa dozen copies that very evening!--Yes, porter, that, too--_Do_ run downto see me soon, dear--Now _do_. _Good_-by!"
Melinda summoned the newsboy and bought the latest number of themagazine with a name beginning with "A." She turned to the list of"Contents" with feverish anxiety, then the book slid from her nervelessfingers. Her humorous story had been given to an eager public. Sheleaned back and gazed out at the flying telegraph poles and fields. Eventhe worthiest, the gravest, the finest, she reflected, has a face, thatif seen in a certain light, will flash out the ignus fatuus of theridiculous; but it is not usually considered the office of friendship toturn on the betraying light. Oh, well, her relatives would forgive intime. Relatives _have_ to forgive. It was unfortunate that John Grahamwas not a relative. "One thing, I know now how much Mrs. Ferguson caresbecause I got those six votes ahead of her for the Thursday Clubpresidency--Half a dozen copies!" Melinda said aloud as she caughtsight of the spire of the Mossdale Church.
Her Uncle Joe met her at the station and kissed her for the first timesince she had put on long dresses. Notwithstanding a foolish prejudiceagainst tobacco juice Melinda received the salute in a meek and contritespirit.
"Notice how many citizens were hanging around underfoot on the depotplatform--so as you kinder had to stop and shake hands to get 'em out o'the way?" Uncle Joe queried as he turned the colts' heads toward home.
Melinda had noticed. "I suppose they came out to see the train come in,"she suggested.
"Nope; not exactly." Uncle Joe explained, "Looking out for automo_biles_and flying airships have made trains of cars seem mighty common up thisway. Nope; the folks was out on account of you a-comin'."
"Me?" Having a guilty conscience Melinda glanced backward apprehensivelyand made a motion as though to dodge a missile.
"Yep; and you'll find a lot of the relations at the house a-waitin' foryou."
"Why--what--? Now look here, Uncle Joe, there is no occasion to befoolish about a little--"
"Foolish? Now, mebby some would call it foolish, but us folks up thecreek here we can't help feelin' set up some over findin' out we have asecond Milton or a Mrs. Stowe in the fambly."
Melinda looked at her relative's concave profile in sick suspicion. Wasthe trail of the serpent over them all? But no, Uncle Joe was beamingmildly with the satisfaction of having shown that although the literaryhemisphere was the unknown land, he had heard of a mountain and a minorelevation or two; he was, as she had always believed, incapable ofsatire.
For once Melinda was speechless. But Uncle Joe was likely to be fluentwhen he got started. He cleared his throat and turned mild, suffused,half-shamed blue eyes on his shrinking niece. "Yes, your piece has comeout in the paper, Melinda, and your folks are all-fired pleased withyou. I told Lucy this morning I wisht your poor Pap could come back toearth for just this one day."
"Ah-h!" Melinda took a firm grip on the side of the buggy. "But I guessyou'll have to write another right off. There is some jealousy amongstthem that aren't in it," Uncle Joe went on. "I told 'em you couldn't putthe whole connection in or it would read like a list of 'them present'at a surprise party. Your Aunt Lucy, she's just as tickled as a hen withthree chickens." The old man chuckled. "There it is all down in blackand white just like it happened, only different, about her spasm ofeconomy when she was cleanin' away Mary Emmeline's medicine bottles andcouldn't bear to throw away what was left over, but up and took it allherself in one powerful mixed dose to save it, and had to have thedoctor with a stomach-pump to cure her of spasms, what wasn't soeconomical after all. It's her picture tickles her most."
"Oh!" said Melinda.
"Yes, you know the picture is as slim as a girl in her first pair o'cossets a-standin' on a chair a-reachin' bottles off a top shelf, andyour Aunt Lucy's that hefty she hain't stood on a chair for ten yearsfor fear 'twould break down, and she's had to trust the top shelf tothe hired girl. I guess when she goes to Heaven she'll want to stop onthe way up and fix that top shelf to suit her. So she just sits andlooks at that picture and smiles and smiles. She likes my whiskers, too.Yes, she's always wanted me to wear whiskers ever since we was married,but we never was a whiskery fambly and they wouldn't seem to growthicker than your Uncle Josh's corn when he planted it one grain to thehill. But there I am in the picture in the paper with real biblicalwhiskers reachin' to the bottom o' my vest."
Uncle Joe cleared his throat and glanced sideways at his niece again. "Iwant to tell you, Melindy, that I am real obleeged to you for makin' meone of the main ones in the piece with a lot to say. Your Aunt Lucy says'twas only right and proper, me bein' your nighest kin and you livin'with us; but I told her there was so many others that was smarter andmore the story-paper kind, that I thought it showed real good feelin' onyour part; yes, I did.--_G'up, there, Ginger!_--Then I kind o' thoughtI'd warn you, too, Melindy, that they all are just a-dyin' to hear yousay who 'The Preacher' is. He's the only one we couldn't quite place."
Melinda took the little bottle of smelling salts from her bag and heldit to her nose.
"Yes," Uncle Joe went on, "the others was easy identified because youhad named the names; but him you just called 'The Preacher' all the waythrough. Some says it's the Reverend Graham kind of toned down andtrimmed up like things you see in the moonlight on a summer night. But Itold them the Reverend Graham is a nice enough chap, but that thatextra-fine, way-up preacher fellow in the story must be some strangeryou knew from off and didn't give his name, because you didn't rightlyknow what it was. I thought, even if you was so soft on Reverend Grahamas to see him in that illusory, moony light, that about the strangerfrom off was the right and proper thing for me, being your uncle, to sayany way. So if you want to keep it dark about 'The Preacher' you canjust talk about a stranger from off."
"I will, Uncle Joe--_dear_ Uncle Joe." Melinda exclaimed gratefully asthey stopped in front of the gate.
Melinda greeted her relatives with a warmth and enthusiasm thatembarrassed and made them suspicious. She was not usually so complacent,so solicitous for the health and progress of offspring; above all shewas not usually so loth to talk about herself. She acted as though shehad never written a story, yet three copies of it were spread open underher nose--one on the piano, one on the parlor table, one on thesideboard--all open at the passage about "The Preacher."
The relatives retired in disgust. With the departure of the last oneMelinda seized a magazine and fled to the orchard. She would read thatstory herself. As she turned the leaves she caught sight of a manly formcarefully climbing the fence. She dropped the periodical and stood onit, gazing up pensively into the well-laden boughs of the Baldwin.
The Reverend Graham took her hands in a strong ministerial squeeze.
"It is very good of you to come to see me so soon aft
er my return," shefaltered.
"Good--Melinda! Do you think I could help coming?" he ejaculated. "I cannot tell you--words are inadequate to express what I feel," he wenton,--"the deep gratitude, the humility, the wonder, the triumph, thedetermination, with God's aid, to live up to the high ideal you have setforth in your wonderful story. You have seen the latent qualities, thenobler potentialities; you have shown me to myself. _Melinda!_ Do notthink that I do not appreciate the difficulties of this hour for you. Iknow how your heart is shrinking, how your delicate maidenly modesty isup in arms. But Melinda, you know! you know! _Dear Melinda!_"
"I am glad you understand me, John."
"Understand you!" The Reverend Graham could restrain himself no longer.He swept her into his arms, appropriating his own.
Melinda remained there quiescently leaning against his shoulder, becausethere seemed nothing else to do, also because it was a broad andcomfortable shoulder against which to lean. "I am done for," shereflected. "Now I will never dare to confess that I was trying to behumorous."
Then she reached up a hand and touched the Preacher's face timidly. Hischeek was wet. "Why, John--_John!_" she whispered.
ABOU BEN BUTLER
BY JOHN PAUL
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume V. (of X.) Page 15