by Bret Harte
THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT.
As the enterprising editor of the "Sierra Flat Record" stood at his casesetting type for his next week's paper, he could not help hearing thewoodpeckers who were busy on the roof above his head. It occurred tohim that possibly the birds had not yet learned to recognize in the rudestructure any improvement on nature, and this idea pleased him so muchthat he incorporated it in the editorial article which he was thendoubly composing. For the editor was also printer of the "Record";and although that remarkable journal was reputed to exert a power feltthrough all Calaveras and a greater part of Tuolumne County, stricteconomy was one of the conditions of its beneficent existence.
Thus preoccupied, he was startled by the sudden irruption of a smallroll of manuscript, which was thrown through the open door and fell athis feet. He walked quickly to the threshold and looked down the tangledtrail which led to the high-road. But there was nothing to suggest thepresence of his mysterious contributor. A hare limped slowly away, agreen-and-gold lizard paused upon a pine stump, the woodpeckers ceasedtheir work. So complete had been his sylvan seclusion, that he foundit difficult to connect any human agency with the act; rather the hareseemed to have an inexpressibly guilty look, the woodpeckers to maintaina significant silence, and the lizard to be conscience-stricken intostone.
An examination of the manuscript, however, corrected this injustice todefenceless nature. It was evidently of human origin,--being verse,and of exceeding bad quality. The editor laid it aside. As he did so hethought he saw a face at the window. Sallying out in some indignation,he penetrated the surrounding thicket in every direction, but his searchwas as fruitless as before. The poet, if it were he, was gone.
A few days after this the editorial seclusion was invaded by voices ofalternate expostulation and entreaty. Stepping to the door, the editorwas amazed at beholding Mr. Morgan McCorkle, a well-known citizen ofAngelo, and a subscriber to the "Record," in the act of urging, partlyby force and partly by argument, an awkward young man toward thebuilding. When he had finally effected his object, and, as it were,safely landed his prize in a chair, Mr. McCorkle took off his hat,carefully wiped the narrow isthmus of forehead which divided his blackbrows from his stubby hair, and with an explanatory wave of his handtoward his reluctant companion, said, "A borned poet, and the cussedestfool you ever seed!"
Accepting the editor's smile as a recognition of the introduction, Mr.McCorkle panted and went on: "Didn't want to come! 'Mister Editor don'twent to see me, Morg,' sez he. 'Milt,' sez I, 'he do; a borned poet likeyou and a gifted genius like he oughter come together sociable!' And Ifetched him. Ah, will yer?" The born poet had, after exhibiting signsof great distress, started to run. But Mr. McCorkle was down upon himinstantly, seizing him by his long linen coat, and settled him back inhis chair. "Tain't no use stampeding. Yer ye are and yer ye stays. Foryer a borned poet,--ef ye are as shy as a jackass rabbit. Look at 'imnow!"
He certainly was not an attractive picture. There was hardly a notablefeature in his weak face, except his eyes, which were moist and shy andnot unlike the animal to which Mr. McCorkle had compared him. It was theface that the editor had seen at the window.
"Knowed him for fower year,--since he war a boy," continued Mr. McCorklein a loud whisper. "Allers the same, bless you! Can jerk a rhyme as easyas turnin' jack. Never had any eddication; lived out in Missooray allhis life. But he's chock full o' poetry. On'y this mornin' sez I tohim,--he camps along o' me,--'Milt!' sez I, 'are breakfast ready?' andhe up and answers back quite peert and chipper, 'The breakfast it isready, and the birds is singing free, and it's risin' in the dawnin'light is happiness to me!' When a man," said Mr. McCorkle, dropping hisvoice with deep solemnity, "gets off things like them, without anycall to do it, and handlin' flapjacks over a cookstove at the sametime,--that man's a borned poet."
There was an awkward pause. Mr. McCorkle beamed patronizingly onhis protege. The born poet looked as if he were meditating anotherflight,--not a metaphorical one. The editor asked if he could doanything for them.
"In course you can," responded Mr. McCorkle, "that's jest it. Milt,where's that poetry!"
The editor's countenance fell as the poet produced from his pocket aroll of manuscript. He, however, took it mechanically and glanced overit. It was evidently a duplicate of the former mysterious contribution.
The editor then spoke briefly but earnestly. I regret that I cannotrecall his exact words, but it appeared that never before, in thehistory of the "Record," had the pressure been so great upon itscolumns. Matters of paramount importance, deeply affecting the materialprogress of Sierra, questions touching the absolute integrity ofCalaveras and Tuolumne as social communities, were even now waitingexpression. Weeks, nay, months, must elapse before that pressure wouldbe removed, and the "Record" could grapple with any but the sternest oftopics. Again, the editor had noticed with pain the absolute declineof poetry in the foot-hills of the Sierras. Even the works of Byron andMoore attracted no attention in Dutch Flat, and a prejudice seemed toexist against Tennyson in Grass Valley. But the editor was not withouthope for the future. In the course of four or five years, when thecountry was settled,--
"What would be the cost to print this yer?" interrupted Mr. McCorkle,quietly.
"About fifty dollars, as an advertisement," responded the editor withcheerful alacrity.
Mr. McCorkle placed the sum in the editor's hand. "Yer see thet's whatI sez to Milt, 'Milt,' sez I, 'pay as you go, for you are a bornedpoet. Hevin no call to write, but doin' it free and spontaneous like, incourse you pays. Thet's why Mr. Editor never printed your poetry.'"
"What name shall I put to it?" asked the editor.
"Milton."
It was the first word that the born poet had spoken during theinterview, and his voice was so very sweet and musical that the editorlooked at him curiously, and wondered if he had a sister.
"Milton; is that all?"
"Thet's his furst name," exclaimed Mr. McCorkle.
The editor here suggested that as there had been another poet of thatname--
"Milt might be took for him! Thet's bad," reflected Mr. McCorkle withsimple gravity. "Well, put down his hull name,--Milton Chubbuck."
The editor made a note of the fact. "I'll set it up now," he said. Thiswas also a hint that the interview was ended. The poet and patron, armin arm, drew towards the door. "In next week's paper," said the editor,smilingly, in answer to the childlike look of inquiry in the eyes of thepoet, and in another moment they were gone.
The editor was as good as his word. He straight-way betook himself tohis case, and, unrolling the manuscript, began his task. The woodpeckerson the roof recommenced theirs, and in a few moments the former sylvanseclusion was restored. There was no sound in the barren, barn-like roombut the birds above, and below the click of the composing-rule as theeditor marshalled the types into lines in his stick, and arrayed them insolid column on the galley. Whatever might have been his opinion of thecopy before him, there was no indication of it in his face, which worethe stolid indifference of his craft. Perhaps this was unfortunate, foras the day wore on and the level rays of the sun began to pierce theadjacent thicket, they sought out and discovered an anxious ambushedfigure drawn up beside the editor's window,--a figure that had satthere motionless for hours. Within, the editor worked on as steadily andimpassively as Fate. And without, the born poet of Sierra Flat sat andwatched him as waiting its decree.
The effect of the poem on Sierra Flat was remarkable and unprecedented.The absolute vileness of its doggerel, the gratuitous imbecility of itsthought, and above all the crowning audacity of the fact that it wasthe work of a citizen and published in the county paper, brought itinstantly into popularity. For many months Calaveras had languished fora sensation; since the last vigilance committee nothing had transpiredto dispel the listless ennui begotten of stagnant business and growingcivilization. In more prosperous moments the office of the "Record"would have been simply gutted and the editor deported; at present thepaper was in such d
emand that the edition was speedily exhausted. Inbrief, the poem of Mr. Milton Chubbuck came like a special providenceto Sierra Flat. It was read by camp-fires, in lonely cabins, inflaring bar-rooms and noisy saloons, and declaimed from the boxes ofstagecoaches. It was sung in Poker Flat with the addition of a localchorus, and danced as an unhallowed rhythmic dance by the Pyrrhicphalanx of One Horse Gulch, known as "The Festive Stags of Calaveras."Some unhappy ambiguities of expression gave rise to many new readings,notes, and commentaries, which, I regret to state, were more oftenmarked by ingenuity than delicacy of thought or expression.
Never before did poet acquire such sudden local reputation. From theseclusion of McCorkle's cabin and the obscurity of culinary labors, hewas haled forth into the glowing sunshine of Fame. The name of Chubbuckwas written in letters of chalk on unpainted walls, and carved with apick on the sides of tunnels. A drink known variously as "The ChubbuckTranquillizer," or "The Chubbuck Exalter," was dispensed at thebars. For some weeks a rude design for a Chubbuck statue, made up ofillustrations from circus and melodeon posters, representing the geniusof Calaveras in brief skirts on a flying steed in the act of crowningthe poet Chubbuck, was visible at Keeler's Ferry. The poet himself wasoverborne with invitations to drink and extravagant congratulations.The meeting between Colonel Starbottle of Siskyion and Chubbuck, aspreviously arranged by our "Boston," late of Roaring Camp, is said tohave been indescribably affecting. The Colonel embraced him unsteadily."I could not return to my constituents at Siskyion, sir, if this hand,which has grasped that of the gifted Prentice and the lamented Poe,should not have been honored by the touch of the godlike Chubbuck.Gentlemen, American literature is looking up. Thank you, I will takesugar in mine." It was "Boston" who indited letters of congratulationsfrom H. W. Longfellow, Tennyson, and Browning, to Mr. Chubbuck,deposited them in the Sierra Flat post-office, and obligingly consentedto dictate the replies.
The simple faith and unaffected delight with which these manifestationswere received by the poet and his patron might have touched the heartsof these grim masters of irony, but for the sudden and equal developmentin both of the variety of weak natures. Mr. McCorkle basked in thepopularity of his protege, and became alternately supercilious orpatronizing toward the dwellers of Sierra Flat; while the poet, withhair carefully oiled and curled, and bedecked with cheap jewelry andflaunting neck-handkerchief, paraded himself before the single hotel.As may be imagined, this new disclosure of weakness afforded intensesatisfaction to Sierra Flat, gave another lease of popularity to thepoet, and suggested another idea to the facetious "Boston."
At that time a young lady popularly and professionally known as the"California Pet" was performing to enthusiastic audiences in theinterior. Her specialty lay in the personation of youthful masculinecharacter; as a gamin of the street she was irresistible, as anegro-dancer she carried the honest miner's heart by storm. A saucy,pretty brunette, she had preserved a wonderful moral reputation evenunder the Jove-like advances of showers of gold that greeted herappearance on the stage at Sierra Flat. A prominent and delighted memberof that audience was Milton Chubbuck. He attended every night. Everyday he lingered at the door of the Union Hotel for a glimpse of the"California Pet." It was not long before he received a notefrom her,--in "Boston's" most popular and approved femalehand,--acknowledging his admiration. It was not long before "Boston" wascalled upon to indite a suitable reply. At last, in furtherance of hisfacetious design, it became necessary for "Boston" to call upon theyoung actress herself and secure her personal participation. To herhe unfolded a plan, the successful carrying out of which he felt wouldsecure his fame to posterity as a practical humorist. The "CaliforniaPet's" black eyes sparkled approvingly and mischievously. She onlystipulated that she should see the man first,--a concession to herfeminine weakness which years of dancing Juba and wearing trousers andboots had not wholly eradicated from her wilful breast. By all means, itshould be done. And the interview was arranged for the next week.
It must not be supposed that during this interval of popularity Mr.Chubbuck had been unmindful of his poetic qualities. A certain portionof each day he was absent from town,--"a communin' with natur'," as Mr.McCorkle expressed it,--and actually wandering in the mountain trails,or lying on his back under the trees, or gathering fragrant herbs andthe bright-colored berries of the Marzanita. These and his company hegenerally brought to the editor's office, late in the afternoon,often to that enterprising journalist's infinite weariness. Quiet anduncommunicative, he would sit there patiently watching him at his workuntil the hour for closing the office arrived, when he would as quietlydepart. There was something so humble and unobtrusive in these visits,that the editor could not find it in his heart to deny them, andaccepting them, like the woodpeckers, as a part of his sylvansurroundings, often forgot even his presence. Once or twice, moved bysome beauty of expression in the moist, shy eyes, he felt like seriouslyadmonishing his visitor of his idle folly; but his glance falling uponthe oiled hair and the gorgeous necktie, he invariably thought better ofit. The case was evidently hopeless.
The interview between Mr. Chubbuck and the "California Pet" took placein a private room of the Union Hotel; propriety being respected bythe presence of that arch-humorist, "Boston." To this gentleman we areindebted for the only true account of the meeting. However reticentMr. Chubbuck might have been in the presence of his own sex, toward thefairer portion of humanity he was, like most poets, exceedingly voluble.Accustomed as the "California Pet" had been to excessive compliment, shewas fairly embarrassed by the extravagant praises of her visitor. Herpersonation of boy characters, her dancing of the "champion jig," wereparticularly dwelt upon with fervid but unmistakable admiration.At last, recovering her audacity and emboldened by the presence of"Boston," the "California Pet" electrified her hearers by demanding,half jestingly, half viciously, if it were as a boy or a girl that shewas the subject of his flattering admiration.
"That knocked him out o' time," said the delighted "Boston," in hissubsequent account of the interview. "But do you believe the d----dfool actually asked her to take him with her; wanted to engage in thecompany."
The plan, as briefly unfolded by "Boston," was to prevail upon Mr.Chubbuck to make his appearance in costume (already designed andprepared by the inventor) before a Sierra Flat audience, and recitean original poem at the Hall immediately on the conclusion of the"California Pet's" performance. At a given signal the audience were torise and deliver a volley of unsavory articles (previously provided bythe originator of the scheme); then a select few were to rush on thestage, seize the poet, and, after marching him in triumphal processionthrough town, were to deposit him beyond its uttermost limits, withstrict injunctions never to enter it again. To the first part of theplan the poet was committed, for the latter portion it was easy enoughto find participants.
The eventful night came, and with it an audience that packed the longnarrow room with one dense mass of human beings. The "California Pet"never had been so joyous, so reckless, so fascinating and audaciousbefore. But the applause was tame and weak compared to the ironicaloutburst that greeted the second rising of the curtain and the entranceof the born poet of Sierra Flat. Then there was a hush of expectancy,and the poet stepped to the foot-lights and stood with his manuscript inhis hand.
His face was deadly pale. Either there was some suggestion of his fatein the faces of his audience, or some mysterious instinct told him ofhis danger. He attempted to speak, but faltered, tottered, and staggeredto the wings.
Fearful of losing his prey, "Boston" gave the signal and leaped uponthe stage. But at the same moment a light figure darted from behind thescenes, and delivering a kick that sent the discomfited humorist backamong the musicians, cut a pigeon-wing, executed a double-shuffle,and then advancing to the foot-lights with that inimitable look, thataudacious swagger and utter abandon which had so thrilled and fascinatedthem a moment before, uttered the characteristic speech: "Wot are yougoin' to hit a man fur, when he's down, s-a-a-y?"
The look, the dra
wl, the action, the readiness, and above all thedownright courage of the little woman, had its effect. A roar ofsympathetic applause followed the act. "Cut and run while you can," shewhispered hurriedly over her one shoulder, without altering the other'sattitude of pert and saucy defiance toward the audience. But even as shespoke the poet tottered and sank fainting upon the stage. Then she threwa despairing whisper behind the scenes, "Ring down the curtain."
There was a slight movement of opposition in the audience, but amongthem rose the burly shoulders of Yuba Bill, the tall, erect figure ofHenry York of Sandy Bar, and the colorless, determined face of JohnOakhurst. The curtain came down.
Behind it knelt the "California Pet" beside the prostrate poet. "Bringme some water. Run for a doctor. Stop!! CLEAR OUT, ALL OF YOU!"
She had unloosed the gaudy cravat and opened the shirt-collar of theinsensible figure before her. Then she burst into an hysterical laugh.
"Manuela!"
Her tiring-woman, a Mexican half-breed, came toward her.
"Help me with him to my dressing-room, quick; then stand outside andwait. If any one questions you, tell them he's gone. Do you hear? HE'sgone."
The old woman did as she was bade. In a few moments the audience haddeparted. Before morning so also had the "California Pet," Manuela,and--the poet of Sierra Flat.
But, alas! with them also had departed the fair fame of the "CaliforniaPet." Only a few, and these it is to be feared of not the best moralcharacter themselves, still had faith in the stainless honor of theirfavorite actress. "It was a mighty foolish thing to do, but it'll allcome out right yet." On the other hand, a majority gave her full creditand approbation for her undoubted pluck and gallantry, but deplored thatshe should have thrown it away upon a worthless object. To elect fora lover the despised and ridiculed vagrant of Sierra Flat, who had noteven the manliness to stand up in his own defence, was not only evidenceof inherent moral depravity, but was an insult to the community. ColonelStarbottle saw in it only another instance of the extreme frailty of thesex; he had known similar cases; and remembered distinctly, sir, how awell-known Philadelphia heiress, one of the finest women that ever rodein her kerridge, that, gad, sir! had thrown over a Southern member ofCongress to consort with a d----d nigger. The Colonel had also noticed asingular look in the dog's eye which he did not entirely fancy. He wouldnot say anything against the lady, sir, but he had noticed--And herehaply the Colonel became so mysterious and darkly confidential as to beunintelligible and inaudible to the bystanders.
A few days after the disappearance of Mr. Chubbuck a singular reportreached Sierra Flat, and it was noticed that "Boston," who since thefailure of his elaborate joke had been even more depressed in spiritsthan is habitual with great humorists, suddenly found that his presencewas required in San Francisco. But as yet nothing but the vaguestsurmises were afloat, and nothing definite was known.
It was a pleasant afternoon when the editor of the "Sierra Flat Record"looked up from his case and beheld the figure of Mr. Morgan McCorklestanding in the doorway. There was a distressed look on the face ofthat worthy gentleman that at once enlisted the editor's sympathizingattention. He held an open letter in his hand, as he advanced toward themiddle of the room.
"As a man as has allers borne a fair reputation," began Mr. McCorkleslowly, "I should like, if so be as I could, Mister Editor, to make acorrection in the columns of your valooable paper."
Mr. Editor begged him to proceed.
"Ye may not disremember that about a month ago I fetched here what so beas we'll call a young man whose name might be as it were Milton--MiltonChubbuck."
Mr. Editor remembered perfectly.
"Thet same party I'd knowed better nor fower year, two on 'em campin'out together. Not that I'd known him all the time, fur he war shy andstrange at spells and had odd ways that I took war nat'ral to a bornedpoet. Ye may remember that I said he was a borned poet?"
The editor distinctly did.
"I picked this same party up in St. Jo., takin' a fancy to his face, andkinder calklating he'd runn'd away from home,--for I'm a married man,Mr. Editor, and hev children of my own,--and thinkin' belike he was aborned poet."
"Well?" said the editor.
"And as I said before, I should like now to make a correction in thecolumns of your valooable paper."
"What correction!" asked the editor.
"I said, ef you remember my words, as how he was a borned poet."
"Yes."
"From statements in this yer letter it seems as how I war wrong."
"Well!"
"She war a woman."
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT.
A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS.
It was the Christmas season in California,--a season of falling rain andspringing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds andflying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and deathand resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay ajoyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that sweptdown the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places.There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields thefarmer's ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains.Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens whichdecorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, andoffered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows,as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.
"Now," said the Doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, andlooking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him,"I want it distinctly understood before I begin my story, that I am notto be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shallstop. At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose ofcastor-oil, all around. The boy that moves his legs or arms will beunderstood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me,and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise?"
"Yes, sir," said six small voices, simultaneously. The volley was,however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.
"Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword. Florashall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest.Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little;there, that will do,--just enough to make the fire look brighter, and toshow off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody! The boy who cracksan almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of theroom?"
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside, andnursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting thepocket of her little apron, put her arm upon the Doctor's shoulder, andpermitted herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathenpage, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christianrevels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was atonce sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on themantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and greatsymmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-likepeace of the apartment,--a peace which held the odors of evergreens, newtoys, cedar-boxes, glue, and varnish in an harmonious combination thatpassed all understanding.
"About four years ago at this time," began the Doctor, "I attendeda course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors,who was a sociable, kindly man,--though somewhat practical andhard-headed,--invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was veryglad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who, though onlytwelve years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you howmany Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many Englishones he had composed. In the first place, you'd want me to repeat them;secondly, I'm not a judge of poetry, Latin or English. But there werejudges who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody predicteda splendid future for him. Everybody but his father. He shook his headdoubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was apractical, matter-of-fact man.
"There was
a pleasant party at the Professor's that night. All thechildren of the neighborhood were there, and among them the Professor'sclever son, Rupert, as they called him,--a thin little chap, about astall as Bobby there, and as fair and delicate as Flora by my side. Hishealth was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played withother boys, preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, andcompose what he called his verses.
"Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughingand talking, calling off the names of the children who had presentson the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of thechildren suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, andsaid, 'Here's something for Rupert; and what do you think it is?'
"We all guessed. 'A desk'; 'A copy of Milton'; 'A gold pen'; 'A rhymingdictionary? 'No? what then?'
"'A drum!'
"'A what?' asked everybody.
"'A drum! with Rupert's name on it?'
"Sure enough there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum,with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, 'FOR RUPERT.'
"Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke. 'You see you'reto make a noise in the world, Rupert!' said one. 'Here's parchment forthe poet,' said another. 'Rupert's last work in sheepskin covers,' saida third. 'Give us a classical tune, Rupert,' said a fourth; and so on.But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak; he changed color, bit hislips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of crying, and left theroom. Then those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody beganto ask who had put the drum there. But no one knew, or if they did, theunexpected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them silent.Even the servants were called up and questioned, but no one couldgive any idea where it came from. And, what was still more singular,everybody declared that up to the moment it was produced, no one hadseen it hanging on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have my ownopinion. But no questions! Enough for you to know that Rupert did notcome down stairs again that night, and the party soon after broke up.
"I had almost forgotten those things, for the war of the Rebellionbroke out the next spring, and I was appointed surgeon in one of thenew regiments, and was on my way to the seat of war. But I had to passthrough the city where the Professor lived, and there I met him. Myfirst question was about Rupert. The Professor shook his head sadly.'He's not so well,' he said; 'he has been declining since lastChristmas, when you saw him. A very strange case,' he added, giving ita long Latin name,--'a very singular case. But go and see him yourself,'he urged; 'it may distract his mind and do him good?'
"I went accordingly to the Professor's house, and found Rupert lying ona sofa, propped up with pillows. Around him were scattered his books,and, what seemed in singular contrast, that drum I told you about washanging on a nail, just above his head. His face was thin and wasted;there was a red spot on either cheek, and his eyes were very bright andwidely opened. He was glad to see me, and when I told him where I wasgoing, he asked a thousand questions about the war. I thought I hadthoroughly diverted his mind from its sick and languid fancies, when hesuddenly grasped my hand and drew me toward him.
"'Doctor,' said he, in a low whisper, 'you won't laugh at me if I tellyou something?'
"'No, certainly not,' I said.
"'You remember that drum?' he said, pointing to the glittering toy thathung against the wall. 'You know, too, how it came to me. A few weeksafter Christmas, I was lying half asleep here, and the drum was hangingon the wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten; at first, low and slowly,then faster and louder, until its rolling filled the house. In themiddle of the night, I heard it again. I did not dare to tell anybodyabout it, but I have heard it every night ever since.'
"He paused and looked anxiously in my face. 'Sometimes,' he continued,'it is played softly, sometimes loudly, but always quickening to along-roll, so loud and alarming that I have looked to see people cominginto my room to ask what was the matter. But I think, Doctor,--I think,'he repeated slowly, looking up with painful interest into my face, 'thatno one hears it but myself.'
"I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it at any othertime.
"'Once or twice in the daytime,' he replied, 'when I have been readingor writing; then very loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in thatway to attract my attention away from my books.'
"I looked into his face, and placed my hand upon his pulse. His eyeswere very bright, and his pulse a little flurried and quick. I thentried to explain to him that he was very weak, and that his senses werevery acute, as most weak people's are; and how that when he read,or grew interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, thethrobbing of a big artery made the beating sound he heard. He listenedto me with a sad smile of unbelief, but thanked me, and in a littlewhile I went away. But as I was going down stairs, I met the Professor.I gave him my opinion of the case,--well, no matter what it was.
"'He wants fresh air and exercise,' said the Professor, 'and somepractical experience of life, sir?' The Professor was not a bad man, buthe was a little worried and impatient, and thought--as clever people areapt to think--that things which he didn't understand were either sillyor improper.
"I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of battle-fieldsand hospitals, I forgot all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of himagain, until one day, meeting an old classmate in the army, who hadknown the Professor, he told me that Rupert had become quite insane, andthat in one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the house, and as hehad never been found, it was feared that he had fallen in the river andwas drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment, as you may imagine;but, dear me, I was living just then among scenes as terrible andshocking, and I had little time to spare to mourn over poor Rupert.
"It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we had aterrible battle, in which a portion of our army was surprised and drivenback with great slaughter. I was detached from my brigade to ride overto the battle-field and assist the surgeons of the beaten division, whohad more on their hands than they could attend to. When I reached thebarn that served for a temporary hospital, I went at once to work. Ah,Bob," said the Doctor, thoughtfully taking the bright sword from thehands of the half-frightened Bob, and holding it gravely before him,"these pretty playthings are symbols of cruel, ugly realities.
"I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter," he continued very slowly, tracinga pattern on the rug with the point of the scabbard, "who was badlywounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and begged me to helpothers first who needed it more than he. I did not at first heed hisrequest, for this kind of unselfishness was very common in the army;but he went on, 'For God's sake, Doctor, leave me here; there is adrummer-boy of our regiment--a mere child--dying, if he isn't dead now.Go, and see him first. He lies over there. He saved more than one life.He was at his post in the panic this morning, and saved the honor of theregiment.' I was so much more impressed by the man's manner than by thesubstance of his speech, which was, however, corroborated by the otherpoor fellows stretched around me, that I passed over to where thedrummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one glance at hisface--and--yes, Bob--yes, my children--it WAS Rupert.
"Well! well! it needed not the chalked cross which my brother-surgeonshad left upon the rough board whereon he lay to show how urgent was therelief he sought; it needed not the prophetic words of the Vermonter,nor the damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his paleforehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him by name. Heopened his eyes--larger, I thought, in the new vision that was beginningto dawn upon him--and recognized me. He whispered, 'I'm glad you arecome, but I don't think you can do me any good.'
"I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything. I only pressedhis hand in mine, as he went on.
"'But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me. Nobody is to blamebut myself. It was a long time before I understood why the drum came tome that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, andwhat it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am content. Tel
lfather it is better as it is. I should have lived only to worry andperplex him, and something in me tells me this is right.'
"He lay still for a moment, and then, grasping my hand, said,--
"'Hark!'
"I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moans of the woundedmen around me. 'The drum,' he said faintly; 'don't you hear it? The drumis calling me.'
"He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he would embrace it.
"'Listen,' he went on, 'it's the reveille. There are the ranks drawnup in review. Don't you see the sunlight flash down the long line ofbayonets? Their faces are shining,--they present arms,--there comes theGeneral; but his face I cannot look at, for the glory round his head. Hesees me; he smiles, it is--" And with a name upon his lips that he hadlearned long ago, he stretched himself wearily upon the planks, and layquite still.
"That's all. No questions now; never mind what became of the drum. Who'sthat snivelling? Bless my soul, where's my pill-box?"