Verbal Expression

by Eleanor H. Porter

“MR. BILLY” AND “MISS MARY JANE”
On the fourteenth of December Billy came
down-stairs alert, interested, and happy.  She
had received a dear letter from Bertram (mailed
on the way to New York), the sun was shining,
and her fingers were fairly tingling to put on paper
the little melody that was now surging riotously
through her brain.  Emphatically, the restlessness
of the day before was gone now.  Once more
Billy’s “clock” had “begun to tick.”

After breakfast Billy went straight to the
telephone and called up Arkwright.  Even one
side of the conversation Aunt Hannah did not
hear very clearly; but in five minutes a radiant-
faced Billy danced into the room.

“Aunt Hannah, just listen!  Only think–
Mary Jane wrote the words himself, so of course
I can use them!”

“Billy, dear, _can’t_ you say `Mr. Arkwright’?”
pleaded Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed and gave the anxious-eyed little
old lady an impulsive hug.

“Of course!  I’ll say `His Majesty’ if you like,
dear,” she chuckled.  “But did you hear–did
you realize?  They’re his own words, so there’s
no question of rights or permission, or anything.
And he’s coming up this afternoon to hear my
melody, and to make a few little changes in the
words, maybe.  Oh, Aunt Hannah, you don’t
know how good it seems to get into my music
again!”

“Yes, yes, dear, of course; but–”  Aunt
Hannah’s sentence ended in a vaguely troubled
pause.

Billy turned in surprise.

“Why, Aunt Hannah, aren’t you glad?  You
_said_ you’d be glad!”

“Yes, dear; and I am–very glad.  It’s only
–if it doesn’t take too much time–and if
Bertram doesn’t mind.”

Billy flushed.  She laughed a little bitterly.

“No, it won’t take too much time, I fancy,
and–so far as Bertram is concerned–if what
Sister Kate says is true, Aunt Hannah, he’ll
be glad to have me occupy a little of my time with
something besides himself.”

“Fiddlededee!” bristled Aunt Hannah.

“What did she mean by that?”

Billy smiled ruefully.

“Well, probably I did need it.  She said it
night before last just before she went home with
Uncle William.  She declared that I seemed to
forget entirely that Bertram belonged to his Art
first, before he belonged to me; and that it was
exactly as she had supposed it would be–a
perfect absurdity for Bertram to think of marrying
anybody.”

“Fiddlededee!” ejaculated the irate Aunt
Hannah, even more sharply.  “I hope you have
too much good sense to mind what Kate says,
Billy.”

“Yes, I know,” sighed the girl; “but of course
I can see some things for myself, and I suppose
I did make–a little fuss about his going to
New York the other night.  And I will own that
I’ve had a real struggle with myself sometimes,
lately, not to mind–his giving so much time
to his portrait painting.  And of course both of
those are very reprehensible–in an artist’s wife,”
she finished, a little tremulously.

“Humph!  Well, I don’t think I should worry
about that,” observed Aunt Hannah with grim
positiveness.

“No, I don’t mean to,” smiled Billy, wistfully.
“I only told you so you’d understand that it
was just as well if I did have something to take
up my mind–besides Bertram.  And of course
music would be the most natural thing.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Aunt Hannah.

“And it seems actually almost providential
that Mary–I mean Mr. Arkwright is here to
help me, now that Cyril is gone,” went on Billy,
still a little wistfully.

“Yes, of course.  He isn’t like–a stranger,”
murmured Aunt Hannah.  Aunt Hannah’s voice
sounded as if she were trying to convince herself
–of something.

“No, indeed!  He seems just like one of the
family to me, almost as if he were really–your
niece, Mary Jane,” laughed Billy.

Aunt Hannah moved restlessly.

“Billy,” she hazarded, “he knows, of course,
of your engagement?”

“Why, of course he does, Aunt Hannah
everybody does!”  Billy’s eyes were plainly surprised.

“Yes, yes, of course–he must,” subsided
Aunt Hannah, confusedly, hoping that Billy
would not divine the hidden reason behind her
question.  She was relieved when Billy’s next
words showed that she had not divined it.

“I told you, didn’t I?  He’s coming up this
afternoon.  He can’t get here till five, though;
but he’s so interested!  He’s about as crazy over
the thing as I am.  And it’s going to be fine, Aunt
Hannah, when it’s done.  You just wait and see!”
she finished gayly, as she tripped from the
room.

Left to herself, Aunt Hannah drew a long
breath.

“I’m glad she didn’t suspect,” she was
thinking.  “I believe she’d consider even the _question_
disloyal to Bertram–dear child!  And of course
Mary”–Aunt Hannah corrected herself with
cheeks aflame–“I mean Mr. Arkwright does
–know.”

It was just here, however, that Aunt Hannah
was mistaken.  Mr. Arkwright did not–know.
He had not reached Boston when the engagement
was announced.  He knew none of Billy’s friends
in town save the Henshaw brothers.  He had
not heard from Calderwell since he came to Boston.
The very evident intimacy of Billy with the
Henshaw brothers he accepted as a matter of
course, knowing the history of their acquaintance,
and the fact that Billy was Mr. William Henshaw’s
namesake.  As to Bertram being Billy’s lover–
that idea had long ago been killed at birth by
Calderwell’s emphatic assertion that the artist
would never care for any girl–except to paint.
Since coming to Boston, Arkwright had seen
little of the two together.  His work, his friends,
and his general mode of life precluded that.
Because of all this, therefore, Arkwright did not–
know; which was a pity–for Arkwright, and
for some others.

Promptly at five o’clock that afternoon,
Arkwright rang Billy’s doorbell, and was admitted
by Rosa to the living-room, where Billy was at
the piano.

Billy sprang to her feet with a joyous word of
greeting.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she sighed happily.
“I want you to hear the melody your pretty
words have sung to me.  Though, maybe, after
all, you won’t like it, you know,” she finished
with arch wistfulness.

“As if I could help liking it,” smiled the man,
trying to keep from his voice the ecstatic delight
that the touch of her hand had brought
him.

Billy shook her head and seated herself again
at the piano.

“The words are lovely,” she declared, sorting
out two or three sheets of manuscript music from
the quantity on the rack before her.  “But there’s
one place–the rhythm, you know–if you could
change it.  There!–but listen.  First I’m going
to play it straight through to you.”  And she
dropped her fingers to the keyboard.  The next
moment a tenderly sweet melody–with only a
chord now and then for accompaniment–filled
Arkwright’s soul with rapture.  Then Billy began
to sing, very softly, the words!

No wonder Arkwright’s soul was filled with
rapture.  They were his words, wrung straight
from his heart; and they were being sung by
the girl for whom they were written.  They
were being sung with feeling, too–so evident
a feeling that the man’s pulse quickened, and his
eyes flashed a sudden fire.  Arkwright could not
know, of course, that Billy, in her own mind, was
singing that song–to Bertram Henshaw.

The fire was still in Arkwright’s eyes when the
song was ended; but Billy very plainly did not
see it.  With a frowning sigh and a murmured
“There!” she began to talk of “rhythm” and
“accent” and “cadence”; and to point out
with anxious care why three syllables instead of
two were needed at the end of a certain line.
From this she passed eagerly to the accompaniment,
and Arkwright at once found himself lost
in a maze of “minor thirds” and “diminished
sevenths,” until he was forced to turn from the
singer to the song.  Still, watching her a little
later, he noticed her absorbed face and eager
enthusiasm, her earnest pursuance of an elusive
harmony, and he wondered: did she, or did she
not sing that song with feeling a little while before?

Arkwright had not settled this question to his
own satisfaction when Aunt Hannah came in
at half-past five, and he was conscious of a vague
disappointment as he rose to greet her.  Billy,
however, turned an untroubled face to the newcomer.

“We’re doing finely, Aunt Hannah,” she cried.
Then, suddenly, she flung a laughing question
to the man.  “How about it, sir?  Are we going
to put on the title-page:  `Words by Mary Jane
Arkwright’–or will you unveil the mystery
for us now?”

“Have you guessed it?” he bantered.

“No–unless it’s `Methuselah John.’  We
did think of that the other day.”

“Wrong again!” he laughed.

“Then it’ll have to be `Mary Jane,’ ” retorted
Billy, with calm naughtiness, refusing to meet
Aunt Hannah’s beseechingly reproving eyes.
Then suddenly she chuckled.  “It would be a
combination, wouldn’t it?  `Words by Mary
Jane Arkwright.  Music by Billy Neilson’!
We’d have sighing swains writing to `Dear Miss
Arkwright,’ telling how touching were _her_ words;
and lovelorn damsels thanking Mr. Neilson for
his soul-inspiring music!”

“Billy, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Hannah, faintly.

“Yes, yes, I know; that was bad–and I
won’t again, truly,” promised Billy.  But her
eyes danced, and the next moment she had whirled
about on the piano stool and dashed into a Chopin
waltz.  The room itself, then, seemed to be full
of the twinkling feet of elves.

by Horatio Alger, Jr.
(June 13, 1860.)

* Sung at the bi-centennial celebration of the incorporation of Marlboro, Mass.

From the door of the homestead the mother looks forth,
  With a glance half of hope, half of fear,
For the clock in the corner now points to the hour
  When the children she loves should appear.
For have they not promised, whatever betide,
  On this their dear mother’s birthday,
To gather once more round the family board,
  Their dutiful service to pay?

From the East and the West, from the North and the South,
  In communion and intercourse sweet,
Her children have come, on this festival day,
  To sit, as of old, at her feet.
And our mother,– God bless her benevolent face!–
  How her heart thrills with motherly joys,
As she stands at the portal, with arms opened wide,
  To welcome her girls and her boys.

And yet, when the first joyful greetings are o’er,
  When the words of her welcome are said:
A shadow creeps over her motherly face,
  As she silently thinks of the dead,
Of the children whose voices once rang through her fields,
  Who shared all her hopes and alarms,
Till, tired with the burden and heat of the day,
  They have fallen asleep in her arms.

They have gone from our midst, but their labors abide
  On the fields where they prayerfully wrought;
They scattered the seed, but the harvest is ours,
  By their toil and self-sacrifice bought.
As we scan the fair scene that once greeted their eyes,
  As we tread the same paths which they trod,
Let us tenderly think of our elders by birth,
  Who have gone to their rest, and their God.

God bless the old homestead! some linger there still,
  In the haunts which their childhood has known,
While others have wandered to places remote,
  And planted new homes of their own;
But Time cannot weaken the ties Love creates,
  Nor absence, nor distance, impede
The filial devotion which thrills all our hearts,
  As we bid our old mother God-speed.

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

by Lord Byron

    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
      Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art:
      For there thy habitation is the heart–
    The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
    And when thy sons to fetters are consigned–
      To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom,
      Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
    And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind.
    Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
      And thy sad floor an altar–for ’twas trod,
    Until his very steps have left a trace
      Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
    By Bonnivard!–May none those marks efface!
      For they appeal from tyranny to God.

by Edgar Allan Poe
  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule–
  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
    Out of SPACE–out of TIME.

  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
  With forms that no man can discover
  For the dews that drip all over;
  Mountains toppling evermore
  Into seas without a shore;
  Seas that restlessly aspire,
  Surging, unto skies of fire;
  Lakes that endlessly outspread
  Their lone waters–lone and dead,
  Their still waters–still and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily.

  By the lakes that thus outspread
  Their lone waters, lone and dead,–
  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily,–

  By the mountains–near the river
  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,–
  By the gray woods,–by the swamp
  Where the toad and the newt encamp,–
  By the dismal tarns and pools
    Where dwell the Ghouls,–
  By each spot the most unholy–
  In each nook most melancholy,–

  There the traveller meets aghast
  Sheeted Memories of the past–
  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
  As they pass the wanderer by–
  White-robed forms of friends long given,
  In agony, to the Earth–and Heaven.

  For the heart whose woes are legion
  ‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region–
  For the spirit that walks in shadow
  ‘Tis–oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
  But the traveller, travelling through it,
  May not–dare not openly view it;
  Never its mysteries are exposed
  To the weak human eye unclosed;
  So wills its King, who hath forbid
  The uplifting of the fringed lid;
  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only.

  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have wandered home but newly
  From this ultimate dim Thule.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night,
And dress by yellow candle light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet,
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Underneath protected branches, from the highway just aloof;
Stands the house of Grand’ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.

Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard,
In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.

Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish awe
At the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)
Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped..

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn’s harvest spoils,
Holds the farmer’s well-earned trophies–the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,
While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o’er with nature’s gold;
Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill,                                             
There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard the hill.

Many a year has Grand’ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,
As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,
One by one have met life’s duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood’s merry tone,
the fireside Grand’ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)
Of the lurking savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.   

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn harvest spoils,                           
Holds the farmer’s well-earned trophies–the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,
While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet drowsy mien.                          

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o’er with nature’s gold;                      
Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost and chill,
There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.

Many a year has Grand’ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,
As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,
One by one have met life’s duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood’s merry tone,
By the fireside Grand’ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Yet once within the twelvemonth, when the days are short and drear,
And chill winds chant the requiem of the slowly fading year,

When the autumn work is over, and the harvest gathered in,
Once again the old house echoes to a long unwonted din.

Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high,
Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.

Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom’s cares,
Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs.

All the boys shall hold high revel; all the girls shall have their way,-
That’s the law at Grand’ther Baldwin’s upon each Thanksgiving Day.

From from the parlor’s sacred precincts, hark! a madder uproar yet;
Roguish Charlie’s playing stage-coach, and the stage-coach has upset!

Joe, black-eyed and laughter-loving, Grand’ther’s specs his nose across,
Gravely winks at brother Willie, who is gayly playing horse.

Grandma’s face is fairly radiant; Grand’ther knows not how to frown,
though the children, in their frolic, turn the old house upside down.

For the boys may hold high revel, and the girls must have their way;
That’s the law at Grand’ther Baldwin’s upon each Thanksgiving Day.

But the dinner–ah! the dinner–words are feeble to portray
What a culinary triumph is achieved Thanksgiving Day!

Fairly groans the board with dainties, but the turkey rules the roast,
Aldermanic at the outset, at the last a fleshless ghost.

Then the richness of the pudding, and the flavor of the pie,
When you’ve dined at Grandma Baldwin’s you will know as well as I.

When, at length, the feast was ended, Grand’ther Baldwin bent his head,
And, amid the solemn silence, with a reverent voice, he said:–

“Now unto God, the Gracious One, we thanks and homage pay,
Who guardeth us, and guideth us, and loveth us always!

“He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase,
He crowns us with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.                                                

“Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw,
And may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!”

His simple words in silence died: a moment’s hush. And then
From all the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen !

by Eleanor H. Porter
AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER
In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson’s
pretty home on Corey Hill, Billy herself sat
writing at the desk.  Her pen had just traced the
date, “October twenty-fifth,” when Mrs. Stetson
entered with a letter in her hand.

“Writing, my dear?  Then don’t let me disturb
you.”  She turned as if to go.

Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew
to the little woman’s side and whirled her half
across the room.

“There!” she exclaimed, as she plumped the
breathless and scandalized Aunt Hannah into the
biggest easy chair.  “I feel better.  I just had to
let off steam some way.  It’s so lovely you came
in just when you did!”

“Indeed! I–I’m not so sure of that,” stammered
the lady, dropping the letter into her lap,
and patting with agitated fingers her cap, her
curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the
lace at her throat.  “My grief and conscience,
Billy!  Wors’t you _ever_ grow up?”

“Hope not,” purred Billy cheerfully, dropping
herself on to a low hassock at Aunt Hannah’s feet.

“But, my dear, you–you’re engaged!”

Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh.

“As if I didn’t know that, when I’ve just written
a dozen notes to announce it!  And, oh, Aunt
Hannah, such a time as I’ve had, telling what a
dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, _love_ him,
and what beautiful eyes he has, and _such_ a nose,
and–”

“Billy!”  Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in
pale horror.

“Eh?” Billy’s eyes were roguish.

“You didn’t write that in those notes!”

“Write it?  Oh, no!  That’s only what I _wanted_
to write,” chuckled Billy.  “What I really did
write was as staid and proper as–here, let me
show you,” she broke off, springing to her feet and
running over to her desk.  “There! this is about
what I wrote to them all,” she finished, whipping
a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the
desk and spreading it open before Aunt Hannah’s
suspicious eyes.

“Hm-m; that is very good–for you,” admitted
the lady.

“Well, I like that!–after all my stern self-
control and self-sacrifice to keep out all those
things I _wanted_ to write,” bridled Billy.  “Besides,
they’d have been ever so much more interesting
reading than these will be,” she pouted, as
she took the note from her companion’s hand.

“I don’t doubt it,” observed Aunt Hannah,
dryly.

Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the
desk.

“I’m writing to Belle Calderwell, now,” she
announced musingly, dropping herself again on
the hassock.  “I suppose she’ll tell Hugh.”

“Poor boy!  He’ll be disappointed.”

Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little.

“He ought not to be.  I told him long, long ago,
the very first time, that–that I couldn’t.”

“I know, dear; but–they don’t always
understand.”  Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy
with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked
down at the bright young face near her.

There was a moment’s silence; then Billy gave
a little laugh.

“He _will_ be surprised,” she said.  “He told
me once that Bertram wouldn’t ever care for any
girl except to paint.  To paint, indeed!  As if Bertram
didn’t love me–just _me!_–if he never saw
another tube of paint!”

“I think he does, my dear.”

Again there was silence; then, from Billy’s lips
there came softly:

“Just think; we’ve been engaged almost four
weeks–and to-morrow it’ll be announced.  I’m
so glad I didn’t ever announce the other
two!”

“The other _two!_” cried Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed.

“Oh, I forgot.  You didn’t know about Cyril.”

“Cyril!”

“Oh, there didn’t anybody know it, either
not even Cyril himself,” dimpled Billy, mischievously.
“I just engaged myself to him in imagination,
you know, to see how I’d like it.  I didn’t
like it.  But it didn’t last, anyhow, very long–
just three weeks, I believe.  Then I broke it off,”
she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing
eyes.

“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly.

“But I _am_ glad only the family knew about
my engagement to Uncle William–oh, Aunt
Hannah, you don’t know how good it does seem
to call him `Uncle’ again.  It was always slipping
out, anyhow, all the time we were engaged; and
of course it was awful then.”

“That only goes to prove, my dear, how
entirely unsuitable it was, from the start.”

A bright color flooded Billy’s face.

“I know; but if a girl _will_ think a man is asking
for a wife when all he wants is a daughter, and if
she blandly says `Yes, thank you, I’ll marry you,’
I don’t know what you can expect!”

“You can expect just what you got–misery,
and almost a tragedy,” retorted Aunt Hannah,
severely.

A tender light came into Billy’s eyes.

“Dear Uncle William!  What a jewel he was,
all the way through!  And he’d have marched
straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of
an eyelid, I know–self-sacrificing martyr that
he was!”

“Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with
extraordinary violence for her.  “I’m thinking that
term belonged somewhere else.  A month ago,
Billy Neilson, you did not look as if you’d live
out half your days.  But I suppose _you’d_ have
gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an
eyelid!”

“But I thought I had to,” protested Billy.
“I couldn’t grieve Uncle William so, after Mrs.
Hartwell had said how he–he wanted me.”

Aunt Hannah’s lips grew stern at the corners.

“There are times when–when I think it
would be wiser if Mrs. Kate Hartwell would attend
to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah’s voice
fairly shook with wrath.

“Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in
mischievous horror.  “I’m shocked at you!”

Aunt Hannah flushed miserably.

“There, there, child, forget I said it.  I ought
not to have said it, of course,” she murmured agitatedly.

Billy laughed.

“You should have heard what Uncle William
said!  But never mind.  We all found out the mistake
before it was too late, and everything is
lovely now, even to Cyril and Marie.  Did you
ever see anything so beatifically happy as that
couple are?  Bertram says he hasn’t heard a dirge
from Cyril’s rooms for three weeks; and that if
anybody else played the kind of music he’s been
playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!”

“Music!  Oh, my grief and conscience!  That
makes me think, Billy.  If I’m not actually
forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt
Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the
letter that had slipped from her lap.  “I’ve had
word from a young niece.  She’s going to study
music in Boston.”

“A niece?”

“Well, not really, you know.  She calls me
`Aunt,’ just as you and the Henshaw boys do.
But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and
I are third cousins, while it was my husband who
was distantly related to the Henshaw family.”

“What’s her name?”

“ `Mary Jane Arkwright.’  Where is that
letter?”

“Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy.
“Were you going to read it to me?” she asked,
as she picked it up.

“Yes–if you don’t mind.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“Then I’ll read it.  It–it rather annoys me
in some ways.  I thought the whole family understood
that I wasn’t living by myself any longer
–that I was living with you.  I’m sure I thought
I wrote them that, long ago.  But this sounds
almost as if they didn’t understand it–at least,
as if this girl didn’t.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know; but she must be some old, to
be coming here to Boston to study music, alone
–singing, I think she said.”

“You don’t remember her, then?”

Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter
half withdrawn from its envelope.

“No–but that isn’t strange.  They live West.
I haven’t seen any of them for years.  I know there
are several children–and I suppose I’ve been
told their names.  I know there’s a boy–the
eldest, I think–who is quite a singer, and there’s
a girl who paints, I believe; but I don’t seem to
remember a `Mary Jane.’ ”

“Never mind!  Suppose we let Mary Jane speak
for herself,” suggested Billy, dropping her chin
into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling
herself to listen.

“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she
opened the letter and began to read.
“DEAR AUNT HANNAH:–This is to tell you
that I’m coming to Boston to study singing in
the school for Grand Opera, and I’m planning to
look you up.  Do you object?  I said to a friend
the other day that I’d half a mind to write to Aunt
Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend
retorted:  `Why don’t you, Mary Jane?’  But
that, of course, I should not think of doing.

“But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah,
and I hope you’ll let me see you once in a
while, anyway.  I plan now to come next week
–I’ve already got as far as New York, as you see
by the address–and I shall hope to see you
soon.

“All the family would send love, I know.
                         “M. J. ARKWRIGHT.”
“Grand Opera!  Oh, how perfectly lovely,”
cried Billy.

“Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting
me to invite her to make her home with me?  I
shall have to write and explain that I can’t–
if she does, of course.”

Billy frowned and hesitated.

“Why, it sounded–a little–that way;
but–”  Suddenly her face cleared.  “Aunt
Hannah, I’ve thought of the very thing.  We _will_
take her!”

“Oh, Billy, I couldn’t think of letting you do
that,” demurred Aunt Hannah.  “You’re very
kind–but, oh, no; not that!”

“Why not?  I think it would be lovely; and
we can just as well as not.  After Marie is married
in December, she can have that room.  Until
then she can have the little blue room next to me.”

“But–but–we don’t know anything about
her.”

“We know she’s your niece, and she’s lonesome;
and we know she’s musical.  I shall love her for
every one of those things.  Of course we’ll take
her!”

“But–I don’t know anything about her age.”

“All the more reason why she should be looked
out for, then,” retorted Billy, promptly.  “Why,
Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn’t want to give
this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!”

“Oh, I do, of course; but–”

“Then it’s all settled,” interposed Billy,
springing to her feet.

“But what if we–we shouldn’t like her?”

“Nonsense!  What if she shouldn’t like us?”
laughed Billy.  “However, if you’d feel better,
just ask her to come and stay with us a month.
We shall keep her all right, afterwards.  See if we
don’t!”

Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet.

“Very well, dear.  I’ll write, of course, as you
tell me to; and it’s lovely of you to do it.  Now
I’ll leave you to your letters.  I’ve hindered you
far too long, as it is.”

“You’ve rested me,” declared Billy, flinging
wide her arms.

Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl
impelled by those same young arms, drew her
shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily
toward the hall door.

Billy laughed.

“Oh, I won’t again–to-day,” she promised
merrily.  Then, as the lady reached the arched
doorway:  “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the
day and train and we’ll meet her.  Oh, and Aunt
Hannah, tell her to wear a pink–a white pink;
and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly.

by Eleanor H. Porter

M. J. OPENS THE GAME
On the morning after Cyril’s first concert of
the season, Billy sat sewing with Aunt Hannah
in the little sitting-room at the end of the hall
upstairs.  Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this
morning,–which meant that she was feeling
unusually well.

“Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,”
remarked Billy, as she critically examined
a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched across
the darning-egg in her hand; “only she’d want
a bigger hole.  She does so love to make a beautiful
black latticework bridge across a yawning white
china sea–and you’d think the safety of an
army depended on the way each plank was laid,
too,” she concluded.

Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did
not speak.

“I suppose you don’t happen to know if Cyril
does wear big holes in his socks,” resumed Billy,
after a moment’s silence.  “If you’ll believe it,
that thought popped into my head last night when
Cyril was playing that concerto so superbly.  It
did, actually–right in the middle of the adagio
movement, too.  And in spite of my joy and pride
in the music I had all I could do to keep from
nudging Marie right there and then and asking
her whether or not the dear man was hard on
his hose.”

“Billy!” gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah;
but the gasp broke at once into what–in Aunt
Hannah–passed for a chuckle.  “If I remember
rightly, when I was there at the house with you
at first, my dear, William told me that Cyril
wouldn’t wear any sock after it came to mending.”

“Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in
mock despair.  “That will never do in the world.
It would break Marie’s heart.  You know how she
dotes on darning.”

“Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah.  “By
the way, where is she this morning?”

Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I
believe.  Really, Aunt Hannah, between her home-
hunting in the morning, and her furniture-and-
rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over
house-plans in the evening, I can’t get her to
attend to her clothes at all.  Never did I see a
bride so utterly indifferent to her trousseau as
Marie Hawthorn–and her wedding less than
a month away!”

“But she’s been shopping with you once or
twice, since she came back, hasn’t she?  And she
said it was for her trousseau.”

Billy laughed.

“Her trousseau!  Oh, yes, it was.  I’ll tell you
what she got for her trousseau that first day.
We started out to buy two hats, some lace for
her wedding gown, some cr<e^>pe de Chine and net
for a little dinner frock, and some silk for a couple
of waists to go with her tailored suit; and what did
we get?  We purchased a new-style egg-beater and
a set of cake tins.  Marie got into the kitchen
department and I simply couldn’t get her out of it.
But the next day I was not to be inveigled below
stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-
grater or a soda spoon.  She _shopped_ that day, and
to some purpose.  We accomplished lots.”

Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned.

“But she must have _some_ things started!”

“Oh, she has–’most everything now.  _I’ve_
seen to that.  Of course her outfit is very simple,
anyway.  Marie hasn’t much money, you know,
and she simply won’t let me do half what I want
to.  Still, she had saved up some money, and I’ve
finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn’t
consist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that
Cyril would want her to look pretty.  That name
will fetch her every time, and I’ve learned to
use it beautifully.  I think if I told her Cyril
approved of short hair and near-sightedness she’d
I cut off her golden locks and don spectacles on the
spot.”

Aunt Hannah laughed softly.

“What a child you are, Billy!  Besides, just
as if Marie were the only one in the house who is
ruled by a magic name!”

The color deepened in Billy’s cheeks.

“Well, of course, any girl–cares something–
for the man she loves.  Just as if I wouldn’t do
anything in the world I could for Bertram!”

“Oh, that makes me think; who was that young
woman Bertram was talking with last evening–
just after he left us, I mean?”

“Miss Winthrop–Miss Marguerite Winthrop.
Bertram is–is painting her portrait, you know.”

“Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt
Hannah.  “Hm-m; well, she has a beautiful face.”

“Yes, she has.”  Billy spoke very cheerfully.
She even hummed a little tune as she carefully
selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.

“There’s a peculiar something in her face,”
mused Aunt Hannah, aloud.

The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a
nervous laugh.

“Dear me!  I wonder how it feels to have a
peculiar something in your face.  Bertram, too,
says she has it.  He’s trying to `catch it,’ he says.
I wonder now–if he does catch it, does she lose
it?”  Flippant as were the words, the voice that
uttered them shook a little.

Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently–Aunt Hannah
had heard only the flippancy, not the shake.

“I don’t know, my dear.  You might ask him
this afternoon.”

Billy made a sudden movement.  The china
egg in her lap rolled to the floor.

“Oh, but I don’t see him this afternoon,” she
said lightly, as she stooped to pick up the egg.

“Why, I’m sure he told me–”  Aunt Hannah’s
sentence ended in a questioning pause.

“Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but
he’s told me something since.  He isn’t going.
He telephoned me this morning.  Miss Winthrop
wanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to
this afternoon.  He said he knew I’d understand.”

“Why, yes; but–”  Aunt Hannah did not
finish her sentence.  The whir of an electric bell
had sounded through the house.  A few moments
later Rosa appeared in the open doorway.

“It,’s Mr. Arkwright, Miss.  He said as how
he had brought the music,” she announced.

“Tell him I’ll be down at once,” directed the
mistress of Hillside.

As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her
work and sprang lightly to her feet.

“Now wasn’t that nice of him?  We were
talking last night about some duets he had, and he
said he’d bring them over.  I didn’t know he’d
come so soon, though.”

Billy had almost reached the bottom of the
stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted
out from the living-room.  Billy caught her breath,
and held her foot suspended.  The next moment
the familiar strain of music had become a lullaby
–one of Billy’s own–and sung now by a melting
tenor voice that lingered caressingly and
understandingly on every tender cadence.

Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited
until the last low “lul-la-by” vibrated into
silence; then with shining eyes and outstretched
hands she entered the living-room.

“Oh, that was–beautiful,” she breathed.

Arkwright was on his feet instantly.  His eyes,
too, were alight.

“I could not resist singing it just once–
here,” he said a little unsteadily, as their hands
met.

“But to hear my little song sung like that!
I couldn’t believe it was mine,” choked Billy,
still plainly very much moved.  “You sang it as
I’ve never heard it sung before.”

Arkwright shook his head slowly.

“The inspiration of the room–that is all,”,
he said.  “It is a beautiful song.  All of your songs
are beautiful.”

Billy blushed rosily.

“Thank you.  You know–more of them,
then?”

“I think I know them all–unless you have
some new ones out.  Have you some new ones,
lately?”

Billy shook her head.

“No; I haven’t written anything since last
spring.”

“But you’re going to?”

She drew a long sigh.

“Yes, oh, yes.  I know that _now_–”  With a
swift biting of her lower lip Billy caught herself
up in time.  As if she could tell this man, this
stranger, what she had told Bertram that night
by the fire–that she knew that now, _now_ she
would write beautiful songs, with his love, and
his pride in her, as incentives.  “Oh, yes, I think
I shall write more one of these days,” she finished
lightly.  “But come, this isn’t singing duets!  I
want to see the music you brought.”

They sang then, one after another of the duets.
To Billy, the music was new and interesting.
To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear
her own voice blending with another’s so perfectly
–to feel herself a part of such exquisite harmony.

“Oh, oh!” she breathed ecstatically, after the
last note of a particularly beautiful phrase.  “I
never knew before how lovely it was to sing
duets.”

“Nor I,” replied Arkwright in a voice that was
not quite steady.

Arkwright’s eyes were on the enraptured face
of the girl so near him.  It was well, perhaps,
that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their
expression.  Still, it might have been better if
she had turned, after all.  But Billy’s eyes were
on the music before her.  Her fingers were busy
with the fluttering pages, searching for another
duet.

“Didn’t you?” she murmured abstractedly.
“I supposed _you’d_ sung them before; but you
see I never did–until the other night.  There,
let’s try this one!”

“This one” was followed by another and
another.  Then Billy drew a long breath.

“There! that must positively be the last,”
she declared reluctantly.  “I’m so hoarse now
I can scarcely croak.  You see, I don’t pretend
to sing, really.”

“Don’t you?  You sing far better than some
who do, anyhow,”retorted the man, warmly.

“Thank you,” smiled Billy; “that was nice
of you to say so–for my sake–and the others
aren’t here to care.  But tell me of yourself.  I
haven’t had a chance to ask you yet; and–I
think you said Mary Jane was going to study for
Grand Opera.”

Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she’s quite
likely to bring up in vaudeville.”

“Calderwell!  Do you mean–Hugh Calderwell?”
Billy’s cheeks showed a deeper color.

The man gave an embarrassed little laugh.  He
had not meant to let that name slip out just yet.

“Yes.”  He hesitated, then plunged on
recklessly.  “We tramped half over Europe together
last summer.”

“Did you?”  Billy left her seat at the piano
for one nearer the fire.  “But this isn’t telling
me about your own plans,” she hurried on a little
precipitately.  “You’ve studied before, of course.
Your voice shows that.”

“Oh, yes; I’ve studied singing several years,
and I’ve had a year or two of church work,
besides a little concert practice of a mild sort.”

“Have you begun here, yet?”

“Y-yes, I’ve had my voice tried.”

Billy sat erect with eager interest.

“They liked it, of course?”

Arkwright laughed.

“I’m not saying that.”

“No, but I am,” declared Billy, with conviction.
“They couldn’t help liking it.”

Arkwright laughed again.  Just how well they
had “liked it” he did not intend to say.  Their
remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat
even to this very plainly interested young woman
–delightful and heart-warming as was this same
show of interest, to himself.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

Billy gave an excited little bounce in her
chair.

“And you’ll begin to learn r<o^>les right away?”

“I already have, some–after a fashion–before
I came here.”

“Really?  How splendid!  Why, then you’ll
be acting them next right on the Boston Opera
House stage, and we’ll all go to hear you.  How
perfectly lovely!  I can hardly wait.”

Arkwright laughed–but his eyes glowed with
pleasure.

“Aren’t you hurrying things a little?” he
ventured.

“But they do let the students appear,”
argued Billy.  “I knew a girl last year who went on

in `Aida,’ and she was a pupil at the School.
She sang first in a Sunday concert, then they put
her in the bill for a Saturday night.  She did
splendidly–so well that they gave her a chance
later at a subscription performance.  Oh, you’ll
be there–and soon, too!”

“Thank you!  I only wish the powers that
could put me there had your flattering enthusiasm
on the matter,” he smiled.

“I don’t worry any,” nodded Billy, “only
please don’t `arrive’ too soon–not before the
wedding, you know,” she added jokingly.  “We
shall be too busy to give you proper attention
until after that.”

A peculiar look crossed Arkwright’s face.

“The–_wedding?_” he asked, a little faintly.

“Yes.  Didn’t you know?  My friend, Miss
Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next
month.”

The man opposite relaxed visibly.

“Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_  No, I didn’t know,”
he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment
he added:  “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician,
did you say?”

“Yes.  You seem surprised.”

“I am.”  Arkwright paused, then went on
almost defiantly.  “You see, Calderwell was
telling me only last September how very
unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were.  So
I am surprised–naturally,” finished Arkwright,
as he rose to take his leave.

A swift crimson stained Billy’s face.

“But surely you must know that–that–”

“That he has a right to change his mind, of
course,” supplemented Arkwright smilingly,
coming to her rescue in the evident confusion that
would not let her finish her sentence.  “But
Calderwell made it so emphatic, you see, about
all the brothers.  He said that William had lost
his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn’t any to lose;
and that Bertram–”

“But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is–is–”
Billy had moistened her lips, and plunged hurriedly
in to prevent Arkwright’s next words.  But again
was she unable to finish her sentence, and again
was she forced to listen to a very different
completion from the smiling lips of the man at her
side.

“Is an artist, of course,” said Arkwright.
“That’s what Calderwell declared–that it
would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve
of a cheek that the artist loved–to paint.”

Billy drew back suddenly.  Her face paled.
As if _now_ she could tell this man that Bertram
Henshaw was engaged to her!  He would find it
out soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he,
like Hugh Calderwell, would think it was the
curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin–

Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she
held out her hand in good-by.

by Robert Burns
I.

    While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
    And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
      And hing us owre the ingle,
    I set me down to pass the time,
    And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme,
      In hamely westlin jingle.
    While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
      Ben to the chimla lug,
    I grudge a wee the great folks’ gift,
      That live sae bien an’ snug:
        I tent less and want less
          Their roomy fire-side;
        But hanker and canker
          To see their cursed pride.

II.

    It’s hardly in a body’s power
    To keep, at times, frae being sour,
      To see how things are shar’d;
    How best o’ chiels are whiles in want.
    While coofs on countless thousands rant,
      And ken na how to wair’t;
    But Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head,
      Tho’ we hae little gear,
    We’re fit to win our daily bread,
      As lang’s we’re hale and fier:
        “Muir spier na, nor fear na,”
          Auld age ne’er mind a feg,
        The last o’t, the warst o’t,
          Is only but to beg.

III.

    To lie in kilns and barns at e’en
    When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin,
      Is, doubtless, great distress!
    Yet then content could make us blest;
    Ev’n then, sometimes we’d snatch a taste
      O’ truest happiness.
    The honest heart that’s free frae a’
      Intended fraud or guile,
    However Fortune kick the ba’,
      Has ay some cause to smile:
        And mind still, you’ll find still,
          A comfort this nae sma’;
        Nae mair then, we’ll care then,
          Nae farther we can fa’.

IV.

    What tho’, like commoners of air,
    We wander out we know not where,
      But either house or hall?
    Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods,
    The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
      Are free alike to all.
    In days when daisies deck the ground,
      And blackbirds whistle clear,
    With honest joy our hearts will bound
      To see the coming year:
        On braes when we please, then,
          We’ll sit and sowth a tune;
        Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t,
          And sing’t when we hae done.

V.

    It’s no in titles nor in rank;
    It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
      To purchase peace and rest;
    It’s no in makin muckle mair;
    It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,
      To make us truly blest;
    If happiness hae not her seat
      And centre in the breast,
    We may be wise, or rich, or great,
      But never can be blest:
        Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
          Could make us happy lang;
        The heart ay’s the part ay
          That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

    Think ye, that sic as you and I,
    Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry,
      Wi’ never-ceasing toil;
    Think ye, are we less blest than they,
    Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
      As hardly worth their while?
    Alas! how aft, in haughty mood
      God’s creatures they oppress!
    Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,
      They riot in excess!
        Baith careless and fearless
          Of either heaven or hell!
        Esteeming and deeming
          It’s a’ an idle tale!

VII.

    Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce;
    Nor make one scanty pleasures less,
      By pining at our state;
    And, even should misfortunes come,
    I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,
      An’s thankfu’ for them yet.
    They gie the wit of age to youth;
      They let us ken oursel’;
    They make us see the naked truth,
      The real guid and ill.
        Tho’ losses, and crosses,
          Be lessons right severe,
        There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,
          Ye’ll find nae other where.

VIII.

    But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!
    (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
      And flatt’ry I detest,)
    This life has joys for you and I;
    And joys that riches ne’er could buy:
      And joys the very best.
    There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart,
      The lover an’ the frien’;
    Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,
      And I my darling Jean!
        It warms me, it charms me,
          To mention but her name:
        It heats me, it beets me,
          And sets me a’ on flame!

IX.

    O, all ye pow’rs who rule above!
    O, Thou, whose very self art love!
      Thou know’st my words sincere!
    The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,
    Or my more dear immortal part,
      Is not more fondly dear!
    When heart-corroding care and grief
      Deprive my soul of rest,
    Her dear idea brings relief
      And solace to my breast.
        Thou Being, All-seeing,
          O hear my fervent pray’r!
        Still take her, and make her
          Thy most peculiar care!

X.

    All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
    The smile of love, the friendly tear,
      The sympathetic glow!
    Long since, this world’s thorny ways
    Had number’d out my weary days,
      Had it not been for you!
    Fate still has blest me with a friend,
      In every care and ill;
    And oft a more endearing hand,
      A tie more tender still.
        It lightens, it brightens
          The tenebrific scene,
        To meet with, and greet with
          My Davie or my Jean!

XI.

    O, how that name inspires my style
    The words come skelpin, rank and file,
      Amaist before I ken!
    The ready measure rins as fine,
    As Phoebus and the famous Nine
      Were glowrin owre my pen.
    My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
      ‘Till ance he’s fairly het;
    And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
      An’ rin an unco fit:
        But least then, the beast then
          Should rue this hasty ride,
        I’ll light now, and dight now
          His sweaty, wizen’d hide.