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   Maple Grove Stories For Little Readers. HAPPY HEARTS BY JUNE ISLE. CINCINNATI: PUBLISHED BY POE & HITCHCOCK. R. P. THOMPSON, PRINTER. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864. BY POE & HITCHCOCK, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of Ohio. CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. I. WHOM HAVE WE ALWAYS 9 II. FRITZ DEAD, YET LIVES 29 III. HOW? ANSWERED 41 IV. WHAT THE STARS SAW 47 HAPPY HEARTS. CHAPTER I. WHOM HAVE WE ALWAYS. Mr. and Mrs. Payson had three little children, who were very dear to them, and whom they amused and instructed in many pleasant ways. One Spring, just as the leaves were bursting open and the birds were filling the air with gay songs, Mr. Payson told the children he had bought a home for them in the country. This pleased the little ones, and they talked from morning till night about what they would do in their new home. In the pretty country they watched the birds building their nests, and saw them feeding their young and teaching them to fly; and then they saw them in great cawing, twittering, fluttering swarms moving off to warmer lands when the yellow Autumn leaves began to fall. But when the Winter winds sung through the old pine trees, the children began to talk about Christmas. "I wonder if Santa Claus will come away out here, with his great pack of toys," said Rebecca one day. "I am afraid he will forget us, he has so many children to remember." "He may perhaps forget us," said Joshua; "for cousin Nelly says that he, one time, forgot to put any thing in her stocking, although she hung it where he could find it." "But," said Rebecca, "Nelly said it was a very stormy night, and they lived on a hill, and the wind blew so hard they were afraid it would blow the house down. And I think Santa Claus was afraid the wind would upset his pack of toys if he went up on aunt Judd's roof." "I think," said Joshua, "we had better send Santa Claus a letter, telling him that we have moved from town out into this pretty pine grove, then he will know where to find us." "That will be a good way," said Rebecca; "for I remember when Mrs. White, who lives in our house in town, was here last week, she told mamma that many persons had called there since we left, and asked for Mr. Payson. Now, if the people do not know that we have moved away, Santa Claus may not; so he may go there and slide down the chimney, and, without asking any thing about it, put all the nice things, which he has in his pack for us, in Tommy and Jenny White's stockings." "I will write to Santa Claus," said Joshua, "as soon as I can find time." Joshua said this in rather of a large way, for he wished to talk like a man of business. "I will run and get your slate now," said Rebecca; and she soon came with the slate and pencil. They all sat down and Joshua took the pencil to write; but he found he could not do much, as his mamma was not there to spell the words for him. "Let us ask papa to send word to Santa Claus," said Rebecca. "And let us ask Mrs. White," said Newton, "to watch, and, when Santa Claus comes to her house, tell him where we live." "But Mrs. White might watch all night, and then not see him," said Rebecca; "for I think Santa Claus never makes any noise till he is just going out of sight; then his eight tiny reindeers jingle their bells as they scamper away with the sleigh full of toys." Mrs. Payson came into the nursery, and the children told her what they had been saying. "Santa Claus shall be told where to find you," said Mrs. Payson, "and you will have a happy Christmas if you are happy in your own hearts. You shall have a Christmas tree, and we will invite some friends to come and enjoy its fruits with us. But I wish you to remember, my darlings, if you have naughty thoughts you can not have a happy Christmas." "But if some naughty thoughts come, what can we do?" asked Rebecca. "Try to think about something good and pleasant," said Mrs. Payson, "and ask God to help you. Yesterday, when I heard Joshua telling Newton, in an angry way, that he hoped Santa Claus would not bring him any thing, I thought my dear boy's thinker was wrong." "I know, mamma," said Joshua, "that I wish to be good. But, if God lets me be naughty, what good does it do to ask him to help me?" "God will help you if you ask him in the right way, and if you watch yourselves," said Mrs. Payson. "If we wished to be happy ourselves we must do something to make others so; and even little children can do much good if they try." "When we are trying to make others happy," said Joshua, "we shall have good thoughts." "A little verse which you repeat," said Mrs. Payson, "says truly that 'Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.' Now I wish to hear what you, my children, have to do before Christmas." "We must get our gifts ready for the tree," said Rebecca. "And we must learn our lessons, every day," said Joshua. "And I must learn all my letters, so papa will give me a rocking-horse," said little Newton. "That is all right," said Mrs. Payson; "but have you not something more to do?" "O, yes!" said Joshua, "we are to ride to town and invite our visitors to come and have a nice time with us in the holidays." "But, are there not others whom you can help to be happy and good?" asked Mrs. Payson; "those whom we always have with us?" "I don't know," said Joshua, "as there are any persons that are always with us. Bridget has been here only a few months, and she says she must go away after New-Year; so you do not mean her. And John will leave next Spring; so you can not mean him." "When you were learning your Sunday school lesson a few weeks since," said Mrs. Payson, "I heard you repeating these words of Christ, 'Ye have the poor with you always; and whensoever ye will ye may do them good.'" "O, yes, mamma, I did not think of that," said Joshua. "But, there are so many poor people, how can we do them good?" "We can do our little," said Mrs. Payson, "and if we only make one sad heart glad we have done a good deed, and we shall be better and happier ourselves while we are helping others." "When Mrs. Blake comes here to see you, mamma," said Rebecca, "she talks about poor people, and how much she does for them. But Mrs. Blake does not seem to be happy; and she says there is no use in helping the poor, for if one begins there is no end." "Mrs. Blake," said Mrs. Payson, "has not a pleasant way of talking; but I think she enjoys doing good to others in her own cross way. Yet, if we would be happy ourselves in making others happy, we must love to do it. If you should give little Harry Grant a pair of mittens because I told you to do so, while you were fretting because you wished to keep them yourself, you would be neither better nor happier for doing it; and you would not speak gently and kindly to the poor little fellow, and so make his face and your own bright by pleasant words. Mrs. Blake spends much time and money in helping poor people; but she forgets that she should 'Speak gently, kindly to the poor.'" "I have some toys, mamma," said Rebecca, "that I can give to Mrs. Grant's lame Harry; I am sure they will make his little pale face smile." "And I should like to give Willie a pair of shoes," said Joshua; "for his are very ragged." "Shall I give him my sled, mamma?" asked Newton. Now Newton thought more of his sled than he did of any other plaything. It was painted green and yellow, and had a bright colored strap which he called the reins. The runners were very smooth, and he expected to have a gay time with it all Winter. So, when Newton asked about giving his sled, he knew he was giving what he liked best. "No, my darling," said Mrs. Payson; "keep your sled. But, we will see what we all can do for Mrs. Grant and her children, by the time Christmas comes. She is a good woman, and we can do much to make her happy while her husband is gone to the war. "Then there is Mrs. Fisher, who lives near town; can we do something for her?" asked Mrs. Payson. "Mr. Fisher gets drunk," said Joshua; "and Mrs. Blake says it does no good to try to help them, for he sells things that are given to his wife to buy whisky." "But shall we leave poor Mrs. Fisher to suffer?" said Mrs. Payson. "Shall we try to do nothing for her and her dear children? They are often cold for want of clothes and a fire. They are often hungry, because Mr. Fisher gets drunk, and is unkind to them. "With so many good things around us, shall we not try to help the little hungry children who have an unkind father?" "O, yes, mamma!" said all the children at once. "May I give something to Martha Kelly," asked Rebecca, "who says she never has any presents?" "Poor little Martha is not much older than you are, my daughter," said Mrs. Payson; "yet she is obliged to work quite hard; for her mother is sick and her father is poor. But she has a sweet, smiling face, and she lives in a happier home than many children of rich parents." "I know, mamma," said Joshua, "Martha always looks pleasant, even in a shabby dress." "Mr. Kelly is a very kind and good man," said Mrs. Payson; "and I hope, before another Christmas, he will be able to give his family a better home. "They look happy because they have good thoughts and try to do their duty. None can be happy, even in beautiful homes, unless their thoughts are right. "I hope you will select a pleasant book for little Martha, my daughter, and I will send some articles to her mamma." "It is now your bedtime, my darlings. To-morrow we will begin to prepare our Christmas gifts for the poor." The children kneeled down and thanked God for being so good to them, and asked him to help them to be kind and obedient, and to speak the truth. After they had said their prayers, Newton ran to his mamma and kneeled down again by her side, and said, "Will God please to help the hungry little children to smile, for Christ's sake?" CHAPTER II. FRITZ DEAD, YET LIVES. The next day, after the children had finished their lessons, Mrs. Payson said, "I will tell you a little story, showing how a child can do much good. "Many years ago, I knew a little boy who could not walk. His nurse let him fall, when he was a baby, and hurt his back, so that he grew out of shape, and could not stand on his feet. "The little boy's name was Fritz Ritter. His parents lived in a pleasant home, and did all they could to make their darling lame boy happy. "They taught him to read, and write, and to draw pictures. "But Fritz said, 'That is not enough. I have dear friends, who do every thing for me. Now, I must do something too.' "His father kept a man to draw him about in a little wagon; so Fritz knew all the streets in town, and visited the machine-shops and mills to see how things are made. Almost every one looked kindly on his sweet, pale face, and wherever he went the people would talk with him and show him what he wished to see. "As he rode about the city he saw many poor houses, and hungry and ragged children. "One night, when his mamma laid him in his little bed, she saw that he was sad and quiet. "'What is the matter with my little boy to-night?' she asked. "'I have seen so many poor little children on Stone Alley to-day,' said Fritz, 'who were ragged and dirty, I wished they had good homes and good mammas.' "'I am sorry for all poor little children who are ragged and hungry,' said Mrs. Ritter. 'But, as we can not give them pleasant homes we must do what we can for them; for you know Christ says, "The poor ye have always; and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good."'" "Fritz turned his face away and shut his eyes as though he was tired. But he was not tired; he was only thinking. "He had stopped many times at a little shop, in the edge of town, where baskets were made; a man, and a woman, and several children worked there, and they made many kinds of baskets; some of them very fine and pretty. "Fritz had sat in the shop a long time that day, and he asked the man if he might come every day, and learn to make baskets. "Now, in his little bed, with his eyes shut, he was thinking how he would make them and sell them for money to help poor children. "The next morning Fritz told his mamma what he had been thinking about. "She was pleased with his plan; for she thought it would amuse her darling little lame boy. "Fritz went to the basket-maker's shop all Summer, and by the time cold weather came he could make very beautiful baskets. Some merchants in town sold them for him, and by Christmas time he had laid up several dollars, which he said he should give to poor widow Wilcox, who looked sick and pale, and had two children. "Mrs. Ritter gave Fritz a little room at home for his shop; and his papa put into it all the materials necessary for making baskets; and there Fritz spent several hours every day at his work. "He was happy and said, 'Now I am of some use, as I can help to make others good and happy.' "Widow Wilcox and her children had food, and a fire, and clothes in the cold Winter weather; and it was the little pale-faced lame boy who gave them to her. "Jim and Dora Wilcox learned their books because Fritz wished them to do so. They would not play any more with bad children on the streets, because Fritz told them they must not. And when Jim promised that he would try to remember and not use any more naughty words, Fritz told him he would give him all the books he would read to Dora and his mother. "Finally, Jim went every day to Fritz's little shop, and learned to make baskets. He was so handy that, by the time another Christmas came, he was able to carry to his mother money that he had himself earned. "Fritz was about ten years old when he began to make baskets. The Lord allowed him to live only two years longer; but, in that time, many poor children loved him, and thanked him for his kindness. When he died many tears were shed in the alleys and back streets, where the dear pale-faced boy had tried to make others good and happy. "Little children went in a great company, when he was buried, and threw flowers into his grave. "We believe that when Fritz's gentle spirit left his poor, crooked body, it went to the happy land, to grow in beauty forever. But he is not forgotten on earth; and now, many years after, there are those who bless the dear little lame boy." "Did you know him, mamma?" asked Rebecca, with tears in her eyes. "Yes," said Mrs. Payson. "It was when I was a young girl that I attended the funeral of little Fritz. "Mr. Wilcox, who keeps the great store of baskets in town, where you have sometimes stopped with me to see how beautiful they are, is the little Jim whom Fritz taught to be good and useful. "He has always taken tender care of his mother, who is now so old she remembers but little; but if you ask her about Fritz she will talk a long time about him, whom she calls 'God's dear child.'" "Your true story, mamma, is better than made-up ones," said Joshua, as he walked away to the window. "When I look at my little work-basket, mamma," said Rebecca, "that you bought of Mr. Wilcox, I shall think of Fritz, and the basket will help me to be good." "So you see, my darling," said Mrs. Payson, "when our bodies are turning to dust in the ground, the deeds which we did may be helping others to be good or bad." CHAPTER III. HOW? ANSWERED. When the family were gathered in the parlor, after dinner, Mrs. Payson said, "We will now see how we can help poor Mrs. Fisher; for there are none who more need kind words and deeds than helpless ones whom a bad husband and father leaves to suffer, and sometimes to perish, with hunger and cold." "But how can we give Mrs. Fisher any thing, if her husband sells it?" asked Joshua. "There is an honest woman living next to Mrs. Fisher's," said Mrs. Payson, "who has washed for me sometimes. I will hire a place in her little yard for coal, and send some there. I will give Mrs. Fisher tickets for getting a half bushel at a time, when she needs it, so she can have a fire." "And I will give her tickets for getting bread at the bakery, and meat and potatoes in market," said Mr. Payson. "She must get a little at a time, and not keep any in the house for her husband to carry off." "That will be good," said Rebecca; "the little hungry children will smile." "I will give half of my money to buy some shoes for Dick Fisher," said Joshua. "And I will give half of mine to buy a flannel petticoat for Mrs. Fisher," said Rebecca. "Here is my money, mamma," said Newton, who had run to bring his little box. "May we send the children some of our toys?" asked Rebecca. "You may send what you please," said Mrs. Payson. "We will put them in a basket with enough food for a good dinner, and you may carry all to her, Christmas morning, with the tickets." "O, mamma," said Joshua, "it will be pleasant to see how surprised and happy they will look." "Now, what shall we do for Mrs. Grant?" asked Mrs. Payson. "Several neighbors have promised to join me in giving her coal, flour, and meat, as long as she needs such help," said Mr. Payson. "I will prepare some clothes for herself and her children," said Mrs. Payson. "And we will give them some toys and books," said Joshua. "Will you please, papa," said Newton, "send word to Santa Claus to carry his pack to the top of Mrs. Grant's chimney? And I will tell little lame Harry to hang up his stocking." "Yes," said Mr. Payson smiling, "I will send word to Santa Claus to have his eight tiny reindeer jingle their bells right merrily over Mrs. Grant's chimney." That night Mr. Payson's three children went to bed feeling very happy; for they were trying to do something to make others good and happy. CHAPTER IV. WHAT THE STARS SAW. The stars were yet winking through the pine trees on Christmas morning, when the little Paysons went shouting their "merry Christmas" through the house. Santa Claus had filled their stockings with just what they most wanted. Strange that he should know so well! There could be no more morning naps now, and while the stars were shutting their eyes Bridget prepared the early breakfast, so the children might go with their happy hearts and their gifts to gladden those who needed kind words and good deeds. After the family had joined in their morning worship, Mr. Payson said, "Now, my children, we will go and see some sad faces smile, while mamma prepares the Christmas-tree; for she says we must not have a peep at it till our friends come this evening." By the time the sun was looking over the tree tops, Mr. Payson and the children were riding toward Mrs. Grant's with a basket of good things and a great many kind words. They found the little Grants in quite an uproar. They had hung up their stockings for the first time in their lives, and now they were spreading out Santa Claus's wonderful gifts with great glee. The basket was carried in, and Mr. Payson told Mrs. Grant what more would be done for her every-day comfort. Tears came in her eyes when she thanked him and the children. "It almost made me feel like crying," said Rebecca, when they had left the house, "to see poor lame Harry's face look so happy." At Mrs. Fisher's they found a gloomy and unhappy scene. Mr. Fisher sat with his hair falling over his half-shut eyes, while the hungry and cold children were huddled around the half-warmed stove on which their mother was trying to cook something for breakfast. "My children have come to bring some smiles to yourself and your little ones this Christmas morning," said Mr. Payson to Mrs. Fisher, as they stepped into the miserable home. "Mamma says, will you please have a good dinner?" said Rebecca, as she and Joshua carried the basket to Mrs. Fisher, whose eyes filled with tears at this unexpected kindness. Mr. Payson gave her the tickets for coal and food, and told her that his wife would call sometimes and see how she enjoyed them. Mr. Fisher hung his head in shame as the bright faces of the little Paysons left. But a ray of light had shone into that gloomy home, and Mrs. Fisher's sad face smiled when she saw her children spreading out their Christmas gifts. Each one had been kindly remembered and was bright with happiness. Joshua, and Rebecca, and Newton rode toward home, carrying hearts filled anew with love, and gentleness, and kindness. Mr. Payson next knocked at Mr. Kelly's door. Mrs. Kelly was sitting, wrapped up, in a rocking chair, sick, but having a pleasant smile. Little Martha was doing the morning work, and looked with surprise at the early visitors and their good gifts. The children soon had the food spread out for Mrs. Kelly to see what a nice dinner she would have; and Martha fairly danced around the room, holding up a good Sunday frock for herself and a pretty story book. "This _is_ a happy Christmas," said Rebecca as they rode home. "We learn, my children," said Mr. Payson, "that those who try to do their duty may be rich in happy hearts and smiling homes though they are very poor. "But bad hearts and bad ways make the sunshine seem gloomy in the finest parlors." When the sun went down that night, friends, both old and young, gathered in Mr. Payson's parlors, to pluck gifts from the well-loaded Christmas-tree. Fruits from all parts of the world were hanging in its branches, and toys and books peeped out from the green leaves. When little eyelids were closed in sleep that night, the stars winked and smiled over little hearts that were brimful of love; because, by giving, they had grown rich. 


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   [Illustration] The Little Lame Prince By Miss Mulock Pictures By Hope Dunlap [Illustration] The Little Lame Prince and His Travelling Cloak by Miss Mulock With Pictures by Hope Dunlap Rand McNally Co Chicago New York London Copyright, 1909, by Rand-McNally & Company All rights reserved Entered at Stationers' Hall Edition of 1937 Made in U. S. A. [Illustration : Contents] Contents PAGE Chapter I 9 Chapter II 19 Chapter III 31 Chapter IV 43 Chapter V 53 Chapter VI 65 Chapter VII 81 Chapter VIII 91 Chapter IX 99 Chapter X 113 [Illustration: "_Take care, don't let the baby fall again._" _Page 15._] [Illustration: The Little Lame Prince] CHAPTER I. Yes, he was the most beautiful Prince that ever was born. Of course, being a prince, people said this: but it was true besides. When he looked at the candle, his eyes had an expression of earnest inquiry quite startling in a new-born baby. His nose--there was not much of it certainly, but what there was seemed an aquiline shape; his complexion was a charming, healthy purple; he was round and fat, straight-limbed and long--in fact, a splendid baby, and everybody was exceedingly proud of him. Especially his father and mother, the King and Queen of Nomansland, who had waited for him during their happy reign of ten years--now made happier than ever, to themselves and their subjects, by the appearance of a son and heir. The only person who was not quite happy was the king's brother, the heir-presumptive, who would have been king one day, had the baby not been born. But as his Majesty was very kind to him, and even rather sorry for him--insomuch that at the Queen's request he gave him a dukedom almost as big as a county,--the Crown Prince, as he was called, tried to seem pleased also; and let us hope he succeeded. The Prince's christening was to be a grand affair. According to the custom of the country, there were chosen for him four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who each had to give him a name, and promise to do their utmost for him. When he came of age, he himself had to choose the name--and the god-father or godmother--that he liked best, for the rest of his days. Meantime, all was rejoicing. Subscriptions were made among the rich to give pleasure to the poor: dinners in town-halls for the working men; tea-parties in the streets for their wives; and milk and bun feasts for the children in the schoolrooms. For Nomansland, though I cannot point it out in any map, or read of it in any history, was, I believe, much like our own or many another country. As for the Palace--which was no different from other palaces--it was clean "turned out of the windows," as people say, with the preparations going on. The only quiet place in it was the room which, though the Prince was six weeks old, his mother the Queen had never quitted. Nobody said she was ill, however; it would have been so inconvenient; and as she said nothing about it herself, but lay pale and placid, giving no trouble to anybody, nobody thought much about her. All the world was absorbed in admiring the baby. [Illustration: "_All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, ...from the ladies-in-waiting down ..._"] [Illustration: "_The poor little kitchenmaid ... in her pink cotton gown ... thought doubtless, there never was such a pretty girl._"] The christening-day came at last, and it was as lovely as the Prince himself. All the people in the palace were lovely too--or thought themselves so, in the elegant new clothes which the queen, who thought of everybody, had taken care to give them, from the ladies-in-waiting down to the poor little kitchenmaid, who looked at herself in her pink cotton gown, and thought, doubtless, that there never was such a pretty girl as she. By six in the morning all the royal household had dressed itself in its very best; and then the little Prince was dressed in his best--his magnificent christening-robe; which proceeding his Royal Highness did not like at all, but kicked and screamed like any common baby. When he had a little calmed down, they carried him to be looked at by the Queen his mother, who, though her royal robes had been brought and laid upon the bed, was, as everybody well knew, quite unable to rise and put them on. She admired her baby very much; kissed and blessed him, and lay looking at him, as she did for hours sometimes, when he was placed beside her fast asleep; then she gave him up with a gentle smile, and saying "she hoped he would be very good, that it would be a very nice christening, and all the guests would enjoy themselves," turned peacefully over on her bed, saying nothing more to anybody. She was a very uncomplaining person--the Queen, and her name was Dolorez. Everything went on exactly as if she had been present. All, even the King himself, had grown used to her absence, for she was not strong, and for years had not joined in any gaieties. She always did her royal duties, but as to pleasures, they could go on quite well without her, or it seemed so. The company arrived: great and notable persons in this and neighboring countries; also the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who had been chosen with care, as the people who would be most useful to his Royal Highness, should he ever want friends, which did not seem likely. What such want could possibly happen to the heir of the powerful monarch of Nomansland? They came, walking two and two, with their coronets on their heads--being dukes and duchesses, prince and princesses, or the like; they all kissed the child, and pronounced the name which each had given him. Then the four-and-twenty names were shouted out with great energy by six heralds, one after the other, and afterwards written down, to be preserved in the state records, in readiness for the next time they were wanted which would be either on his Royal Highness's coronation or his funeral. Soon the ceremony was over, and everybody satisfied; except, perhaps, the little Prince himself, who moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly smothered him. In truth, though very few knew, the Prince in coming to the chapel had met with a slight disaster. His nurse--not his ordinary one, but the state nursemaid, an elegant and fashionable young lady of rank, whose duty it was to carry him to and from the chapel, had been so occupied in arranging her train with one hand, while she held the baby with the other, that she stumbled and let him fall, just at the foot of the marble staircase. To be sure, she contrived to pick him up again the next minute, and the accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking of. Consequently, nobody did speak of it. The baby had turned deadly pale but did not cry, so no person a step or two behind could discover anything wrong; afterwards, even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were loud enough to drown his voice. It would have been a pity to let anything trouble such a day of felicity. So, after a minute's pause, the procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold; and a troop of little girls in dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed all the way before the nurse and child,--finally the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, as proud as possible, and so splendid to look at that they would have quite extinguished their small godson--merely a heap of lace and muslin with a baby-face inside--had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich feathers, which was held over him wherever he was carried. [Illustration: "_The procession had moved on. Such a procession! Heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold._"] Thus, with the sun shining on them through the painted windows, they stood; the King and his train on one side, the Prince and his attendants on the other, as pretty a sight as ever was seen out of fairyland. "It's just like fairyland," whispered the eldest little girl to the next eldest, as she shook the last rose out of her basket; "and I think the only thing the Prince wants now is a fairy godmother." "Does he?" said a shrill but soft and not unpleasant voice behind; and there was seen among the group of children somebody--not a child--yet no bigger than a child: somebody whom nobody had seen before, and who certainly had not been invited, for she had no christening clothes on. She was a little old woman dressed all in grey: grey gown, grey hooded cloak, of a material excessively fine, and a tint that seemed perpetually changing, like the grey of an evening sky. Her hair was grey and her eyes also; even her complexion had a soft grey shadow over it. But there was nothing unpleasantly old about her, and her smile was as sweet and childlike as the Prince's own, which stole over his pale little face the instant she came near enough to touch him. "Take care. Don't let the baby fall again." The grand young lady nurse started, flushing angrily. "Who spoke to me? How did anybody know?--I mean, what business has anybody--?" Then, frightened, but still speaking in a much sharper tone than I hope young ladies of rank are in the habit of speaking--"Old woman, you will be kind enough not to say 'the baby,' but 'the Prince.' Keep away; his Royal Highness is just going to sleep." "Nevertheless, I must kiss him. I am his godmother." "You!" cried the elegant lady nurse. "You!!" repeated all the gentlemen and ladies in waiting. "You!!!" echoed the heralds and pages--and they began to blow the silver trumpets, in order to stop all further conversation. The Prince's procession formed itself for returning--the King and his train having already moved off towards the palace--but, on the topmost step of the marble stairs, stood, right in front of all, the little old woman clothed in grey. She stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, and gave the little Prince three kisses. "This is intolerable," cried the young lady nurse, wiping the kisses off rapidly with her lace handkerchief. "Such an insult to his Royal Highness. Take yourself out of the way, old woman, or the King shall be informed immediately." "The King knows nothing of me, more's the pity," replied the old woman with an indifferent air, as if she thought the loss was more on his Majesty's side than hers. "My friend in the palace is the King's wife." "Kings' wives are called queens," said the lady nurse, with a contemptuous air. "You are right," replied the old woman. "Nevertheless, I know her Majesty well, and I love her and her child. And--since you dropped him on the marble stairs (this she said in a mysterious whisper, which made the young lady tremble in spite of her anger)--I choose to take him for my own. I am his godmother, ready to help him whenever he wants me." "You help him!" cried all the group, breaking into shouts of laughter, to which the little old woman paid not the slightest attention. Her soft grey eyes were fixed on the Prince, who seemed to answer to the look, smiling again and again in causeless, aimless fashion, as babies do smile. "His Majesty must hear of this," said a gentleman-in-waiting. "His Majesty will hear quite enough news in a minute or two," said the old woman sadly. And again stretching up to the little Prince, she kissed him on the forehead solemnly. "Be called by a new name which nobody has ever thought of. Be Prince Dolor, in memory of your mother Dolorez." "In memory of!" Everybody started at the ominous phrase, and also at a most terrible breach of etiquette which the old woman had committed. In Nomansland, neither the king nor the queen were supposed to have any Christian name at all. They dropped it on their coronation-day, and it was never mentioned again till it was engraved on their coffins when they died. "Old woman, you are exceedingly ill-bred," cried the eldest lady-in-waiting, much horrified. "How you could know the fact passes my comprehension. But even if you did not know it, how dared you presume to hint that her most gracious Majesty is called Dolorez?" "_Was_ called Dolorez," said the old woman with a tender solemnity. The first gentleman, called the Gold-stick-in-waiting, raised it to strike her, and all the rest stretched out their hands to seize her; but the grey mantle melted from between their fingers like air; and, before anybody had time to do anything more, there came a heavy, muffled, startling sound. The great bell of the palace--the bell which was only heard on the death of some of the Royal family, and for as many times as he or she was years old--began to toll. They listened, mute and horror-stricken. Some one counted: One--two--three--four--up to nine and twenty--just the queen's age. It was, indeed, the Queen. Her Majesty was dead! In the midst of the festivities she had slipped away, out of her new happiness and her old sufferings, neither few nor small. Sending away her women to see the sight--at least, they said afterwards, in excuse, that she had done so, and it was very like her to do it--she had turned with her face to the window, whence one could just see the tops of the distant mountains--the Beautiful Mountains, as they were called--where she was born. So gazing, she had quietly died. When the little Prince was carried back to his mother's room, there was no mother to kiss him. And, though he did not know it, there would be for him no mother's kiss any more. As for his Godmother--the little old woman in grey who called herself so--whether she melted into air, like her gown when they touched it, or whether she flew out of the chapel window, or slipped through the doorway among the bewildered crowd, nobody knew--nobody ever thought about her. Only the nurse, the ordinary homely one, coming out of the Prince's nursery in the middle of the night in search of a cordial to quiet his continual moans, saw, sitting in the doorway, something which she would have thought a mere shadow, had she not seen shining out of it two eyes, grey and soft and sweet. She put her hand before her own, screaming loudly. When she took them away, the old woman was gone. CHAPTER II. Everybody was very kind to the poor little Prince. I think people generally are kind to motherless children, whether princes or peasants. He had a magnificent nursery, and a regular suite of attendants, and was treated with the greatest respect and state. Nobody was allowed to talk to him in silly baby language, or dandle him, or above all to kiss him, though, perhaps, some people did it surreptitiously, for he was such a sweet baby that it was difficult to help it. It could not be said that the Prince missed his mother; children of his age cannot do that; but somehow after she died everything seemed to go wrong with him. From a beautiful baby he became sickly and pale, seeming to have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which had been so fat and strong. But after the day of his christening they withered and shrank; he no longer kicked them out either in passion or play, and when, as he got to be nearly a year old, his nurse tried to make him stand upon them, he only tumbled down. This happened so many times that at last people began to talk about it. A prince, and not able to stand on his own legs! What a dreadful thing! what a misfortune for the country! Rather a misfortune to him also, poor little boy! but nobody seemed to think of that. And when, after a while, his health revived, and the old bright look came back to his sweet little face, and his body grew larger and stronger, though still his legs remained the same, people continued to speak of him in whispers, and with grave shakes of the head. Everybody knew, though nobody said it, that something, impossible to guess what, was not quite right with the poor little Prince. Of course, nobody hinted this to the King his father: it does not do to tell great people anything unpleasant. And besides, his Majesty took very little notice of his son, or of his other affairs, beyond the necessary duties of his kingdom. People had said he would not miss the Queen at all, she having been so long an invalid: but he did. After her death he never was quite the same. He established himself in her empty rooms, the only rooms in the palace whence one could see the Beautiful Mountains, and was often observed looking at them as if he thought she had flown away thither, and that his longing could bring her back again. And by a curious coincidence, which nobody dared to inquire into, he desired that the Prince might be called, not by any of the four-and-twenty grand names given him by his godfathers and godmothers, but by the identical name mentioned by the little old woman in grey,--Dolor, after his mother Dolorez. Once a week, according to established state custom, the Prince, dressed in his very best, was brought to the King his father for half-an-hour, but his Majesty was generally too ill and too melancholy to pay much heed to the child. Only once, when he and the Crown Prince, who was exceedingly attentive to his royal brother, were sitting together, with Prince Dolor playing in a corner of the room, dragging himself about with his arms rather than his legs, and sometimes trying feebly to crawl from one chair to another, it seemed to strike the father that all was not right with his son. "How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse. "Two years, three months, and five days, please your Majesty." [Illustration: _"How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse._] "It does not please me," said the King with a sigh. "He ought to be far more forward than he is now, ought he not, brother? You, who have so many children, must know. Is there not something wrong about him?" "Oh, no," said the Crown Prince, exchanging meaning looks with the nurse, who did not understand at all, but stood frightened and trembling with the tears in her eyes. "Nothing to make your Majesty at all uneasy. No doubt his Royal Highness will outgrow it in time." "Outgrow--what?" "A slight delicacy--ahem!--in the spine; something inherited, perhaps, from his dear mother." "Ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweetest woman that ever lived. Come here, my little son." And as the Prince turned round upon his father a small, sweet, grave face--so like his mother's--his Majesty the King smiled and held out his arms. But when the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but wriggling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance clouded over. "I ought to have been told of this. It is terrible--terrible! And for a prince, too! Send for all the doctors in my kingdom immediately." They came, and each gave a different opinion, and ordered a different mode of treatment. The only thing they agreed in was what had been pretty well known before: that the prince must have been hurt when he was an infant--let fall, perhaps, so as to injure his spine and lower limbs. Did nobody remember? No, nobody. Indignantly, all the nurses denied that any such accident had happened, was possible to have happened, until the faithful country nurse recollected that it really had happened, on the day of the christening. For which unluckily good memory all the others scolded her so severely that she had no peace of her life, and soon after, by the influence of the young lady nurse who had carried the baby that fatal day, and who was a sort of connection of the Crown Prince, being his wife's second cousin once removed, the poor woman was pensioned off, and sent to the Beautiful Mountains, from whence she came, with orders to remain there for the rest of her days. But of all this the King knew nothing, for, indeed, after the first shock of finding out that his son could not walk, and seemed never likely to walk, he interfered very little concerning him. The whole thing was too painful, and his Majesty had never liked painful things. Sometimes he inquired after Prince Dolor, and they told him his Royal Highness was going on as well as could be expected, which really was the case. For after worrying the poor child and perplexing themselves with one remedy after another, the Crown Prince, not wishing to offend any of the differing doctors, had proposed leaving him to nature; and nature, the safest doctor of all, had come to his help, and done her best. He could not walk, it is true; his limbs were mere useless additions to his body; but the body itself was strong and sound. And his face was the same as ever--just his mother's face, one of the sweetest in the world! Even the King, indifferent as he was, sometimes looked at the little fellow with sad tenderness, noticing how cleverly he learned to crawl, and swing himself about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he was as active in motion as most children of his age. "Poor little man! he does his best, and he is not unhappy; not half so unhappy as I, brother," addressing the Crown Prince, who was more constant than ever in his attendance upon the sick monarch. "If anything should befall me, I have appointed you as Regent. In case of my death, you will take care of my poor little boy?" "Certainly, certainly; but do not let us imagine any such misfortune. I assure your Majesty--everybody will assure you--that it is not in the least likely." He knew, however, and everybody knew, that it was likely, and soon after it actually did happen. The King died, as suddenly and quietly as the Queen had done--indeed, in her very room and bed; and Prince Dolor was left without either father or mother--as sad a thing as could happen, even to a Prince. He was more than that now, though. He was a king. In Nomansland, as in other countries, the people were struck with grief one day and revived the next. "The king is dead--long live the king!" was the cry that rang through the nation, and almost before his late Majesty had been laid beside the queen in their splendid mausoleum, crowds came thronging from all parts of the royal palace, eager to see the new monarch. They did see him--the Prince Regent took care they should--sitting on the floor of the council-chamber, sucking his thumb! And when one of the gentlemen-in-waiting lifted him up and carried him--fancy, carrying a king!--to the chair of state, and put the crown on his head, he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncomfortable. Sliding down to the foot of the throne, he began playing with the golden lions that supported it, stroking their paws and putting his tiny fingers into their eyes, and laughing--laughing as if he had at last found something to amuse him. "There's a fine king for you!" said the first lord-in-waiting, a friend of the Prince Regent's (the Crown Prince that used to be, who, in the deepest mourning, stood silently beside the throne of his young nephew. He was a handsome man, very grand and clever looking). "What a king! who can never stand to receive his subjects, never walk in processions, who, to the last day of his life, will have to be carried about like a baby. Very unfortunate!" "Exceedingly unfortunate," repeated the second lord. "It is always bad for a nation when its king is a child; but such a child--a permanent cripple, if not worse." "Let us hope not worse," said the first lord in a very hopeless tone, and looking towards the Regent, who stood erect and pretended to hear nothing. "I have heard that these sort of children with very large heads and great broad foreheads and staring eyes, are----well, well, let us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. In the meantime----" "I swear," said the Crown Prince, coming forward and kissing the hilt of his sword--"I swear to perform my duties as regent, to take all care of his Royal Highness--his Majesty, I mean," with a grand bow to the little child, who laughed innocently back again. "And I will do my humble best to govern the country. Still, if the country has the slightest objection----" But the Crown Prince being generalissimo, and having the whole army at his beck and call, so that he could have begun a civil war in no time; the country had, of course, not the slightest objection. So the king and queen slept together in peace, and Prince Dolor reigned over the land--that is, his uncle did; and everybody said what a fortunate thing it was for the poor little Prince to have such a clever uncle to take care of him. All things went on as usual; indeed, after the Regent had brought his wife and her seven sons, and established them in the palace, rather better than usual. For they gave such splendid entertainments and made the capital so lively, that trade revived, and the country was said to be more flourishing than it had been for a century. Whenever the Regent and his sons appeared, they were received with shouts--"Long live the Crown Prince!" "Long live the Royal family!" And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them, and made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses, one height above another, down to the youngest, on his tiny black pony, no bigger than a large dog. [Illustration: "_And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them._"] [Illustration: "_They made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful horses._"] As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince Dolor--for somehow people soon ceased to call him his Majesty, which seemed such a ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple, with only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of--he was seen very seldom by anybody. Sometimes, people daring enough to peer over the high wall of the palace garden, noticed there, carried in a footman's arms, or drawn in a chair, or left to play on the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a pretty little boy, with a bright intelligent face, and large melancholy eyes--no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his mother's, and she was by no means sad-minded, but thoughtful and dreamy. They rather perplexed people, those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly innocent and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing, told a lie for instance, they would turn round with such a grave silent surprise--the child never talked much--that every naughty person in the palace was rather afraid of Prince Dolor. He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even know it, being no better a child than many other children, but there was something about him which made bad people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of themselves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind. I suppose, because they were touched to see a poor little fellow who did not in the least know what had befallen him, or what lay before him, living his baby life as happy as the day was long. Thus, whether or not he was good himself, the sight of him and his affliction made other people good, and, above all, made everybody love him. So much so, that his uncle the Regent began to feel a little uncomfortable. Now, I have nothing to say against uncles in general. They are usually very excellent people, and very convenient to little boys and girls. Even the "cruel uncle" of "The Babes in the Wood" I believe to be quite an exceptional character. And this "cruel uncle" of whom I am telling was, I hope, an exception too. He did not mean to be cruel. If anybody had called him so, he would have resented it extremely: he would have said that what he did was done entirely for the good of the country. But he was a man who had been always accustomed to consider himself first and foremost, believing that whatever he wanted was sure to be right, and, therefore, he ought to have it. So he tried to get it, and got it too, as people like him very often do. Whether they enjoy it when they have it, is another question. Therefore, he went one day to the council-chamber, determined on making a speech and informing the ministers and the country at large that the young King was in failing health, and that it would be advisable to send him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains. Whether he really meant to do this; or whether it occurred to him afterwards that there would be an easier way of attaining his great desire, the crown of Nomansland, is a point which I cannot decide. But soon after, when he had obtained an order in council to send the King away--which was done in great state, with a guard of honour composed of two whole regiments of soldiers--the nation learnt, without much surprise, that the poor little Prince--nobody ever called him king now--had gone on a much longer journey than to the Beautiful Mountains. He had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours; at least, so declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent to take care of him. They brought his coffin back in great state, and buried it in the mausoleum with his parents. So Prince Dolor was seen no more. The country went into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and his uncle reigned in his stead. That illustrious personage accepted his crown with great decorum, and wore it with great dignity, to the last. But whether he enjoyed it or not, there is no evidence to show. CHAPTER III. And what of the little lame prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to have forgotten? Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been familiar with his sweet ways--these many a time sighed and said, "Poor Prince Dolor!" Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, "Well, perhaps his Royal Highness is better where he is than even there." They did not know--indeed, hardly anybody did know--that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of country, barren, level, bare, except for short stunted grass, and here and there a patch of tiny flowers. Not a bush--not a tree--not a resting-place for bird or beast was in that dreary plain. In summer, the sunshine fell upon it hour after hour with a blinding glare; in winter, the winds and rains swept over it unhindered, and the snow came down, steadily, noiselessly, covering it from end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for days and weeks unmarked by a single footprint. [Illustration: "_One large round tower which rose up in the center of the plain._"] Not a pleasant place to live in--and nobody did live there, apparently. The only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot, was one large round tower which rose up in the centre of the plain, and might be seen all over it--if there had been anybody to see, which there never was. Rose, right up out of the ground, as if it had grown of itself, like a mushroom. But it was not at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was very solidly built. In form, it resembled the Irish round towers, which have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find out when, or by whom, or for what purpose they were made; seemingly for no use at all, like this tower. It was circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until near the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall, through which one might possibly creep in or look out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet high, and it had a battlemented parapet, showing sharp against the sky. As the plain was quite desolate--almost like a desert, only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate sea-coast--nobody ever crossed it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky and the plain kept their secret to themselves. It was a very great secret indeed--a state secret--which none but so clever a man as the present king of Nomansland would ever have thought of. How he carried it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell. People said, long afterwards, that it was by means of a gang of condemned criminals, who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done, so that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact. And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which seemed a mere mass of masonry, utterly forsaken and uninhabited, was not so at all. Within twenty feet of the top, some ingenious architect had planned a perfect little house, divided into four rooms--as by drawing a cross within a circle you will see might easily be done. By making skylights, and a few slits in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete; eighty feet from the ground, and as inaccessible as a rook's nest on the top of a tree. A charming place to live in! if you once got up there, and never wanted to come down again. Inside--though nobody could have looked inside except a bird, and hardly even a bird flew past that lonely tower--inside it was furnished with all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys, and everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its only inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor little solitary child. One winter night, when all the plain was white with moonlight, there was seen crossing it a great tall black horse, ridden by a man also big and equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and a child. The woman--she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for she was a criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed to almost as severe a punishment. She was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child, and was allowed to live as long as the child lived--no longer. This, in order that she might take the utmost care of him; for those who put him there were equally afraid of his dying and of his living. And yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet sleepy smile--he had been very tired with his long journey--and clinging arms, which held tight to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him. And he was very helpless, with his poor small shrivelled legs, which could neither stand nor run away--for the little forlorn boy was Prince Dolor. [Illustration: "_He was rather frightened, and the face, black as it was, looked kindly at him._"] He had not been dead at all--or buried either. His grand funeral had been a mere pretence: a wax figure having been put in his place, while he himself was spirited away under charge of these two, the condemned woman and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so could neither tell nor repeat anything. When they reached the foot of the tower, there was light enough to see a huge chain dangling from the parapet, but dangling only half way. The deaf-mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together and lifted it up to meet the chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a sort of chair, in which the woman and the child placed themselves and were drawn up, never to come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them there, the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces again and packed it in his pack, mounted the horse, and disappeared across the plain. Every month they used to watch for him, appearing like a speck in the distance. He fastened his horse to the foot of the tower and climbed it, as before, laden with provisions and many other things. He always saw the Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well, and then went away until the following month. While his first childhood lasted, Prince Dolor was happy enough. He had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one thing wanting--love, never having known, he did not miss. His nurse was very kind to him, though she was a wicked woman. But either she had not been quite so wicked as people said, or she grew better through being shut up continually with a little innocent child, who was dependent upon her for every comfort and pleasure of his life. It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to tease or ill-use him, and he was never ill. He played about from room to room--there were four rooms--parlour, kitchen, his nurse's bed-room, and his own; learnt to crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about on all-fours almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was very much like a puppy or a kitten, as thoughtless and as merry--scarcely ever cross, though sometimes a little weary. As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be quiet for awhile, and then he would sit at the slits of windows, which were, however, much bigger than they looked from the bottom of the tower,--and watch the sky above and the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the sunshine coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds running races across the blank plain. By-and-by he began to learn lessons--not that his nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself. She was not a stupid woman, and Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so they got on very well, and his continual entreaty "What can I do? what can you find me to do?" was stopped; at least for an hour or two in the day. It was a dull life, but he had never known any other; anyhow, he remembered no other; and he did not pity himself at all. Not for a long time, till he grew to be quite a big little boy, and could read easily. Then he suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him from time to time--books which, not being acquainted with the literature of Nomansland, I cannot describe, but no doubt they were very interesting; and they informed him of everything in the outside world, and filled him with an intense longing to see it. From this time a change came over the boy. He began to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking. For his nurse hardly spoke, and whatever questions he asked beyond their ordinary daily life she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on pain of death, to tell him anything about himself, who he was, or what he might have been. He knew he was Prince Dolor, because she always addressed him as "my prince," and "your royal highness," but what a prince was he had not the least idea. He had no idea of any thing in the world, except what he found in his books. He sat one day surrounded by them, having built them up round him like a little castle wall. He had been reading them half the day, but feeling all the while that to read about things which you never can see is like hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For almost the first time in his life he grew melancholy: his hands fell on his lap; he sat gazing out of the window-slit upon the view outside--the view he had looked at every day of his life, and might look at for endless days more. Not a very cheerful view--just the plain and the sky--but he liked it. He used to think, if he could only fly out of that window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it would be! Perhaps when he died--his nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the tower till he died--he might be able to do this. Not that he understood much what dying meant, but it must be a change, and any change seemed to him a blessing. "And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about it; about that and many other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my poor white kitten." Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's one friend, the one interest of his life, had been a little white kitten, which the deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him--the only living creature Prince Dolor had ever seen. For four weeks it was his constant plaything and companion, till one moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It was not killed, he hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it pick itself up and scamper away, but he never caught sight of it more. "Yes, I wish I had something better than a kitten--a person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me. Oh, I want somebody--dreadfully, dreadfully!" As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap-tap-tap, as of a stick or a cane, and twisting himself round, he saw--what do you think he saw? Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still exceedingly curious. A little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been, had his legs grown like those of other children, but she was not a child--she was an old woman. Her hair was grey, and her dress was grey, and there was a grey shadow over her whereever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile, the prettiest hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice imaginable. "My dear little boy,"--and dropping her cane, the only bright and rich thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--"my own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me, but now you do want me, here I am." [Illustration: "_She laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders--'My own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted me.'_"] "And you are very welcome, madam," replied the Prince, trying to speak politely, as princes always did in books; "and I am exceedingly obliged to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?" For he knew that little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what had become of his own. "No," said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, putting back the hair from his forehead, and looking right into his eyes--"No, I am not your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you are as like her as ever you can be." "Will you tell her to come and see me then?" "She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. And she loves you very much--and so do I; and I want to help you all I can, my poor little boy." "Why do you call me poor?" asked Prince Dolor in surprise. The little old woman glanced down on his legs and feet, which he did not know were different from those of other children, and then at his sweet, bright face, which, though he knew not that either, was exceedingly different from many children's faces, which are often so fretful, cross, sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she smiled. "I beg your pardon, my prince," said she. "Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will you tell me yours, madam?" The little old woman laughed like a chime of silver bells. "I have not got a name--or rather, I have so many names that I don't know which to choose. However, it was I who gave you yours, and you will belong to me all your days. I am your godmother." "Hurrah!" cried the little prince; "I am glad I belong to you, for I like you very much. Will you come and play with me?" So they sat down together, and played. By-and-by they began to talk. "Are you very dull here?" asked the little old woman. "Not particularly, thank you, godmother. I have plenty to eat and drink, and my lessons to do, and my books to read--lots of books." "And you want nothing?" "Nothing. Yes--perhaps--If you please, godmother, could you bring me just one more thing?" "What sort of thing?" "A little boy to play with." The old woman looked very sad. "Just the thing, alas, which I cannot give you. My child, I cannot alter your lot in any way, but I can help you to bear it." "Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I have nothing to bear." "My poor little man!" said the old woman in the very tenderest tone of her tender voice. "Kiss me!" "What is kissing?" asked the wondering child. His godmother took him in her arms and embraced him many times. By-and-by he kissed her back again--at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all the strength of his warm little heart. "You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, I think. Promise me that you will never go away." "I must; but I will leave a present behind me--something as good as myself to amuse you--something that will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see." "What is it?" "A travelling-cloak." The Prince's countenance fell. "I don't want a cloak, for I never go out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and carries me round by the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as she does." "The more reason why you should ride; and besides, this travelling-cloak----" "Hush!--she's coming." There sounded outside the room door a heavy step and a grumpy voice, and a rattle of plates and dishes. "It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I don't want dinner at all--I only want you. Will her coming drive you away, godmother?" "Perhaps; but only for a little. Never mind; all the bolts and bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the window, or down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come." "Thank you," said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother--what would they say to one another? how would they look at one another?--two such different faces: one, harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other, sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins. When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his eyes, trembling all over: opening them again, he saw he need fear nothing; his lovely old godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the room. "What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in," said she sharply. "Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?" kicking a little bundle that lay beside them. "Oh, nothing, nothing--give it me!" cried the prince, and darting after it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it quickly into his pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she had sat, and might be something belonging to her--his dear, kind godmother, whom already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart. It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful travelling-cloak. CHAPTER IV. And what of the travelling-cloak? What sort of cloak was it, and what good did it do the Prince? Stay, and I'll tell you all about it. Outside it was the commonest-looking bundle imaginable--shabby and small; and the instant Prince Dolor touched it, it grew smaller still, dwindling down till he could put it in his trousers pocket, like a handkerchief rolled up into a ball. He did this at once, for fear his nurse should see it, and kept it there all day--all night, too. Till after his next morning's lessons he had no opportunity of examining his treasure. When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a mere piece of cloth--circular in form, dark green in colour, that is, if it had any colour at all, being so worn and shabby, though not dirty. It had a split cut to the centre, forming a round hole for the neck--and that was all its shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South America are called _ponchos_--very simple, but most graceful and convenient. Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously; spread it out on the floor, then arranged it on his shoulders. It felt very warm and comfortable; but it was so exceedingly shabby--the only shabby thing that the Prince had ever seen in his life. [Illustration: "_Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his disappointment he examined it curiously._"] "And what use will it be to me?" said he sadly. "I have no need of outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why was this given me, I wonder? and what in the world am I to do with it? She must be a rather funny person, this dear godmother of mine." Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and had given him the cloak, he folded it carefully and put it away, poor and shabby as it was, hiding it in a safe corner of his toy-cupboard, which his nurse never meddled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh at it, or at his godmother--as he felt sure she would, if she knew all. There it lay, and by-and-by he forgot all about it; nay, I am sorry to say, that, being but a child, and not seeing her again, he almost forgot his sweet old godmother, or thought of her only as he did of the angels or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit as if it had been a mere dream of the night. There were times, certainly, when he recalled her; of early mornings like that morning when she appeared beside him, and late evenings, when the grey twilight reminded him of the colour of her hair and her pretty soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of the night, with the stars peering in at his window, or the moonlight shining across his little bed, he would not have been surprised to see her standing beside it, looking at him with those beautiful tender eyes, which seemed to have a pleasantness and comfort in them different from anything he had ever known. But she never came, and gradually she slipped out of his memory--only a boy's memory, after all; until something happened which made him remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before. Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught--his nurse could not tell how--a complaint common to the people of Nomansland, called the doldrums, as unpleasant as measles or any other of our complaints; and it made him restless, cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely--while, in her intense terror lest he might die, she fidgetted him still more. At last, seeing he really was getting well, she left him to himself--which he was most glad of, in spite of his dulness and dreariness. There he lay, alone, quite alone. [Illustration: "_Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse extremely._"] Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in which he longed to get up and do something, or go somewhere--would have liked to imitate his white kitten--jump down from the tower and run away, taking the chance of whatever might happen. Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for the kitten, he remembered, had four active legs, while he---- "I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked at my legs and sighed so bitterly? I wonder why I can't walk straight and steady like my nurse--only I wouldn't like to have her great noisy, clumping shoes. Still, it would be very nice to move about quickly--perhaps to fly, like a bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day skimming across the sky--one after the other." These were the passage-birds--the only living creatures that ever crossed the lonely plain; and he had been much interested in them, wondering whence they came and whither they were going. "How nice it must be to be a bird. If legs are no good, why cannot one have wings? People have wings when they die--perhaps: I wish I was dead, that I do. I am so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me. Nobody ever did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. Godmother, dear, have you quite forsaken me?" He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him at the back of his neck, and turning, found that he was resting, not on the sofa-pillows, but on a warm shoulder--that of the little old woman clothed in grey. How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her kind eyes, and felt her hands, to see if she were all real and alive! then put both his arms round her neck, and kissed her as if he would never have done kissing! "Stop, stop!" cried she, pretending to be smothered, "I see you have not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a good thing--in moderation. Only, just let me have breath to speak one word." "A dozen!" he said. "Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you since I saw you--or rather, since you saw me, which is a quite different thing." "Nothing has happened--nothing ever does happen to me," answered the Prince dolefully. "And are you very dull, my boy?" "So dull, that I was just thinking whether I could not jump down to the bottom of the tower like my white kitten." "Don't do that, being not a white kitten." "I wish I were!--I wish I were anything but what I am!" "And you can't make yourself any different, nor can I do it either. You must be content to stay just what you are." The little old woman said this--very firmly, but gently, too--with her arms round his neck, and her lips on his forehead. It was the first time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in surprise--but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness of her words. "Now, my prince--for you are a prince, and must behave as such--let us see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show you how to do for yourself. Where is your travelling-cloak?" Prince Dolor blushed extremely. "I--I put it away in the cupboard; I suppose it is there still." "You have never used it; you dislike it?" He hesitated, not wishing to be impolite. "Don't you think it's--just a little old and shabby, for a prince?" The old woman laughed--long and loud, though very sweetly. "Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world craved for it, they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and shabby! It's the most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I thought I would give it to you, because--because you are different from other people." "Am I?" said the Prince, and looked first with curiosity, then with a sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was sad and grave, with slow tears beginning to steal down. She touched his poor little legs. "These are not like those of other little boys." "Indeed!--my nurse never told me that." "Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I tell you, because I love you." "Tell me what, dear godmother?" "That you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, or play--that your life will be quite different to most people's lives: but it may be a very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid." "I am not afraid," said the boy; but he turned very pale, and his lips began to quiver, though he did not actually cry--he was too old for that, and, perhaps, too proud. Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to guess what his godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen pictures of them; running and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard to imitate, but always failed. Now he began to understand why he failed, and that he always should fail--that, in fact, he was not like other little boys; and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did, and play as they played, even if he had had them to play with. His was a separate life, in which he must find out new work and new pleasures for himself. The sense of _the inevitable_, as grown-up people call it--that we cannot have things as we want them to be, but as they are, and that we must learn to bear them and make the best of them--this lesson, which everybody has to learn soon or late--came, alas! sadly soon, to the poor boy. He fought against it for a while, and then, quite overcome, turned and sobbed bitterly in his godmother's arms. She comforted him--I do not know how, except that love always comforts; and then she whispered to him, in her sweet, strong, cheerful voice--"Never mind!" "No, I don't think I do mind--that is, I _won't_ mind," replied he, catching the courage of her tone and speaking like a man, though he was still such a mere boy. "That is right, my prince!--that is being like a prince. Now we know exactly where we are; let us put our shoulders to the wheel and----" "We are in Hopeless Tower" (this was its name, if it had a name), "and there is no wheel to put our shoulders to," said the child sadly. "You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you that you have a godmother called----" "What?" he eagerly asked. "Stuff-and-nonsense." "Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!" "Some people give it me, but they are not my most intimate friends. These call me--never mind what," added the old woman, with a soft twinkle in her eyes. "So as you know me, and know me well, you may give me any name you please; it doesn't matter. But I am your godmother, child. I have few godchildren; those I have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing in all the world." "I can well believe it," cried the little lame Prince, and forgot his troubles in looking at her--as her figure dilated, her eyes grew lustrous as stars, her very raiment brightened, and the whole room seemed filled with her beautiful and beneficent presence like light. He could have looked at her for ever--half in love, half in awe; but she suddenly dwindled down into the little old woman all in grey, and with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, asked for the travelling-cloak. "Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the dust off it, quick!" said she to Prince Dolor, who hung his head, rather ashamed. "Spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes and the edges turn up like a rim all round. Then go and open the sky-light--mind, I say _open the skylight_--set yourself down in the middle of it, like a frog on a water-lily leaf; say 'Abracadabra, dum dum dum,' and--see what will happen!" The prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all seemed so exceedingly silly; he wondered that a wise old woman like his godmother should talk such nonsense. "Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean," said she, answering, to his great alarm, his unspoken thoughts. "Did I not tell you some people called me by that name? Never mind; it doesn't harm me." And she laughed--her merry laugh--as child-like as if she were the prince's age instead of her own, whatever that might be. She certainly was a most extraordinary old woman. "Believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said she. "Here is the cloak: when you want to go travelling on it, say _Abracadabra, dum dum dum_; when you want to come back again, say _Abracadabra, tum tum ti_. That's all; good-bye." A puff of pleasant air passing by him, and making him feel for the moment quite strong and well, was all the Prince was conscious of. His most extraordinary godmother was gone. "Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness's cheeks have grown! You seem to have got well already," said the nurse, entering the room. "I think I have," replied the Prince very gently--he felt kindly and gently even to his grim nurse. "And now let me have my dinner, and go you to your sewing as usual." The instant she was gone, however, taking with her the plates and dishes, which for the first time since his illness he had satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang down from his sofa, and with one or two of his frog-like jumps, not graceful but convenient, he reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for his travelling-cloak. Alas! it was not there. While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse, thinking it a good opportunity for putting things to rights, had made a grand clearance of all his "rubbish," as she considered it: his beloved headless horses, broken carts, sheep without feet, and birds without wings--all the treasures of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with. Though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to feel they were there. They were all gone! and with them the travelling-cloak. He sat down on the floor, looking at the empty shelves, so beautifully clean and tidy, then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break. But quietly--always quietly. He never let his nurse hear him cry. She only laughed at him, as he felt she would laugh now. "And it is all my own fault," he cried. "I ought to have taken better care of my godmother's gift. O, godmother, forgive me! I'll never be so careless again. I don't know what the cloak is exactly, but I am sure it is something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don't let it be stolen from me--don't, please!" "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a silvery voice. "Why, that travelling-cloak is the one thing in the world which nobody can steal. It is of no use to anybody except the owner. Open your eyes, my prince, and see what you shall see." His dear old godmother, he thought, had turned eagerly round. But no; he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, all dust and cobwebs, his precious travelling-cloak. Prince Dolor darted towards it, tumbling several times on the way,--as he often did tumble, poor boy! and pick himself up again, never complaining. Snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it, cobwebs and all, as if it had been something alive. Then he began unrolling it, wondering each minute what would happen. But what did happen was so curious that I must leave it for another chapter. CHAPTER V. If any reader, big or little, should wonder whether there is a meaning in this story, deeper than that of an ordinary fairy tale, I will own that there is. But I have hidden it so carefully that the smaller people, and many larger folk, will never find it out, and meantime the book may be read straight on, like "Cinderella," or "Blue-Beard," or "Hop-o'-my Thumb," for what interest it has, or what amusement it may bring. Having said this, I return to Prince Dolor, that little lame boy whom many may think so exceedingly to be pitied. But if you had seen him as he sat patiently untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in a very tight and perplexing parcel, using skilfully his deft little hands, and knitting his brows with firm determination, while his eyes glistened with pleasure, and energy, and eager anticipation--if you had beheld him thus, you might have changed your opinion. When we see people suffering or unfortunate, we feel very sorry for them; but when we see them bravely bearing their sufferings, and making the best of their misfortunes, it is quite a different feeling. We respect, we admire them. One can respect and admire even a little child. When Prince Dolor had patiently untied all the knots, a remarkable thing happened. The cloak began to undo itself. Slowly unfolding, it laid itself down on the carpet, as flat as if it had been ironed; the split joined with a little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round till it was breast-high; for meantime the cloak had grown and grown, and become quite large enough for one person to sit in it, as comfortable as if in a boat. The Prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such an extraordinary, not to say a frightening thing. However, he was no coward, but a thorough boy, who, if he had been like other boys, would doubtless have grown up daring and adventurous--a soldier, a sailor, or the like. As it was, he could only show his courage morally, not physically, by being afraid of nothing, and by doing boldly all that it was in his narrow powers to do. And I am not sure but that in this way he showed more real valour than if he had had six pairs of proper legs. He said to himself, "What a goose I am! As if my dear godmother would ever have given me anything to hurt me. Here goes!" So, with one of his active leaps, he sprang right into the middle of the cloak, where he squatted down, wrapping his arms tight round his knees, for they shook a little and his heart beat fast. But there he sat, steady and silent, waiting for what might happen next. Nothing did happen, and he began to think nothing would, and to feel rather disappointed, when he recollected the words he had been told to repeat--"Abracadabra, dum, dum, dum!" He repeated them, laughing all the while, they seemed such nonsense. And then--and then---- Now, I don't expect anybody to believe what I am going to relate, though a good many wise people have believed a good many sillier things. And as seeing's believing, and I never saw it, I cannot be expected implicitly to believe it myself, except in a sort of a way; and yet there is truth in it--for some people. The cloak rose, slowly and steadily, at first only a few inches, then gradually higher and higher, till it nearly touched the skylight. Prince Dolor's head actually bumped against the glass, or would have done so, had he not crouched down, crying, "Oh, please don't hurt me!" in a most melancholy voice. Then he suddenly remembered his godmother's express command--"Open the skylight!" Regaining his courage at once, without a moment's delay, he lifted up his head and began searching for the bolt, the cloak meanwhile remaining perfectly still, balanced in air. But the minute the window was opened, out it sailed--right out into the clear fresh air, with nothing between it and the cloudless blue. Prince Dolor had never felt any such delicious sensation before! I can understand it. Cannot you? Did you never think, in watching the rooks going home singly or in pairs, oaring their way across the calm evening sky, till they vanish like black dots in the misty grey, how pleasant it must feel to be up there, quite out of the noise and din of the world, able to hear and see everything down below, yet troubled by nothing and teased by no one--all alone, but perfectly content. Something like this was the happiness of the little lame Prince when he got out of Hopeless Tower, and found himself for the first time in the pure open air, with the sky above him and the earth below. True, there was nothing but earth and sky; no houses, no trees, no rivers, mountains, seas--not a beast on the ground, or a bird in the air. But to him even the level plain looked beautiful; and then there was the glorious arch of the sky, with a little young moon sitting in the west like a baby queen. And the evening breeze was so sweet and fresh, it kissed him like his godmother's kisses; and by-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities--quantities! so that, when he began to count them, he was utterly bewildered. [Illustration: "_By-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities!_"] By this time, however, the cool breeze had become cold, the mist gathered, and as he had, as he said, no outdoor clothes, poor Prince Dolor was not very comfortable. The dews fell damp on his curls--he began to shiver. "Perhaps I had better go home," thought he. But how?--For in his excitement the other words which his godmother had told him to use had slipped his memory. They were only a little different from the first, but in that slight difference all the importance lay. As he repeated his "Abracadabra," trying ever so many other syllables after it, the cloak only went faster and faster, skimming on through the dusky empty air. The poor little Prince began to feel frightened. What if his wonderful travelling-cloak should keep on thus travelling, perhaps to the world's end, carrying with it a poor, tired, hungry boy, who, after all, was beginning to think there was something very pleasant in supper and bed? "Dear godmother," he cried pitifully, "do help me! Tell me just this once and I'll never forget again." Instantly the words came rushing into his head--"Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" Was that it? Ah, yes!--for the cloak began to turn slowly. He repeated the charm again, more distinctly and firmly, when it gave a gentle dip, like a nod of satisfaction, and immediately started back, as fast as ever, in the direction of the tower. He reached the skylight, which he found exactly as he had left it, and slipped in, cloak and all, as easily as he had got out. He had scarcely reached the floor, and was still sitting in the middle of his travelling-cloak--like a frog on a water-lily leaf, as his godmother had expressed it--when he heard his nurse's voice outside. "Bless us! what has become of your Royal Highness all this time? To sit stupidly here at the window till it is quite dark, and leave the skylight open too. Prince! what can you be thinking of? You are the silliest boy I ever knew." "Am I?" said he absently, and never heeding her crossness; or his only anxiety was lest she might find out anything. She would have been a very clever person to have done so. The instant Prince Dolor got off it, the cloak folded itself up into the tiniest possible parcel, tied all its own knots, and rolled itself of its own accord into the farthest and darkest corner of the room. If the nurse had seen it, which she didn't, she would have taken it for a mere bundle of rubbish not worth noticing. Shutting the skylight with an angry bang, she brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression of countenance. But Prince Dolor hardly saw it; he only saw, hid in the corner where nobody else would see it, his wonderful travelling-cloak. And though his supper was not particularly nice, he ate it heartily, scarcely hearing a word of his nurse's grumbling, which to-night seemed to have taken the place of her sullen silence. [Illustration: "_She brought in the supper and lit the candles, with her usual unhappy expression ... he only saw his wonderful travelling-cloak._" _Page 58._] "Poor woman!" he thought, when he paused a minute to listen and look at her, with those quiet, happy eyes, so like his mother's. "Poor woman! _she_ hasn't got a travelling-cloak!" And when he was left alone at last, and crept into his little bed, where he lay awake a good while, watching what he called his "sky-garden," all planted with stars, like flowers, his chief thought was, "I must be up very early to-morrow morning and get my lessons done, and then I'll go travelling all over the world on my beautiful cloak." So, next day, he opened his eyes with the sun, and went with a good heart to his lessons. They had hitherto been the chief amusement of his dull life; now, I am afraid, he found them also a little dull. But he tried to be good--I don't say Prince Dolor always was good, but he generally tried to be--and when his mind went wandering after the dark dusty corner where lay his precious treasure, he resolutely called it back again. "For," he said, "how ashamed my godmother would be of me if I grew up a stupid boy." But the instant lessons were done, and he was alone in the empty room, he crept across the floor, undid the shabby little bundle, his fingers trembling with eagerness, climbed on the chair, and thence to the table, so as to unbar the skylight--he forgot nothing now--said his magic charm, and was away out of the window, as children say, "in a few minutes less than no time!" Nobody missed him. He was accustomed to sit so quietly always, that his nurse, though only in the next room, perceived no difference. And besides, she might have gone in and out a dozen times, and it would have been just the same; she never could have found out his absence. For what do you think the clever godmother did? She took a quantity of moonshine, or some equally convenient material, and made an image, which she set on the window-sill reading, or by the table drawing, where it looked so like Prince Dolor, that any common observer would never have guessed the deception; and even the boy would have been puzzled to know which was the image and which was himself. And all this while the happy little fellow was away, floating in the air on his magic cloak, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things--or they seemed wonderful to him, who had hitherto seen nothing at all. First, there were the flowers that grew on the plain, which, whenever the cloak came near enough, he strained his eyes to look at; they were very tiny, but very beautiful--white saxifrage, and yellow lotus, and ground-thistles, purple and bright, with many others the names of which I do not know. No more did Prince Dolor, though he tried to find them out by recalling any pictures he had seen of them. But he was too far off; and though it was pleasant enough to admire them as brilliant patches of colour, still he would have liked to examine them all. He was, as a little girl I know once said of a playfellow, "a very _examining_ boy." "I wonder," he thought, "whether I could see better through a pair of glasses like those my nurse reads with, and takes such care of. How I would take care of them too! if only I had a pair!" Immediately he felt something queer and hard fixing itself on to the bridge of his nose. It was a pair of the prettiest gold spectacles ever seen; and looking downwards, he found that, though ever so high above the ground, he could see every minute blade of grass, every tiny bud and flower--nay, even the insects that walked over them. "Thank you, thank you!" he cried in a gush of gratitude--to anybody or everybody, but especially to his dear godmother, whom he felt sure had given him this new present. He amused himself with it for ever so long, with his chin pressed on the rim of the cloak, gazing down upon the grass, every square foot of which was a mine of wonders. Then, just to rest his eyes, he turned them up to the sky--the blue, bright, empty sky, which he had looked at so often and seen nothing. Now, surely there was something. A long, black, wavy line, moving on in the distance, not by chance, as the clouds move apparently, but deliberately, as if it were alive. He might have seen it before--he almost thought he had; but then he could not tell what it was. Looking at it through his spectacles, he discovered that it really was alive; being a long string of birds, flying one after the other, their wings moving steadily and their heads pointed in one direction, as steadily as if each were a little ship, guided invisibly by an unerring helm. "They must be the passage-birds flying seawards!" cried the boy, who had read a little about them, and had a great talent for putting two and two together and finding out all he could. "Oh, how I should like to see them quite close, and to know where they come from, and whither they are going! How I wish I knew everything in all the world!" A silly speech for even an "examining" little boy to make; because, as we grow older, the more we know, the more we find out there is to know. And Prince Dolor blushed when he had said it, and hoped nobody had heard him. Apparently somebody had, however; for the cloak gave a sudden bound forward, and presently he found himself high up in air, in the very middle of that band of Ã¦rial travellers, who had no magic cloak to travel on--nothing except their wings. Yet there they were, making their fearless way through the sky. Prince Dolor looked at them, as one after the other they glided past him; and they looked at him--those pretty swallows, with their changing necks and bright eyes--as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of a bird. [Illustration: "_They looked at him ... as if wondering to meet in mid-air such an extraordinary sort of bird._" _Page 62._] "Oh, I wish I were going with you, you lovely creatures!" cried the boy. "I'm getting so tired of this dull plain, and the dreary and lonely tower. I do so want to see the world! Pretty swallows, dear swallows! tell me what it looks like--the beautiful, wonderful world!" But the swallows flew past him--steadily, slowly, pursuing their course as if inside each little head had been a mariner's compass, to guide them safe over land and sea, direct to the place where they desired to go. The boy looked after them with envy. For a long time he followed with his eyes the faint wavy black line as it floated away, sometimes changing its curves a little, but never deviating from its settled course, till it vanished entirely out of sight. Then he settled himself down in the centre of the cloak, feeling quite sad and lonely. "I think I'll go home," said he, and repeated his "Abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!" with a rather heavy heart. The more he had, the more he wanted; and it is not always one can have everything one wants--at least, at the exact minute one craves for it; not even though one is a prince, and has a powerful and beneficent godmother. He did not like to vex her by calling for her, and telling her how unhappy he was, in spite of all her goodness; so he just kept his trouble to himself, went back to his lonely tower, and spent three days in silent melancholy without even attempting another journey on his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER VI. The fourth day it happened that the deaf-mute paid his accustomed visit, after which Prince Dolor's spirits rose. They always did, when he got the new books, which, just to relieve his conscience, the King of Nomansland regularly sent to his nephew; with many new toys also, though the latter were disregarded now. "Toys indeed! when I'm a big boy," said the Prince with disdain, and would scarcely condescend to mount a rocking-horse, which had come, somehow or other--I can't be expected to explain things very exactly--packed on the back of the other, the great black horse, which stood and fed contentedly at the bottom of the tower. Prince Dolor leaned over and looked at it, and thought how grand it must be to get upon its back--this grand live steed--and ride away, like the pictures of knights. "Suppose I was a knight," he said to himself; "then I should be obliged to ride out and see the world." But he kept all these thoughts to himself, and just sat still, devouring his new books till he had come to the end of them all. It was a repast not unlike the Barmecide's feast which you read of in the "Arabian Nights," which consisted of very elegant but empty dishes, or that supper of Sancho Panza in "Don Quixote," where, the minute the smoking dishes came on the table, the physician waved his hand and they were all taken away. Thus, almost all the ordinary delights of boy-life had been taken away from, or rather never given to, this poor little Prince. "I wonder," he would sometimes think--"I wonder what it feels like to be on the back of a horse, galloping away, or holding the reins in a carriage, and tearing across the country, or jumping a ditch, or running a race, such as I read of or see in pictures. What a lot of things there are that I should like to do! But first, I should like to go and see the world. I'll try." Apparently it was his godmother's plan always to let him try, and try hard, before he gained anything. This day the knots that tied up his travelling-cloak were more than usually troublesome, and he was a full half hour before he got out into the open air, and found himself floating merrily over the top of the tower. Hitherto, in all his journeys he had never let himself go out of sight of home, for the dreary building, after all, was home--he remembered no other; but now he felt sick of the very look of his tower, with its round smooth walls and level battlements. "Off we go!" cried he, when the cloak stirred itself with a slight slow motion, as if waiting his orders. "Anywhere--anywhere, so that I am away from here, and out into the world." As he spoke, the cloak, as if seized suddenly with a new idea, bounded forward and went skimming through the air, faster than the very fastest railway train. "Gee-up, gee-up!" cried Prince Dolor in great excitement. "This is as good as riding a race." And he patted the cloak as if it had been a horse--that is, in the way he supposed horses ought to be patted; and tossed his head back to meet the fresh breeze, and pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down, as he felt the wind grow keener and colder, colder than anything he had ever known. "What does it matter though?" said he. "I'm a boy, and boys ought not to mind anything." Still, for all his good-will, by-and-by he began to shiver exceedingly; also, he had come away without his dinner, and he grew frightfully hungry. And to add to everything, the sunshiny day changed into rain, and being high up, in the very midst of the clouds, he got soaked through and through in a very few minutes. "Shall I turn back?" meditated he. "Suppose I say 'Abracadabra?'" Here he stopped, for already the cloak gave an obedient lurch, as if it were expecting to be sent home immediately. "No--I can't--I can't go back! I must go forward and see the world. But oh! if I had but the shabbiest old rug to shelter me from the rain, or the driest morsel of bread and cheese, just to keep me from starving! Still, I don't much mind; I'm a prince, and ought to be able to stand anything. Hold on, cloak, we'll make the best of it." It was a most curious circumstance, but no sooner had he said this than he felt stealing over his knees something warm and soft; in fact, a most beautiful bearskin, which folded itself round him quite naturally, and cuddled him up as closely as if he had been the cub of the kind old mother-bear that once owned it. Then feeling in his pocket, which suddenly stuck out in a marvellous way, he found, not exactly bread and cheese, nor even sandwiches, but a packet of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. It was not meat, nor pudding, but a combination of both, and it served him excellently for both. He ate his dinner with the greatest gusto imaginable, till he grew so thirsty he did not know what to do. "Couldn't I have just one drop of water, if it didn't trouble you too much, kindest of godmothers." For he really thought this want was beyond her power to supply. All the water which supplied Hopeless Tower was pumped up with difficulty, from a deep artesian well--there were such things known in Nomansland--which had been made at the foot of it. But around, for miles upon miles, the desolate plain was perfectly dry. And above it, high in air, how could he expect to find a well, or to get even a drop of water? He forgot one thing--the rain. While he spoke, it came on in another wild burst, as if the clouds had poured themselves out in a passion of crying, wetting him certainly, but leaving behind, in a large glass vessel which he had never noticed before, enough water to quench the thirst of two or three boys at least. And it was so fresh, so pure--as water from the clouds always is, when it does not catch the soot from city chimneys and other defilements--that he drank it, every drop, with the greatest delight and content. Also, as soon as it was empty, the rain filled it again, so that he was able to wash his face and hands and refresh himself exceedingly. Then the sun came out and dried him in no time. After that he curled himself up under the bearskin rug, and though he determined to be the most wide-awake boy imaginable, being so exceedingly snug and warm and comfortable, Prince Dolor condescended to shut his eyes, just for one minute. The next minute he was sound asleep. When he awoke, he found himself floating over a country quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. Yet it was nothing but what most of you children see every day and never notice it--a pretty country landscape, like England, Scotland, France, or any other land you choose to name. It had no particular features--nothing in it grand or lovely--was simply pretty, nothing more; yet to Prince Dolor, who had never gone beyond his lonely tower and level plain, it appeared the most charming sight imaginable. First, there was a river. It came tumbling down the hillside, frothing and foaming, playing at hide-and-seek among rocks, then bursting out in noisy fun like a child, to bury itself in deep still pools. Afterwards it went steadily on for a while, like a good grown-up person, till it came to another big rock, where it misbehaved itself extremely. It turned into a cataract and went tumbling over and over, after a fashion that made the Prince--who had never seen water before, except in his bath or his drinking-cup--clap his hands with delight. "It is so active, so alive! I like things active and alive!" cried he, and watched it shimmering and dancing, whirling and leaping, till, after a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream. After that it went along, deep and quiet, but flowing steadily on, till it reached a large lake, into which it slipped, and so ended its course. [Illustration: "_After a few windings and vagaries, it settled into a respectable stream._"] All this the boy saw, either with his own naked eye, or through his gold spectacles. He saw also as in a picture, beautiful but silent, many other things, which struck him with wonder, especially a grove of trees. Only think, to have lived to his age (which he himself did not know, as he did not know his own birthday) and never to have seen trees! As he floated over these oaks, they seemed to him--trunk, branches, and leaves--the most curious sight imaginable. "If I could only get nearer, so as to touch them," said he, and immediately the obedient cloak ducked down; Prince Dolor made a snatch at the topmost twig of the tallest tree, and caught a bunch of leaves in his hand. Just a bunch of green leaves--such as we see in myriads; watching them bud, grow, fall, and then kicking them along on the ground as if they were worth nothing. Yet, how wonderful they are--every one of them a little different. I don't suppose you could ever find two leaves exactly alike, in form, colour, and size--no more than you could find two faces alike, or two characters exactly the same. The plan of this world is infinite similarity and yet infinite variety. Prince Dolor examined his leaves with the greatest curiosity--and also a little caterpillar that he found walking over one of them. He coaxed it to take an additional walk over his finger, which it did with the greatest dignity and decorum, as if it, Mr. Caterpillar, were the most important individual in existence. It amused him for a long time; and when a sudden gust of wind blew it overboard, leaves and all, he felt quite disconsolate. "Still, there must be many live creatures in the world besides caterpillars. I should like to see a few of them." The cloak gave a little dip down, as if to say "All right, my Prince," and bore him across the oak forest to a long fertile valley--called in Scotland a strath, and in England a weald--but what they call it in the tongue of Nomansland I do not know. It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds. Also, in it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures, wild and tame. Cows and horses, lambs and sheep, fed in the meadows; pigs and fowls walked about the farmyards; and, in lonelier places, hares scudded, rabbits burrowed, and pheasants and partridges, with many other smaller birds, inhabited the fields and woods. [Illustration: "_It was made up of cornfields, pasturefields, lanes, hedges, brooks, and ponds._"] [Illustration: "_In it were what the Prince had desired to see, a quantity of living creatures._"] Through his wonderful spectacles the Prince could see everything; but, as I said, it was a silent picture; he was too high up to catch anything except a faint murmur, which only aroused his anxiety to hear more. "I have as good as two pairs of eyes," he thought. "I wonder if my godmother would give me a second pair of ears." Scarcely had he spoken, than he found lying on his lap the most curious little parcel, all done up in silvery paper. And it contained--what do you think? Actually, a pair of silver ears, which, when he tried them on, fitted so exactly over his own, that he hardly felt them, except for the difference they made in his hearing. There is something which we listen to daily and never notice. I mean the sounds of the visible world, animate and inanimate. Winds blowing, waters flowing, trees stirring, insects whirring (dear me! I am quite unconsciously writing rhyme), with the various cries of birds and beasts--lowing cattle, bleating sheep, grunting pigs, and cackling hens--all the infinite discords that somehow or other make a beautiful harmony. We hear this, and are so accustomed to it that we think nothing of it; but Prince Dolor, who had lived all his days in the dead silence of Hopeless Tower, heard it for the first time. And oh! if you had seen his face. He listened, listened, as if he could never have done listening. And he looked and looked, as if he could not gaze enough. Above all, the motion of the animals delighted him: cows walking, horses galloping, little lambs and calves running races across the meadows, were such a treat for him to watch--he that was always so quiet. But, these creatures having four legs, and he only two, the difference did not strike him painfully. Still, by-and-by, after the fashion of children--and, I fear, of many big people too--he began to want something more than he had, something that would be quite fresh and new. "Godmother," he said, having now begun to believe that, whether he saw her or not, he could always speak to her with full confidence that she would hear him--"Godmother, all these creatures I like exceedingly--but I should like better to see a creature like myself. Couldn't you show me just one little boy?" There was a sigh behind him--it might have been only the wind--and the cloak remained so long balanced motionless in air, that he was half afraid his godmother had forgotten him, or was offended with him for asking too much. Suddenly, a shrill whistle startled him, even through his silver ears, and looking downwards, he saw start up from behind a bush on a common, something-- Neither a sheep, nor a horse, nor a cow--nothing upon four legs. This creature had only two; but they were long, straight, and strong. And it had a lithe active body, and a curly head of black hair set upon its shoulders. It was a boy, a shepherdboy, about the Prince's own age--but, oh! so different. Not that he was an ugly boy--though his face was almost as red as his hands, and his shaggy hair matted like the backs of his own sheep. He was rather a nice-looking lad; and seemed so bright, and healthy, and good-tempered--"jolly" would be the word, only I am not sure if they have such an one in the elegant language of Nomansland--that the little Prince watched him with great admiration. "Might he come and play with me? I would drop down to the ground to him, or fetch him up to me here. Oh, how nice it would be if I only had a little boy to play with me!" But the cloak, usually so obedient to his wishes, disobeyed him now. There were evidently some things which his godmother either could not or would not give. The cloak hung stationary, high in air, never attempting to descend. The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird and, shading his eyes, looked up at it, making the Prince's heart beat fast. [Illustration: "_The shepherd lad evidently took it for a large bird._"] However, nothing ensued. The boy turned round, with a long, loud whistle--seemingly his usual and only way of expressing his feelings. He could not make the thing out exactly--it was a rather mysterious affair, but it did not trouble him much--_he_ was not an "examining" boy. Then, stretching himself, for he had been evidently half asleep, he began flopping his shoulders with his arms, to wake and warm himself; while his dog, a rough collie, who had been guarding the sheep meanwhile, began to jump upon him, barking with delight. "Down Snap, down! Stop that, or I'll thrash you," the Prince heard him say; though with such a rough hard voice and queer pronunciation that it was difficult to make the words out. "Hollo! Let's warm ourselves by a race." They started off together, boy and dog--barking and shouting, till it was doubtful which made the most noise or ran the fastest. A regular steeple-chase it was: first across the level common, greatly disturbing the quiet sheep; and then tearing away across country, scrambling through hedges, and leaping ditches, and tumbling up and down over ploughed fields. They did not seem to have anything to run for--but as if they did it, both of them, for the mere pleasure of motion. And what a pleasure that seemed! To the dog of course, but scarcely less so to the boy. How he skimmed along over the ground--his cheeks glowing, and his hair flying, and his legs--oh, what a pair of legs he had! Prince Dolor watched him with great intentness, and in a state of excitement almost equal to that of the runner himself--for a while. Then the sweet pale face grew a trifle paler, the lips began to quiver and the eyes to fill. "How nice it must be to run like that!" he said softly, thinking that never--no, never in this world--would he be able to do the same. Now he understood what his godmother had meant when she gave him his travelling-cloak, and why he had heard that sigh--he was sure it was hers--when he had asked to see "just one little boy." "I think I had rather not look at him again," said the poor little Prince, drawing himself back into the centre of his cloak, and resuming his favourite posture, sitting like a Turk, with his arms wrapped round his feeble, useless legs. "You're no good to me," he said, patting them mournfully. "You never will be any good to me. I wonder why I had you at all; I wonder why I was born at all, since I was not to grow up like other little boys. _Why_ not?" A question, so strange, so sad, yet so often occurring in some form or other, in this world--as you will find, my children, when you are older--that even if he had put it to his mother she could only have answered it, as we have to answer many as difficult things, by simply saying, "I don't know." There is much that we do not know, and cannot understand--we big folks, no more than you little ones. We have to accept it all just as you have to accept anything which your parents may tell you, even though you don't as yet see the reason of it. You may some time if you do exactly as they tell you, and are content to wait. Prince Dolor sat a good while thus, or it appeared to him a good while, so many thoughts came and went through his poor young mind--thoughts of great bitterness, which, little though he was, seemed to make him grow years older in a few minutes. Then he fancied the cloak began to rock gently to and fro, with a soothing kind of motion, as if he were in somebody's arms: somebody who did not speak, but loved him and comforted him without need of words; not by deceiving him with false encouragement or hope, but by making him see the plain hard truth, in all its hardness, and thus letting him quietly face it, till it grew softened down, and did not seem nearly so dreadful after all. Through the dreary silence and blankness, for he had placed himself so that he could see nothing but the sky, and had taken off his silver ears, as well as his gold spectacles--what was the use of either when he had no legs to walk or run?--up from below there rose a delicious sound. You have heard it hundreds of times, my children, and so have I. When I was a child I thought there was nothing so sweet; and I think so still. It was just the song of a skylark, mounting higher and higher from the ground, till it came so close that Prince Dolor could distinguish its quivering wings and tiny body, almost too tiny to contain such a gush of music. "O, you beautiful, beautiful bird!" cried he; "I should dearly like to take you in and cuddle you. That is, if I could--if I dared." But he hesitated. The little brown creature with its loud heavenly voice almost made him afraid. Nevertheless, it also made him happy; and he watched and listened--so absorbed that he forgot all regret and pain, forgot everything in the world except the little lark. It soared and soared, and he was just wondering if it would soar out of sight, and what in the world he should do when it was gone, when it suddenly closed its wings, as larks do, when they mean to drop to the ground. But, instead of dropping to the ground, it dropped right into the little boy's breast. What felicity! If it would only stay! A tiny soft thing to fondle and kiss, to sing to him all day long, and be his playfellow and companion, tame and tender, while to the rest of the world it was a wild bird of the air. What a pride, what a delight! To have something that nobody else had--something all his own. As the travelling-cloak travelled on, he little heeded where, and the lark still stayed, nestled down in his bosom, hopped from his hand to his shoulder, and kissed him with its dainty beak, as if it loved him, Prince Dolor forgot all his grief, and was entirely happy. But when he got in sight of Hopeless Tower, a painful thought struck him. "My pretty bird, what am I to do with you? If I take you into my room and shut you up there, you, a wild skylark of the air, what will become of you? I am used to this, but you are not. You will be so miserable, and suppose my nurse should find you--she who can't bear the sound of singing? Besides, I remember her once telling me that the nicest thing she ever ate in her life was lark pie!" The little boy shivered all over at the thought. And, though the merry lark immediately broke into the loudest carol, as if saying derisively that he defied anybody to eat _him_--still Prince Dolor was very uneasy. In another minute he had made up his mind. "No, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you if I can help it; I would rather do without you altogether. Yes, I'll try. Fly away, my darling, my beautiful! Good-bye, my merry, merry bird." Opening his two caressing hands, in which, as if for protection, he had folded it, he let the lark go. It lingered a minute, perching on the rim of the cloak, and looking at him with eyes of almost human tenderness; then away it flew, far up into the blue sky. It was only a bird. But, some time after, when Prince Dolor had eaten his supper--somewhat drearily, except for the thought that he could not possibly sup off lark pie now--and gone quietly to bed, the old familiar little bed, where he was accustomed to sleep, or lie awake contentedly thinking--suddenly he heard outside the window a little faint carol--faint but cheerful--cheerful, even though it was the middle of the night. The dear little lark! it had not flown away after all. And it was truly the most extraordinary bird, for, unlike ordinary larks, it kept hovering about the tower in the silence and darkness of the night, outside the window or over the roof. Whenever he listened for a moment, he heard it singing still. He went to sleep as happy as a king. CHAPTER VII. "Happy as a king." How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or, indeed, any part of his own history. Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he had had a father and mother as other little boys had, what they had been like, and why he had never seen them. But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss them--only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little children and their mothers, who helped them when they were in difficulty, and comforted them when they were sick, he, feeling ill and dull and lonely, wondered what had become of his mother, and why she never came to see him. Then, in his history lessons, of course, he read about kings and princes, and the governments of different countries, and the events that happened there. And though he but faintly took in all this, still he did take it in, a little, and worried his young brain about it, and perplexed his nurse with questions, to which she returned sharp and mysterious answers, which only set him thinking the more. He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last journey in the travelling-cloak, the journey which had given him so much pain, his desire to see the world had somehow faded away. He contented himself with reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and never left him again. True, it kept out of the way; and though his nurse sometimes dimly heard it, and said, "What is that horrid noise outside?" she never got the faintest chance of making it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet all to himself, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near him, and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, and even in the night, fragments of its delicious song. All during the winter--so far as there ever was any difference between summer and winter in Hopeless Tower--the little bird cheered and amused him. He scarcely needed anything more--not even his travelling-cloak, which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its innumerable knots. Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these treasures and left him alone--to use them, or lose them, apply them, or misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with children, when they grow into big children, old enough to distinguish between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either. Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken legs; which were of no use, only an encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, nature had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his childhood--his mother's own face. How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who knows! The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never gave up his lessons till he had learnt them all--never thought it a punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of trouble sometimes. "But," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man;--a prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings. The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder"--the boy was always wondering--"Nurse"--and one day he startled her with a sudden question--"tell me--shall I ever be a king?" The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed by since her crime--if it was a crime--and her sentence, that she now seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to. Used also to the little lame prince, her charge--whom at first she had hated, though she carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life hung. But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child, imprisoned here till he grew into an old man--and became a dull, worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual. He did not now. "Nurse--dear nurse," said he, "I don't mean to vex you, but tell me--what is a king? shall I ever be one?" When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be, even if he did know his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might happen--who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them. She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to "say a word" to Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken, if she were to take a pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than scorned. After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote-- "You are a king." [Illustration: "_After long doubt ... she put her finger to her lips, and taking the Prince's slate ... wrote--'You are a king.'_"] Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; his eyes glistened; he held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a king. "Hush!" said his nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then, terribly frightened all the while--people who have done wrong always are frightened--she wrote down in a few hurried sentences his history. How his parents had died--his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him to end his days in this lonely tower. "I, too," added she, bursting into tears. "Unless, indeed, you could get out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for me also, my prince, that I may not die in this desolate place." "Poor old nurse!" said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong. He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious and important had taken possession of his mind. "Suppose," thought he, "I were to do as she says, and go out into the world, no matter how it hurts me--the world of people, active people, as active as that boy I saw. They might only laugh at me--poor helpless creature that I am; but still I might show them I could do something. At any rate, I might go and see if there was anything for me to do. Godmother, help me!" It was so long since he had asked her help, that he was hardly surprised when he got no answer--only the little lark outside the window sang louder and louder, and the sun rose, flooding the room with light. Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing himself which was hard work, for he was not used to it--he had always been accustomed to depend upon his nurse for everything. "But I must now learn to be independent," thought he. "Fancy a king being dressed like a baby!" So he did the best he could--awkwardly but cheerily--and then he leaped to the corner where lay his travelling-cloak, untied it as before, and watched it unrolling itself--which it did rapidly, with a hearty good-will, as if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor--or felt as if he was. He jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was out through the skylight immediately. "Good-bye, pretty lark!" he shouted, as he passed it on the wing, still warbling its carol to the newly-risen sun. "You have been my pleasure, my delight; now I must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back again. Perhaps she'll hear you--perhaps she won't--but it will do her good all the same. Good-bye!" But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly remembered that he had not determined where to go--indeed, he did not know, and there was nobody to tell him. "Godmother," he cried, in much perplexity, "you know what I want--at least, I hope you do, for I hardly do myself--take me where I ought to go; show me whatever I ought so see--never mind what I like to see," as a sudden idea came into his mind that he might see many painful and disagreeable things. But this journey was not for pleasure--as before. He was not a baby now, to do nothing but play--big boys do not always play. Nor men neither--they work. Thus much Prince Dolor knew--though very little more. And as the cloak started off, travelling faster than he had ever known it to do--through sky-land and cloud-land, over freezing mountain-tops, and desolate stretches of forest, and smiling cultivated plains, and great lakes that seemed to him almost as shoreless as the sea--he was often rather frightened. But he crouched down, silent and quiet; what was the use of making a fuss? and, wrapping himself up in his bear-skin, waited for what was to happen. After some time he heard a murmur in the distance, increasing more and more till it grew like the hum of a gigantic hive of bees. And, stretching his chin over the rim of his cloak, Prince Dolor saw--far, far below him, yet with his gold spectacles and silver ears on, he could distinctly hear and see--What? Most of us have sometime or other visited a great metropolis--have wandered through its network of streets--lost ourselves in its crowds of people--looked up at its tall rows of houses, its grand public buildings, churches and squares. Also, perhaps, we have peeped into its miserable little back alleys, where dirty children play in gutters all day and half the night--or where men reel tipsy and women fight--where even young boys go about picking pockets, with nobody to tell them it is wrong, except the policeman; and he simply takes them off to prison. And all this wretchedness is close behind the grandeur--like the two sides of the leaf of a book. An awful sight is a large city, seen anyhow, from anywhere. But, suppose you were to see it from the upper air; where, with your eyes and ears open, you could take in everything at once? What would it look like? How would you feel about it? I hardly know myself. Do you? Prince Dolor had need to be a king--that is, a boy with a kingly nature--to be able to stand such a sight without being utterly overcome. But he was very much bewildered--as bewildered as a blind person who is suddenly made to see. He gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his eyes. "I can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful--so dreadful. And I don't understand it--not one bit. There is nobody to tell me about it. I wish I had somebody to speak to." "Do you? Then pray speak to me. I was always considered good at conversation." The voice that squeaked out this reply was an excellent imitation of the human one, though it came only from a bird. No lark this time, however, but a great black and white creature that flew into the cloak, and began walking round and round on the edge of it with a dignified stride, one foot before the other, like any unfeathered biped you could name. "I haven't the honour of your acquaintance, sir," said the boy politely. [Illustration: "_One half the people seemed so happy and busy._" _Page 90._] [Illustration: "_The other half were so wretched and miserable._" _Page 90._] "Ma'am, if you please. I am a mother bird, and my name is Mag, and I shall be happy to tell you everything you want to know. For I know a great deal; and I enjoy talking. My family is of great antiquity; we have built in this palace for hundreds--that is to say, dozens of years. I am intimately acquainted with the King, the Queen, and the little princes and princesses--also the maids of honour, and all the inhabitants of the city. I talk a good deal, but I always talk sense, and I dare say I should be exceedingly useful to a poor little ignorant boy like you." "I am a prince," said the other gently. "All right. And I am a magpie. You will find me a most respectable bird." "I have no doubt of it," was the polite answer--though he thought in his own mind that Mag must have a very good opinion of herself. But she was a lady and a stranger, so, of course, he was civil to her. She settled herself at his elbow, and began to chatter away, pointing out with one skinny claw while she balanced herself on the other, every object of interest,--evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants did, that there was no capital in the world like the great metropolis of Nomansland. I have not seen it, and therefore cannot describe it, so we will just take it upon trust, and suppose it to be, like every other fine city, the finest city that ever was built. "Mag" said so--and of course she knew. Nevertheless, there were a few things in it which surprised Prince Dolor--and, as he had said, he could not understand them at all. One half the people seemed so happy and busy--hurrying up and down the full streets, or driving lazily along the parks in their grand carriages, while the other half were so wretched and miserable. "Can't the world be made a little more level? I would try to do it if I were the king." "But you're not the king: only a little goose of a boy," returned the magpie loftily. "And I'm here not to explain things, only to show them. Shall I show you the royal palace?" It was a very magnificent palace. It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers. It extended over acres of ground, and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city. Its windows looked in all directions, but none of them had any particular view--except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains. But since the Queen died there, it had been closed, boarded up, indeed, the magpie said. It was so little and inconvenient, that nobody cared to live in it. Besides, the lower apartments, which had no view, were magnificent--worthy of being inhabited by his Majesty the King. [Illustration: "_It had terraces and gardens, battlements and towers ... and had in it rooms enough to accommodate half the city._"] [Illustration: "_Its windows looked in all directions ... except a small one, high up towards the roof, which looked on to the Beautiful Mountains._"] "I should like to see the King," said Prince Dolor. But what followed was so important that I must take another chapter to tell it in. CHAPTER VIII. What, I wonder, would be most people's idea of a king? What was Prince Dolor's? Perhaps a very splendid personage, with a crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, sitting on a throne, and judging the people. Always doing right, and never wrong--"The king can do no wrong" was a law laid down in olden times. Never cross, or tired, or sick, or suffering; perfectly handsome and well-dressed, calm and good-tempered, ready to see and hear everybody, and discourteous to nobody; all things always going well with him, and nothing unpleasant ever happening. This, probably, was what Prince Dolor expected to see. And what did he see? But I must tell you how he saw it. "Ah," said the magpie, "no levÃ©e to-day. The King is ill, though his Majesty does not wish it to be generally known--it would be so very inconvenient. He can't see you, but perhaps you might like to go and take a look at him, in a way I often do? It is so very amusing." Amusing, indeed! The Prince was just now too much excited to talk much. Was he not going to see the King his uncle, who had succeeded his father, and dethroned himself; had stepped into all the pleasant things that he, Prince Dolor, ought to have had, and shut him up in a desolate tower? What was he like, this great, bad, clever man? Had he got all the things he wanted, which another ought to have had? And did he enjoy them? "Nobody knows," answered the magpie, just as if she had been sitting inside the Prince's heart, instead of on the top of his shoulder. "He is a king, and that's enough. For the rest nobody knows." As she spoke Mag flew down on to the palace roof, where the cloak had rested, settling down between the great stacks of chimneys as comfortably as if on the ground. She pecked at the tiles with her beak--truly she was a wonderful bird--and immediately a little hole opened, a sort of door, through which could be seen distinctly the chamber below. [Illustration: "_She pecked at the tiles with her beak ... a little hole opened ... 'Now look in, Prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again.'_" _Page 92._] "Now look in, my prince. Make haste, for I must soon shut it up again." But the boy hesitated. "Isn't it rude?--won't they think us--intruding?" "O dear no! there's a hole like this in every palace; dozens of holes, indeed. Everybody knows it, but nobody speaks of it. Intrusion! Why, though the Royal family are supposed to live shut up behind stone walls ever so thick, all the world knows that they live in a glass house where everybody can see them, and throw a stone at them. Now, pop down on your knees, and take a peep at his Majesty." His Majesty! The Prince gazed eagerly down, into a large room, the largest room he had ever beheld, with furniture and hangings grander than anything he could have ever imagined. A stray sunbeam, coming through a crevice of the darkened windows, struck across the carpet, and it was the loveliest carpet ever woven--just like a bed of flowers to walk over; only nobody walked over it; the room being perfectly empty and silent. "Where is the King?" asked the puzzled boy. "There," said Mag, pointing with one wrinkled claw to a magnificent bed, large enough to contain six people. In the centre of it, just visible under the silken counterpane--quite straight and still--with its head on the lace pillow--lay a small figure, something like waxwork, fast asleep--very fast asleep! There were a quantity of sparkling rings on the tiny yellow hands, that were curled a little, helplessly, like a baby's, outside the coverlet; the eyes were shut, the nose looked sharp and thin, and the long grey beard hid the mouth, and lay over the breast. A sight not ugly, nor frightening, only solemn and quiet. And so very silent--two little flies buzzing about the curtains of the bed, being the only audible sound. "Is that the King?" whispered Prince Dolor. "Yes," replied the bird. He had been angry--furiously angry; ever since he knew how his uncle had taken the crown, and sent him, a poor little helpless child, to be shut up for life, just as if he had been dead. Many times the boy had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong, wicked man. Why, you might as well have struck a baby! How helpless he lay! with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded: they had no more work to do, bad or good. "What is the matter with him?" asked the Prince again. "He is dead," said the Magpie with a croak. No, there was not the least use in being angry with him now. On the contrary, the Prince felt almost sorry for him, except that he looked so peaceful, with all his cares at rest. And this was being dead? So, even kings died? "Well, well, he hadn't an easy life, folk say, for all his grandeur. Perhaps he is glad it is over. Good-bye, your Majesty." With another cheerful tap of her beak, Mistress Mag shut down the little door in the tiles, and Prince Dolor's first and last sight of his uncle was ended. He sat in the centre of his travelling-cloak silent and thoughtful. "What shall we do now?" said the Magpie. "There's nothing much more to be done with his Majesty, except a fine funeral, which I shall certainly go and see. All the world will. He interested the world exceedingly when he was alive, and he ought to do it now he's dead--just once more. And since he can't hear me, I may as well say that, on the whole, his Majesty is much better dead than alive--if we can only get somebody in his place. There'll be such a row in the city presently. Suppose we float up again, and see it all. At a safe distance, though. It will be such fun." "What will be fun?" "A revolution." Whether anybody except a magpie would have called it "fun," I don't know, but it certainly was a remarkable scene. As soon as the Cathedral bell began to toll, and the minute guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds, stopping at street corners to talk together. The murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar. When Prince Dolor, quietly floating in upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together. "Long live the King!" "The King is dead--down with the King!" "Down with the crown, and the King too!" "Hurrah for the Republic!" "Hurrah for no Government at all." Such were the shouts which travelled up to the travelling-cloak. And then began--oh, what a scene! When you children are grown men and women--or before--you will hear and read in books about what are called revolutions--earnestly I trust that neither I nor you may ever see one. But they have happened, and may happen again, in other countries beside Nomansland, when wicked kings have helped to make their people wicked too, or out of an unrighteous nation have sprung rulers equally bad; or, without either of these causes, when a restless country has fancied any change better than no change at all. For me, I don't like changes, unless pretty sure that they are for good. And how good can come out of absolute evil--the horrible evil that went on this night under Prince Dolor's very eyes--soldiers shooting people down by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds erected, and heads dropping off--houses burnt, and women and children murdered--this is more than I can understand. But all these things you will find in history, my children, and must by-and-by judge for yourselves the right and wrong of them, as far as anybody ever can judge. Prince Dolor saw it all. Things happened so fast after one another that they quite confused his faculties. "Oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes; "only let me go home!" for even his lonely tower seemed home, and its dreariness and silence absolute paradise after all this. "Good-bye, then," said the magpie, flapping her wings. She had been chatting incessantly all day and all night, for it was actually thus long that Prince Dolor had been hovering over the city, neither eating nor sleeping, with all these terrible things happening under his very eyes. "You've had enough, I suppose, of seeing the world?" "Oh, I have--I have!" cried the Prince with a shudder. "That is, till next time. All right, your Royal Highness. You don't know me, but I know you. We may meet again sometime." She looked at him with her clear piercing eyes, sharp enough to see through everything, and it seemed as if they changed from bird's eyes to human eyes, the very eyes of his godmother, whom he had not seen for ever so long. But the minute afterwards she became only a bird, and with a screech and a chatter spread her wings and flew away. Prince Dolor fell into a kind of swoon, of utter misery, bewilderment, and exhaustion, and when he awoke he found himself in his own room--alone and quiet--with the dawn just breaking, and the long rim of yellow light in the horizon glimmering through the window panes. CHAPTER IX. When Prince Dolor sat up in bed, trying to remember where he was, whither he had been, and what he had seen the day before, he perceived that his room was empty. Generally, his nurse rather worried him by breaking his slumbers, coming in and "setting things to rights," as she called it. Now, the dust lay thick upon chairs and tables; there was no harsh voice heard to scold him for not getting up immediately--which, I am sorry to say, this boy did not always do. For he so enjoyed lying still, and thinking lazily, about everything or nothing, that, if he had not tried hard against it, he would certainly have become like those celebrated "Two little men Who lay in their bed till the clock struck ten." It was striking ten now, and still no nurse was to be seen. He was rather relieved at first, for he felt so tired; and besides when he stretched out his arm, he found to his dismay that he had gone to bed in his clothes. Very uncomfortable he felt, of course; and just a little frightened. Especially when he began to call and call again, but nobody answered. Often he used to think how nice it would be to get rid of his nurse and live in this tower all by himself--like a sort of monarch, able to do everything he liked, and leave undone all that he did not want to do; but now that this seemed really to have happened, he did not like it at all. "Nurse--dear nurse--please come back!" he called out. "Come back, and I will be the best boy in all the land." And when she did not come back, and nothing but silence answered his lamentable call, he very nearly began to cry. "This won't do," he said at last, dashing the tears from his eyes. "It's just like a baby, and I'm a big boy--shall be a man some day. What has happened, I wonder? I'll go and see." He sprang out of bed--not to his feet, alas! but to his poor little weak knees, and crawled on them from room to room. All the four chambers were deserted--not forlorn or untidy, for everything seemed to have been done for his comfort--the breakfast and dinner-things were laid, the food spread in order. He might live "like a prince," as the proverb is, for several days. But the place was entirely forsaken--there was evidently not a creature but himself in the solitary tower. A great fear came upon the poor boy. Lonely as his life had been, he had never known what it was to be absolutely alone. A kind of despair seized him--no violent anger or terror, but a sort of patient desolation. "What in the world am I to do?" thought he, and sat down in the middle of the floor, half inclined to believe that it would be better to give up entirely, lay himself down and die. This feeling, however, did not last long, for he was young and strong, and I said before, by nature a very courageous boy. There came into his head, somehow or other, a proverb that his nurse had taught him--the people of Nomansland were very fond of proverbs:-- "For every evil under the sun There is a remedy, or there's none; If there is one, try to find it-- If there isn't, never mind it." "I wonder--is there a remedy now, and could I find it?" cried the Prince, jumping up and looking out of the window. No help there. He only saw the broad bleak sunshiny plain--that is, at first. But, by-and-by, in the circle of mud that surrounded the base of the tower he perceived distinctly the marks of a horse's feet, and just in the spot where the deaf-mute was accustomed to tie up his great black charger, while he himself ascended, there lay the remains of a bundle of hay and a feed of corn. "Yes, that's it. He has come and gone, taking nurse away with him. Poor nurse! how glad she would be to go!" That was Prince Dolor's first thought. His second--wasn't it natural?--was a passionate indignation at her cruelty--at the cruelty of all the world towards him--a poor little helpless boy. Then he determined--forsaken as he was--to try and hold on to the last, and not to die as long as he could possibly help it. Anyhow, it would be easier to die here than out in the world, among the terrible doings which he had just beheld. From the midst of which, it suddenly struck him, the deaf-mute had come--contrived somehow to make the nurse understand that the king was dead, and she need have no fear in going back to the capital, where there was a grand revolution, and everything turned upside down. So, of course she had gone. "I hope she'll enjoy it, miserable woman--if they don't cut off her head too." And then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so bitterly towards her, after all the years she had taken care of him--grudgingly, perhaps, and coldly; still, she had taken care of him, and that even to the last: for, as I have said, all his four rooms were as tidy as possible, and his meals laid out, that he might have no more trouble than could be helped. "Possibly she did not mean to be cruel. I won't judge her," said he. And afterwards he was very glad that he had so determined. For the second time he tried to dress himself, and then to do everything he could for himself--even to sweeping up the hearth and putting on more coals. "It's a funny thing for a prince to have to do," said he laughing. "But my godmother once said princes need never mind doing anything." And then he thought a little of his godmother. Not of summoning her, or asking her to help him--she had evidently left him to help himself, and he was determined to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independent boy--but he remembered her, tenderly and regretfully, as if even she had been a little hard upon him--poor, forlorn boy that he was! But he seemed to have seen and learned so much within the last few days, that he scarcely felt like a boy, but a man--until he went to bed at night. When I was a child, I used often to think how nice it would be to live in a little house all by my own self--a house built high up in a tree, or far away in a forest, or half way up a hillside,--so deliciously alone and independent. Not a lesson to learn--but no! I always liked learning my lessons. Anyhow, to choose the lessons I liked best, to have as many books to read and dolls to play with as ever I wanted: above all, to be free and at rest, with nobody to teaze, or trouble, or scold me, would be charming. For I was a lonely little thing, who liked quietness--as many children do; which other children, and sometimes grown-up people even, cannot always understand. And so I can understand Prince Dolor. After his first despair, he was not merely comfortable, but actually happy in his solitude, doing everything for himself, and enjoying everything by himself--until bedtime. Then, he did not like it at all. No more, I suppose, than other children would have liked my imaginary house in a tree, when they had had sufficient of their own company. But the prince had to bear it--and he did bear it--like a prince: for fully five days. All that time he got up in the morning and went to bed at night, without having spoken to a creature, or, indeed, heard a single sound. For even his little lark was silent: and as for his travelling-cloak, either he never thought about it, or else it had been spirited away--for he made no use of it, nor attempted to do so. A very strange existence it was, those five lonely days. He never entirely forgot it. It threw him back upon himself, and into himself--in a way that all of us have to learn when we grow up, and are the better for it--but it is somewhat hard learning. On the sixth day, Prince Dolor had a strange composure in his look, but he was very grave, and thin, and white. He had nearly come to the end of his provisions--and what was to happen next? Get out of the tower he could not; the ladder the deaf-mute used was always carried away again; and if it had not been, how could the poor boy have used it? And even if he slung or flung himself down, and by miraculous chance came alive to the foot of the tower how could he run away? Fate had been very hard to him, or so it seemed. He made up his mind to die. Not that he wished to die; on the contrary, there was a great deal that he wished to live to do; but if he must die, he must. Dying did not seem so very dreadful; not even to lie quiet like his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now, and neither be miserable nor naughty any more, and escape all those horrible things that he had seen going on outside the palace, in that awful place which was called "the world." "It's a great deal nicer here," said the poor little Prince, and collected all his pretty things round him: his favourite pictures, which he thought he should like to have near him when he died; his books and toys--no, he had ceased to care for toys now; he only liked them because he had done so as a child. And there he sat very calm and patient, like a king in his castle, waiting for the end. "Still, I wish I had done something first--something worth doing, that somebody might remember me by," thought he. "Suppose I had grown a man, and had had work to do, and people to care for, and was so useful and busy that they liked me, and perhaps even forgot I was lame. Then, it would have been nice to live, I think." A tear came into the little fellow's eyes, and he listened intently through the dead silence for some hopeful sound. Was there one--was it his little lark, whom he had almost forgotten? No, nothing half so sweet. But it really was something--something which came nearer and nearer, so that there was no mistaking it. It was the sound of a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so admired in Nomansland. Not pleasant music, but very bold, grand, and inspiring. As he listened to it the boy seemed to recall many things which had slipped his memory for years, and to nerve himself for whatever might be going to happen. What had happened was this. The poor condemned woman had not been such a wicked woman after all. Perhaps her courage was not wholly disinterested, but she had done a very heroic thing. As soon as she heard of the death and burial of the King, and of the changes that were taking place in the country, a daring idea came into her head--to set upon the throne of Nomansland its rightful heir. Thereupon she persuaded the deaf-mute to take her away with him, and they galloped like the wind from city to city, spreading everywhere the news that Prince Dolor's death and burial had been an invention concocted by his wicked uncle--that he was alive and well, and the noblest young Prince that ever was born. It was a bold stroke, but it succeeded. The country, weary, perhaps, of the late King's harsh rule, and yet glad to save itself from the horrors of the last few days, and the still further horrors of no rule at all, and having no particular interest in the other young princes, jumped at the idea of this Prince, who was the son of their late good King and the beloved Queen Dolorez. "Hurrah for Prince Dolor! Let Prince Dolor be our sovereign!" rang from end to end of the kingdom. Everybody tried to remember what a dear baby he once was--how like his mother, who had been so sweet and kind, and his father, the finest looking king that ever reigned. Nobody remembered his lameness--or, if they did, they passed it over as a matter of no consequence. They were determined to have him to reign over them, boy as he was--perhaps just because he was a boy, since in that case the great nobles thought they should be able to do as they liked with the country. Accordingly, with a fickleness not confined to the people of Nomansland, no sooner was the late King laid in his grave than they pronounced him to have been a usurper; turned all his family out of the palace, and left it empty for the reception of the new sovereign, whom they went to fetch with great rejoicing; a select body of lords, gentlemen, and soldiers, travelling night and day in solemn procession through the country, until they reached Hopeless Tower. There they found the Prince, sitting calmly on the floor--deadly pale indeed, for he expected a quite different end from this, and was resolved if he had to die, to die courageously, like a prince and a king. But when they hailed him as prince and king, and explained to him how matters stood, and went down on their knees before him, offering the crown (on a velvet cushion, with four golden tassels, each nearly as big as his head)--small though he was and lame, which lameness the courtiers pretended not to notice--there came such a glow into his face, such a dignity into his demeanour, that he became beautiful, king-like. "Yes," he said, "if you desire it, I will be your king. And I will do my best to make my people happy." Then there arose, from inside and outside the tower, such a shout as never yet was heard across the lonely plain. Prince Dolor shrank a little from the deafening sound. "How shall I be able to rule all this great people? You forget, my lords, that I am only a little boy still." "Not so very little," was the respectful answer. "We have searched in the records, and found that your Royal Highness--your Majesty, I mean--is precisely fifteen years old." "Am I?" said Prince Dolor; and his first thought was a thoroughly childish pleasure that he should now have a birthday, with a whole nation to keep it. Then he remembered that his childish days were done. He was a monarch now. Even his nurse, to whom, the moment he saw her, he had held out his hand, kissed it reverently, and called him ceremoniously "his Majesty the King." "A king must be always a king, I suppose," said he half sadly, when, the ceremonies over, he had been left to himself for just ten minutes, to put off his boy's clothes, and be re-attired in magnificent robes, before he was conveyed away from his tower to the Royal Palace. He could take nothing with him; indeed, he soon saw that, however politely they spoke, they would not allow him to take anything. If he was to be their king, he must give up his old life for ever. So he looked with tender farewell on his old books, old toys, the furniture he knew so well, and the familiar plain in all its levelness, ugly yet pleasant, simply because it was familiar. "It will be a new life in a new world," said he to himself; "but I'll remember the old things still. And, oh! if before I go, I could but once see my dear old godmother." While he spoke, he had laid himself down on the bed for a minute or two, rather tired with his grandeur, and confused by the noise of the trumpets which kept playing incessantly down below. He gazed, half sadly, up to the skylight, whence there came pouring a stream of sun-rays, with innumerable motes floating there, like a bridge thrown between heaven and earth. Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey. [Illustration: "_There came pouring a stream of sun-rays ... like a bridge ... Sliding down it, as if she had been made of air, came the little old woman in grey._"] So beautiful looked she--old as she was--that Prince Dolor was at first quite startled by the apparition. Then he held out his arms in eager delight. "O, godmother, you have not forsaken me!" "Not at all, my son. You may not have seen me, but I have seen you, many a time." "How?" "O, never mind. I can turn into anything I please, you know. And I have been a bear-skin rug, and a crystal goblet--and sometimes I have changed from inanimate to animate nature, put on feathers, and made myself very comfortable as a bird." "Ha!" laughed the Prince, a new light breaking in upon him, as he caught the infection of her tone, lively and mischievous. "Ha, ha! a lark, for instance?" "Or a magpie," answered she, with a capital imitation of Mistress Mag's croaky voice. "Do you suppose I am always sentimental and never funny?--If anything makes you happy, gay or grave, don't you think it is more than likely to come through your old godmother?" "I believe that," said the boy tenderly, holding out his arms. They clasped one another in a close embrace. Suddenly Prince Dolor looked very anxious. "You will not leave me now that I am a king? Otherwise, I had rather not be a king at all. Promise never to forsake me?" The little old woman laughed gaily. "Forsake you? that is impossible. But it is just possible you may forsake me. Not probable though. Your mother never did, and she was a queen. The sweetest queen in all the world was the lady Dolorez." "Tell me about her," said the boy eagerly. "As I get older I think I can understand more. Do tell me." "Not now. You couldn't hear me for the trumpets and the shouting. But when you are come to the palace, ask for a long-closed upper room, which looks out upon the Beautiful Mountains; open it and take it for your own. Whenever you go there, you will always find me, and we will talk together about all sorts of things." "And about my mother?" The little old woman nodded--and kept nodding and smiling to herself many times, as the boy repeated over and over again the sweet words he had never known or understood--"my mother--my mother." "Now I must go," said she, as the trumpets blared louder and louder, and the shouts of the people showed that they would not endure any delay. "Good-bye, Good-bye! Open the window and out I fly." Prince Dolor repeated gaily the musical rhyme--but all the while tried to hold his godmother fast. Vain, vain!--for the moment that a knocking was heard at his door, the sun went behind a cloud, the bright stream of dancing motes vanished, and the little old woman with them--he knew not where. So Prince Dolor quitted his tower--which he had entered so mournfully and ignominiously, as a little helpless baby carried in the deaf-mute's arms--quitted it as the great King of Nomansland. [Illustration: "_So Prince Dolor quitted his tower ... quitted it as the great King of Nomansland._" _Page 111._] The only thing he took away with him was something so insignificant, that none of the lords, gentlemen, and soldiers who escorted him with such triumphant splendour, could possibly notice it--a tiny bundle, which he had found lying on the floor just where the bridge of sunbeams had rested. At once he had pounced upon it, and thrust it secretly into his bosom, where it dwindled into such small proportions, that it might have been taken for a mere chest-comforter--a bit of flannel--or an old pocket-handkerchief! It was his travelling-cloak. CHAPTER X. Did Prince Dolor become a great king? Was he, though little more than a boy, "the father of his people," as all kings ought to be? Did his reign last long--long and happy?--and what were the principal events of it, as chronicled in the history of Nomansland? Why, if I were to answer all these questions, I should have to write another book. And I'm tired, children, tired--as grown-up people sometimes are; though not always with play. (Besides, I have a small person belonging to me, who, though she likes extremely to listen to the word-of-mouth story of this book, grumbles much at the writing of it, and has run about the house clapping her hands with joy when mamma told her that it was nearly finished. But that is neither here nor there.) I have related, as well as I could, the history of Prince Dolor, but with the history of Nomansland I am as yet unacquainted. If anybody knows it, perhaps he or she will kindly write it all down in another book. But mine is done. However, of this I am sure, that Prince Dolor made an excellent king. Nobody ever does anything less well, not even the commonest duty of common daily life, for having such a godmother as the little old woman clothed in grey, whose name is--well, I leave you to guess. Nor, I think, is anybody less good, less capable of both work and enjoyment in after life, for having been a little unhappy in his youth, as the Prince had been. I cannot take upon myself to say that he was always happy now--who is?--or that he had no cares; just show me the person who is quite free from them! But, whenever people worried and bothered him--as they did sometimes, with state etiquette, state squabbles, and the like, setting up themselves and pulling down their neighbours--he would take refuge in that upper room which looked out on the Beautiful Mountains and, laying his head on his godmother's shoulder, become calmed and at rest. Also, she helped him out of any difficulty which now and then occurred--for there never was such a wise old woman. When the people of Nomansland raised the alarm--as sometimes they did--for what people can exist without a little fault-finding?--and began to cry out, "Unhappy is the nation whose king is a child," she would say to him gently, "You are a child. Accept the fact. Be humble--be teachable. Lean upon the wisdom of others till you have gained your own." He did so. He learned how to take advice before attempting to give it, to obey before he could righteously command. He assembled round him all the good and wise of his kingdom--laid all its affairs before them, and was guided by their opinions until he had maturely formed his own. This he did, sooner than anybody would have imagined, who did not know of his godmother and his travelling-cloak--two secret blessings, which, though many guessed at, nobody quite understood. Nor did they understand why he loved so the little upper room, except that it had been his mother's room, from the window of which, as people remembered now, she had used to sit for hours watching the Beautiful Mountains. Out of that window he used to fly--not very often; as he grew older, the labours of state prevented the frequent use of his travelling-cloak; still he did use it sometimes. Only now it was less for his own pleasure and amusement than to see something, or investigate something, for the good of the country. But he prized his godmother's gift as dearly as ever. It was a comfort to him in all his vexations; an enhancement of all his joys. It made him almost forget his lameness--which was never cured. However, the cruel things which had been once foreboded of him did not happen. His misfortune was not such a heavy one after all. It proved to be much less inconvenience, even to himself, than had been feared. A council of eminent surgeons and mechanicians invented for him a wonderful pair of crutches, with the help of which, though he never walked easily or gracefully, he did manage to walk, so as to be quite independent. And such was the love his people bore him that they never heard the sound of his crutch on the marble palace-floors without a leap of the heart, for they knew that good was coming to them whenever he approached them. Thus, though he never walked in processions, never reviewed his troops mounted on a magnificent charger, nor did any of the things which make a show monarch so much appreciated, he was able for all the duties and a great many of the pleasures of his rank. When he held his levÃ©es, not standing, but seated on a throne, ingeniously contrived to hide his infirmity, the people thronged to greet him; when he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went--every countenance brightened as he passed, and his own, perhaps, was the brightest of all. [Illustration: "_When he drove out through the city streets, shouts followed him wherever he went._" _Page 116._] First, because, accepting his affliction as inevitable, he took it patiently; second, because, being a brave man, he bore it bravely; trying to forget himself, and live out of himself, and in and for other people. Therefore other people grew to love him so well, that I think hundreds of his subjects might have been found who were almost ready to die for their poor lame King. He never gave them a queen. When they implored him to choose one, he replied that his country was his bride, and he desired no other. But, perhaps, the real reason was that he shrank from any change; and that no wife in all the world would have been found so perfect, so lovable, so tender to him in all his weaknesses, as his beautiful old godmother. His four-and-twenty other godfathers and godmothers, or as many of them as were still alive, crowded round him as soon as he ascended the throne. He was very civil to them all, but adopted none of the names they had given him, keeping to the one by which he had been always known, though it had now almost lost its meaning; for King Dolor was one of the happiest and cheerfullest men alive. He did a good many things, however, unlike most men and most kings, which a little astonished his subjects. First, he pardoned the condemned woman who had been his nurse, and ordained that from henceforward there should be no such thing as the punishment of death in Nomansland. All capital criminals were to be sent to perpetual imprisonment in Hopeless Tower, and the plain round about it, where they could do no harm to anybody, and might in time do a little good, as the woman had done. Another surprise he shortly afterwards gave the nation. He recalled his uncle's family, who had fled away in terror to another country, and restored them to all their honours in their own. By-and-by he chose the eldest son of his eldest cousin (who had been dead a year), and had him educated in the royal palace, as the heir to the throne. This little prince was a quiet, unobtrusive boy, so that everybody wondered at the King's choosing him, when there were so many more; but as he grew into a fine young fellow, good and brave, they agreed that the King judged more wisely than they. "Not a lame prince neither," his Majesty observed one day, watching him affectionately; for he was the best runner, the highest leaper, the keenest and most active sportsman in the country. "One cannot make oneself, but one can sometimes help a little in the making of somebody else. It is well." This was said, not to any of his great lords and ladies, but to a good old woman--his first homely nurse--whom he had sought for far and wide, and at last found, in her cottage among the Beautiful Mountains. He sent for her to visit him once a year, and treated her with great honour until she died. He was equally kind, though somewhat less tender, to his other nurse, who, after receiving her pardon, returned to her native town and grew into a great lady, and I hope a good one. But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show. [Illustration: "_But as she was so grand a personage now, any little faults she had did not show._" _Page 118. Thus King Dolor's reign passed, year after year, long and prosperous. Whether he was happy--"as happy as a king"--is a question no human being can decide. But I think he was, because he had the power of making everybody about him happy, and did it too; also because he was his godmother's godson, and could shut himself up with her whenever he liked, in that quiet little room, in view of the Beautiful Mountains, which nobody else ever saw or cared to see. They were too far off, and the city lay so low. But there they were, all the time. No change ever came to them; and I think, at any day throughout his long reign, the King would sooner have lost his crown than have lost sight of the Beautiful Mountains. In course of time, when the little prince, his cousin, was grown into a tall young man, capable of all the duties of a man, his Majesty did one of the most extraordinary acts ever known in a sovereign beloved by his people and prosperous in his reign. He announced that he wished to invest his heir with the royal purple--at any rate, for a time--while he himself went away on a distant journey, whither he had long desired to go. Everybody marvelled, but nobody opposed him. Who could oppose the good King, who was not a young king now? And, besides, the nation had a great admiration for the young Regent--and, possibly, a lurking pleasure in change. So there was fixed a day, when all the people whom it would hold, assembled in the great square of the capital, to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties, and undertaking his new vows. He was a very fine young fellow; tall and straight as a poplar tree, with a frank handsome face--a great deal handsomer than the King, some people said, but others thought differently. However, as his Majesty sat on his throne, with his grey hair falling from underneath his crown, and a few wrinkles showing in spite of his smile, there was something about his countenance which made his people, even while they shouted, regard him with a tenderness mixed with awe. [Illustration: "_All the people ... assembled to see the young Prince installed solemnly in his new duties and undertaking his new vows._" _Page 119._] He lifted up his thin, slender hand, and there came a silence over the vast crowd immediately. Then he spoke, in his own accustomed way, using no grand words, but saying what he had to say in the simplest fashion, though with a clearness that struck their ears like the first song of a bird in the dusk of the morning. "My people, I am tired: I want to rest. I have had a long reign, and done much work--at least, as much as I was able to do. Many might have done it better than I--but none with a better will. Now I leave it to others. I am tired, very tired. Let me go home." There rose a murmur--of content or discontent none could well tell; then it died down again, and the assembly listened silently once more. "I am not anxious about you--my people--my children," continued the king. "You are prosperous and at peace. I leave you in good hands. The Prince Regent will be a fitter king for you than I." "No, no, no!" rose the universal shout--and those who had sometimes found fault with him shouted louder than anybody. But he seemed as if he heard them not. "Yes, yes," said he, as soon as the tumult had a little subsided; and his voice sounded firm and clear; and some very old people, who boasted of having seen him as a child, declared that his face took a sudden change, and grew as young and sweet as that of the little Prince Dolor. "Yes, I must go. It is time for me to go. Remember me sometimes, my people, for I have loved you well. And I am going a long way, and I do not think I shall come back any more." He drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket--a bundle that nobody had ever seen before. It was small and shabby-looking, and tied up with many knots, which untied themselves in an instant. With a joyful countenance, he muttered over it a few half-intelligible words. Then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his Majesty could not tell how it came about, the King was away--away--floating right up in the air--upon something, they knew not what, except that it appeared to be as safe and pleasant as the wings of a bird. And after him sprang a bird--a dear little lark, rising from whence no one could say, since larks do not usually build their nests in the pavement of city squares. But there it was, a real lark, singing far over their heads, louder and clearer, and more joyful, as it vanished further into the blue sky. Shading their eyes, and straining their ears, the astonished people stood, until the whole vision disappeared like a speck in the clouds--the rosy clouds that overhung the Beautiful Mountains. Then they guessed that they should see their beloved king no more. Well-beloved as he was, he had always been somewhat of a mystery to them, and such he remained. But they went home, and, accepting their new monarch, obeyed him faithfully for his cousin's sake. King Dolor was never again beheld or heard of in his own country. But the good he had done there lasted for years and years; he was long missed and deeply mourned--at least, so far as anybody could mourn one who was gone on such a happy journey. Whither he went, or who went with him, it is impossible to say. But I myself believe that his godmother took him, on his travelling-cloak, to the Beautiful Mountains. What he did there, or where he is now, who can tell? I cannot. But one thing I am quite sure of, that, wherever he is, he is perfectly happy. And so, when I think of him, am I. THE END. [Illustration: STORY OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE] The author of this little book, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, was a woman as modest, sweet, and wholesome as the story itself. She lived in England, but her writings endeared her to people all over the world. Some American ladies who went to call upon her in her home, Wildwood Cottage, in Hampstead, near London, describe her as wearing a black silk gown with a plain linen collar, her brown hair drawn smoothly back from an open brow, and her face, gracious and winning to an unusual degree, bearing the look of one who had tasted of sorrow. This was when she was already a well-known writer, having won her place in literature by hard and faithful work; but probably she did not dream, even then, that she would come to be recognized as, next to Dickens, the most widely-read novelist of her time. She was born April 20, 1826, at Stoke-upon-Trent, one of the chief manufacturing towns of Staffordshire, England. Staffordshire is the central county of England, and has many curious and interesting features. It forms the sloping base of a long chain of hills, where in countless ages the sea, sometimes covering the land and again driven away from it by the upheaval of a great body of earth and stone, has worn down the grit and limestone rock into clay. Did you know that all clay was mud made by the washing away of rocks? Just think how many hundreds of years it took to make the little ball of clay you model with! Well, the people who lived in this country found out, eighteen hundred years ago, that they could mould their clay into pots and basins, even if they could not make things grow in it; so they dug up the clay, shaped it with their hands, and baked it in the sun, making jars, bowls, and other useful things which they sold to farmers in exchange for food. About that time there came marching over the thickly wooded land, companies of Roman soldiers, who took all the clay bowls they wanted for their own use, and showed the potters how to make better ones. They also compelled them to make floors, roofs, and wall ornaments of clay baked in very hot ovens, called kilns. Much of this old Roman pottery was, of course, broken and lost, but still, if you should ever go there, you would find pieces of it in the banks of the little rivers and brooks near the clay pits, pieces more than a thousand years old. Because it is so full of clay--dark blue clay, and red and yellow ochres, used for coloring and painting, as well as red and black chalk--the country seems to have been made for potteries. Besides this, there used always to be plenty of wood to keep the kilns hot, for a great forest covered nearly all the land. This was a continuation of the Forest of Arden, about which you will read some day, as well as about Sherwood Forest, which sheltered Robin Hood and his merry men.--Have you heard about them yet?--Later, when better fuel was needed, two great coal fields were discovered underlying the county, one of them twenty miles long by two broad. Here, then, where all was so perfectly prepared for his work, it was natural that the greatest potter of modern times, and one of the greatest of all times, should be born--Josiah Wedgwood, who lived for many years in the very town where Mrs. Craik was born. He not only loved to make dishes and jars of all kinds as perfect as possible, but while shut in with a long illness he studied the chemistry and the arithmetic needed in his trade. In years of hard labor and close study he so mastered his trade that he made it both a science and an art. He, more than any other, turned the county into one of the busiest places in the world, where thousands of men work from morning till night to supply the whole world with every sort of thing that can be made out of clay. Perhaps on the bottom of your plates at home you may find printed the words "Staffordshire, England." Before Wedgwood's time--in 1653, to be accurate--Stoke-upon-Trent was a small group of thatched houses and two pot-works, gathered around the ancient parish church. In 1762, thirty-two years after Wedgwood's birth, it had a population of 8,000, of whom 7,000 were employed, in one way or another, in the pottery trade. The whole country-side is now black with smoke from the many factories. At one time, when the potters used salt to glaze their ware--that is, to put a bright polish on it--they used to open up their huge ovens every Saturday morning, between the hours of eight and twelve, and cast in salt. It would then melt, and run over the surface of the clay jugs and things inside, and leave a smooth, shining surface. If you let some salt and water, very strong of salt, boil over an old crock of your mother's, when the fire is making the stove red-hot, you will see how it works. Indeed, it was through an accidental boiling-over of this sort that salt-glaze was discovered. On Saturdays, when the salt was cast into the kilns, it made great clouds of smoke and vapor, filling streets and houses, and spreading far out into the country, so heavy that travelers to town lost their way, and persons in the street ran against each other. Here lived, and preached, and argued, and laid down the law, a brilliant, enthusiastic Irishman, named Thomas Mulock, the father of the woman who wrote this book. He was a minister, but one who did not agree with any of the other ministers around him. He had a warm, eager nature, and a temper to match, and as the second of twenty-two children must have exercised from his early childhood all that power of domineering which made Lord Byron nickname him "Muley Mulock." By this name he was known over half of Europe, but for all that he was much loved and admired, and moved in the same circle as Byron, Scott, Southey, and Wordsworth. From him, Mrs. Craik undoubtedly inherited her gifts as a writer. Her mother was a daughter of Mr. Mellard, a tanner and a member of the Reverend Thomas Mulock's congregation. She was one of three sisters who used to talk with the young minister over the wall that separated their gardens. There is a legend that he went all in white to the wedding, his shoes being of white satin; but this is very likely only a picturesque bit of gossip, kept alive by the fact that Mr. Mulock was quite romantic enough and independent enough to have done such a thing if it had happened to strike his fancy. His wife was a frail little woman, and the troubles which soon beset her husband on account of his strong, new opinions, were hard for her to bear, as was also the way in which he, like a hot-blooded Irishman, sure that he was right and all the rest of the world wrong, marched straight into the thick of any theological fight that might be going on. Dinah, at last, although merely an inexperienced girl, persuaded her mother to go with her to London, to seek a little peace and quiet, leaving the father to fight out his battles alone in the country place he found--or made--so full of strife. This was a tremendous responsibility for a young girl with no means to speak of and only an ordinarily good education, such as was given to young ladies in the girls' schools of those days. At school she seems to have been a great favorite, and is described as being always the center of a bevy of girls, who hung round her lovingly, and for whom she prophesied the most wonderful things. She was always sure they had great abilities, but seemed to be quite unconscious that she herself was the most gifted of them all, and would be remembered when they were forgotten. Even after she came to London, she made friends among other girls, and in spite of her unceasing and exacting work, seems always to have had time to enjoy them and make them enjoy her. She was only twenty years old when, in 1846, she went to London, and undertook the main support of her mother and the two young brothers who soon joined them. She did everything her pen could find to do, writing stories for fashion books and other periodicals, and had the satisfaction, finally, of knowing that she had succeeded in caring for her aged mother to the end of her life. Of the two brothers, the elder, Thomas, Jr., true son of his father, took part in some act of rebellion while studying at the Royal Academy. His father sided with the principals of the school and approved of the son's being expelled, his own heart aching, most probably, while he did what he thought was his duty. The son's heart, in turn, was sore at what he must have thought unloving conduct on the father's part. At any rate, he decided soon after to go to Australia, and, as he was about to board the ship, fell off the quay and was killed. This was a heavy blow to the brave young sister, now left with only the younger brother. He was a musician and a photographer of no mean rank at a time when few persons thought of photography as an art. Though he never proved a support to her, always leaning on her motherly care and getting himself into many scrapes from which she had to pull him out he was nevertheless the joy of his sister's life. In London Miss Mulock made friends whose assistance, later, was worth a great deal to her. She had published, in 1849, her first novel, _The Ogilvies_, which brought her recognition, and made men and women of real power in the world of letters seek her out. When they knew her personally, her simple cordiality, friendliness, and, above all, her thorough goodness of heart, made them her warm friends. When she found herself able to take a cottage--the "Wildwood Cottage" already spoken of--she quickly gathered around her some of the brightest and best people in the great city. From that time on, her books came out steadily and in great numbers. In all, she wrote forty-six works, including many novels, some essays, and two or three volumes of poetry. The greatest of her novels is _John Halifax, Gentleman_, considered by many the best story of English middle-class life ever written. This novel was translated into French, German, Italian, Greek, and Russian, and is still one of the most frequently called for books in the public libraries. Her poems, _Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True_, and _Philip My King_, are known wherever English is spoken. There is an interesting story connected with the latter poem. Philip Bourke Marston, the boy to whom it refers, was the son of one of Miss Mulock's London friends, Westland Marston, a famous dramatic poet and critic. When his little son was born, August 13, 1850, he asked Miss Mulock to be Philip's godmother, and traces of her deep affection for the gifted child are to be found among her writings. _A Hero_ was written for him, and it is to him, evidently, that the lovely little poem, _A Child's Smile_, refers. The boy lost his sight when only three years old. The cause is said to have been too much belladonna, given to prevent scarlet fever. For many years enough sight remained to enable him, in his own words, to see "the three boughs waving in the wind, the pageant of sunset in the west, and the glimmer of a fire upon the hearth." Shut in thus to the inner world of thought and feeling, Philip indulged in an imaginative series of wonderful adventures, and in long daydreams excited by music. Perhaps his blindness, coupled with his vivid imagination, is the reason why the beautiful poems he wrote when he grew older show such a wonderfully vivid power of portraying nature. When he saw a tree-bough waving in the wind, he saw it only dimly with his outward eyes, but as he sat dreaming over it afterward, it became more real to him than any bough was likely to become to an everyday, hearty boy who saw so many trees, with so many branches, that he hardly noticed them at all. It must have been a great comfort to him to have such a godmother as Miss Mulock--a real fairy godmother, who could weave magic spells of the most interesting stories, and heal the aches of his poor heart by sweet little poems. It was at Wildwood Cottage that Miss Mulock formed that close acquaintance with George Lillie Craik that finally led to her marriage with him. Mr. Craik met with a serious railroad accident near her house, which she promptly gave up to him, she staying with a friend near by; in the long days of convalescence they learned to know each other thoroughly. The marriage was singularly happy. Mr. Craik was a man of letters as well as a publisher, and they had every taste in common. Their life together was beautiful and full of a deep peace. Although they had no children of their own, they had an adopted daughter, Dorothy, and she it is for whom _The Adventures of a Brownie_ was written. It is probably because of Mrs. Craik's devotion and love for her that the little book is so free from self-consciousness, so evidently written wholeheartedly "as told to my child." Mrs. Craik's death, which took place in 1887, was, like her life, full of self-sacrificing affection and obedience to duty. She had not been ill, beyond a few attacks of heart-trouble that no one considered serious. By some blessed chance, on the morning of her last day on earth, her husband took an especially loving farewell of her--so much so that Dorothy laughed at him, and Mrs. Craik, smiling happily, reminded her that, although they had been so long married, they were lovers still. It was within a few weeks of Dorothy's marriage when the sudden heart failure came, and Mrs. Craik's one wish was that she might be permitted to live four weeks longer, so that her death might not overshadow her daughter's wedding. She resigned even this unselfish wish when she saw that it was not God's will. The beauty of her character, it may be supposed, quite as much as any peculiar merit in her writings, led Queen Victoria, who always tried to reward uprightness of life as well as unusual skill in any art, to bestow upon Mrs. Craik the only mark of recognition in her power. This was a small pension, and although she often was criticised for keeping a sum of money she did not need, while many less fortunate writers did need it, she retained it as her right, to use as her conscience dictated. She set it aside for struggling authors who would accept help from the queen's bounty that they would refuse from her private funds. Other writers may be more brilliant and more profound than Mrs. Craik, but her tales of simple goodness bring, not only a sense of rest and relief to the reader, but also a new desire to put goodness into his own daily life. In all her stories Mrs. Craik makes goodness as lovely as it really is. There are sad things in them, but the sadness is always made sweet at last by courage and patience and kindliness. 


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   TWO IN A ZOO [Illustration: He saw the Princess coming, dragging after her a large man.] TWO IN A ZOO _By_ CURTIS DUNHAM _and_ OLIVER HERFORD WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY OLIVER HERFORD INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1904 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY SEPTEMBER PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. TWO IN A ZOO FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE He saw the Princess coming, dragging after her a large man--_Frontispiece_ "Toots, tell me as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying" 7 The soft brown eyes of Dozel were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy 29 The coffee-colored little image of its mother lay sprawling across her broad nose 63 Suddenly the Princess exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!" 95 The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up 139 TWO IN A ZOO I _The Roar of the Jungle_ Oh, the sweet, fresh breath of the morning breeze, And the trumpet call of my mate! Oh, the fierce, wild wind that bends the trees Where the great hills sit in state! Oh, the tender twigs in the Jungle deeps! Oh, the soft, moist earth where the long grass sweeps! _Song of the Captive Elephant._ Mahmoud, swinging his wrinkled old trunk to and fro dejectedly, ignored the stack of fresh timothy which the Keeper had dumped on the floor of the Elephant House. There was a band of iron clasped tightly just above one of his great forefeet. Mahmoud had surged back in his discontent till the chain, attached to the iron and to a ring in the floor, creaked with the strain upon it. His broad ears flapped forward listlessly, but not far enough to conceal the moisture in his dim old eyes which gathered now and then into glistening drops that rolled down his cheeks and were lost in the huge wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. Duchess, his faithful mate, who stood at his side twisting up bunches of hay and tucking them into her mouth, understood and was sad. At intervals in her repast she would pause to stroke Mahmoud's furrowed cheek with the tip of her trunk. But her sorrowful mate was not to be wooed from his melancholy. Presently, from a little distance up the Park walk leading to the door of the Elephant House, came a familiar tinkling sound that caused Mahmoud to turn his head in that direction with a show of interest. A boy was approaching, and at every step some straps of iron on his little crooked leg clanked together. The sound was not unlike that made by the iron on Mahmoud's leg. The boy's face was pale, but his eyes were blue and very bright. A little girl skipped along at his side. The boy's clothes were shabby, but the little girl's plumage was rich and as gay as that of some tropical bird. Perhaps it was this that caused the boy to call her "Princess," when he made slow and deferential response to her eager chatter. It was plain that she was accustomed to rule, for whenever she was admonished by the young woman in dark clothes who followed a few steps behind with a book under her arm, she would merely shrug her pretty shoulders. Her manner toward the boy was a trifle condescending, but it was also affectionate, for she called him "Toots." The entire front of the Elephant House was open, for it was summer. When Toots and the Princess had reached the iron railing within a yard of Mahmoud's swaying trunk, they stopped. The young woman in dark clothes seemed to understand that this was their destination, for she seated herself on a bench at the side of the walk, and was soon deep in the pages of her book. Mahmoud shuffled forward as far as the chain on his leg would let him, thrust forth his trunk and felt gently the iron on the boy's crippled leg. "Oh, Toots, he knows you!" exclaimed the Princess. "That is what he did yesterday." Though the Princess shrank back, Toots showed no fear. Appearing satisfied as to the boy's identity, Mahmoud turned to his mate, and they stood cheek by cheek, swaying their trunks in unison. "They are talking again," said the Princess, with a little shriek of delight. "Toots, you must tell me what they are saying to each other." Toots did not stir. A flush of pink had stolen into his pale cheeks. There was a far-away look in his eyes, yet they were sparkling. His lips were moving, but no sound came from them at first. Strange mumblings were coming from the cavernous mouths of the elephants. The Princess stamped her foot with authority and commanded: "Toots, tell me, as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying." But already, in a low, monotonous voice, as though in a dream, the boy was interpreting the talk of Mahmoud and his mate. "Behold, it is the little Limping Boy," said Mahmoud, with his lips close to the ear of Duchess. "My old eyes are dim, but with my two fingers have I felt the iron on his leg, and I know it is he." "Verily, it is he, my Lord," answered Duchess, caressingly. "And with him again is the strange little bird without wings--or, mayhap the gaudy creature is of his own people." "It is well. Do you recall, O Light of my Life, how the little Limping Boy stood at our door and talked softly to himself? I remember such a boy long, long ago in the Jungle, before the days of my captivity, only he was naked and had brown skin--as brown as that of my baby sister." "I, too, saw and heard him, my Lord. I thought he talked of us and pitied us in our captivity." [Illustration: "Toots, tell me as you did yesterday, what the elephants are saying."] Now Mahmoud ceased his talk and for a moment reflected deeply. At length he said: "Lo, there are two worlds, O Light of my Life, the Master World and the Menial World; and few there be that stand between. I know not how it happens that we, thou and I, my beloved, are of the Menial World, but it is so. We be Menial People, and the little Limping Boy is of the Master People; yet it clings in my mind that he is nearer." Again Mahmoud paused to reflect; but Duchess broke in with conviction, saying: "My Lord, may it not be that the little Limping Boy is one that stands between?" "That is a matter upon which I have pondered deeply," sighed Mahmoud. "It is evident that he understands our talk. He has the iron upon his leg, yet his talk is not the talk of the Menial People. Alas, I can not be sure on this point. These Master People have strange ways and a strange tongue. When their skins are dark, as they are in the jungle, their talk is not so difficult; but when their skins are white and covered with strange raiment, their words convey no meaning to my ears." Mahmoud's head drooped again. He was very old, and, like all those who are burdened with years, he was wont to ponder sadly on the joys of his past. But presently he raised his head and seemed to be listening. "Look, Friend of my Youth," he said, after a moment, "is it the chirp of our merry little gossip, the sparrow, that I hear?" "No, my Lord," answered Duchess, soothingly, "Pwit-Pwit is late this morning. I tremble when I recall his boastful tale of yesterday; how he entered the cage of the lioness' treacherous young cubs." "Be calm, beloved," said Mahmoud, "the cubs are not too young to know the Law of the Menial People." It appeared that Duchess, being of the weaker sex, and devoted to her domestic duties, had but a vague notion of the Law. So Mahmoud, with much dignity, enlightened her in these words: "It is the Law of the Menial People, O Joy of my Heart, that Pwit-Pwit, the sparrow, shall go and come at his pleasure throughout the Menial World, enjoying the hospitality and protection of all. And of a truth this is meet, for is not the sparrow official news-gatherer and gossip for all the Menial People? Verily, is not he the only one of our world that is not locked fast in a yard or in an iron cage by the Master People? Lo, when we of the Menial World were brought by our masters from the forests and plains and jungles to the place of our captivity, Pwit-Pwit was already here to give us welcome. Therefore, it is the Law of the Menial World that no claw nor tooth shall be raised against him." When Mahmoud had finished his discourse the sparrow suddenly dropped out of the sky at his feet with a chirp and a cheerful toss of his head. "You are late to breakfast this morning, little one," said Mahmoud; "but I waited for you, O Messenger of Cheer, though my beloved mate has eaten a few mouthfuls, being hungrier than I." "I would have been here sooner," answered the sparrow, "but I found it necessary to give one of those young lions a lesson. He forgot about the Law, and tried to catch me in his mouth. But I was too quick for him. You should have seen me then. I flew at his eyes and gave them a good pecking. Then I had to go and tell his mother. Didn't you hear her roaring at the little upstart to behave himself? Oh, you can trust me to educate those young lions in the Law." "Verily, I heard the mother lion roar, and feared for you," said Mahmoud. "But come, there are some choice grass seeds in the deep wrinkles of my neck, and I will scatter more there for you. If you are tired, you can step on the end of my trunk and I will lift you up to your breakfast." But Pwit-Pwit said that he was not at all tired. He flew up to Mahmoud's shoulders and was soon pecking greedily at the seeds which he found in the wrinkles between the great flapping ears. Duchess had resumed her repast, and Mahmoud began attacking the stack of timothy with manifest appetite. As the two friends, one so huge and the other so tiny, took their breakfast together, the sparrow chirped a constant torrent of gossip, which Toots, never hesitating, interpreted for the Princess. At length only some scattering wisps were left of the stack that the Keeper had brought for the old elephant. Mahmoud gathered them up, sweeping his trunk over the floor daintily, then rolled them into a little bundle, which he thrust half-way into the side of his mouth. Then, rolling his trunk about the ends of the wisps containing the dried grass seeds, he tore them off, and holding them back over his head, said to Pwit-Pwit: "Are you there, little one?" [Illustration] "Here I am, right between your ears," chirped the sparrow. "Look then for the large round seeds," said Mahmoud. "But first brace yourself well behind my ear, little one, for I am going to blow the dust out of your breakfast. Dust is not good for the stomach." With these words Mahmoud blew a little puff of wind through his trunk into the handful of grass seed about which it was curled, and then dropped the seeds in a little shower right at Pwit-Pwit's feet. "Thank you," said the sparrow. "You have found me a delicious breakfast." And he pecked away at the seeds until he could hold no more. Then Pwit-Pwit noticed that Mahmoud had stopped eating and was swinging his trunk about in a mournful manner. "What's the matter, old chap?" chirped the sparrow. "Have you lost your appetite?" "Alas!" sighed the old elephant, "I pine for the roar of my native Jungle, little one. I long to plunge through the great, wild forest and feel the swish of the branches at my sides. Even the chatter of idle and foolish monkeys would be music in my ears." The sparrow hopped up on the rim of Mahmoud's ear, and said cheerily: "Why don't you go home for a visit?" "Alas, little one, I am too old, even if the Master People would release me. Never again shall I breathe the fresh breath of the hills; never again hear the roar of the Jungle." Mahmoud's head drooped lower than before. Pwit-Pwit pecked at his ear to get his attention, and chirped: "Cheer up, old chap, I can't bring the Jungle to you, 'tis true; but I think I can manage the roar all right." "Pride of my Heart," said Mahmoud, turning eagerly to his faithful mate and stroking her cheek, "do you hear? Pwit-Pwit, the all-wise, says he can gladden our ears once more with the roar of the Jungle." "Pwit-Pwit, if you can do that," said Duchess, trembling with joy, "we will be your slaves." "Oh, it is nothing, nothing at all," chirped the sparrow with affected modesty. "I will go and prepare all the Menial People for the signal, and when I return I will tell you what to do." Having chirped this promise into Mahmoud's grateful ear, the sparrow flew down from the old elephant's back, and hopped past the little Limping Boy and entered the adjoining house of the two-horned rhinoceros. Toots and the Princess could see all that occurred from where they stood. The great beast was lazily sharpening his horns on the hardwood planks of his house. Pwit-Pwit flew at his eyes, at which he pecked saucily, saying: "Attention, pig! Be ready for the signal. When you hear it, if you have any voice left in your fat old carcass, use it, or never hope to hear the roar of the Jungle again." Hearing these words, the dull-witted beast began lifting up first one foot and then another, in a sort of clumsy dance. The sparrow, perceiving that he was eager for the roar of the Jungle, wasted no more words on him, but flew straight up in the air and then darted off toward the house of the lions, tigers and leopards. Toots and the Princess saw him fly in through the open door, then, after a moment of silence, heard muffled roars from the lions, followed by the excited chatter of monkeys in the adjoining house, and soon beheld him emerge and dart toward the dens of the bears. "The sparrow is keeping his word," said the Princess, clapping her hands. "He is warning all the Menial People to be ready for the signal." "Hush," said the little Limping Boy, in a low voice. "Look at Mahmoud and the Duchess." The Princess looked, and beheld a most astonishing sight. The old elephants had twined their trunks together above their heads and were waving them as though in time to music. "They are singing," said Toots. "They are singing about the happy times they had long, long ago in the great forest where they were born." The Princess could not hear the song, but she beheld the waving trunks and felt certain that Toots could hear it. As they sang, the old elephants grew each moment more excited. So engrossed were they with the memories that inspired them that they forgot the sparrow utterly. When Pwit-Pwit returned, he had to fly up and peck at their eyes to get their attention. "Do stop your singing and pay attention," chirped the sparrow, petulantly. "You can sing at any time. Listen. I have prepared all the Menial People for the signal. They are waiting. You can hear the chatter of those idiotic monkeys at this moment. A monkey can never keep a secret." "The lions," said Mahmoud, eagerly, "are the lions ready?" "The lions were delighted," answered Pwit-Pwit; "they can hardly wait for the signal." "And Caliph and Fatimah, the old hippopotami--" "They, too, are ready," interrupted the sparrow, impatiently. "I told you I could manage it, and I have. The signal! The signal!" As he gave this order, Pwit-Pwit flew up to his favorite perch on Mahmoud's ear. The elephants, trembling with excitement, turned their faces toward the Lion House and wagged their trunks aloft. Mahmoud's eyes opened to twice their usual size, and the little Limping Boy thought that they shone red, as though from anger. He was half afraid, and wondered what was going to happen. The Princess clasped his hand tightly in one of hers, and he could feel that she was trembling. "It must be all right," said Toots, "or the sparrow would fly away. See, he still sits on the rim of the old elephant's ear, as calm as you please." Suddenly Mahmoud straightened out his trunk to its full length toward the Lion House, and blew through it a blast that rang in the ears of the two children for many a day after. Duchess followed with another, shriller and more ear-splitting. Then the two elephants paused to listen. Almost immediately they were answered from the Lion House. First, Sultan replied with a deep, terrible roar that caused Mahmoud's eyes to sparkle with delight. Then Caliph, the patriarch of all the hippopotami, joined his voice to that of the old lion. It was a voice like the sound of a mighty waterfall. Between the roars of Sultan and Caliph could be heard those of Fatimah and Cyrus, the younger hippopotami, whose voices were less deep and steady, because not so well trained. From all directions came answers to Mahmoud's signal. There was the snarling scream of the tigers, leopards and pumas; the wolves and hyenas barked in their wild and dreadful way; the bears growled; eagles screamed; the shrieking chatter of the monkeys was ear-splitting. The two-horned rhinoceros grunted terribly. The solitary elephant next door, who was in disgrace for attacking the Keeper, put his four feet close together, humped up his back and trumpeted so loudly that Mahmoud and Duchess held their breath and listened, overcome with joy. At length, having recognized the voices of all the Menial People, Mahmoud and Duchess again stretched forth their trunks and trumpeted with all their might. At this the efforts of all the animals were redoubled. This was indeed the roar of the Jungle. The ground seemed to tremble, so terrible was the din. The Keeper, who often went fearlessly into the cage of Sultan, even putting his hand in the great brute's mouth, could be seen running from the Lion House, pale, and with his hair on end. And through it all the sparrow never moved from his perch on the rim of Mahmoud's ear. But after a while the roar gradually died out, leaving all the Menial People breathless and covered with perspiration. "Aha," said Pwit-Pwit, into the ear of old Mahmoud, "didn't I tell you I could manage the roar of the Jungle?" "Little one," answered the grateful beast, gasping for breath, "we are your slaves from this day on." "Nonsense," chirped back the sparrow; "it was fun for me, too. Never before was heard such a roar. The Master People were terrified. Did you not observe them flying in all directions?" "Ay, little one, I saw them, and it gladdened my old heart. Even the Keeper, he that is so proud and stout of heart, fled as I have seen his brown-skinned brothers flee before my onslaught in the Jungle. Verily, all the Master People fled--" Mahmoud stopped, with his eye fixed in astonishment on the little Limping Boy, who stood as before, with his arms on the iron railing, calm and unmoved. As though doubting the evidence of his eyes, Mahmoud put forth his trunk, and with the two fingers at its end felt of the iron on the boy's leg. Then he turned to Duchess and said: "Behold, O Light of my Life, of all the Master People only the little Limping Boy remained, his soul unterrified by the roar of the Jungle. With my two fingers have I again felt the iron on his leg. No longer do I doubt." Then turning to the sparrow, Mahmoud, Lord of all the Menial People, gave this command: "Go forth, little one, to all my people; to the lions, to the tigers, to the hippopotami, to the old dromedary who stands all day blinking in the sun, yea, even to the chattering monkeys, and say: Lo, this is the command of Mahmoud, that no harm shall befall the little Limping Boy, for verily, he doth stand between. I have spoken." The sparrow flew away to do his master's bidding, and from that day on Toots was able to interpret for the Princess even the sign language spoken by the blinking old dromedary, who to all but him was the sphinx of the Zoo, deep of thought, but generally uncommunicative. CHAPTER II _Despised Relations_ Oh, behold us, and dispute us if you can! Only look upon our faces, On our more than human graces, And observe the many traces Of our kinship with our noble brother, Man! --_Song of the Ambitious Monkeys._ The great round, soft, brown eyes of Dozel, most slender-limbed and graceful of the herd of Indian deer, were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy. There seemed to be a look of pity in their depths. She licked Toots' fingers, and the Princess tried in vain to attract her attention. "Do you suppose the sparrow has already told her of Mahmoud's command?" asked the Princess. "I don't know," answered Toots; "I think so, but I haven't quite made up my mind yet." "Dozel seems more affectionate toward you than ever," argued the Princess. "Yesterday she licked my hand, but to-day she has eyes only for you, Toots." "It must be so, then," said the little Limping Boy. "You remember that when the elephant ordered Pwit-Pwit to go and tell all the Menial People that I stood between the two worlds, and that no harm should befall me, the sparrow flew away immediately. But, look! here comes Pwit-Pwit now. He and Dozel are going to have their morning chat. Keep quite still, and I'll tell you what they say." [Illustration: The soft, brown eyes of Dozel were fixed on the face of the little Limping Boy.] The Princess put her finger on her lip and looked significantly at Toots, as the sparrow perched herself on the top rail of the yard, within a foot of Dozel's ear, and began to chirp. The Princess saw the familiar, dreamy look come into Toots' eyes, as he began to translate the gossip of the sparrow and the deer. "Why are you so sad this morning?" asked Pwit-Pwit. "The weather is simply perfect." But Dozel merely sighed, and turned her gaze wistfully in the direction of the Elephant House. Nothing so delighted her as the loud trumpetings of Mahmoud and his mate, and she always let her eyes roam in their direction when anything unusual was on her mind. "You ought to be happy," continued the sparrow; "you certainly never looked handsomer, with your brown skin so soft and velvety that the little white spots scattered over it look like snowflakes, and your eyes so clear and tender--tut, tut, now Dozel, my dear. The idea of your crying on a morning like this!" "I can't help it," whimpered the beautiful creature. "It's enough to make any one weep." Pwit-Pwit hopped on to Dozel's back and together they took a turn about the yard. "And I'm blest if you're not limping, you, of all people in the world!" said the sparrow, in astonishment. "It's out of sympathy," sighed Dozel. "When I think of my own legs, so straight and slender and swift, I can't help thinking of the little Limping Boy and his poor, crooked leg, with the iron on it. There he stands now. Isn't it pitiful? Oh, dear, oh, dear!" "True, it is very sad," said Pwit-Pwit, soberly; "but what can't be cured must be endured, you know." "The worst part of it," said the deer, "is that there is something about the little Limping Boy's walk that reminds me of those chattering, screaming monkeys I remember so well in the jungle. There are some of them over in a corner of the Lion House. I can't bear them." "Hello!" chirped the sparrow, jubilantly. "So that's your opinion of 'em, too, is it, Dozel, my dear? Well, that's too good to keep. I'll go straight to the monkeys with that, and when they know that it comes from you direct, they'll have a bad half-hour, I can tell you. They won't be any happier than you are then, my dear. Do you know, the impudent creatures actually claim to be related to the birds! As a general thing, I pay no attention to 'em, but this is different. They feel so sure of your good opinion, you're so sweet and sedate with everybody. My, oh, my, but won't it make 'em wild! I'll go straight to that idiot, Mr. Kelly. Just listen, and you'll hear him jabber himself blue in the face." With this, the malicious little bird flew straight into the Lion House, and to Mr. Kelly's corner, Toots and the Princess following as fast as their legs could carry them, the iron on the little Limping Boy's leg clanking all the way. Now, Mr. Kelly is a very learned monkey, having enjoyed the society of men for quite a number of years. He had had breakfast, and was leisurely picking his teeth. Pwit-Pwit perched himself on the rail just out of reach of his nimble fingers. Truth to tell, the sparrow was so startled at Mr. Kelly's resemblance to the man who carried the plaster when the bear's den was being repaired, that he was quite civil at first. "Good morning, Mr. Kelly," he said politely, "are you feeling quite well?" [Illustration] "So-so," answered the monkey, eying the sparrow with much deliberation. "Except for my neuralgia and a touch of the gout I'm in my usual health, thank you. You don't happen to have a cigar about you, I suppose?" "Bless me!" said Pwit-Pwit, astounded and quite off his guard, "you don't mean to say you smoke?" "Had my cigar after breakfast every morning when I was acting in a theater over in the Bowery," said Mr. Kelly. "Seems that smoking isn't allowed here. These blue laws are beastly, aren't they?" "Do you find it hard going without?" asked Pwit-Pwit, unable yet to assume his accustomed air of superiority. "If they would let me taper off I wouldn't mind so much," answered the monkey, with a yawn; "but this stopping all at once is rather trying on the nerves." Toots shifted his position in front of the monkey's cage, which caused the iron on his leg to jingle. This attracted the attention of Mr. Kelly, who threw away the straw he had been using as a toothpick and came close to the wire netting that surrounded him. "You heard the command of Mahmoud to all the Menial People touching the little Limping Boy," said the sparrow. "Well, here he is." Instead of replying, Mr. Kelly began twisting his features into the drollest shapes imaginable. "Mahmoud's command has made a great stir everywhere," continued Pwit-Pwit. "It has affected Dozel to tears. I left her just now weeping over the misfortunes of the little Limping Boy." At this Mr. Kelly began to snivel and moan, while two tears rolled down his hairy nose. [Illustration] "Hello, there! What's the matter with you?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. The monkey made no reply, but began limping around his cage, moaning and shedding tears, as though heart-broken. "Oh, I see," said the sparrow, "you're sorry for the little Limping Boy, too." "I have a fellow-feeling for him," answered Mr. Kelly, and went on with his moaning. "Why, you--you miserable upstart!" exclaimed Pwit-Pwit, ruffling up his feathers in indignation. The sparrow would have said more but for the sudden change in Mr. Kelly's manner. The monkey had come back to the front of his cage, and was touching the side of his head with the forefinger of his right hand. "What are you up to now?" he demanded. "Saluting my unfortunate distant relation," said Mr. Kelly, who then went on moaning and weeping worse than before. For a moment the sparrow's indignation was such that he seemed to be deprived of speech. He looked at Mr. Kelly, and then at the little Limping Boy, and then at the monkey again. Then he ruffled up the feathers of his neck angrily, and said: "Do you mean to say that you believe yourself to be related to this boy, who will grow into a man some day?" [Illustration] "That's the tradition in our family," said Mr. Kelly, "and you doubtless know that tradition is the basis of all history. Besides, that's what a very celebrated man once said in a lecture at the theater where I acted, and he had me on the stage with him for an illustration--so he said. Any one can see that there isn't much difference between a monkey and a man, except the clothes. Look for yourself." And Mr. Kelly placed his right elbow in his left hand, and rested his chin on his right hand, just as the little Limping Boy was doing. Pwit-Pwit looked from one to the other, and the resemblance was so startling that for a moment he was at a loss what answer to make. Then he caught sight of the monkey's tail, which Mr. Kelly was trying hard to conceal behind him. "Aha!" chirped the sparrow, exultantly; "what about the tail?" "None of your business, you meddlesome, gossiping little wretch!" screamed Mr. Kelly, in a passion. And he made a grab for Pwit-Pwit through the wires of his cage, but could not quite reach him. "Be careful," warned the sparrow. "Remember the Law." "Know this once for all, you insignificant bearer of tales," snarled Mr. Kelly. "Mahmoud himself has said that he was in doubt whether I was of the Menial People, or whether I stood between the two worlds. Ere long I shall compel him to proclaim that I am neither the one nor the other, but that I am of the Master People. So beware!" But Pwit-Pwit nearly burst his sides with laughter. "Do you know what Dozel says about you?" he said finally; "the beautiful young Indian doe at whom you have been making eyes through the wires of your cage ever since she arrived?" [Illustration] Mr. Kelly suddenly turned very pale. Noticing this, the sparrow went on relentlessly: "She says that you and all your tribe are chattering, screaming nobodies." For a moment the blow seemed almost more than Mr. Kelly could endure. "Aha, Mr. Kelly," said the sparrow, insolently, "chattering, screaming nobodies! What do you say to that?" At this taunt Mr. Kelly nearly exploded with passion. He clenched his hand and shook it at the sparrow, and screamed at the top of his voice: "Jocko! Jocko! Do you hear? This meddlesome wretch of a sparrow says we are chattering nobodies." [Illustration] Jocko, the tottering old baboon in his cage on the other side of the Lion House, turned blue in the face with anger. "Catch him and pull out his tail feathers!" he screamed. "Never mind the Law." But Pwit-Pwit kept well out of Mr. Kelly's reach. By this time, the little, long-tailed monkeys with black caps and high-pitched voices, living next door to Jocko, were chattering and shrieking at a fearful rate. The sparrow flew about from one cage to another, hurling taunts at the enraged creatures, enjoying himself immensely. When, at length, the monkeys had chattered and shrieked themselves hoarse, Mr. Kelly commanded them to be silent while he arranged for a final settlement of the dispute. He walked in a dignified manner about his cage until he had recovered his breath, and then said sternly to Pwit-Pwit: "You are only a foolish little bird, with a great deal to learn. While we care very little for your opinion, it is well that this matter should be settled. Is there any one among all the Menial People whose word you will accept as the eternal truth?" "Yes," answered the sparrow, promptly. "There is Caliph, the old hippopotamus. He is very old and very wise, and he always tells the truth--which is more than can be said of monkeys." "Very well," said Mr. Kelly, calmly, "go and ask Caliph if it is not true that the first man and the first monkey were made out of the same lump of clay long, long ago on the banks of the river Nile. Tell him to lift up his voice when he answers, so that all can hear." "Agreed," said Pwit-Pwit; "and when you hear old Caliph's answer prepare to hang crape on your door-knob, for it will mean the death of your absurd ambition." Then, while Mr. Kelly continued to walk about his cage in a dignified manner, the sparrow, followed by Toots and the Princess, flew quickly to the Hippopotamus House. Straight up to the edge of the deep pool in which Caliph lay, with only an island of black back and his two bulging nostrils showing above the surface of the water, hopped Pwit-Pwit. "What, ho! Caliph!" chirped the sparrow, "come forth from thy meditations and give ear to a matter of consequence concerning all the Menial People." At first Caliph only blinked his small eyes. Pwit-Pwit bobbed his head at the monster with evidence of vast respect, and said in a louder voice: "Greeting, O master of the deep! It is concerning the general welfare that I come to disturb thy reflections on the glorious past. The pretensions of the monkeys have grown past all bounds, so that there is menace to the general peace. The trouble happened in this wise: Mr. Kelly, who is only a poor sort of monkey, at best, claims kinship with the Master World, whereat there is much discontent and not a little jealousy. He avers that the first monkey and the first man were made out of the same lump of clay on the banks of the Nile. Is this the truth? Speak, I pray you, in tones that may be heard by all, that the trouble which threatens us may be averted." While the sparrow thus spoke, Caliph raised his head slowly out of the water. Seven times did he open and close his enormous mouth. At length, in a voice that rang throughout the Menial World, he spoke as follows: "Harken unto me, all ye Menial People. As to the first monkey, it was in this wise: When the first man had been made, his shadow fell upon some very poor clay that had been thrown away. And it came to pass that when the first man walked, and his shadow walked after him, the poor clay upon which the shadow rested rose and ran shrieking into the forest. And, lo! it was a monkey. Behold, I have spoken." When Caliph had sunk beneath the water again, Pwit-Pwit, with his head on one side, listened eagerly for the comments of the other Menial People, and Toots, with his hand placed warningly on the Princess, listened, too. First, Mahmoud trumpeted his acquiescence: "It is true. I heard it from my father in the Jungle one day when these insolent chatterers were particularly annoying. The monkeys are but as chips that fall from the hewn log." "Behold, Caliph's words are the words of wisdom," said Sultan, patriarch of the lions, in his deepest roar. "I, who was born in the shadow of the great pyramids, had it from my father, who had it from the father of Caliph when he went down to the Nile to drink. Lo! the monkeys are as the chaff when the wheat is winnowed." "I am not of that country," said the old dromedary from the plains of Arabia; "but my cousins, the camels, known to all the world as ships of the desert, brought the news to my people. By the fat in my hump, I swear that Caliph speaks the truth." "My grandmother had it from an aged crocodile who crawled up on the bank of the Nile to sun herself, just as she was laying in the hot sand the egg that hatched my mother," screamed the old cock ostrich. "The monkeys are of no more consequence than straws blown by the wind." And no voice among the Menial People was silent. Those who had no testimony to add to that of Caliph, roared and screeched and howled their approval of it. But the monkeys did not remain long abashed at the verdict against them. When Pwit-Pwit, followed by Toots and the Princess, returned to observe its effect upon them, they found Mr. Kelly sitting cross-legged on his overturned water bucket, with his chin in his hand, meditating deeply. [Illustration] "Well," chirped Pwit-Pwit, "did you hear the verdict of old Caliph?" "Eh?" said Mr. Kelly, raising his head abstractedly. "Hum, ah, oh, yes, I heard it." "And the corroboration of all the other Menial People?" "All my expectations were verified," said Mr. Kelly, complacently. "Malice and prejudice were so apparent that every logical mind will at once class the statements of Caliph and his satellites as perjured testimony. My contention, therefore, is sustained." Too perplexed and astonished to make any reply, Pwit-Pwit flew away to his favorite perch on the rim of Mahmoud's ear, where he sat, crestfallen, for fully three and a quarter minutes. CHAPTER III Close thine eyes, my beauty bright, Dream, dream of the flowing Nile, Where thy mother first saw light-- (Ah, sweet is thine infant smile!) Close thy pretty baby mouth, Close, close thy blinking eye; Dream of the joyous, sunny South-- Lullaby, lullaby. --_Hippopotamus Cradle Song._ All the morning there had been an excited running to and fro among the Keepers of the Menial World. Evidences of a stupendous mystery were apparent on every hand. It seemed to center in the Hippopotamus House, the doors of which were locked and barred, as well as those of the Lion House adjoining it. The Princess, devoured by curiosity, deluged Toots with questions. While awaiting developments, they were feeding peanuts to Zuelma, the vain young mother ostrich. For quite a while the little Limping Boy was unable to get any light on the mystery. "If the sparrow were only here," said the Princess, "there would be a lot of gossip about it; wouldn't there, Toots?" "Yes," answered the boy; "but we won't have to wait long. Listen, Mahmoud is beginning to rumble through his trunk. Twice old Sultan has roared under his breath, and a moment ago the tigers were snarling. The secret will soon be out--" At that instant, Sultan, patriarch of the lions, delivered himself of a mighty roar. Even the Princess could tell by the sound of it that it was not a roar of anger. "Good!" said Toots, "that is old Sultan's call for rejoicing. Now listen." [Illustration] Mahmoud was first to reply. The old elephant trumpeted a hearty response, in which the other elephants joined. After that there were growls from the bears, snarls from the tigers and pumas, and an extraordinary chattering among the monkeys. Throughout all the Menial World there was only one note of discord, one failure to respond heartily to the call for rejoicing. When the other voices had subsided, up spoke the aged striped hyena in his evil-tempered voice, demanding: "Wherefore rejoice? What has befallen in the Lion House that gives cause for rejoicing?" The roar with which Sultan prefaced his reply was so terrible that the ill-favored beast cowered back into the farthest corner of his den. Said Sultan: "Not for this suspicious, thieving, ill-conditioned creature, but for all the loyal inhabitants of the Menial World shall the answer be given. Harken to the voice of Caliph, the Wise." For a moment there was deep silence. Then spoke Caliph, patriarch of the hippopotami, in his rumbling roar, resembling that of the cataracts of the Upper Nile, within the sound of which his youth had been spent: "Lo, Fatimah, my beloved mate, hath an infant daughter. Mother and child are doing well; therefore, rejoice." Whereat there was such general and hearty rejoicing that all the houses of the Menial People rocked on their foundations. But when the sound of it had died away, the aged hyena could be heard snarling: "Pooh! only one? Though my mate brought me four daughters and a son one morning as I was gnawing the leg bone of a sheep, yet I made no uproar about it." "That is because you are a selfish, thieving, carrion-eating old hypocrite," thundered back Caliph. [Illustration] Zuelma, with her bill wide open, as is her custom while listening, stood with her long neck craned over the head of the little Limping Boy, in whose hand that of the Princess--somewhat frightened by the uproar among the animals--was tightly clasped. Suddenly, Pwit-Pwit, the Sparrow gossip and news-gatherer for all the Menial People, fluttered down at her feet. "I have been expecting you for an hour," said the ostrich. "Now, thank goodness, we shall know the truth, after all this roaring and trumpeting. How is it, Pwit-Pwit, that so much fuss is made over a single baby? Were the other eggs eaten by the crocodiles?" [Illustration] "As soon as I heard the call for rejoicing," said the sparrow, "I flew at once to the Hippopotamus House; but the door was shut and no one came to let me in. But it sticks in my mind, Zuelma, that the young of the Hippopotamus are not hatched from eggs." At this, Zuelma, who was a mother herself, laughed scornfully. "If you were not a giddy, gadding sparrow," she said, "with neither mate nor nest of your own, you would know that without eggs and hot sand to hatch them in, there would be no young in the world. Come, go and try again. By this time the door should be open." The sparrow was no quicker than were Toots and the Princess to profit by this hint. They found the outer door of the Hippopotamus House still closed; but that of the Lion House was open, and also one connecting the two. As Pwit-Pwit hopped past the cage of the frolicsome lion cubs, they tumbled over each other in their eagerness to greet him. "Ho, Pwit-Pwit," they roared in their babyish voices, "stop and tell us the news." [Illustration] "Wait till I come back," chirped the sparrow; "I'm busy now." And he hurried on into the Hippopotamus House and to the big tank where old Caliph was cooling himself after the excitement of the morning. Toots and the Princess stopped within a yard of him, eager to hear what was said between them. "Is it indeed true?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. "Are you for the second time a father?" Caliph blinked at the sparrow, and seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Presently he opened his mouth at least a yard and snorted so loudly that the sparrow's feathers were drenched with the spray from his nostrils. "Such manners!" exclaimed Pwit-Pwit, shaking himself vigorously. "What on earth are you laughing at?" "Father for the second time," repeated Caliph, with a broad smile. "Why, little one, my age is at least three-quarters of a century, and all of our family wedded young. At least a score of the young with which Fatimah has presented me are to-day rolling about the broad earth in gaudily painted wheeled tanks for the amusement of the Master World. Therefore, excuse me if I smile decorously at your inquiry if it be true that I am indeed a father for the second time." "Where are Fatimah and the new baby?" demanded the sparrow, shortly, for Pwit-Pwit never approved of laughter at his own expense. "You'll find them over in the next tank," answered the father hippopotamus. "Never yet was there such a baby for the water. He has been to the surface to breathe only twice since he was born. He will be a great hippopotamus when he grows up." "Do you mean to say," said Pwit-Pwit, in surprise, "that Fatimah found the baby in the water to begin with?" "Why, certainly," answered Caliph, "where would you expect to find a new baby hippopotamus?" [Illustration] "Well, I wonder what Zuelma will say to that," chirped the sparrow, as he hopped along to the margin of Fatimah's tank. All that could be seen of the mother hippopotamus was a glistening yard or so of her black back. This was floating about the tank in a manner that indicated no little agitation below the surface. The cause was apparent when Fatimah lifted her head out of the water, and said to Caliph: "Alas! our new-born daughter is lost again. I have searched every corner of the tank in vain. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Do not agitate yourself, my beloved," answered Caliph. "The little one is mischievous. Thus it was, I remember, with our first-born. Verily, it is a good sign." Suddenly, while Caliph was speaking, Fatimah plunged her nose into the water, made a scooping motion, and rose quickly to the surface, bringing the missing baby with her. The Princess shrieked with delight at sight of the coffee-colored little image of its mother which lay sprawling across her broad nose, blinking its eyes and blowing spray from its nostrils. [Illustration: The coffee-colored little image of its mother lay sprawling across her broad nose.] "A fine child, Fatimah," said Pwit-Pwit. "Many happy returns of the day." "Thank you very much, I'm sure," said Fatimah, while the new baby shook its small ears in imitation of its mother. "But what a care these babies are," she added with a sigh, "nobody but a mother knows." Toots would have sworn that at this moment Caliph winked slyly at his new daughter, and that the baby gave her father an answering wink. At any rate, as Fatimah finished speaking, the baby slid from her nose into the water with a splash, and sank out of sight. "Drat the child!" said Fatimah. "There's no use," she added with a snort that sent a ripple of waves over the surface of the water; "she will do it. I shall simply leave her there, young as she is, till she is obliged to come up for air. By the way, Pwit-Pwit, little one, how are Cleopatra and her monkey baby this morning?" "Quite well, thank you," answered the sparrow, "and Cleopatra sends congratulations." "Caliph, my love," said Fatimah, "I really think that in honor of the occasion, we should send a polite message to Cleopatra. To be sure, I don't approve of monkeys at all, but babies are babies, you know." "Very well," said Caliph, gruffly, "send the chattering young creature any message you like, only keep me out of it." "My experience certainly is greater than Cleopatra's," said Fatimah, addressing the sparrow, "and I would warn her against allowing her baby to lie overlong in the sun. It is apt to crack the skin. I remember when my first child was born--" "Why, bless my eyes!" interrupted Pwit-Pwit, with a giggle, "Cleopatra asked me to warn you against letting your baby get its feet wet." "Well, I never!" gasped Fatimah in astonishment, while Caliph opened his mouth till the Princess told Toots in a whisper that she could see clear into his stomach, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Well, I must be going," said the sparrow. "Everybody is dying for the news. Have you named the baby yet, Fatimah?" "She shall be called Delilah, for her beauty," said the proud mother, as her baby came gasping and sputtering to the surface. As Fatimah put down her nose for her child to clamber upon, she said in a tone of loving triumph: "So-so, my child, it seems you still have some use for mother. Now will you be good?" Again the lion cubs roared at Pwit-Pwit as he was passing, demanding the news: "Where did the hippopotamus baby come from? Did somebody leave the door open?" "Fatimah found it at the bottom of her swimming tank," answered the sparrow, and he passed on, leaving the cubs staring at each other in wonderment. When Pwit-Pwit had made the rounds with his gossip about the new baby, all the Menial People who felt that their experience entitled them to give advice touching the bringing up of children, addressed themselves, one at a time, to Fatimah and Caliph. "As to the new babe," said the dromedary, speaking first, "I would give a bit of advice. Many a babe has suffered in its early days from lack of water. So it was with my brother. His tongue became so parched that he was never able to converse above a whisper. I pray you, madam, to see that your babe has water to drink at least once a week." "Ho-ho, ha-ha!" laughed Caliph. "Water once a week, and only to drink--" "Hush, my dear," said Fatimah, "the dromedary means well, but, being of the desert, he knows no better." "If you would have his legs grow slim and straight," said Dozel, the Indian doe, "you must let him run over the hills as much as possible while yet young. But I would warn you to beware of the dogs and wolves." "For exercise to strengthen the body there is nothing like leaping," roared Sultan, the lion. "Before I was a year old I could leap full twenty feet to the shoulders of an antelope, and never miss." "Ho-ho, ha-ha!" roared Caliph again, till reproved by Fatimah. But the picture of any hippopotamus, young or old, running over the hills, or leaping on to the shoulders of an antelope, was irresistibly funny, and Caliph continued to chuckle till Duchess, Mahmoud's faithful mate, concluded the chapter on how to bring up a young hippopotamus with the following sensible advice: "Behold, O Fatimah," she said, "one or two matters which may have slipped your memory, upon which I would give you counsel. If the mother be sound, and the new-born babe be without blot or blemish, there is little to be feared. Yet, in my time, have I seen the young over-eager for their food, so that they grow to be unnaturally ravenous, in time ruining their digestion and destroying their moral sense. Such a disposition noticed early in infancy is easily corrected, as you well know. If your babe displays an inclination to turn her head more to one side than to the other when sleeping, I would remind you that this is frequently the cause of an ill-balanced skull, destructive of that beautiful symmetry characteristic of the normal adult members of both our species. Moreover, let not thy offspring accustom herself to chewing her food on one side of her mouth--a common affectation among infants. The danger from this source is teeth short on one side and long on the other, and a jaw awry. In these days, as you well know, Fatimah, it is difficult to obtain for a daughter a desirable mate if she be not well favored." "Thank you, my dear," said Fatimah, when Duchess had ceased speaking. "You'll excuse me now, I'm sure; my baby hasn't had a nap since it was born." Presently, all through the Menial World was heard the plaintive melody of the Hippopotamus Cradle Song, and for an hour after it had ceased, even Pwit-Pwit and the Monkeys were silent. CHAPTER IV In the absence of the Princess, it was the little Limping Boy's habit, when visiting his friends of the Menial World, to interpret for his own entertainment the conversations he overheard. He believed that he did this only in his mind, but on several occasions he had translated the language of Caliph or Mahmoud in such loud tones, influenced by the exciting character of their discourse, that other visitors had looked at each other significantly, tapping their foreheads and smiling. Of all this, however, the little Limping Boy, fortunately, was oblivious. One morning he stood alone before the door of Mahmoud and the Duchess. It was the day after the Keeper and several helpers had thrown Mahmoud's mate on her side, tied her fast with ropes, and, with hammer and chisel, had pared her toe-nails, which had grown so long as to lame her. The elephants stood with their heads together, swaying their trunks. The boy at once perceived that they were discussing the nail-paring incident. "Of a truth," said Mahmoud, "when the men came with ropes I was as apprehensive as thou, O Light of my Life. Thou wert aged and lame, and I trembled at the thought that they were about to put thee out of thy misery. Happily, it was not so. And thy lameness this morning, my beloved, hath it disappeared?" "My Lord," said Duchess, "my four feet are now as firm on the ground as when, years ago, I ran free and thoughtless in the Jungle. I feel no pain, and my heart is filled with gratitude to the men with the knives who looked so cruel and were yet so kind." For a moment the two great beasts were silent, gently caressing each other with their trunks. Then Mahmoud spoke: "Had I reflected, O Joy of my Heart, I could have saved thee all thy apprehensions. But it was not until they had released thee that I remembered. Look thou, Duchess, at the under side of my trunk and tell me what thou seest there." Mahmoud raised his trunk in the air, and his mate inspected it carefully, feeling its under side from lip to tip. Presently she said, with surprise and some reproach in her tones: "Why hast thou concealed thy wounds from me, thy faithful mate, my Lord? Almost from lip to tip thou art scarred as though by lion's claws. Surely this is since we came from the Jungle? Then, when I was young and my eyes keen, thou couldst not have concealed from me these dreadful wounds." "Calm thyself, O Light of my Life," said Mahmoud, soothingly. "Canst thou remember the time long before we came to this pleasant place, when, for many weary months, we were separated, my beloved?" "Aye, well, my Lord. It was the time when, day after day, I marched at the head of a long train of gaudily painted wagons in which were Menial People of every sort, stopping now and then at towns and villages for the pleasure of the Master People, who came by thousands to see us. And where wert thou, my Lord, during that dreary time of our separation?" "In the summer," said Mahmoud, "I roamed the country at the head of a train of Menial People, as didst thou. But in the winter I was housed with many others where iron boxes contained fire wherewith to warm us. It is to this same fire that I owe these wounds." [Illustration] "I, too, have seen this red danger," said Duchess, with a shudder. "Once, in the Jungle, it roared and pursued me among the dried reeds till my sides were scorched and I was near dying of fatigue. Didst thou say, my Lord, that the Master People imprison those scorching red tongues in iron boxes?" [Illustration] "Aye, thus it warms, but pursueth not," answered Mahmoud. "Yet is there sometimes danger, as I am about to relate. It happened one night in the middle of winter, when the cold was so severe that the man who watched stretched himself out on the floor at the very side of the iron box, which was as red without as it was within, that old Sultan, the lion, escaped from his cage, and walked abroad within the large house. In passing the red box, he lashed his tail thereon and was stung by the fire so that he howled. But ere the watcher could rise, Sultan, roaring with anger, leaped on the red box, overturning it, so that it fell and held fast the foot of the man that watched. Instantly did the man set up a great outcry, for the fire stung him also, and the weight of the red box held him so that he could not rise. "Now it happened," continued Mahmoud, "that the man who watched had shown me many kindnesses, and I was loath to see him suffer pain. Therefore, breaking the chain that held me in my stall, I ran to the iron box, wrapped my trunk about it and quickly set it on its legs, as, many times in the Jungle, I have carried the hewn logs for the Master People. It was not until the watcher was released and arose, limping, to his feet in safety, that I felt the sting of the fire--" "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" [Illustration] This interruption, uttered in a gruff, unfamiliar voice, caused the little Limping Boy to turn and look to see who was the speaker. But he saw only the swaying branches of some shrubbery near by, and so went on interpreting Mahmoud's tale. "The pain grew each moment more severe, so that I groaned with the agony of it," continued the elephant. "The man who watched returned me to my stall and put oil on my wounds. The oil availed little. For days my agony continued. The Keeper and his helpers could give me no relief. Great patches of skin fell from my trunk, leaving my wounds raw and bleeding. Thus I suffered in the full belief that my wounds were mortal, and that I should never see thee again, my beloved, when one day the Keeper brought to my stall a large man with yellow hair and beard, who carried in his hand a black bag, and who, as he examined my wounded trunk, kept saying 'hum' and 'ha' in a gruff voice. Yet I felt in my heart that he desired to afford me relief--" "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" It was the same gruff voice; but again the little Limping Boy was unable to discover whence it came, and so gave his attention once more to the elephant. [Illustration] "Therefore, when men came with ropes," said Mahmoud, "I made no resistance, but lay down of my own accord and suffered them to bind me. Thereupon the gruff man opened his black bag and took therefrom sundry bright knives and needles; also some bottles and strips of gauze. Though his voice was gruff, I found his touch most soft and gentle. First, he bathed my wounds with some sweet-smelling stuff, and then, with a keen knife--so keen was it that I knew not when it touched me, though it brought streams of blood--the man pared away the diseased skin. I confess that the gruff man's next act puzzled me somewhat at first. While his helpers held my trunk out straight, ever and anon bathing it with a soothing liquid, he washed with great care the thin, tender skin under my forelegs. A sharp pain, at which I made no outcry, however, in the same region, caused me to turn my eyes in that direction. The gruff man, with another very sharp knife, was taking from my legs narrow strips of the living skin and laying them, one after another, on the raw flesh of my trunk. Ere long the wounds were all covered, and when strips of cloth had been bound about them, holding them fast, the ropes were taken from me, and I was permitted to rise. From that day all my pain ceased, and soon only the scars which thou hast seen, O Light of my Life, remained as a witness of the merciful deed of the gruff man with the yellow hair and beard." "Remarkable! Most remarkable!" This time when the little Limping Boy turned at the interruption, he saw the Princess coming from the shrubbery, eagerly dragging after her by the hand a large man in whose yellow hair and beard there were some streaks of gray. "Oh, Toots!" called out the Princess, as they approached the door of the Elephant House, "here's papa. We heard your translation of Mahmoud's story, and it's wonderful. I told papa you could do it, but he wouldn't believe it till his own ears convinced him." "And so you're Toots," said the Princess' father. "My little daughter says that you translate the talk of the animals. Hum, ha, where did you get that story about the elephant skin-grafting you've just been telling?" "Why, papa," said the Princess, reproachfully, "he got it from Mahmoud." "Hum, ha," grunted the large man to himself, "the boy got it from the Keeper--probably the same one that took me out to Bridgeport for that case in Barnum's menagerie. Hum, ha, let's see, that was six years ago last winter. Hum, ha." And the large man looked sharply at Toots. "My little daughter calls you 'Toots'; what's your real name?" "Edward Vine, sir." "Hum, ha, poetical; goes well with his powerful imagination. What does your father do?" "My father is dead, sir." "Poor boy! Hum, ha. What does your mother do?" "Makes embroidery, sir." "Any brothers or sisters?" "No, sir." "How old are you?" "Eleven last June, sir." "Hum, ha," said the gruff man. Toots now saw that when the Princess' father said "hum, ha," he was talking to himself. He stood with his back against the rail in front of Mahmoud's stall. The old elephant was acting strangely. At every exclamation of "hum, ha," he would flap his ears and move a step nearer the large man. "Hum, ha," mused the large man gruffly, again, as he took off his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow, over which swept the grayish yellow locks. Instantly Mahmoud gave one of his little squeals of delight and began fondling the large man with the tip of his trunk. "Why, he remembers you, sir," said Toots. "Or else he mistakes you for the surgeon who mended his trunk." "Hum, ha, he doesn't mistake me, boy. I am the surgeon who mended his trunk. I flatter myself that it was the first case of elephant skin-grafting ever attempted. Hum, ha." And having closely inspected the scars on the old elephant's proboscis, the large man said "hum, ha," several more times, evidently with great satisfaction, then said to Toots: "What's the matter with your leg?" "It's too short, sir." "Born so?" "Oh, no, sir. It was broken below the knee when I was six years old, and my mother was too poor to get a good surgeon." "Hum, ha; let's have a look at it." The surgeon, whose hands were large, white and soft, and as gentle as his voice was gruff, unfastened the straps of iron and felt of Toots' poor, crippled leg, saying "hum, ha," a great many times as he did so. At length he replaced the irons, looked the boy sharply in the face, and asked: "How would you like to wear it like the other one, for a change?" "Oh, would that be possible, sir?" asked Toots, turning pale. "Easy as"--the gruff man looked around to see if he could find anything so easy as making Toots' leg an inch and a half longer, and noticed Mahmoud--"easy as growing new skin on an elephant's trunk. Hum, ha, easier." "Would it hurt?" "Not a bit. Do it while you're asleep. Then you lie on your back a couple of weeks, after which you go out on my farm with my little daughter and stay till you can jump up and crack your heels together twice. Hum, ha. Tell your mother to bring you to the hospital at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon." [Illustration] "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" was all Toots could say. "Hum, ha, any friend of Mahmoud is a friend of mine," said the Princess' father. It all happened exactly according to the promise of the gruff man with the gentle hands--a little dream of pain in his leg, then two weeks on his back in the hospital bed, where the Princess visited him daily with all sorts of dainties, and then, when he could walk about a bit, a long journey into the country. There, in the bright sunshine, with the birds and butterflies glancing all about him, and the woods and fields calling to him to explore them, he grew strong once more, until, little by little, he learned to get along so gloriously that he could hardly make himself believe that he was the same boy at all. And for this great blessing, which in all his life he had never dared hope for, Toots felt from the very bottom of his heart that he was indebted to the friendship and intimacy which he had come to have with old Mahmoud. CHAPTER V Said the fat white grub to the new spoon hook, With a cynical smile and a scornful look: "Pray accept my very best wishes. It is true you dazzle their eyes, I suppose, But the fact remains, as every one knows, That I am the food for fishes." --_Lay of the Minstrel Pike._ Toots sat on the smooth top of a boulder on the river bank, gazing deep down into the pool at his feet. The pool was shaded by the overhanging branches of a cottonwood tree. The warm air was filled with the fragrance of the country. It had painted the boy's cheeks a healthy brown, and caused him to thrill with a sense of strength that was new and delightful. The good surgeon's promise was fulfilled; Toots' leg was now as straight as that of any boy, and no longer was it burdened by the weight of iron straps. Concerning the iron straps he had just one regret; when he returned to his friends, the Menial People, would Mahmoud be able to recognize him, thus bereft of those symbols of their affinity? He would soon know, for he and the Princess--whose guest Toots was at her father's country home during the period of his convalescence--were to return in a few days. Near where Toots sat, the Princess played beside a little brook that gurgled over its bed of cobble-stones. She was amusing herself poking the end of a stick under the stones in the bed of the brook. Occasionally a crawfish would dart out backward, glare at her savagely with its beady eyes and snap its clumsy claws at the stick, whereupon the Princess would utter a ladylike little shriek and retire to another part of the brook. Suddenly she clapped her hands and exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!" [Illustration] The Princess ran to meet a trim, precise looking young man in a linen helmet, canvas coat and trousers and a pair of high boots, who was coming down the steep bank with a beautiful new rod and reel on his shoulder. Slung across the other shoulder was a large bag. This was to put his fish in--when he had caught them. Toots never moved from his seat on the boulder. "Now, if you children will keep quiet," said Reginald, as he fastened a brilliant contrivance of scarlet feathers and glittering silver on the end of his slender silken line, "we shall have fried pike for supper." "I'd rather have pickerel, if you please," said Toots. [Illustration: Suddenly the Princess exclaimed: "Oh, here comes Reginald!"] "Pickerel never bite at this time of day," answered Reginald, with authority. He stepped to the water's edge, where the brook entered the river, and raised his rod. Swish! went the delicate bit of bamboo through the air, the reel whizzed and the silken line shot far down the stream. When the glittering bauble at its end struck the water, Reginald wound up the reel slowly, anxiously watching the tip of the rod. Toots and the Princess looked on in silence, the Princess because of her admiration for the natty figure, and Toots out of politeness. But the boy had small respect for Reginald's abilities as a fisherman. Farmer John, with his crooked old pole and grubs for bait, was Toots' ideal in the fishing line. Besides, John had told him about the Pickerel Family whose home was in this same pool. [Illustration] Yes, John's story must be quite true, for now as he turned his gaze from the unprofitable fisherman back to the pool, Toots was sure he could see shadowy figures floating in and out among the rocks. Certainly there was Grandfather Pickerel, the patriarch of the family. Toots could see him now quite plainly. He was having a domestic discussion with two other pickerel who bore a strong family resemblance to him. "They must be Father and Mother Pickerel," thought Toots. [Illustration] Darting about near by, Toots could see the whole brood of young pickerels. They were of all sizes, from Big Brother Pickerel, who was nearly as large as his father, down to Baby Pickerel, who was hardly larger than a minnow. Suddenly Toots realized that something of unusual importance was going on at the bottom of the pool, for as his eyes grew more accustomed to the wavering lights and shadows in the water, he could see, swimming about in the near neighborhood of the Pickerel Family, a whole troop of collateral relations. He recognized Uncle Pike by his fierce look and by the way he ordered the other relations about. Toots knew Aunt Bass by her plump figure and the bright silver suit she wore. She was swimming here and there, conversing amiably with everybody. Miss Catfish, a distant and poor relation, was lingering modestly in the background. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her except Big Brother Pickerel, who kept edging over in her direction, only to be pursued, reprimanded and driven back to the inner family circle by Mother Pickerel. Toots felt that revelations of the utmost significance were impending. He hardly dared to breathe. Just then his observations were interrupted by the shrill voice of the Princess: "Toots! Toots! John's coming!" This was different. Toots scrambled down from the boulder and ran to meet the big man with the tattered straw hat who was approaching with his crooked fish-pole on his shoulder. In one hand John carried a rusty oyster can which appeared to be full of dirt. Toots stuck his fingers into the dirt and brought something white to the surface. "They're grubs," he exclaimed delightedly. "Now we _shall_ have fried pickerel for supper." Reginald was reeling in his line. His face wore a look of discontent. "Don't seem to have much appetite for red feathers to-day, do they?" said John, as he stuck a grub on his hook and dropped it into the pool. Reginald muttered something between his teeth, and walked toward the rock where the Princess was standing. She gave him a look of consolation. Toots was clambering up beside her. It was a good place from which to watch John. "Go away," said the Princess, drawing her short skirts about her. "Go away; you smell of grubs." But she held out her hand to Reginald and smiled on him in her most fascinating manner. Toots went and stood by the side of John. At that moment the big man gave a sharp tug at the crooked pole, and a shining pickerel over a foot long lay flopping on the stones. Toots viewed the fish at close range with bulging eyes, and said: "Why, I know him. It's the father of the little pickerels." "That so?" said John, sticking another grub on his hook and dropping it into the pool again. "Well, we'll eat him fried for supper just the same." Toots' lip quivered. "Where will the little pickerels get another father?" he asked. "They don't need any," said John. "Grandfather Pickerel will look after them. He's a wise old chap. Nobody's going to get a chance to fry him in a hurry. I've hooked him half a dozen times, but I've never had a chance to fry him yet." "Did he get away?" asked Toots. "Well, I should say he did. You never see more than the tip of the old sinner's nose. When he's given you a glimpse of that, he bites off the line and flops back into his hole." Toots reflected for several moments, and then inquired: "What becomes of the hook, John?" "Oh, he swallows the hook," answered the big man, testily. "His stomach must be half full of old iron by this time." This was an interesting situation. Toots turned it over in his mind slowly. Presently his attention was diverted by an exclamation from John. "Durn his skin!" the big man was saying. "Blest if I don't believe I've got him again!" John's line was being dragged frantically about in the pool. The pole bent and splashed in the water. The big man's hat came off. Reginald and the Princess interrupted their flirtation to join Toots beside the pool. "Out of the way, you folks!" shouted John. "Give me room. I'm going to land the old sinner this time, or know the reason why." All at once the crooked pole snapped in two, and John fell backward with his heels in the air. The next instant he had dashed into the pool up to his shoulders, and seized the small end of the pole, to which the line was attached. "Reel him in, why don't you?" sang out Reginald, laughing. "Reel nothing," said John, wrathfully, from the middle of the pool. "The only way to get this fish out is to jump on his back and ride him out." [Illustration] John concluded to compromise by leading him out. He had wound several yards of the line about his arm, and was wading toward the shore. The fish was suspiciously quiet. The big man stepped out of the water and drew in the line, hand over hand. Toots could see the dim outlines of the fish as he allowed himself to be drawn toward the water's edge. Suddenly he clapped his hands and cried out gleefully: "I know him! I know him! It's Grandfather Pickerel." "So do I know him," said John. "Just you wait till I get my hands on him." At length Grandfather Pickerel's long, sharp nose appeared above the water. The big man stepped back ready for one long, strong pull at the right instant. The wary old fish opened his lean jaws to their full width, and brought them together with a vicious snap. It was at exactly the right moment. Once more John lay on his back with his heels in the air, while Grandfather Pickerel glided with much dignity into the depths of the pool. "Now, if you had had my rod and reel," said Reginald, "you could have--" "Your rod and reel be durned," said John, as he picked up the fish lying on the stones, and started up the bank with it. "If ever that old sinner gets hold of your rod and reel, he'll make toothpicks of 'em." CHAPTER VI Food never drops out of a clear sky. When the sky is dark with clouds, it sometimes rains toads; that is different. I have yet to hear of a barbed iron hook being concealed in the flesh of a toad. Insects and other morsels that float down the brook into the pool come to us in the regular course of nature, and may be swallowed without question. --_Maxims of Grandfather Pickerel._ Toots went back to the boulder by the river's margin that same afternoon, and resumed his observation of the Pickerel Family at home. Reginald was taking a nap on the grassy slope of the river bank, and the Princess was tenderly waving her handkerchief over his face to keep off the flies. On a rainy day not long afterward Toots gave her the following account of his observations: [Illustration] Mother Pickerel was worried. She expected company, and everything was at sixes and sevens. The little pickerels were quarrelsome, and were constantly getting in her way. She cuffed them with her fins, and asked them what they supposed their Aunt Bass would think of their conduct. The little Pickerels loved their Aunt Bass, she was so amiable and entertaining. They chattered about her with their noses close together under the rocks where the brook entered the pool. Aunt Bass was not fierce and greedy like Uncle Pike. Sometimes she came over to the pool at sundown, and amused them by leaping far out of the water to catch fireflies. And she would tell them such lovely stories of all she saw in the strange upper world, where there was nothing to swim in. She was delightful. The little pickerels disputed angrily about which of them should go to meet her. They chased each other about and blundered rudely into the corner where Grandfather Pickerel was trying to have a quiet nap. The old fellow grumbled so loudly at this interruption that Mother Pickerel had to leave her work again. She cuffed them right and left, saying: [Illustration] "How often have I told you not to disturb your grandfather when he is taking his nap? And his stomach troubling him so! Don't you know it rained last night? Oh, you bad children, to worry your grandfather after a rain when his stomach hurts him so." Just then Father Pickerel came home. Hearing what had happened, he went at once and apologized to Grandfather Pickerel. Presently Mother Pickerel joined them. Baby Pickerel sneaked up near enough to hear what they were saying. After a little she rejoined her brothers and sisters, looking very important. "What are they talking about?" demanded the other little pickerels, in a chorus. "About Big Brother," said Baby Pickerel. "I just knew that was what was the matter. He's been gallivanting again after that ill-bred Miss Catfish. He can't be found anywhere. Uncle Pike's gone after him, and pretty soon there's going to be a regular picnic, I can tell you. All the relations are coming. I expect Big Brother's going to catch it this time." [Illustration] Miss Pickerel turned up her nose disdainfully. "The idea of Brother running after that Catfish girl. What shocking bad taste! Did you notice what a horrid big mouth she has?" "And she hasn't got a decent suit of scales to her back," chimed in the next to the youngest Pickerel. "She actually eats mud," said Baby Pickerel. "I saw her do it only the other day. When she noticed that I saw her, she looked ashamed and sneaked away." "I am very glad to hear that she is not lost to all sense of shame," said Miss Pickerel, with a toss of her head. "For my part," said one of the little Pickerels who had not yet spoken, "I'd about as lief be a low-bred catfish as a greedy, quarrelsome pike." "S-s-s-h!" said Miss Pickerel, warningly, "the Pikes are our relations." "I don't care if they are. Uncle Pike is perfectly disgraceful. He snatches the fattest tadpoles and gulps them down at a single mouthful before any one else has a chance at them. He has the most enormous appetite. It's unnatural, too, I'm sure. Yesterday I saw him sneaking about after Baby. Do you know, I have an idea he could tell what became of little Cousin Bass last summer. It made me shudder to see him watching Baby with his big, greedy eyes. I went and told Grandfather, and they had some warm words about it." [Illustration] As they listened to this gruesome tale, the other little pickerels turned pale and were silent. They did not recover their accustomed spirits until Aunt Bass bustled in among them, giving each a pat with her gentle fin. She was closely followed by Uncle Pike, who was driving before him Big Brother Pickerel and Miss Catfish. Big Brother Pickerel kept a protecting fin spread above Miss Catfish, and his bold features bore an expression of defiance. Miss Catfish was pale and trembling. [Illustration] "If I were in her place," whispered Miss Pickerel to her brothers and sisters, "I should want the earth to open and swallow me up!" The Pickerel Family and all the relations drew up in line and looked with severity at Big Brother Pickerel, who continued his protecting attitude toward Miss Catfish. At length Grandfather Pickerel spoke. "Grandson," said he, "it is more in sorrow than in anger that we are gathered here. Speak. Do you insist on bringing that young person into this respectable family?" "I do," answered Big Brother Pickerel, firmly; "and as for the respectability of the family, I don't--" "That will do, sir!" thundered Grandfather Pickerel, in a terrible voice. "So be it. Miss Catfish, consider yourself raised to our level. Your apartment is under the seventeenth cobble-stone to the left of where the brook enters the pool. Spare your protestations of gratitude, I beg of you. _Our_ feelings are too deep for words." At this instant the proceedings were interrupted by a dazzling object that dropped into the water a short distance down the stream, and came glinting and whirling through the pool. Big Brother Pickerel made a dash for it, but Grandfather Pickerel hit him such a slap with the flat of his tail that he fell back, dazed, to the bottom of the pool. [Illustration] "Idiot! Look up and see what you were jumping at." When the others looked in the direction indicated by Grandfather Pickerel, they saw a most amusing thing. A dapper young man was actually trying to deceive them with some scarlet feathers and a silver bangle at the end of a line. Even Baby Pickerel knew better. Big Brother Pickerel looked very much ashamed. He tried to explain that his nervousness over domestic matters had temporarily warped his judgment. [Illustration] Grandfather Pickerel rose cautiously toward the surface of the pool to see whether any more formidable enemy was in sight. He saw Toots sitting on the boulder, but there was nothing to cause alarm in that. On the contrary, Grandfather Pickerel regarded Toots in the light of a friend and sympathizer. He had only one reason to be at all doubtful concerning him. He sometimes came down to the pool with the terribly fascinating big man in the tattered straw hat. Grandfather Pickerel felt a dyspeptic twinge in the pit of his stomach as he recalled his experiences with the big man. As he sank back into the pool, the other pickerels noticed that he appeared grave and preoccupied. This meant that the head of the family was turning something over in his mind that he would shortly communicate to them. So they approached in a respectful semicircle, and waited expectantly. Grandfather Pickerel cast his eye over his audience, and asked: "Where is my son?" "Father has gone to see Aunt Bass home," answered Mother Pickerel; "he will return in a few minutes." Grandfather Pickerel cleared his throat, and looking severely at Big Brother Pickerel, said: "I must again warn you of the necessity of using care and judgment in the selection of your food. I will pass over the humiliating scene we have just witnessed, simply reminding you that dazzling objects which seem to drop out of the sky should never be construed as food. My youngest grandchild would be ashamed to act as you have done, sir!" Big Brother Pickerel hung his head, while Baby Pickerel swelled with pride to twice her natural size. At this instant the brilliant combination of scarlet and silver again came whirling through the water above their heads. The whole Pickerel family gazed at it without the slightest evidence of emotion, whereat Grandfather Pickerel gave them a benignant smile, and continued: "As a general rule, everything that drops into the pool is to be regarded with suspicion. Food never drops out of a clear sky. When the sky is dark with clouds it sometimes rains toads; that is different. I have yet to hear of a barbed iron hook being found concealed in the flesh of a toad. Insects and other morsels that float down the brook into the pool come to us in the regular course of nature, and may be swallowed without question." Here Grandfather Pickerel stopped and reflected for a moment. Presently he added: "Regarding objects that seem to drop out of the sky, I think of one exception--grasshoppers"--the little pickerels smacked their lips at mention of this delectable morsel--"which may either fly into the pool from a distance or leap in from the bank. "I now come," said the patriarch, "to the most deadly danger with which we have to deal. I refer to the powerful fascination which seems to be exercised over us by those big two-legged creatures in tattered straw hats, carrying long, crooked poles over their shoulders, who come down to the pool and lure us to destruction with grubs impaled on sharp iron hooks. I don't know how to account for it," said Grandfather Pickerel, shaking his head and turning pale about the gills, "except on the theory of hypnotism--" "Oh, here comes papa!" interrupted Baby Pickerel. But the others were gazing in consternation at the patriarch, who was now white clear to the tip of his tail and shaking with terror. He was staring upward with wild, distended eyes. The others looked also and understood. The big man was there with his crooked pole. They felt themselves drawn toward him. He was throwing something into the pool. "Back! Back!" shouted Grandfather Pickerel. "Back for your lives!" But the warning was too late. Father Pickerel, approaching from the middle of the river, jumped at the white grub, and all was over. The bereaved Pickerel family saw him dangling helplessly at the end of the big man's line, then disappearing into the unknown world where there is nothing to swim in. "Back under the rocks, all of you!" thundered Grandfather Pickerel. "There is only one thing to be done. I must have that hook, or soon there'll be none left to tell the tale. Thank heaven, I have two sound teeth in my head yet." [Illustration] With bated breath and quivering fins the other pickerels peered out from under the rocks at the desperate struggle which immediately ensued. It was short, but decisive. The waters of the pool were lashed into foam. The little pickerels were half-mad with terror. All at once they gave a loud cheer. The victorious patriarch was returning. There was bloody foam on his jaws, but several inches of fish-line hung from between them. The aged hero paid no attention to the cheering, but swam dejectedly into the farthest corner of his den. Mother Pickerel followed him in silence. When she returned, her eyes were red. "Didn't Grandfather get the hook after all?" asked Baby Pickerel. "Hush, dear," said Mother Pickerel, wiping her eyes with the tip of her tail. "Yes, your grandfather has the hook safe in the pit of his stomach along with all the others, and it is paining him dreadfully." The Princess was still fanning the flies away from the face of Reginald. John was cultivating corn on the high bank of the river. Every five or six minutes he turned his team near by from one row into the next one. Toots remembered John's extra pole and line concealed behind the old cottonwood. He went and got it. But how about bait? Then Toots had a second inspiration. He recalled Grandfather Pickerel's remark about grasshoppers. There were plenty of them all about. At that instant a fat one dropped out of the tree and lay with its long legs on the rocks at Toots' feet. The boy, as tenderly as possible, stuck it on the hook and went back to the boulder. First, he would see what was going on in the bosom of the Pickerel Family. Mother Pickerel was asking Grandfather Pickerel if he didn't think he'd better take a bite of something to stay his stomach till dinner-time. "There's some nice tender tadpoles over in the mouth of the brook," she said. "Do try half a dozen raw, dearie, won't you?" It was at that very instant that Toots' grasshopper, with the hook through the small of his back, jumped out of his hands into the pool. Before the boy had time to realize what had happened, the line and then the pole began moving of their own accord toward the water's edge. Toots grabbed the pole and was nearly dragged into the pool. He looked around and saw John turning his team on the high bank. "I've got him, John! Come here quick!" yelled Toots. Reginald awoke barely in time to seize the end of the pole before it and Toots had been dragged into the water. John came tearing down the bank, shouting at the top of his voice: "Don't fight him yet. Give him the line! Give him the line!" "He's got the line," said Reginald, "and he seems to want the pole, too. Now is the time when fifty yards of silk and a good reel--" "Here, give me the pole," said John; "we'll see who's master this time." Then followed a most exciting scene. When at last Grandfather Pickerel's nose appeared above the surface of the pool, John hadn't a dry rag to his back. The big man was amazed to see that the old pickerel made no attempt to bite off the line. When he had him safely landed, the first thing he did was to look in his mouth. "Well, I'm durned," said John. "The old sinner hasn't a tooth left in his head." As Toots gazed on the form of the vanquished patriarch, all his pride of conquest was swallowed up in a great wave of pity. "He'll never swallow any more fish-hooks, will he, John?" "Well, I guess not," said the big man; "the frying pan will stop all that nonsense." "It seems a pity to fry the old chap," said Toots. "He's lost all his teeth and can't do any more damage." "That's so," answered John, good naturedly; "maybe you'd rather put him in the spring, and keep him for a pet?" But Toots was thinking of the grief of the Pickerel Family. How would Mother Pickerel be able to get along with both Father and Grandfather Pickerel no more, especially considering the doubtful character of Big Brother Pickerel, with his tendency to overturn the established order of society? When he had thought it all over, he said: "No, John, I'd rather put him back in the pool, where he can continue to care for the little Pickerels." And thus the patriarch of the Pickerel Family, wiser than any of his race, before or since, was restored to those who had such grave need of his guidance. CHAPTER VII The country of the Menial People lay white and frozen under its blanket of snow when Toots and the Princess next visited it. They stood before the cage of the lion cubs on the morning of the first snowfall of the year. "By my claws and teeth, all the earth is white!" exclaimed the largest of the cubs, as he looked through his barred window. "The world must be coming to an end," said a shivering puma, curling up in the farthest corner of his cage. "Ho, there, Sultan!" cried out one of the young tigers; "you are old and full of wisdom, tell us why all the land is white, and why our teeth chatter so." Old Sultan rose thereupon, and having walked majestically to the front of his dwelling, lifted up his voice and said: [Illustration] "It is well that you children should know that we are no longer in the Jungle of our fathers. For some reason, I know not what, we have been brought captive into the far North, where, ever and anon, the earth is white, and our hair stands out stiff and harsh. However, I would counsel you to be patient and calm. The food is wholesome and plenty, and is laid each day conveniently at our very feet." "That is indeed so," assented the mother lioness. "It is a great burden off my mind to know that though my claws grow dull with age, and my limbs too stiff to leap, you children are still unpursued by the phantom of hunger unappeased. Therefore, let us be thankful." And she stretched herself out on the floor of her house, and was soon snoring comfortably. The wise counsel of the older lions calmed the cubs somewhat, but filled them with so much curiosity about the jungle home of their people that throughout the day they kept those who had been born in freedom busy answering their questions. Thus it happened that neither Pwit-Pwit, the sparrow, nor the little Limping Boy--who no longer limped--could get the attention of Mahmoud or Duchess, mate of the aged elephant, till toward evening. In the deepest snow of his yard stood Wapiti, the red deer, with his head aloft, his great branching antlers thrown back and his nostrils quivering. Pwit-Pwit flew up and alighted on one of the prongs and chirped merrily into the deer's ear: "Glorious fun, this snow, isn't it, old fellow?" But Wapiti stood sniffing the frosty air and was silent. "I know what is the matter with you," said the sparrow, "you are trying to remember something that happened when it was winter in the great woods where you ran free." Pwit-Pwit picked at the shreds of skin hanging from Wapiti's antlers, and at length the deer lowered his head and spoke: "Go away now," he said, "but come back again. I smell something in the air that makes me feel like leaping and running with all my speed. The memory of other days is struggling to return. Just now I thought it was here. Come back after a little, Pwit-Pwit. Give me time to collect my thoughts." With this the sparrow hopped down from the deer's antlers at Toots' feet, and began fluttering his wings and scolding at him. "He is talking to you now," said the Princess. "What does he say?" "He wants us to come with him. Lead the way," said Toots to the sparrow, "and we will follow wherever you go." Toots took the Princess' hand and started a few steps, whereat Pwit-Pwit, with a chirp of satisfaction, flew straight to the den of the bears. When Toots and the Princess arrived, they found the sparrow exhibiting signs of disappointment and indignation. The great beasts were curled up fast asleep and snoring. "Well, what do you think of that?" demanded the sparrow. "A nice way to receive visitors, that is. They know that I always come when the sun shines full in their doorway." "The snow and the cold have made them sleepy," said Toots. "Perhaps that is so," answered the sparrow--Toots was translating their talk for the Princess--"but it is stupid of them, and impolite, and I won't have it." With these words the sparrow flew at the eyes of the oldest bear, pecking away with all his might, and chirping: "Come, now, will you wake up? You have company for breakfast. Shame upon you!" But the old bear simply put his great paws over his eyes and was presently snoring louder than ever. It was the same with the younger bears. They had eaten their breakfast, and were determined to sleep. Pwit-Pwit fluttered out of the bears' den, and fixing his sparkling eyes on Toots' face, said: [Illustration] "I know what we'll do. We'll call on the racoons. They're horrible little chatterboxes, but they are inclined to be sociable. Besides, I have been neglecting them of late." So they went a little farther up the hill to the Racoon House, with its door looking toward the sun, which is always closed at night. No sound came from within. "It is a little late to catch them at breakfast," said the sparrow; "but they are such greedy people that some of them are sure to be quarreling over the last morsel." But, to the intense surprise of Pwit-Pwit, all was silent within the Racoon House. He hopped in at the door, and presently returned, looking deeply disgusted. "Would you believe it?" he said testily. "Every one of those silly people is snoring louder than the bears. Isn't it disgraceful?" "They are like the bears," said Toots; "the cold makes them drowsy." "Well, I shan't go without my breakfast any longer, simply because it is my duty to carry the early news to people who are too stupid to listen to it," chirped Pwit-Pwit. "I'm half-starved. Come, we will call on the old gray rabbit. There is no one so wise as he in all the Menial World--and he always saves a choice morsel for me, though I must confess that I prefer the fare of Mahmoud." It was only a few steps to the snowy hillside where the old gray rabbit watched over his large family, the youngest of which was a snow-white great-granddaughter. Without waiting for a special invitation, Pwit-Pwit took possession of a bread crust, and was pecking at it greedily, when a wonderful thing happened. The old gray rabbit, ignoring the sparrow, hopped slowly over to where Toots and the Princess stood leaning upon the top rail of his yard fence. "Good morning," said the boy. [Illustration] The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up and allowed the other to hang down over his cheek, meanwhile moving his flexible lips in the most extraordinary fashion. Toots laughed aloud and clapped his hands, saying: "Thank you, Grandpa Rabbit, my crooked leg is cured. This is the Princess. Her father, who is a great surgeon, made it as straight as its mate. You can see for yourself." With perfect confidence in Toots' ability to understand the rabbit language, the Princess bowed, and then stroked Grandfather Rabbit's ear. Then he hopped still closer to the fence and made a long speech with his ears and flexible lips. And this is what he said: [Illustration: The rabbit stuck one of its ears straight up.] "Little boy, I rejoice at your good fortune. While your poor leg was still crooked, and the iron clanked upon it, and you were as thin and pale as you are now brown and stout, you never neglected me. I always felt that you understood me and mine better than those great careless men who come with the bread and the cabbage-leaves, but with never a word of greeting. Even now, when the ground is white and cold, you do not forget us. We feel that you are one of us. It is not given to all of the Menial People to speak as plainly as I do, but you have my earnest assurance that all have the same feeling of affection toward you." While the rabbit was speaking, Pwit-Pwit, having satisfied his hunger, hopped up beside him, and told him of the disgraceful conduct of the bears and the racoons. "I could have told you," answered the rabbit, "that the first snow would deprive you of all companionship on the part of those people. It was their custom before being taken into captivity to sleep steadily through all the freezing weather. My people understood it well, for then we had only the wildcats, the wolves and the foxes to fear." "But how could they live so long without eating?" demanded Pwit-Pwit. "When the weather is cold, my appetite is sharper than ever." "They lived upon their fat," answered the old gray rabbit. "All the time the leaves were falling the bears ate grapes and berries in the forest, until they were so fat they could hardly walk. I remember we were never afraid of them then, they were so slow and clumsy. It was the same with the racoons. All night they would steal along the margin of the river, gorging themselves with clams, fish and young ducks, and sometimes would go into the fields for the juicy, green corn. So, when the first snow came, they, too, were almost too fat to walk. "Then," continued the old gray rabbit, "the bears would crawl into the farthest corner of their caves, while the racoons would curl up into furry rings at the ends of their burrows, and there they would sleep soundly until the warm sun should again melt the snow. All these things I know well, for it is during the first warm days of spring that the rabbits are ever on the alert because of the gaunt figures of the half-starved bears, awakened by their hunger, which then prowl over the land." "Ah, now I understand," chirped Pwit-Pwit. "Well, now that the bears and the racoons care no longer for the news, I shall have more time than ever to devote to dear old Mahmoud, and to Fatimah and the hippopotamus baby." Just then there came a wild bellow from the direction of Wapiti's yard. [Illustration] "It's Wapiti," said Pwit-Pwit, much excited. "Come at once. He remembers." "If it is the deer you are about to visit," said the rabbit, "I would warn you that his people are apt to be dangerous when the snow is on the ground. It is then that they suffer from hunger, and are none too gentle with their sharp prongs." But Pwit-Pwit said that he had a perfect understanding with Wapiti, and flew away, followed by Toots and the Princess, both eager to know what it was that the red deer had remembered. They found him shaking his antlers and pawing the snow. [Illustration] "Now, I remember," he said. "It was on just such a day as this in the great forest that my gentle, tender-eyed mate was taken from me. There were two fierce dogs that sprang at her throat. But this was not until the iron in the man's hand had spoken, and my mate had fallen to her knees, with the blood gushing from her mouth. Look, Pwit-Pwit, little one, do you see that prong, broken short off?" "Yes," answered the sparrow, eagerly. The red deer tossed his head savagely, then bellowed fiercely: "It was with that same prong that I pinned one of the dogs to a tree, so that he never barked again. I left the prong sticking to his heart." "Served him right," said Pwit-Pwit. "I can't bear dogs; they're as bad as cats." "But my poor mate was dead," continued Wapiti, "and while I was mourning over her body, the men came and bound me fast with cords. That is why you find me here." With that, they took leave of the red deer, and with the sparrow in the lead, proceeded to the Elephant House. "By this time," said Toots, "the lion cubs will have ceased their chatter over the white carpet the heavens laid on the earth in the night, and we shall be able to get in a word." Mahmoud and the Duchess stood as near the front of their house as the chains on their legs would let them, and seemed eager for visitors. They greeted Pwit-Pwit cordially, stretching out their trunks to him. The sparrow hopped upon that of Mahmoud, and said: "Where are your eyes, old friend? Here is the little Limping Boy back again, and you give him not so much as a flap of your ear in greeting." "Alas, my eyes give me small service these days," said the elephant; "yet I would have sworn that the lad who follows you hither with the little butterfly maiden is stout and brown and well-clad, and with two good, straight legs under him. Can it be that my ears are growing dull, also, that I failed to hear the clank of the iron on his leg?" Thus speaking, Mahmoud put forth his trunk, and with the two fingers at its end felt carefully of Toots' legs, first of one and then of the other. Then he drew back and blew a puff of wind through his trunk that ruffled Pwit-Pwit's feathers, saying playfully: "And so, Pwit-Pwit, little one, thou wouldst jest with thy most faithful of friends? Nay, the lad is well-favored and good to look upon, but he is not the little Limping Boy." And Mahmoud, turning his head resolutely, began carrying to his mouth the stack of hay the Keeper had placed before him. Toots felt his heart torn as by a great sorrow. "Mahmoud! Mahmoud!" he sobbed, holding out his arms. But the elephant gave no heed to the boy, and the sparrow had flown away. Toots burst into tears. "It is sad," said the Princess, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, "but it is better to be strong like other boys." And she led him away, and when next Toots and the Princess visited their friends of the Menial World, he was tall, with hair on his lip, and she was slender and very fair; and they looked only in each other's eyes. [Illustration: The End] Transcriber's Note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been rendered in full capitals. A number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note. 


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   Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. For more transcriber's notes, please go to the end of this text. HAPPINESS HORACE FLETCHER'S WORKS THE A. B.-Z. OF OUR OWN NUTRITION. Thirteenth thousand. 462 pp. THE NEW MENTICULTURE; OR, THE A-B-C OF TRUE LIVING. Forty-Eighth thousand. 310 pp. THE NEW GLUTTON OR EPICURE; OR, ECONOMIC NUTRITION. Fifteenth thousand. 344 pp. HAPPINESS AS FOUND IN FORETHOUGHT MINUS FEARTHOUGHT. Fourteenth thousand. 251 pp. THAT LAST WAIF; OR, SOCIAL QUARANTINE. Sixth thousand. 270 pp. HAPPINESS AS FOUND IN Forethought minus Fearthought BY HORACE FLETCHER _Fellow American Association for the Advancement of Science_ FOURTEENTH THOUSAND NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY HORACE FLETCHER CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION, 7 HYPOTHESIS, 29 THEORY, 38 PREFATORY DEFINITIONS, 43 THE VALUE OF SIMILE, 63 ANALYSIS OF FEAR, 69 BALEFUL EFFECTS OF FEAR, 78 HOW TO ELIMINATE FEAR, 89 HOW TO CURE SPECIAL FORMS OF FEAR, 100 THE NOW-FIELD, 109 PERTINENT PAGES, 117 STOP IMPORTING, OR, ERADICATION VERSUS REPRESSION, 145 THE IMPOTENCE OF PAIN, 153 UNHAPPY UNLESS MISERABLE, 160 THOU SHALT NOT STRIKE A WOMAN, 169 THE POINT-OF-VIEW, 177 DON'T BE A SEWER, 187 CALL SUSPICION A LIAR, 190 I CAN'T _Not_ DO IT, 192 A MILLION TO ONE ON THE UNEXPECTED, 198 LOVE CANNOT BE QUALIFIED, 203 LAST SOMETIMES FIRST, 211 A BEGINNING AND NOT AN END, 217 APPENDIX A--DR. WM. H. HOLCOMB, 223 APPENDIX B--GEORGE KENNAN, 242 EXPLANATION OF THE A. B. C. SERIES, 253 PREFACE TO SIXTH THOUSAND "Happiness" was written in answer to many questions elicited by the publication of "Menticulture." The "Introduction" is not material to the subject except to show the sources of the suggestions relative to profitable living contained in the two books. The vital truths underlying the philosophy of life can be intelligently stated in a few hundred words, both as regards the proper cultivation of the body, or physical equipment, and as regards the cultivation of the mind, so that they may do the best work of which they are capable. False example and false teaching, however, have so impressed habits of weakness on the body and the mind that the chief aim of curative suggestion should be to disabuse. That is, to cause people to discard bad habits of thinking and doing in order that normal, healthy tendencies of action and of thought may take their place. The difficulty of the task undertaken by any student and advocate of reform is not the intelligent statement of the simple truth, but the discovery and refutation of a complication of errors which have assumed the reality of truth. Simile and illustration, some logic and much ridicule, are among the weapons that have been effective in combating old habits of wrong thinking, but it is impossible to say which argument will fit a particular case. Each of the illustrations used in this book has been the means of curing some one person of some phase of fearthought, and together they have released many from that dread enemy of health and happiness called "Fear." The normal condition of Nature is healthy growth--evolution or progression--and Man's chief function in assisting her is first the removal of weeds, or other deterrents to the natural process, and afterwards the maintaining of quarantine against their return. _True Happiness is the Evidence and Fruit of Conscious Usefulness._ The wider the opportunity for usefulness the greater and keener the happiness resulting therefrom. Consciousness of _being_ one's best and _doing_ one's best, however, regardless of scope, is the only way to unalloyed happiness, and to the accomplishment of the highest ideals. There can be no more miserable, sorry and harrowing condition than that called "Indifference." The separating of fearthought from forethought is not alone valuable because of the personal comfort of being fearless, but it is especially useful in that the energy made possible by the divorce is available in assisting others to be strong and helpful to themselves and to each other. If attention is once directed to the pulling of weeds, to the removal of deterrents, to the eradication of the germs of disorder, the pursuit will become most fascinating, owing to the quick and happy response of Nature in her willingness to "Do the rest." One of the marvels revealed by study of the question of the possibility of a Perfect Social Quarantine, having for its aim a protection that will not permit any child _to escape care_, is the comparatively small areas of the propagating centers in which are bred the germs of social disorder. This subject is treated in a book, now in press, called "That Last Waif; or, Social Quarantine." The same insignificance of origin applies to individual, moral and physical deterrents to happiness which afflict otherwise healthy men and women. The _tap-roots_ of all unhappiness are not formidable in the light of present knowledge. Whoever is less than keenly happy is the victim of errors or illusions whose germs are easy to kill when found. It is the especial object of this book to help those who are suffering unhappiness to find the tap-roots of their troubles. Auditorium Annex, Chicago, September 5th, 1898. HAPPINESS AS FOUND IN FORE MINUS FEAR THOUGHT. INTRODUCTION. How to be happy is the one desire common to all humanity. How to be happier is a better statement, for there is no one so miserable but has some degree of happiness at times--enjoys some moments when he forgets to be unhappy, and looks with appreciation, even if with only dull and bleared appreciation, upon the things that are always beautiful and joyful and free. In highly civilized life there is everything to encourage, and there should be nothing to prevent, happiness. The normal condition of man in civilized life is that of happiness. So great, and so greatly increasing, has been the acceleration of progress, that the possibility of unrestrained and unfettered happiness has come to us in advance of our being prepared to accept the freedom of it, owing, mainly, no doubt, to the weight of traditions under the habit of which we are prone to struggle long after the conditions that gave birth to the traditions have ceased to exist. The experience of the world has revealed, and is constantly revealing, simple expedients applicable to every possible combination of evils--except the evil of perverse ignorance--the use of which will insure the success of honest and reasonable aims, no matter how unfavorable the equipment and environment have been or are at the present time. In a singularly adventurous career I have passed through many of the conditions in which discomfort, fear and unhappiness breed, including the direst straits to which life can be exposed, and have also been possessed, at different times, of the means to comfort and happiness that broad opportunity, keen appreciation and affluence are supposed to furnish. I have shared the occupations and sympathies of persons of many different nationalities and of every degree of opportunity and intelligence; in torrid, temperate and frigid climes; in the Americas, in Africa, in Europe, in Asia, and in the far-off islands of distant seas; on shipboard and on the farm; in the mine and in the factory; in the camp and on the commons; in the arts of war and in the pursuits of peace; in the country cross-roads school-house and in the university; in service and in command--in all of which change it was possible only to serve apprenticeships, however, for in such variety of occupation no great accomplishment could develop, except the accomplishment of variety itself; but, at the same time, it was not possible for any of the occupations to become stale to criticism, and the ability to analyze, in the light of comparison, is the natural result and the impelling motive in these essays. I have pushed ways through tangled chaparral, led by hopes of discovering precious metals; and have chopped out roads in the jungle, allured by the excitement of the chase and the spirit of adventure. I have observed nature in the vastness of her wild domains; in the calm and in the terror of the mighty deep; in the harmonious quiet of rural cultivation, and in the supreme picturesqueness of rugged mountain landscapes, studded about, here and there, with golden-roofed temples and cloistered parks. I have not only seen nature with appreciative eye when she has displayed her million moods and when she has taken on myriad aspects, but I have tried to interpret her in terms of line and color in famous studios in Europe, under the advice of world-honored masters of the art. The numerous occupations engaged in were, in many cases, used as necessary means to desired ends. While I have enjoyed making _le grand tour_ as a "globe trotter," I have also had to "work my way" at times, and in "working my way" have had to undertake occupations leading that "way." So successful have I been in finding means or excuses for travel, that among my intimates the saying is current that if I "took it into my head" to want to go to either of the poles, I would engage in a business that would make it _necessary_ for me to go there, thus conserving my respect for duty and my desire for travel at the same time. I once sought and secured a place on the staff of one of the great American daily journals in order to gain access to famous studios in Europe and America, and to become acquainted with the personality of great artists who had become inaccessible to anyone except plutocratic buyers of works of art, intimate friends and critics. This was while I was studying art with a view to learning some of the secrets of its inspiration in practice, and thus journalism served a useful purpose, as well as satisfied a burning curiosity. In this connection I will say that I have since been able, directly and indirectly, to create appreciation that has led to the purchase of works of art in which very large sums of money have been involved, so that I cannot be charged with imposture upon a profession which I respect to the point of reverence for its mission in holding a "true mirror up to nature" and in teaching us to appreciate the subtle beauties that nature shows in all of her aspects, but which become commonplace to the many without the assistance of art. The Japanese have a proverb which declares that "once seeing is better than an hundred times telling about," and this good proverb has been the guiding star of my roamings, and has suggested practical participation in some of my occupations. My first attempt to see the antipodes was not successful. It did not have the necessary parental sanction, and I was _brought back_ before I had measured very much longitude and latitude; but the determination shown in the attempt indicated so strong a tendency that it led to promise of assistance and permission to travel as a reward for certain accomplishments in study that were considered to be impossible, as judged by former efforts, but which became surprisingly easy to the boy who saw a way to the other side of the world in the task. I spent my sixteenth birthday on the Island of Java, and saw Japan and China at the most interesting periods of their recent history--Japan, in Feudal Times, before any of the changes that have made her the last and greatest wonder of the world; and China, at the close of the Taiping rebellion, wherein more than thirty millions of persons lost their lives, and about which there hovered a lawlessness the like of which the world has not witnessed elsewhere. Chance and restless change have thrown me into companionship with the most elemental of human beings; and have also led me to the acquaintance, and into the affections of the wisest and loveliest of men and women--the rarest blossoms of our generation. Opportunity has found me available for the command of a crew of Cantonese pirates, on a Chinese lorcha, at a time when piracy was a common occupation in the China Sea; and for the mismanagement of a French Grand Opera Company, when no one else was foolish enough to undertake it. The foregoing are but glimpses of the opportunities for observation out of which I draw my deductions relative to profitable living. Four complete trips around the world--two of them before the time of ocean steamship lines and continental railroads; thirty-six trips across the American Continent by various rail, water and stage routes; sixteen voyages across the Pacific Ocean, and many across the Atlantic; intermittent periods of residence in many different countries of Europe, in China, in India, in Japan and in different localities in the Americas; as well as visits to parts remote from the lines of travel, such as South Africa, Yucatan and the mountain regions of Mexico and Central America, that are the type of all of the South American countries; and all of which residences and visits have been chosen at times of greatest interest in each locality; in response to the invitation of the Spirit-of-Adventure by which I have been led--these, together with no less than thirty-eight distinct occupations, embrace the sum of my opportunities. Fortune has always been kind to me when I have trusted her; when my aims and ambitions were worthy, and when I have been sufficiently appreciative and grateful for the things I already possessed to merit and invite continued favors; but, she has always passed me by whenever I have doubted her goodness or questioned her intentions. And so consistent has been the course of Fortune, as viewed in the retrospect, that I can assert, with all the assurance of firm belief, that "Unto him who hath (appreciation and gratitude) shall be given; but unto him who hath not (appreciation and gratitude) shall be taken away even that which he hath." Until I began to collect my remembrances into groups, form them into classes for review and deduct from them suggestions for profitable living, I had thought that my chronic restlessness was aimless as measured by the common estimate of usefulness; but the sympathy aroused by the publication of my little volume--first, privately printed,--_Menticulture, or the A-B-C of True Living_--revealed the possibility of utilizing my varied experiences and observations to good advantage in calling attention to uses-of-energy, points-of-view, habits-of-thought and habits-of-action, that made for happiness in some persons in some parts of the world, while they were entirely unknown to others as well fitted to enjoy them. I was led to serious study of the causes and effects of happiness and unhappiness by observations of the pitiable neglect of the science of menticulture, (which is the science of fundamental means), and the science of happiness (which is the science of ultimate desirable ends), in materially civilized communities, and by persons who have mastered, and are already possessed of, the physical means to comfort and happiness. This neglect is not surprising when we reflect that all available time and all available thought have been excitedly employed in developing material, physical _means_, to the exclusion of the thought of cultivating the end; to the harnessing and training of the forces of Nature, to the exclusion of planning for their best uses; but it will be surprising if, however, in the near future, the ends are not scientifically cultivated, now that the fundamental as well as the physical means are understood, and the leisure to apply them is secured. More than forty years of observation, and upwards of three years of study, analysis and arrangement with a fixed purpose, have enabled me to suggest changes of attitude towards the problems of life that have not failed to bring more or less strength and happiness to all who have adopted them, as attested by thousands of written and verbal communications and by report. This is literally true, and the statement of it is warranted by the merit of the results, removed from any personality in connection with it. The underlying cause of all weakness and unhappiness in Man, heredity and environment to the contrary notwithstanding, has always been, and is still, _weak habit-of-thought_. This is proven by the observed instances in which _strong habit-of-thought_ has invariably made its masters superior to heredity, and to environment, and to illness, and to weakness of all kinds, and has redeemed them from non-success and misery, to the enjoyment of success, honor and happiness. It has also been proven that none are so ill-favored as to be exempt from regeneration by the influence of optimistic thinking, and none so plain, nor even so ugly, as judged by the world's standards of beauty, but that the radiance of pure thought will make them more beautiful than their brothers of nobler mien and more symmetrical physique, but whose thoughts are poisoned by fear and by selfishness. Happiness is not dependent upon wealth, and wealth does not necessarily bring happiness, but both are dependent upon _good-habit-of-thought_; for _good-habit-of-thought_ develops _appreciation_, which is the measure of all wealth, and _appreciation_ leads to the _habit-of-feeling_ and the _habit-of-action_ which produce happiness. Notwithstanding the words of Jesus of Nazareth, by which one-half of the world's inhabitants are supposed to be governed; notwithstanding the admonitions of the other great teachers to whom the other half of humanity turn for counsel; notwithstanding the lessons taught by all of nature's processes of growth, especially the teachings of later evolution; fear--fear of death, fear of disaster, fear of non-attainment, fear of non-preferment, and fear of the things that never happen as feared, and the anger and the worry growing out of these fears--have been looked upon as afflictions necessary to humanity, repressible only during life, and eradicable only at the change called death. Early theology wrestled with conditions wherein it was thought necessary to use the whip of fear as well as the attraction of love to incline men to religion. Modern theology teaches the religion of love alone, but it has not yet sufficiently denounced the former teaching of fears, perhaps in the interest of consistency or because of filial respect, inasmuch as its parents once put the label of _truth_ upon the religion of fear. Science also has taught, and still continues to teach, the potency of the _crowding-out_ stimulant in growth, without proclaiming a line where attraction became the stronger motive in civilization--an intangible line already far astern in the wake of present progress. Fear has had its uses in the evolutionary process, and seems to constitute the whole of forethought, as instinct seems to constitute the whole of intelligence in most animals, but that it should remain any part of the mental equipment of human civilized life is an absurdity. There are, undoubtedly, human beings that are still so nearly animal that fear alone will restrain them from wrong-doing, or stimulate them (or, rather, _push_ them) to peaceful and useful living, but none such will read this book, and neither you nor I should be burdened by their limitations or necessities. We have passed the point where we need to be _pushed_; or, if we have not, we are ashamed to confess it, thereby acknowledging that it is unnecessary; and are within the atmosphere of appreciation and attraction where fear and its expressions have no proper place, and where the toleration of fear beclouds not only our own clear vision, but also the vision of those who are still below us in the scale of intelligence, to whom, as beacon-lighters on the heights above them, we owe the influence of right example. I have made especial study of the reports of the Society for Psychical Research, the book entitled "Fear," by Prof. Angelo Mosso, of Turin, Italy, and the contributions to the _American Journal of Psychology_ by President G. Stanley Hall, of Clarke University, Worcester, Massachusetts; Dr. Colin A. Scott, Professor of Psychology and Child Study at Cook County Normal School, Chicago, Illinois; and others who are devoting particular attention to the causes and effects of fears in children; together with the after-effect of early fears upon persons when they are fully grown. The claim of these students is that the consideration of the future that constitutes _forethought_ is a mixture of hope, faith and fear, the sum of which is the stimulant to action and progress, hope and faith being the civilized or divine motives, and fear being the animal motive. My own experience and observations corroborate this contention, but I find that the fear element of forethought is _not_ stimulating to the more civilized persons, to whom duty and attraction are the natural motives of stimulation, but is weakening and deterrent. As soon as it becomes unnecessary, fear becomes a positive deterrent, and should be entirely removed, as dead flesh is removed from living tissue. I have also demonstrated, beyond the possibility of doubt, that _the fear element can be eliminated_ out of forethought _as soon as it becomes evident that it is unnecessary, separable and eliminable_, and that _energy_ and _desire_ for progress and growth _are beautifully stimulated as the result of its elimination_. To assist in the analysis of fear, and in the denunciation of its expressions, I have coined the word "_fearthought_" to stand for the unprofitable element of forethought, and have defined that variously-interpreted word "worry" as _fearthought, in contradistinction to forethought_. I have also defined "fearthought" as the _self-imposed_ or _self-permitted_ suggestion of _inferiority_, in order to place it where it really belongs, in the category of harmful, unnecessary, and, therefore, not-respectable things. Darwin and Spencer and other biologists have asserted that if primitive man had not been urged by fear of discomfort he would have sat upon a stone, naked, near the roots or the herbs that served to appease his hunger--if it also happened to be near to a spring where he could quench his thirst--until he died; and that fear has been the impelling motive in the progress of the race. This was undoubtedly true up to a certain point, but, like many of the laws of _ye olden tyme_, is not applicable to the present nor to us. There is now sufficient protection vouchsafed by forethought, and sufficient attraction furnished by affection and duty, to lead the van in the pursuit of progress, and to set an example that will be its own torch-bearer in guiding the trend of thought and of action. When the motto, "Fearlessness," becomes embroidered upon the banners of all of our religious and other fraternal organizations; when "Freedom from Fear" becomes the slogan of Reform, and when Appreciation, Love and Altruism are admitted to the councils of men, then, and only then, will famine end, selfishness fade, strikes become unnecessary, misery depart, and Happiness become enthroned as the ruler of a joyously industrious and universally prosperous people. Increase is prodigal, and accumulation is already prodigious, so that it is no longer a question of physical means, but a question of wise distribution and adjustment, to accomplish all that society requires to insure it unremitting happiness. Churches there are, clubs there are, lodges there are, guilds there are, and many other fraternal organizations whose aims are practically the same, but whose members are attracted together into separate groups by sympathies of traditions, race, occupations or general trend-of-thought. It would be a useless iconoclasm to separate from these or to attempt to dismember them. They are all good organizations, wherein they conserve the principles of brotherhood and promote practical altruism; and are only imperfect wherein they tolerate slavery to the fears, slavery to wealth, slavery to the harmful conventions, and slavery to the antagonisms, intolerances and other evil passions that prevent economic co-operation, harmony and happiness. The contention of this book is that, with means already secured, there is a way to individual happiness, _even under existing conditions_; and also, that the present acceleration of progress, and certain already accomplished tests of possible industrial and economic reform, coupled with an optimism that has for its motto, "All _can be_, and, therefore, _shall be_ well," not only promise, but assure, to mankind, in a not remote future, equal opportunities for securing happiness by means altogether honest and altruistic. To _all_ who will follow me through this volume, I promise to show ways and signs that will assist the weak to become strong, the poor to become rich in appreciation of their opportunities, and the rich to better enjoy their good fortune without impoverishing others to do so. My special desire is to enlist general aid in eradicating deterrents to growth, and in the acceleration of progress. HYPOTHESIS. The object of Life is Growth. Harmony is the condition favorable and necessary to growth. Harmony is the normal condition of Nature, as proven by the unfailing and immediate response of growth to its influence. Harmonic conditions are created by the removal of deterrents to growth. Mind is the first essential in the growth of Man. A healthy mind insures a healthy body, and a rational cultivation of the mind cannot fail to result in the attainment of the highest ideals. All of the processes of Nature are consistent, and Man and Mind are no exception to the rule regulating the growth of other things, except that their functions as chief assistants in evolution are unique, and, therefore, involve greater responsibility. Unselfishness is necessary to the harmonic condition in Man, and service to fellow-man is essential to his growth. Happiness is the evidence and fruit of Growth. There can be no real happiness except in Growth. Acts are thoughts materialized; or--thoughts realized. Forethought is an essential aid to Growth. Fearthought is the cause of all deterrents to growth in Man. Forethought minus Fearthought is the ideal Mind Equipment. Fearthought serves no useful purpose; neither is it a necessary infliction of intelligent, civilized manhood or womanhood. * * * * * Culture is necessary to the best growth. Mind-culture, or _menticulture_, is the most important of all the divisions of culture; for, out of Mind thoughts spring, and accomplishments grow; but it has been the last to receive the same scientific and reasonable attention that the other cultures have received, and had not even been given a distinctive name until _Menticulture_ was published. In Agriculture and in Horticulture, plants that seem to have no profitable nor agreeable use, but are deterrent to the growth of useful plants, are denominated "weeds," and are not allowed to retain root in the same soil; animals and other living and moving things that are not serviceable, and can not be domesticated, are exterminated from civilized environment; the air that Man breathes is cleared of poisonous malaria by draining the swamps in which the bad air forms; and friction is minimized in machines, in order that the energy applied to them may meet with least resistance, and suffer the least waste. But no such care is commonly given to the mind. Fearthought is the element of friction, as expressed in anger; it is the predatory element, as expressed in waste of energy--the result of worry; and it is also the weed element, as shown by the uselessness of it in any form. It is, however, permitted to encumber, muddy and prey upon divinely ordained forethought, as weeds encumber good soil, as mud clouds pure water, and as savage and venomous things prey upon the comfort and life of animals useful to Man, and even upon Man himself. Man's place in the process of evolution is that of assistant only. Man selects, arranges, brings together, separates, waters, fertilizes, waits upon and otherwise cultivates Nature; but he has not been able to add one cell to growth; neither has he succeeded in drawing an atom of color from the sunlight and in infusing it into the sap of any growing thing. By Man's attention in removing the deterrents, the skimpy little wild flower that grows upon the hillsides of China, that I gathered when I was a boy--of less importance than the common field daisy--has become the royal chrysanthemum of the Flower Shows; by Man's care in the breeding, feeding and training of the primitive horse described by Professor Marsh, the almost-human Kentucky thoroughbred--the "Black Beauty" of our pride--has been evolved; and the clumsy effort of the first inventor of steam applied to machinery has become the wonderful quadruple-expansion engine of the present, by the harmonizing adjustment of parts, and the reduction of friction to the point of noiseless efficiency, through the genius of invention. Mind is the great machine behind all other machines and out of which all accomplishment comes. Fearthought and what grows out of it, under the class names of anger and worry, are like rust and sand in the journals, and wear out the bearings of the machine. They are also like the impurities in water that cause foaming in a boiler and prevent the accumulation of energy. They are productive of nothing but wear and waste, _wear and waste_, as long as they are permitted to encumber the splendid man-machine and its source of power. The creative--the growing part--of Nature never fails to do her part if the deterrents to growth are removed. What she does for the growth of plants and of animals, and for the creation of power from the use of her forces called steam and electricity, she will also do for the growth and development of the mind of man. If fearthought and its various expressions are eradicated; or, more correctly speaking, are not sought and nursed, as they always are, nothing can prevent Growth and Service and Happiness from occupying their own; and if the carbonic-acid-gas of passion is kept out of the mental atmosphere, a vitalized, altruistic and spiritualized energy will take its place. _Good comes to whatever is prepared for it._ It is an easy matter to separate fearthought from forethought if it is known that they are separable; not by suppression, nor by process of gradual repression; because, as long as a spark of fearthought remains, any excitement or draft of surprise may revive the flame to destructive proportions; but by absolute eradication,--determination not to suffer, nor permit, nor tolerate. The method of eradication is, by the way, the method that is easier than not, as soon as conviction of the possibility of it is nursed into a belief. _Effective methods are always easy methods._ Repression acknowledges, and therefore strengthens, the evil to be repressed, is never-ending and altogether ineffectual. Eradication is the simple method of ceasing to import or admit evil counsel or report, and is the only effective method in menticulture. * * * * * While the future is the field in which growth must take place, the now or, rather, the immediate-next-future, is the _only_ time for action. Are you possessed of fearthought, or anger, or worry, or suspicion, or jealousy, or envy, or malice, or indifference at this moment? No! You cannot be, for two distinct thoughts cannot occupy the mind at the same time, and your thought is occupied with the subject matter of this hypothesis. The next time you have any of these poisons you will have to import them afresh in response to the invitation of so mean a liar as Suspicion, or at the command of so silly a coward as Fear. Habit-of-thought-of-evil--_the devil_--will return to you for the usual easy conquest, but newly-acquired knowledge of his impotency to harm can aid Determination to resist him until Habit-of-Thought is no longer Bad-Habit-of-Thought and will, therefore, no longer assist in the materialization of the spook. And then, and _only_ then, will you be free--free to grow, eager to serve, and altogether happy. All time--all eternity--is made up of a succession of _nows_. If you are free in the present _now_, you may more easily be free from temptation in the succeeding _nows_ until emancipation shall be complete and the very atmosphere of your freedom shall exorcise all evil before it can come near enough to attract your consciousness. You are free this moment; you can be free in the succeeding moments; _you can be free forever_! IT IS EASIER THAN NOT! THEORY. The perfect man is the harmonious man. Perfection in man is attained when he is _doing his best_. Symmetry of face or of form, quality of voice, or strength of mind or muscle at birth are the responsibility of the Creator and of progenitors. The birth of the body of man is accomplished when it attains consciousness of its physical requirements. The birth of the soul of man is accomplished when he attains consciousness of what is good, of what his functions and duties are relative to his own best growth, and also relative to his uses and duties as a member of society. Man is not fully born until his mind is conscious of his body and conscious of his soul, and knows the functions and duties of each relative to the best growth. Until man is fully born, as described above, the responsibility of his perfection or imperfection rests with his teachers and their teachings. Everything that man is conscious of is his teacher. You are the teacher of every person who sees or is otherwise conscious of you or of your example. It is unmanly, and especially unchristian, not to seek the greatest possible enlightenment relative to the functions and duties in growth, not only for your own sake, but as an example for others; and, being enlightened, not to do all possible to assist growth. Whoever reads and assents to the above, takes upon himself the responsibility of his future growth, and will be respectable or not-respectable insofar as he seeks enlightenment and assists growth, or neglects to seek enlightenment and thereby retards growth. Happiness, the evidence, fruit and reward of growth, rests in self-respect first, and, incidentally, in the measure of respect held by others. No one is respectable who is not _doing his best_. When a man finds fault with the material with which he has been furnished--with his form, with his face, with his mind, with his muscle, with his equipment of wealth, or other means or tools of growth, at the time of his being fully born, he puts blame upon, and thereby blasphemes, his Creator, as well as discredits his progenitors. Whoever reads, and assents to, the foregoing is fully born, in that he has learned and now _knows what is best_. The question then is: "What will he do with it?" In highly-civilized life it is _not-respectable not to be fully born_. The fully-born is _not doing his best_, and is therefore _not-respectable when he suffers himself to retain or cultivate the habit-of-fearthought_. The fully-born is _not doing his best_, and therefore is _not-respectable, when he entertains and nurses worry_. The fully-born is _doing his worst when he allows himself to be angry_. The fully-born is unmanly, especially unchristian and altogether not-respectable when he is not doing his best, and is always a subject for pity, and frequently a subject for contempt, when he is doing his worst. The fully-born-and-entirely-respectable individual knows that fearthought is an unprofitable element of forethought, knows that it can be eliminated from the habit-of-feeling by persistent, intelligent habit-of-thought, and, knowing this, prepares the field of his mind for unhampered growth by eradicating all of the expressions of fearthought, as well as all other deterrents to growth. The fully-born-and-entirely-respectable individual is the one to whom come health, strength, memory, inspiration, love, preferment, altruistic impulses, and the appreciation necessary to find the greatest enjoyment in them all. The fully-born-and-entirely-respectable individual needs not symmetry of form nor beauty of face nor accumulation of wealth to make him happy, for the light from within will give grace to his form, reflect beauty from his face, and attract all of the things that constitute wealth. The fully-born-and-entirely-respectable condition is the condition that is easier than not, pleasanter than any, and in which only true happiness dwells. Out of the fully-born-and-entirely-respectable habit-of-being and habit-of-thinking, nursed within our professedly-altruistic organizations, will the impulse spring which will so shape conditions that unhappiness can no longer exist, except as the result of perversity. PREFATORY DEFINITIONS. Much misunderstanding arises from the various interpretations of the meaning of terms. So different are the interpretations given to some words, that a large part of the dictionaries is taken up with synonyms whose varied applications are nearly as wide apart as the limits of the greatest misunderstanding. Many of these different applications of words are the result of corruptions of the original meaning, but they are none the less misleading, and furnish an excuse for agreeing on specific definitions. As an example of corrupt uses given to words that should be held to convey only a sacred meaning, take the word "love," as promiscuously applied, for instance. It should be removed from all selfishness, and attach only to such holy application as that implied by the expression, "God is Love." In its application to individuals, as in mother-love, child-love, love between husband and wife, or between brothers, it should only have spiritual significance, unalloyed by any suggestion of liking, approval, desire, or lust; and should even extend its mantle to spread alike over all created things. Love had already been so corrupted in its uses in the time of Comte, that he was impelled to coin a new word to express unselfishness between brother-men, and hence gave the word "altruism"--(other-self)--to the world. "Altruism," also, in its turn, has suffered by contact with the selfish habit-of-thought of the present time, until it does not longer express the highest quality of love--the spiritual--but rather the socio-commercial quality that seeks and expects reward of praise or material emolument. Although it is some time since "altruism" was first used--and it is a word of most important meaning to sociology--there are few who can define it. Probably the material rush of the time has allowed little opportunity for acquaintance with it. It is rarely seen in the magazines, and almost never in the daily papers. This is probably the reason why the author was able to find only three, out of thirty persons asked, who could define "altruism." These thirty were met haphazard, and represented a fair average of city intelligence. It follows, by inference, that there is not as much altruism as there should be in existence among us, for, if there were, the word chosen by Comte to express it would be more widely used and known. In presenting a set of definitions, there is no intention of calling into question the intelligence of any reader. The idea was suggested by the wide difference of understanding of the meaning of the word "worry." This difference of understanding became apparent in the discussion of _Menticulture_.[1] It was found that many persons defined "worry" as "any consideration of the future," whereas only apprehensive consideration of the future was intended to be meant by its use in _Menticulture_. Reference to the origin of the word revealed that it was first used to express the "barking of a small dog," probably in contradistinction to the biting of a large dog. It was first "worrit," and became "worry," as now, later on. "Picking" and "nagging" were its synonyms in slang until they were taken into the language as sober expressions. In the attempt to separate "worry" from "forethought," the word "fearthought" was coined, and hence our present title, and also the definitions hereunder, whose object is to render misunderstanding as nearly impossible as possible. Only a few of the words relative to our treatise are defined--only such as have been found to cause discussion in consideration of the subject. GOD. No definition of the Christian conception of God can be adequate. God is the source of all, in all, and around all. "The Absolute," "Father," "Creator," "Jehovah," "Source" and other terms are used for euphony and to express separate God-qualities. Whoever attempts to define God, shows pitiful limitations thereby. We may _feel_ God, but we cannot _define_ God. _Appreciation_ of God is the measure of man's possibilities of growth and the key to power and happiness. APPRECIATION. Even in its material application, "appreciation" is a word of greatest importance, and should mean _the highest form of intelligence_. It is commonly used to express only a simple knowledge of value, but it should have a larger significance, by conveying the idea of fullest cultivation and enjoyment as well as knowledge. Wealth, for instance, can be measured only by appreciation. The child in appreciating a toy is richer than a drowning man with a thousand dollars in gold in his pocket. We will therefore understand appreciation to mean _knowledge and full cultivation and enjoyment_. "Appreciation" might justly be given first place in the language, as, in its spiritual application, it implies the knowledge of God that gives birth to Love. Our definition, "knowledge--or understanding--cultivation and full enjoyment," conveys the largest and highest meaning of "appreciation," but the realization of it is not complete until every God-expression is included, even to the smallest wonder of the universe. Neglect of the cultivation of appreciation of _everything_--of the commonest things in our surroundings--is loss of opportunity to conserve the greatest aid to progress and growth; because, appreciation of lesser things insures a better appreciation of the most important things. Cultivation of appreciation is cultivation of the germ of all good and the opening wide of the spiritual flood-gates. Even the complete, yet simple, dignity of the Lord's Prayer can be epitomized within the prayer, _Father, teach Thou us Appreciation_. LOVE. In its pure form, as Christ meant it, Love makes no distinction between creatures nor between things; its merit is in the act--or thought--and not in the object loved. The divine quality in man, growing out of appreciation, finds first expression in love; not the passive principle, the opposite of hate, but the growing, active principle, which is constantly flowing forth from the spiritually blessed to bathe with warmth of unselfishness the just and the unjust alike. Love begets altruism. As "perfect love casteth out fear," so does the eradication of fear insure the wooing of perfect love. ALTRUISM. Next in the scale of importance is Comte's word "altruism," which was coined to suggest the Christ-like attitude of unselfish service between fellow-men. It is, however, as before stated, now commonly understood to be the social or business application of the principle of love which needs and expects to be reciprocal. Men were asked to become altruists when they were asked to "do unto others as you would that others should do unto you." Growth towards divinity is the fruit of perfect altruism. Perfect Love begets Perfect Altruism. Christ is the Perfect Altruist. SPONTANEOUS ALTRUISM. Any degree of altruism is good and is sure to lead to higher degrees, but the perfect type is best kept in view by the use of the qualified form expressed by the adjective "spontaneous"--meaning voluntary, without reward, except as found in the act itself. This qualification is almost necessary to prevent the lowering of the value of the term, as "perfect" was required to express Christ-Love, in contra-distinction to worldly love. OPTIMISM. Optimism is _forethought_. Christianity, pure and undefiled, is perfect optimism. Christ is the Perfect Optimist.[2] FORETHOUGHT. "Forethought" is _the logical, trustful, hopeful, Christian, and therefore stimulating, consideration of the future_. Forethought cannot be contrasted as the opposite of fearthought for the same reason that a tree cannot be contrasted as the opposite of its shadow; one being the growing, fruit-bearing substance; and the other being the unsubstantial, unillumined simulation of the living reality. ENVIRONMENT. _Surroundings which impress themselves upon the mind and assist to influence and form character and opinions._ SPIRITUAL CEREBRATION. Sometimes called unconscious cerebration; _intelligence not derived from experience_; principally obtained during undisturbed sleep, and, seemingly, supernaturally clear to consciousness on awakening in natural manner; Spiritual Cerebration is man's best partner, if confidently listened to, heeded and followed. NATURAL SELECTION. _Unconscious physical attraction_; assisting sustenance, protection, development and reproduction; attribute of all life. DIVINE SELECTION. _Attribute only of Man; distinguishing Man from the rest of Creation; exercised in modifying the brute law of the "survival of the fittest, or strongest," by cultivating harmonic conditions favoring growth and producing happiness; God's Higher Law of Harmony executed through Man._ HAPPINESS. _The evidence and fruit and reward of growth as involved in Altruism._ NATURE. As commonly used, "nature" means creation apart from man. The accepted definition is "creation," and as such includes man and all created things, and also the processes of creation--generation, degeneration and regeneration--as involved in growth. The common use of the word "nature" is a convenient one, and hence let us make use of it as meaning _creation other than man_. EGOCIATION. Egociation is, _Appreciation of self as a creation of God and as an instrument of Altruism_--to be cultivated to its greatest possibilities in order that it may render _Altruistic service in the execution of the Higher Law of Harmony_. There are two distinct kinds of _ego_--self: The _ego_ that is physically and intellectually born only, and whose tendencies are egotistically selfish, and therefore, _animalesque_: And the _ego_ that enjoys Appreciation, realizes God, loves spontaneously, understands the Higher Law of Harmony and serves with enthusiasm in the execution of the Law by the exercise of Divine Selection, and thereby attains True Happiness. The mental equipment of the unthinking is dulled by a confusion of these two _egos_, and hence they cultivate egotism, believing it to be _Egociation_; as they cultivate _fearthought_, believing it to be forethought; and as they tolerate license, believing it to be an attribute of liberty. The desirability of separating the lower, or animal, self from the Higher Self, warrants the coining of a term, sufficiently new to attract attention and sufficiently allied to well-known words to explain itself. With this object in view I have empirically selected a combination of _ego_ and _appreciation_, and in so doing, have coined the euphonious term _Egociation_ as an antithesis of "egotism," especially useful in inculcating a general understanding of the Higher Law of Harmony and in securing recognition of the place of the Higher Self within the Law. In the cultivation of Egociation, man recognizes and asserts an _individuality_, or _responsibility_, as a part of the whole, the result of appreciation, opposed to _personality_ or _separateness_, which is an attribute of egotism. * * * * * Words that carry good suggestion with them are less liable to do harm by being variously understood than those that convey bad suggestion. These latter should be defined in such a manner as to clearly suggest their badness; in fact, war should be waged upon them by every possible means. * * * * * EGOTISM. "Egotism" is _separation from God_. The fruit of egotism is selfishness. SELFISHNESS. In the list of the deterrents, selfishness holds bottom place. Self-forethought, self-carefulness, self-culture, and self-respect, are in no way related to selfishness, but are provision of strength towards useful purposes. Selfishness is the mark of animal origin. We will therefore define it as _relic of animalism remaining in man_. Selfishness is the opposite of altruism. While a suggestion of altruism is found in some animals, especially in dogs, it is not an animal characteristic. Selfishness is the predominant animal trait and therefore excuses the otherwise unkindly comparison. FEAR. Fear is also a relic of animalism, and a child of selfishness--a deformed child of an ill-formed parent. It is not a physical condition, but simply an expression of fearthought. We will therefore define "fear" as _an expression of fearthought_. FEARTHOUGHT. "Fearthought" is _the self-imposed or self-permitted suggestion of inferiority_. It is both a _cause_ and an _effect_ of selfishness. It is the "tap-root of evil." "Fearthought" was coined by the author in order, if possible by suggestion, to separate from divinely ordained forethought any element of apprehension or weakness that might be masquerading under the name of forethought in the minds of the unthinking. WORRY. "Worry" is _fearthought in contradistinction to forethought_. ANGER. "Anger" is _the brutal and self-inflicting expression of disapproval_--brutal, because it is ungodly, unchristian and unaltruistic; _self-inflicting_, because the ill-effect of it reacts upon the person enangered. There can be no "righteous anger." Disapproval there must be, because man has been endowed with the faculty of _Divine Selection_, and thereby shows a divinity denied to all other living things whose preferences are called in Science "natural selection." Disapproval in the interest of harmony--_Divine Selection_--and disapproval in the creation of discord--anger--are, the one holy, and the other unholy, uses of the faculty of selection. There may be, then, _righteous disapproval_, but there never can be "righteous anger." ENVY. "Envy" is _anger of non-possession_. "Envy" is sometimes wrongly used to express appreciation, as, "I envy you your good fortune," but we will give it the one meaning of "anger of non-possession." JEALOUSY. "Jealousy" is "the homage that inferiority pays to merit";[3] or, _recognition or confession of inferiority_; or, _fearthought_. TAP-ROOT. "Tap-root" is "the chief root." It is the main support of the tree, of nearly the size of the trunk, and without which the tree must fall and die. The tap-root strikes deep into the soil, while the surface-roots reach out along the surface. For example; egotism is the tree of evil, either selfishness or fearthought is the tap-root, and anger and worry in all their phases are the surface roots of the tree. The tree is known by its fruits, which are, separation, paralysis, disease, unhappiness and death. TROUBLE. Trouble does not really exist. Fearthought of trouble is as near as one ever gets to the condition, for the reason that whatever has come has already ceased to exist, except in the memory. The reason for so fine a distinction is made clear under the caption of "The Impotence of Pain," and is emphasized in order to place merited responsibility on fearthought. What is called "trouble," however, can be defined as _unwelcome conditions_, but, if analyzed, the chief elements of the "conditions" will be found to be _fearthought of still more unwelcome conditions_. The tap-root, then, of trouble is fearthought. PESSIMISM. Pessimism is _fearthought_. Pessimism is the devil. NERVOUSNESS. Nervousness is generally an _effect_ and not a _cause_. It is the immediate or reflex result of fearthought. TEMPERAMENT. Like "nervousness," so-called, "temperament"--habit-of-feeling--is generally an effect and not a cause; and is frequently used as an excuse for self-indulged weaknesses. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Menticulture_ is the title of a book by the present author, whose mission is to declare a theory of the possible and very profitable eradication of the germs of all evil, and consequent unhappiness, which are commonly assembled under the class names of "anger" and "worry",--"anger" representing the aggressive, and "worry" representing the cowardly passions. [2] Note: The motto of Optimism is, as elsewhere stated, "_All can be_, and therefore _shall be_, well." [3] NOTE--I take this apt definition of "jealousy" from that excellent periodical--the organ of the League of American Wheelmen--"The Bulletin and Good Roads." Many good suggestions in menticulture accompany the excellent suggestions relative to good roads in this paper. Good thoughts are good roads to good action. THE VALUE OF SIMILE. Christ taught almost entirely by parable. Apropos of the value of simile is an experiment about which I have recently heard. An experimenter wished to measure in some way the strength of certain vibrations and their effect upon vibratory things. A large steel comb, such as is used in music-boxes to produce sounds, was constructed. Each tooth was made as nearly as possible just like every other tooth. They not only seemed to measure alike, but when set in motion the vibrations seemed to be alike to the sense of hearing. There was also constructed a huge tuning-fork, large enough to be struck with a bar of iron, and whose vibrations, when it was struck, came forth in big undulating waves like the pealing of a temple bell. The object of the experiment was to observe, through the effect of powerful vibrations on the teeth of the resonant comb, a possible difference, too slight to be measured by calipers or by striking the teeth separately. The sound-waves, coming alike to all, would affect all alike unless there should be a difference in the receptivity of the teeth owing to differing density of metal, size, or some other condition not measurable by other means. By listening attentively near to the comb, the effect of the vibrations on the separate teeth could be heard. The tuning-fork was placed about forty feet away from the steel comb, and was struck a heavy blow with the iron bar. Only three of the twelve teeth vibrated in response. The others were not in sympathy. _They did not hear the sound._ I did not see the experiment, but it will serve to illustrate the value of simile. All knowledge is measured by comparison. The most effective teaching is done through parable or simile. A so-called magnetic orator or writer reaches his hearers or readers by aid of apt simile. In this the orator has the advantage. If one simile does not convey the point he wishes to make, he tries another and yet another until he has detected sympathetic signs of approval in the majority of his audience. If there are present a hundred listeners, it may require ten stories or ten similes to reach the entire hundred, as there may be ten kinds of interest or sympathy present to be reached. Farmers and gardeners may not be familiar with the terms that describe the experience of the mariner; mechanics may not understand the language of the counting room or of the various exchanges; and men may not appreciate the special accomplishments, sympathies, weaknesses or foibles of women. Each individual is a separate tooth or string in the instrument called society. Heredity and environment have tempered and shaped each individual differently from his fellows. Truth is always the same, but the vibrations that carry it must be regulated to suit the conditions and understandings of each person, or group of persons, to be harmonized by it. In an attack upon offensive and evil things, offensive similes are best employed. It is an application of the principle that a thief can best catch a thief. The object of this little book is to wage war upon fearthought and its brood of evil children. This is the excuse for writing under such offensive captions as "Don't Be a Sewer," and "Thou Shalt Not Strike a Woman," and also such ungrammatical caption as "I Can't _Not_ Do It." It is the opinion of the author that we are in the habit of taking evil too seriously. Evil is usually ridiculous, and while it thrives under the stimulation of serious consideration, it cannot stand ridicule. Shrewd politicians know this, and hence depend more upon the political cartoon to kill the political enemy, than upon all the reading matter possible to be printed. What the terms "God," "Appreciation," "Mother," "Love," "Altruism," "Egociation," "Forethought," "Happiness," etc., stand for, should be reverenced and glorified; while the devil, egotism, selfishness, fearthought, anger and worry, and all of their various expressions, should be ridiculed out of respectability. There is no intent to make vulgar excuses for the method of presentation of the simple and aged truths which are the subject of the present book. For the same reason that I have asked my readers to agree with me as to the meaning of terms in connection with the discussion, I ask them to allow me to state my reasons for the method of the presentation, if it should seem unusual and, perhaps, undignified. ANALYSIS OF FEAR. Professor Angelo Mosso, the eminent physiologist of Turin, Italy, who has experimented with the condition and results of fear to a greater extent than any one else that I know of, has published a volume entitled "Fear."[4] Professor Mosso writes of much regarding fear that we can all corroborate from personal experience as to the uncomfortableness of the emotion, and also informs us of much that is instructive as to the baleful effects of the mischief it produces upon the tissues of the body. He states that, unconsciously or consciously, the effect of fear is found to be disarrangement, which allows or causes inflammation, fever and other unhealthy conditions that are favorable to the nesting of the microbes of special diseases, such as are sometimes found in the air or in the water that we take in, and which are ever waiting for a chance to nest and breed. An eminent English physician has also communicated to a leading English magazine a belief that fear directly attacks the individual molecules of the body and causes a disarrangement, a relaxing, a letting-go condition of the molecules in their relation to adjoining molecules, and that the relaxed condition is that in which disease originates. He states that there are means of communication within the body that are as direct and distinct as are the wires that convey the electric fluid from point to point, and that they connect the brain or nervous centers with each pair of molecules. By these means the sense of fear travels, weak or strong, in response to every pulse of its activity. Within our visible experience, we know how completely the emotion of fear, or any of its various expressions can upset the stomach, suspend the appetite and even cause instant death. So evident are the bad effects of fear, that it is necessary only to refer to them before suggesting a remedy; but there are some powerful illustrations that are interesting, and which will be found under the caption of "Baleful Effects of Fear." In this connection, what we are most interested in is, how to rid ourselves of the habit of fear. Fear is not a physical thing. It is the result of fearthought, and, being fearthought, has no more substance than other thought. In animals it is an attribute of instinct, and is a wise provision of protection. In the human young, it is not so. In the helplessness of human foetal existence and infancy, we find a perfectly clean, but wonderfully impressionable, thought-matrix, into which are to be impressed the suggestions whose sum constitutes the intelligence in men which takes the place of instinct in animals. Fear is no constituent part of the composition of this thought-matrix. Susceptibility to fearthought, as it is susceptible to any and all suggestions, is the nearest approach to inherent infliction of fear that the unfolding soul is burdened with. If the race-habit-of-thought were indelibly pock-marked by fear, and stamped its roughness on the thought-matrix of all mankind, there would be no one free from it; but, as many are born into, and live, a life of great strength and courage, free from any taint of fearthought, this assumption is disproved, and is as absurd as would be the assumption that man must always do whatever, and only what, his ancestors did. All of the fear-impressions received are the result of either pre-natal or post-natal suggestion. It is within the power of parents and nurses to keep the delicate susceptibility of their charges free from the curse of fearthought; or to cause or allow it to be scared and bruised by the claws of the demon. President G. Stanley Hall, of Clarke University, Editor in Chief of the _American Journal of Psychology_, and Dr. Colin A. Scott, Professor of Psychology and Child Study at the Cook County Normal School, Chicago, Ill., U. S. A., have rendered greatest service to humanity by searching out and analyzing fears in children, exposing the absurdity of them, showing the sources from which foolish fears are derived, and thereby dragging from ambush the worst enemy of mankind, whose strength is developed by means of secret toleration, but can easily be overcome if uncovered. The method of securing information was by means of the _questionaire_, the answers to which, although unsigned and unidentifiable, and savoring of exaggeration or romance, furnish splendid texts in a crusade against the toleration of the habit-of-fear in a civilized community. One can scarcely imagine, before reading the answers to the fear _questionaire_, the unreasonable and absurd fears that warp the lives and ruin the health of many of the people among whom we move, and by whom, in some measure, we and our children are unconsciously influenced. If it were the community-habit-of-thought that fear was an unnecessary thing and an evil thing, and not respectable and not Christian, many of these fears would not exist, owing to the proneness of all persons to imitation and their acceptance of community-of-habit-thought as law and gospel. Fear is a very insidious thing. It will enter the smallest opening, and ferment, and increase, and permeate whatever it attacks, if it be permitted foothold in the least degree. We have too little time in life personally to investigate all of the causes of things that are pertinent to our living and working, or to learn the reason for their leading to observed results. We are indebted to Professor Mosso, Dr. Hall, Dr. Scott and other painstaking scientists, for observing the habits of our enemies, and for giving the results of their observations in such agreeable forms as are the intimate and frank analyses of fear given in Professor Mosso's book and other treatises on the subject; but what we are most interested in is, how to kill or how to escape fearthought within ourselves and, ultimately, how to protect our children against the evil. To digress somewhat, and as an excuse for using the terms of parable and homely experience instead of the terms of science: It is said that the use of alum for the settling of impurities out of water was an old housewife's remedy for a very long time before any scientist studied the chemical change that effected the result. The old housewives knew by experience, as well as did the doctors, that alum _would_ "settle" water, but it was left to the latter to say _why_ it did so. We are, therefore, mainly indebted to a chance discovery, and to the preservation of the formula by housewives, for our ability to purify water by means of alum. In the same manner we have discovered, perhaps by accident, that certain suggestions will purify our minds, by eliminating special fears by which we have been dominated. We also have learned by experiment that all fear is eliminable by use of sufficiently powerful suggestion made to fit the particular fear experimented against. I _know that the deterrent passions can be eradicated_; and, _easier than not_. Others _know_ this also, and are living lives of beautiful strength, freedom and happiness, who once were slaves to fearthought; and many such there already are, and their number is increasing very rapidly under the influence of the observation of unfailing, profitable results in consequence. If we _know_ that anything _can be done_, it is not vitally essential that we should know _why_ it is possible. Experience, in conveying the suggestion, has taught that there is _some_ way to reach, and to dispel, any special fear. Science will some time, undoubtedly, be able to tell us just how to treat each form of fear in a scientific manner, but in the meantime we _know_ that it is possible to cure all of the separate forms of fear by rooting out the basic fear--the fear of death--and by conveying the all-powerful suggestion that all fear is needless and unprofitable. FOOTNOTE: [4] Messrs. E. Lough and F. Kiesow, pupils of Professor Mosso, translated the fifth Italian edition of "Fear" into English, and Longmans, Green and Company published it in 1896. BALEFUL EFFECTS OF FEAR. In the last chapter I stated that the bad effects of fear were so well known to every one that it was not necessary to dwell upon them, but second thought suggests stating a few special cases that have been told me by physician friends who are interested in the lay experiments I am making. In the Southern States of the United States of America, where the black race comes into closest touch with Caucasian civilization under conditions of free expression, is probably the best place to study fear and its opposite, chivalrous courage. Dr. William E. Parker, of the Charity Hospital of New Orleans, was once called to attend a big negro who had been brought in by the ambulance, and whom the students in charge of the ambulance had frightened nearly to death by telling that he was badly wounded in the stomach, and would probably die. The negro was big and burly and black, and yet, livid with fear. Both pulse and temperature indicated serious trouble within, and the convulsive tremors that shook him from time to time revealed a state of collapse that might end in death at any time. There was no outward flow of blood, but the probable inward flow seemed more dangerous in consequence. The account of the case, as related by the students, told of a shooting affray, in which the negro had been hit in the abdomen, as evidenced by a bullet-hole in his clothing. Dr. Parker began an examination by ordering the clothing of the patient removed, and during which a bullet, much flattened, fell upon the floor. This bullet had done no serious injury, of course, but there might have been two shots and two bullets, one of which had penetrated the body, and hence the bullet that fell upon the floor caused no special attention, till search had been made in vain for a hole in the skin. Complete examination revealed the fact that the negro had been hit, but that the bullet had struck a button, causing a bruised place behind the button, but had lodged in the clothing, in harmless inertia. As the doctor held up the bullet, and told the patient of the slight extent of his injury and the wonder of his escape, good, warm blood returned to the livid countenance, the pulse and the temperature assumed their normal condition, a grateful sparkle lit up the almost glassy eyeballs, and the broadest possible grin spread over the face of the erstwhile dying man. The negro got down from the operating-table, arranged his clothing, and, after apologizing for the trouble he had caused, and after thanking the doctor and the students for their attentions, went out into the street as well as ever. He had been, half an hour before, at death's door. Dr. Henry A. Veazie, one of the student-heroes of the yellow-fever epidemic of 1878, who had splendid opportunity to witness the effects of fear during an epidemic, asserts that fear is a certain cause of attack of yellow fever. I will say, parenthetically, in the way of right information relative to the South, that there has been no epidemic since 1878--twenty years; that it has been proven that yellow fever does not originate in any part of the United States, and that it is very effectively barred out at quarantine, or, if accidentally admitted, that it is easily killed by present means of treatment, and that an epidemic is no longer mentioned as a possibility--only as quite a remote memory--in New Orleans, or elsewhere in the South. Doctor Veazie's story is corroborated by an able brochure on "The Influence of Fear in Disease," by the much-beloved, the late Dr. William H. Holcomb, of New Orleans; and, so helpful are the suggestions contained in it, that I have secured the privilege from the Purdy Publishing Company, of Chicago, of reprinting largely from it, and have added the matter copied as "Appendix A," to this volume.[5] Doctor Veazie also called my attention to the unusual fatality attending what are called "frog-accidents." Train-handlers and yardmen employed on railroads are very liable to these "frog-accidents." The frog is that part of a switch where the rails come together, forming a "V." In running about recklessly, as a train-man generally does, he sometimes catches the sole of a boot in the "V," and wedges it in so tightly that the foot cannot be withdrawn. If a locomotive, or a car, happen to be coming towards him, and cannot be stopped in time, cutting off of the foot or the leg by the wheels upon the rails is a certain result. If it were done instantly, and without a foreknowledge of the owner of the leg or foot, the chances of recovery would be almost assured, because of the present skill of surgery and the efficacy of known antiseptics; but with the few moments of foreknowledge of the impending accident, the poison of fearthought has time to so unnerve the system, relax the tissues, and itself disease the body by shock, that the wounding usually results in death. There is probably no situation in which a person can be placed where the conditions are more horrible than to be wedged between the rails, and to see an eighty-ton locomotive rolling on to him with irresistible weight. Being condemned to be hanged cannot be as fearful, for the reason that the condemned has been led gradually to contemplate the possibility of death by this means, and has come to expect it with a certain amount of complacency. The terror of the "frog-accident" comes with the suddenness of its possibility and the helplessness of the situation. It is like an ice-water bath thrown on a sweating person. It is the icy hand of death come to clutch at the throat of warmest hope and fondest affections. As such, it must be fearful; but, to the person habituated to _fear_ fear, through knowing the deadly effect of it, the emotion can be prepared for, greatly modified and possibly counteracted, by a prearrangement with the emotional self--that which Hudson calls the "subjective mind." To be effective in case of surprise, the preparation must come from the habit-of-feeling, "_I must not be afraid; I must not be afraid._" No matter what the surprise, the emotional self must instantly assert, through habit, "_I must not be afraid_." I have not had experience with "frog-accidents" to test the efficacy of my theory of schooled suggestion, but I have been subject to surprises that have been quite as fearful. As it happened, the incident I speak of was not perilous, but it had all the appearance of being so to me, when I was awakened from sleep, in a hotel in New York City, by suffocation, to find my room full of smoke that poured in through the transom and through the cracks of the door which was my only means of escape. My room was on the fifth floor of the hotel, and the house had the reputation of being a "fire-trap." As soon as my reasoning-self had time to take in the situation, the probability of being burned to death seemed almost certain; but before that happened--that is, before the reasoning-self had analyzed the situation--the habit-of-thought self had asserted many times, and constantly, "You _must not be afraid! you must not be afraid_"; and, as a result, I was _not afraid_; and the calm of the moment allowed me to measure chances and arrange expedients, as if there were no danger imminent. It was a case of much smoke and little fire, but there were those in the hotel who were made very ill by the fright of it. If I had always been free from the emotion of fear, and had not been a sorry victim to it in some special forms, "natural temperament" could be urged as a cause of the calm I enjoyed during the incident related above; but such is not the case. I have been subjected to shocks of various kinds, incident to an adventurous life, that have been powerful impressions for evil upon my emotional self, and it is personal experience of cure and relief that I am giving in support of my theory. The experience of Mr. George Kennan, the Siberian traveler, and brilliant writer and lecturer, relative to fear and its cure, is singularly like my own, and was related to me in an exchange of personal confidences, last year. The _Atlantic Monthly_ for May, 1897, contains an excellent account of Mr. Kennan's case, and I am permitted by the publishers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Company, to reprint it; which I have done under Appendix "B." Fear is rarely general as related to different causes for fearthought. I have been told of a case of specific fear that is interesting because of its unreasonableness. It was the case of a filibuster who had been on several raids where death was the almost certain penalty for being caught, and where the chances of being caught were almost certain. On the frontier our subject was known as a dare-devil, not afraid of anything, and yet he was always in mortal terror of a dark room. In infancy he had been scared into obedience by tales of goblins in the dark, and he had never rid himself of their influence. Anything on earth he could see held no terror for him, but he could not see the phantoms he created in the dark, and was therefore a slave to fear of them. It is probable that the bravado of his active life was partly caused by the desire to "average up" on courage, and, if so, the baleful effects of fear in this case were very far-reaching and destructive to the peace of society. General experience teaches that whenever you find a bully, you find a yellow streak of cowardice somewhere in his composition; and, more than probable, bravado is assumed by him, in order to "square" himself with his own self-respect. FOOTNOTE: [5] Two other brochures by Dr. Holcomb are published by the Purdy Company. They are "Condensed Thoughts about Christian Science" and "The Power of Thought in the Production and Cure of Disease." HOW TO ELIMINATE FEAR. It has been observed that the rooting out of any particular phase of fearthought, weakens the strength of all of the other phases. For instance, suppression of _anger_ and _worry_ tends to suppress all suspicion, and even fear itself, while special attack upon the fearthought called envy will perceptibly diminish the tendency to jealousy and avarice. There seems to be such close relationship between all of the forms of fearthought, that whatever affects one, affects all. Fear of death undoubtedly underlies all fearthought. Fear of poverty, fear of accident, fear of sickness, all reach further than these calamities, to the possibility of death resulting from them. In this way we can trace all expressions of fear, either directly or indirectly, through the different forms of selfness, to fearthought of death. In _Menticulture_ I suggested the elimination of _anger_ and _worry_ as the roots of all the evil passions. On page 17, however, I gave "fear" as the tap-root of the evil emotions, including anger and worry, and stated my reason for attacking the surface roots best known and associated together, rather than the tap-root itself. It was because I believed at the time _Menticulture_ was written, with people in general, that fear was a constituent weakness of all consciousness, and only expressions of it were eliminable. I find in my later experience in practice, however, and in conveying the suggestion to others, that fear itself is possible to be rooted out by the force of counter-suggestion of one sort or another, and that there is no mental habit or impression that cannot be counteracted by some other more powerful habit or impression, and that it is best to attack the bottom cause of all weaknesses at once, and thereby wage warfare upon their innermost citadel. As fearthought is the parent of all the evil emotions, so is fear of death the first of all the causes of fearthought. It is not a difficult matter to eliminate the fear of death. It is first necessary to do away with any dread of a lifeless human body. There are few who feel dread of the flesh of animals as they see it hanging in the stalls of the butchers. There is no more reason to have a feeling of fear in connection with the sight of dead human flesh than there is to feel uncomfortable in the presence of the flesh of a lifeless lamb or a lifeless chicken. There have lived people who were as accustomed to seeing human flesh exposed in butchers' shops as we are accustomed to see the flesh of animals so exposed, and there is an engraving of a cannibal meat-stall in Huxley's "Man's Place in Nature," copied from an old book of travel to the coast of Africa, which Mr. Huxley offers authoritatively. The subject may seem to be a grewsome one to many readers, and reference to the customs of cannibals may shock their supersensitive habits of thought, but the object is sufficient justification. Such may, however, soothe their injured feelings by remembering that our meat-selling and meat-eating customs seem as inhuman to many Buddhists as do the customs of cannibals to us. If we value essentials impartially, soul and mind count above everything, and tissue which they once animated counts for nothing when they have left it, no matter what have been the associations, especially if dread of the dead tissue inspires emotions that are detrimental to the welfare of soul or mind. My object in suggesting a systematic reversal of our feeling towards lifeless human flesh is because it is a basic cause of fear. Remove this dread, and half of the terror of death is removed with it. In this connection, the suggestion should be urged, that separation--as in death--is unessential as compared with the privilege of having known a beloved one, and that appreciation and gratitude should always outweigh regret in relation to an inevitable change. All of the observed processes of nature teach that every normal change is for the better, and the change called death is as normal as the change called birth. The full term of human life is but a pin-point in the great span of evolution. How unreasonable it is to protest the measurement of the breadth of a pin-point with Him who doeth all things well! Life is like the ticking of a clock; each passing of the pendulum may be a day or a year; when the clock strikes, one period only is ended, but a new period is also begun. Why mourn at the striking of the clock! A new and happier hour has begun. Why mourn the passing on of a beloved one! For to Christian, or to Buddhist, as well as to all sentient beings, a new and a better life has then begun. The attitude towards the separation called death should be such as to induce the thought, and even the expression, "Pass on, beloved; enter into the better state which all of the processes of nature teach are the result of every change; it will soon be my time to follow; my happiness at your preferment attend you; my love is blessed with that happiness; and what you have been to me remains, and will remain forever. Amen." Sorrow was dignified by Christ. He has been wrongfully called "The Man of Sorrow." His sorrow was for the evils which men suffered, and never was caused by any of the beneficent decrees of the Father. Protest against the decrees of the Father is blasphemy. Some forms of sorrow are blasphemy. Sorrow and optimism do not go together. Christ was (and is) the Supreme Optimist, and taught nothing but optimism. Tears do not always express sorrow. Wherein tears express selfishness, especially in the form of anger, they are bad. Wherein tears are free from selfishness, they may do no great harm. In such case, what may seem to be sorrow may be an expression of loving sympathy, and, as such, may be good. Without careful analysis of the quality of the emotion, love may be thought to be righteous cause for fearthought. This is a vicious thought. Nothing is righteous that is harmful, and fearthought is harmful. Love, without any element of fearthought in it, is infinitely better than love that is tinctured with fearthought. Forethought is the necessary accompaniment of perfect love, but fearthought is its enemy. Separation can be made to gladden love through self-sacrifice. Separation--as in death--can be made to gladden love by supreme self-sacrifice to the beloved one who is preferred by death, and thereby made to disarm that underlying fear of all fears--the fear of death. If, however, the fear of lifeless human flesh is eliminated, the fear of death itself will be found to be greatly modified. From this point the elimination of special pet fears, whether of the individual or of the community sort, will become an easy matter, as the greater is but the sum of the lesser. In looking for means with which to attack so great an enemy as fear, either in one's self or in another, any weapon is a good weapon that is found to be effective. Logic is more respectable, but such is the foolishness of many forms of fear that ridicule is more often effective. Appeal to honor, self-respect, love, logic, ridicule, and to _fear itself_, may be had in so worthy a cause as the vanquishing of the arch-enemy of growth and happiness. Old soldiers sometimes admit that their courage in battle has been the result of their fear of seeming to be cowards. When the far-reaching and poisonous effect of the evil of fearthought is properly understood, and the possibility of its elimination generally believed in, people will be _afraid_ to be afraid--afraid of ridicule and criticism, as well as afraid of evil and unhealthful effects. The cure will have been homoeopathic, in that like has been employed to cure (or kill) like. Logic is the most rational weapon, but ridicule is sharper. Logic may not cure a robust woman of the woman-habit-of-thought that a mouse is a fearsome thing, but reference to the fact that it is ridiculous for a five-foot woman to be afraid of a two-inch mouse may effect the result, especially when it is known that the mouse is more afraid of the woman, according to his capacity for fear, than it is possible for the woman to be afraid of the mouse. Acquaintance is another effective cure. It may not be necessary that all afflicted ones should serve an apprenticeship at undertaking in order to be cured of fear of a lifeless human body, but if the fear of a corpse cannot be eradicated by other means, it is worth while to do that or _anything else_, no matter how uncanny or disagreeable, in order to accomplish the object. So necessary is the eradication of the germ principle of fear to the cultivation of growth and happiness, that if it is found that fear of the lifeless human body cannot be cured otherwise, even a real apprenticeship in a hospital dissecting-room would be a profitable expedient as a last resort. To seek the acquaintance of fearsome insects and animals, through close observation and study of their habits, is better than to suffer harm from a needless prejudice against them. Cure of the fear of one dreaded insect or reptile is sure to modify the fear of all other things dreaded, so that the difficult part of the cure is acquiring the belief that it is possible, and making the resolve to attempt it. If parents realized the full importance of the eradication of fearthought from the minds of their children, they would stop immediately all other occupation, and rest not nor be content until the germ of fearthought in their children had been located and killed; and those skilled in such search and cure would become the physicians most in demand. HOW TO CURE SPECIAL FORMS OF FEAR. Exciting interest in the intrinsic beauties and usefulness of things thought to be disagreeable or dreadful, is an excellent way of curing fear of them. I once had an opportunity of experimenting with this method of curing particular fears by testing it on a mother and children whose _bÃªte noir_ was a thunderstorm. I had seen them at the World's Columbian Exposition, wrapt in the enjoyment of the great displays of fireworks that were operated on the lake front of the Exposition grounds each evening. I also happened to be provided with statistics, showing that the chance of being struck by lightning was only one in a great many thousand, and that if one were to seek to be struck, he would have to wait about ten thousand years for his average turn. I recalled the greater real beauty of the natural fireworks of the summer season, and their comparative harmlessness. This was the logic of it, and modified somewhat the attitude of the children, as well as the fear of the mother, relative to lightning and thunder; but the real cure came through appreciative suggestion and acquaintance. On the approach of a storm wherein lightning might be expected, and even before it was visible, the mother had been in the habit of assuming a frightened expression, of gathering the children together, of cowering in a corner, and sometimes in a closet, in fear and trembling, until the storm had passed. From infancy the children had been in the habit of associating something fearful with the idea of lightning and thunder, and had never had a chance to observe their beauties. I started in to correct the bad impressions, and to teach the attractiveness of storm phenomena, by calling out, on the approach of a storm, somewhat in this wise: "Oh! children, do you remember the beautiful fireworks at the Exposition? Come here quick! let's watch; we are going to have something ten times more beautiful, and, oh! such big booms and bangs. Watch now! ah! that wasn't much, but keep a-watching and we'll have some beauties. Crash! bang! blizzard! My! but wasn't that a beauty? Watch sharp, now, or you'll miss the best one,--what! afraid? Why, Alice, afraid of a beautiful thing like that! Nonsense! Come here, dear, and sit in my lap and watch out sharp, and then you _can't_ be afraid. There! that's a little lady. Splendid! I reckon you know how to enjoy something beautiful, as well as any one. Boom, boom, boom! Did you ever hear anything so grand? Great big drums up yonder. I wonder what sort of a Fourth of July they are having? Wouldn't World's-Fair fireworks seem tame beside this? And think of it!--they don't cost a cent, and they are clearing the atmosphere so that the sun will shine brighter to-morrow than it ever did. It will shine for us, and for the plants, and for the butterflies. My! but aren't we lucky to have good eyes and good ears when such things are going on! and don't we pity the poor little blind and deaf children! Does lightning sometimes strike people and kill them? Why, yes, once in a great, great long while; but when it does, they say it is the pleasantest sensation possible. Don't you mind when you have pleasant shivers, what a delightful feeling it is? Well, they say being struck by lightning is like that--only more so. I have never had the experience of being killed by lightning, of course, but when my turn to enter the next life comes, I hope it will be that way; but the chances of being that lucky are very slim. Somebody, some great schoolmaster that knows almost everything, has calculated that if a man wanted to be struck by lightning he would probably have to wait about ten thousand years. That is too long. Life is delightful as it is; but if I had to wait even a thousand years or even an hundred years more for my promotion that way, I think I would rather choose a more common and less agreeable way"; and so on, governed by the interest and the effect upon the children. I impressed on them the real beauty of the storm, and taught them appreciation, to take the place of fear. It is needless to say that that family no longer dreads the storm cloud. The suggestion reversed their way of looking at storms, and they then found great beauty in them and ceased to fear them. Another experience: I once had the privilege of spending some time in close relations of friendship to a family composed of a widowed mother and several children, sons, daughter, nephews and nieces. A sister of the mother, who was pronounced to be an incurable invalid, had come from her Northern home to seek relief in the climate of the Southland. It is impossible to imagine more tender care of an invalid. Each member of the family vied with the others in offering gentle attentions, so that the waning life was filled with happiness that made invalidism almost a pleasure, as being the cause of so much loving consideration. One morning the life-light flickered for a little and then went out. The usual funeral preparations which are the custom were attended to, and the remains were sent away to the far-distant home, and the family burial-lot. While the remains were awaiting the appointed time of removal, the children of the family, of all ages and both sexes, passed in and out of the death-chamber, by day or by night, as if there had been no death, and there was not a semblance of dread, nor fearthought nor mourning. It was such a beautiful expression of loving consideration, unmarred by dread or fearthought, that one might well choose such a time and such a place and such environment on the occasion of one's passing on to the better life. If it be possible to be a spirit, conscious of material environment, and in such guise to attend one's own funeral, which would be the environment of choice? Egotism, disembodied, would undoubtedly choose a scene of violent mourning, long drawn out, and painful to as many as possible. Loving Unselfishness would as certainly choose a funeral scene such as I witnessed in the house of my friends. Which would you choose? And if, as is most reasonable to suppose from observing the sequences of nature's processes that show that the seed of a flower has a more nearly perfect flower enfolded within itself, spirits also become purer by each unfolding through the release called death, and being made pure and unegotistic by the change, they must prefer, if they have the privilege, to have their old home remains viewed with loving and fearless consideration, rather than with fearsome dread and ostentatious emotion. Then let us abjure fear in connection with death, and also in connection with the mortal remains of the beloved. If the conventional premises relative to death be correct, the common attitude towards it is useless; and if the hypothetical premises be correct, as it is better to suppose, even if we cannot assert it, the common attitude is worse than useless, for it is both harmful and unjust. If we cultivate fear and mourning in connection with death, we are unjust to the dead, we are unjust to the living, we are unjust to ourselves; and, above all, cruel to the tender and impressionable emotions of children, to whom we are constantly leaving legacies of cowardice and ignorant egotism, or legacies of pure suggestion, love and appreciation. Much might be written about the subject of this chapter, and many illustrations could be given wherein illogical fears have been, or can be, ridiculed away, but inasmuch as some of the following chapters are mainly devoted to this purpose, it is not necessary to more than suggest a line of argument under the present caption. THE NOW-FIELD. Let us work together for a season in the Now-Field. We cannot work in any other field, but we can and do waste much valuable time in trying to work in the past or in the future, and in so doing neglect the precious now. For recreation we may pleasantly, and perhaps profitably, speculate as to what there may be in the way of atoms finer than star-dust, and as to the possible degree of invisibleness of the ultimate ether. We may also exercise and strengthen our imagination by trying to give form to the Source of it all. Tiring of guessing in these directions, we may vary our recreation by attempts to peep under or through the veil which Nature so persistently holds between the present conscious life and the one we hope for beyond the veil. It can do no harm to think form into a forgotten past and into an uncertain future, if, in so doing, the vital and superprecious now be well guarded against the things we know to be deterrent to the best growth of the life-plant. In considering the duty of the now, let us, for convenience of comparison, liken life to an agricultural season of one year's duration. We find, in ourselves, that the seed from which we have unfolded has already been sown, and the life-plant pretty well grown before we attain consciousness of duty and begin to think independently. If we are lucky, we have been taught early what the real object of life is, our duties in it, and the true values to be cultivated in connection with it. We have very sensibly learned to get in out of the wet when it rains, and many other useful aids to comfort as well as to protection, but the most vital assistants of growth have been neglected, and many positive deterrents to growth have been cultivated by those who have been our teachers, and hence it behooves us to look to our habits of thought and of action in order to get rid of those which are detrimental to our growth. Of first importance is the care of the Now-Field. We have already suggested, and it cannot be too often repeated, that the condition favorable and necessary to growth is that of harmony--an harmonious present is the living heir and parent of all harmonies--that growth is the evident object of life, and that when anything ceases to grow it begins to die--there is no growth except in the present, and no cultivable field other than the Now-Field--that harmony, through one's ability to always furnish the concordant note, one's self, is within the power of each, regardless of environment or physical conditions, if _only_ present conditions and environment are considered, and that growth is the certain result of harmony; that our function relative to growth is only to keep deterrent influences out of the present; that, if we do this, Nature never fails to develop better results from the unfolding of each succession. We have learned that all of the deterrents we have been able to discover and classify are phases of fearthought; that fearthought is no creation of the present, but is sought in the future and nourished on the life-blood of the present--an excrescent and altogether parasitic abnormality, unnecessary to the thing it feeds on. We have discovered, in our search for deterrents, that, if encountered in the now, they are easily routed. We have also discovered that the longest life is but a succession of nows. If so, how easy becomes the problem: Work diligently in the Now-Field. In arguing against the potency of anger and worry and other expressions of fearthought, where the contention has been persisted in that they were necessary evils, and amenable only to suppression, not to elimination, I have invariably won my point when suddenly asking the question, "Are you angry or worried at this moment?" by the admission of my opponent, "No; not at this moment, because my mind is occupied with something which has no element of worry or anger in it." The replies vary, of course, but are to the same effect. I immediately return with the question: "Is not all time but a succession of nows, and, if so, cannot all of the nows, as well as this one, be exempt from apprehension and irritation, by continuing to think of pleasanter and more hopeful and helpful things?" Each succeeding now is easier of control than the preceding one from which it learns the habit-of-control, and, if the immanent now is guarded, all the nows that follow will take care of themselves. As we have observed, we need not think of the growing if we are only diligent in keeping fearthought out of our minds. Nature will do abundant growing for us, and if we do not seek fearthought beyond the now, we will have nothing to keep out. _It is easier than not!_ Does it not seem _very_ easy when one thinks reasonably about it? If we confine our efforts to the Now-Field, we leave our enemy out in the cold by the comfortable process of non-invitation. Therefore, let us work together for a season in the Now-Field. PERTINENT PAGES. PERTINENT PAGES. FEARTHOUGHT. Fear is fear_thought_ only. Fear is caused by the _self-imposed_ or _self-permitted_ suggestion of _inferiority_. Fear is not a physical thing, but it causes physical derangement. Fearthought is _self-imposed_, and is therefore unnecessary. Fearthought, being evil and unnecessary, is therefore _not-respectable_. Fearthought is a habit which is altogether irrational and illogical. Fearthought is a parasite which, in civilized man, is entirely abnormal. _Fearthought can be eliminated from the mind._ * * * * * Fearthought is the tap-root of all evil and trouble. _Anger_ and _worry_ are expressions of fearthought. All forms of worry are directly caused by fearthought. Anger is directly or indirectly caused by fearthought. All of the evil passions which group themselves under the class-names of anger and worry are therefore the result of fearthought. Fearthought is the result of egotism. Egotism is the reverse, or, rather, perverse, of Egociation. It is caused by self-separation from Co-operative-Strength, from Universal-Good--from God. Selfishness is the fruit and the evidence of egotism. Fearthought is the first expression of selfishness. _Fearthought is_, therefore, _the tap-root of evil and consequent unhappiness_. * * * * * Forethought invites success. Fearthought invites failure. The future is the vital part of life--the dead past furnishing only food for reminiscence and experience. Consideration of the future must partake of either forethought or fearthought--it cannot partake of both at the same time. Fearthought is in no way related to forethought except as the shadow is related to the tree behind which it hides from the light--the light of right-thinking. Forethought stimulates, aids, fosters, encourages, and insures success of honest aims--its child is growth. Fearthought relaxes, hampers, strangles, and thereby retards growth, to the end of dwarfing, if not killing, it--its children are paralysis, disease, unhappiness and death. Forethought is a producer. _Fearthought is a robber._ * * * * * Forethought is constructive. Fearthought is destructive. Forethought suggests the building of houses for shelter wherein there can be no fearthought about storms. Fearthought fusses and worries over the possibility of not getting the shelter ready in time to protect against inclement weather, and thereby wastes the available energy, and delays the completion of the shelter. Forethought calmly proceeds to perform a useful task without fearthought of the extent of it. It does all that it can do--it can do no more. Fearthought wrings its hands, and wastes its time in saying, "How can I ever do it?" There is no difficulty in determining between forethought and fearthought. Whatever thought is constructive, is forethought. _Whatever thought is destructive or wasteful is fearthought._ * * * * * Fearthought is the devil. Fearthought is the arch-enemy of man, whose influence can be traced in every form of calamity and unhappiness. Fearthought is the cause of indecision, suspicion, apprehension, jealousy, envy, indifference, self-degradation and all other forms of weakness which separate the afflicted from the tide of success and happiness, and which condemn them to the whirling and restless eddy of isolation and non-progression. Fearthought is blasphemy, because it gives the lie to the fixed promises of God, as evidenced by experience. Fearthought is like carbonic-acid gas pumped into one's atmosphere. It causes mental, moral and spiritual asphyxiation, and sometimes death--death to energy, death to tissue and death to all growth. _Fearthought is a liar, and the father of lies._ * * * * * Quarantine against Fearthought first. Fearthought is more contagious than any other disease. Fearthought is the chief distributer and promoter of other contagious diseases. Fearthought can be guarded against by anti-toxic means, just as smallpox and diphtheria can be guarded against. The serum to be used against fearthought is intelligent, persistent right suggestion. Fearthought can also be quarantined against, the same as other contagious diseases. Society can quarantine against fearthought by refusing to tolerate it as a necessity of civilized life--by classing it as not-respectable, and by refusing to feed it with sympathy. Quarantine against fearthought in the individual is an easy matter to any one who will learn that it is only evil and never good. _Fearthought should be kept "without the gates."_ * * * * * Forethought for others is the most intelligent altruism. Forethought is the natural condition, but can exist only in the absence of fearthought. Forethought growing out of disagreeable or disastrous experience is a useful and worthy fruit; but fearthought taken from the same experience adds to the evil. If a child be guarded against fearthought, he will enjoy immunity from it during life--a life twice or thrice prolonged in consequence. Parents should note the responsibility. * * * * * The consensus of the experience of parents, of physicians, of biologists, and of everyone who has observed child-life, is that the premises and deductions here given are correct, but as yet there has been no systematic effort made to eliminate fearthought out of the atmosphere of children, as there has been to eliminate weeds, malaria, contagious diseases, and other evils. Society should unite for defense against, and the extermination of, _childhood's worst enemy_. * * * * * Fearthought is the most pregnant cause of disaster and death. Whoever teaches fearthought to a child, by either legend or example, may be a murderer by so doing. Whoever permits or nurses fearthought within himself, sows the seed of suicide. Whoever robs a child of the freedom of mind with which nature prefers to endow it, whether it be through pre-natal suggestion or through suggestion given after birth, is more a thief than one who robs it of its patrimony of goods or lands. Whoever teaches or permits a child to suffer fearthought may never know the end of the disturbance caused thereby. Lying, stealing, avarice, suicide and murder may lie within the wake of its influence. If parents have wronged their children unwittingly, they may yet correct the infliction by right example and by right counter-suggestions, lovingly, patiently, persistently and religiously given until the evil has been eradicated. _Fearthought is the seed of Suicide._ * * * * * Freedom is a Birthright. Civilized Society insures Freedom. The author has had much experience within the past few years which teaches that fearthought itself, and tendency to fearthought, are bad habits of the mind, that can be entirely counteracted if so desired, and if the desire be accompanied by reasonable assistance on the part of the afflicted ones. Fearthought is the last relic of animal suspicion to be located, analyzed and dispelled. When it is entirely killed; then, and only then, will man become free--free to grow, free to appreciate his divine inheritance and free to enjoy it as ordained. As in agriculture and in horticulture, so in menticulture, and its contingent, physiculture, will it be found that deterrents to perfect growth can be eradicated, and that if attention to the germ-eradication of the deterrents is intelligent and persistent, God will surely develop perfect growth and the perfect fruit of happiness. _Freedom is easier than not._ * * * * * Fearthought is the result of ignorance or perversity. Fearthought which is perverse is criminal. Fearing for others is criminal, because it not only depresses and weakens them, but because it robs them of some part of the strength that encouragement and hopeful thought would give them. Parents who do not wish to poison the natural energy of their children by depression and weakness, should learn the effect of telepathic influence for good or for evil, and thereby know that all of the expressions of fearthought are rank poisons. Parents hold the key to character. Whenever parents allow or teach their children to have fearthought, they foster in them the temptation to lie and steal. _Crime lurks in fearthought._ * * * * * Ignorance is _not_ bliss. Ignorance can no longer be accepted as an excuse for the toleration of fear. Thought precedes every emotion and every act of life. It must have no element of fear in it, if it is to lead up and on. _Habit-of-thought_ asserts itself on all occasions. _Habit-of-feeling_ is the truer description, for the reason that it is the emotional self and not the thought-self that first responds to surprise. Habit-of-thought or habit-of-feeling can be trained to respond to surprise with "I _must not be_ afraid," as easily as it is permitted to respond with the cowardly dictum, "I _am_ afraid." If one have the habit-of-fearthought in any form or degree, surprise may cause it to inspire rash action which may end in disaster. More lives are lost through jumping _into_ danger under the impulse of fearthought, than are ever saved by it. Calm forethought is the better friend in a case of peril than quaking fearthought. _I must not be afraid!_ * * * * * Fearthought is a dissembler. Fearthought is a very dangerous enemy, because it habitually masquerades in the garb of forethought. Many earnest persons who desire to cultivate only the best thought, believe that fearthought is forethought, and invite and nurse it as such. The lexicographers even, have failed to separate fearthought from forethought, and hence it does not appear in the dictionaries under its specific descriptive appellation. * * * * * Let fear be disguised no longer. It is a child of ignorant or perverse imagination. It is fear_thought_ only. It is always irrational and illogical. It has no element of good nor of protection in it. Separated from forethought, fearthought causes only paralysis and death, and neither energizes nor saves life. It is the devil. It is the result of false premises or impressions, but can be counteracted by logical premises and right impressions. _Fearthought is a masquerader._ * * * * * The timid are the most impressionable, and can be cured of fearthought by intelligent, persistent, counter-suggestion. Impressibility is as powerful an aid to good or right suggestion as it is to bad or false suggestion. Differently used, an element of weakness becomes an element of strength. In a matter of mind-accomplishment no one need say "I can't," for mind is what it most earnestly wishes to be. Limiting weaknesses there are, at present, but these are generally found in asylums. A crusade against fearthought would, within one generation, make asylums unnecessary. Average intelligence can be cleared of fearthought. A crusade against fearthought would immeasurably raise the average of intelligence. Let no one deprecate himself or his fellows as to his or their possibilities. The timid may become courageous; the weak may become strong; the sick may become well, and the unhappy may become happy, by the reversal of the attitude of their energy toward life's problems. _Courage is a birthright._ * * * * * Fearlessness of death insures the strongest love of life. No one can know what it is to appreciate life at its best until he has ceased to have any suspicion of dread of death. No one can realize the keenest enjoyment of life until he has grown to _feel_--_appreciate_--that this life is an important stage of an evolutionary process, in which the dawning of spiritual possibilities opens up the realm of divine existence to him, and introduces to his consciousness that _appreciation of God which gives birth to love, growth and happiness_. When fearthought is entirely eradicated from the mind by the elimination of the basic fear--the fear of death--man begins to _feel_ the responsibility of growing his best, of ripening in natural manner, and of dropping into the lap of Mother Earth only when he has instilled into himself the richest and sweetest juices of an appreciative and altruistic life. _Fear not Death if you would know and love life._ * * * * * Mother-thought is the strongest of all thought. Voluntary motherhood is the bravest of all acts common in life. Whoever teaches a child to be fearless, builds greater than she can ever know, for fearlessness in one inspires courage in many; and as courage inspires strength and causes action, there is no end to what may grow out of the fearless influence of the frailest and physically weakest of women, and any young mother, in the quiet and seclusion of a modest home, can set in motion vibrations of strength and fearlessness that may result in the building of a great city or the invention of some world-emancipating tool of progress. All great accomplishments can be traced back to mother-influence. Mother-muscle may be wanting, but mother-thought rules the world. Mother-thought is always brave-thought in _one_ emergency, and therefore _can be strong in all_ emergencies. Mother-thought rules the world. _Mother-thought blesses life._ * * * * * All water is pure water. It is impurities within water that muddy it. All men are innately good. It is the presence of false impressions, the result of false suggestions, that makes men selfish and bad. There is no impurity in water that cannot be removed by some means within the reach of chemistry, and there is likewise no bad suggestion impressed on a sane human mind that cannot be counteracted by some right and good suggestion. In your judgment of men, judge the sum of their opportunities and the quality of their environing atmosphere, and not the individuals themselves. It will aid you to a more just appreciation of the possible goodness of your neighbors, and greatly help to conserve your own happiness, through the diffusion of the warm blood of charitable impulse. _Mould conditions aright, and men will grow good to fit them._ * * * * * The perfect man is the harmonious man. The perfection of anything is dependent upon the perfection of all its parts. Good society is made up of good individuals; individuals are measured by their qualities of mind and character; and mind and character are pure and good according as their constituent elements are pure and good. Fearthought is a weak element of mind and its influence on character is blighting. In chemistry and in mechanics we analyse and test with greatest care the material we use, to learn its value as related to our purpose. If it have any element of weakness we discard it. Measure, and weigh well, thought about the future; if it partake of fearthought, expel it from the mind, for it is evil; if it be filled with strength, and hope, and confidence, nurse it tenderly, for it is good. _Harmony is strength._ * * * * * Forethought is strong thought. Fearthought is weak thought. Nervousness is frequently discreditable, and, therefore, not-respectable. Nervousness is the "scapegoat" for much cowardice, ignorance and perversion, sometimes of prenatal, but generally of post-natal, origin. It is not as respectable as scrofula, for the reason that scrofula may have been inherited or contracted by the accident or evil doing of another, and can be corrected only by process of regeneration; while nervousness is an expression or reflection of fearthought which can be corrected by one's own right-thinking. Whoever is not nervous when he is asleep _need not be_ nervous when he is awake. Eminent physicians have recently authorized the above assertions relative to nervousness. If it is evil and unnecessary, it is, therefore, not-respectable. _When nervous, seek within the habit-of-thought for a cause._ * * * * * Attraction rules the universe. The rivalry between attraction and counter-attraction is friendly. Evolution is the result of being attracted to increase and to growth, and not the result of being _pushed_ to growth. All plant life inclines towards the light and the sun. Plant life that is strong enough to withstand the storms, turns its back in protest to the wind. Pessimists snarlingly assert that attraction is the _pushing of desire_ for change, but pessimists are diseased themselves, and therefore call things by wrong names, and give the wrong construction to everything. Appreciation and resultant Love are caused by attraction, and not by fear. Whatever is attracted forward or upward, will remain in advance or above. Forethought is eagerly receptive and seeks progress through attraction. Fearthought _pushes_ to action by its own cowardice, and accomplishes nothing useful. _Altruism is a powerful magnet; good men are "as true as steel."_ * * * * * Consideration is practical altruism. Consideration for others is evidenced by desiring to do for them what is most desired by them, or, what is best for them. It _assumes_ no superiority. Consideration is "catching," and the easiest way to accomplish one's own desires, in connection with others, is to suggest consideration by consideration. No one ever "lost a trick, or missed a meal," by being considerate; and simple, unaffected consideration has often been the means of adding great possessions to its own richness. "After you," will unravel a crowd quicker than any pushing to be first. Fearthought, and the selfishness growing out of it, are the origin of all lack of consideration for others; and contact with others, and the every-day amenities of life furnish constant opportunity for attacking one of the strongest expressions of the disease of fearthought by practice of altruistic consideration. _The first requisite of gentility is consideration._ * * * * * Happy Day! "Good morrow," "good day," "good morning," and "good evening," were originally intended to have the same significance as our opening salutation, but now they have generally become stale and mean no more than "how are y--" "how d'y" and other perfunctory greetings that are ridiculous when rendered with an inflection that resembles a grunt. Elsewhere it is related how "happy day" is used in some families to greet the morning. What humanity is suffering from is a restriction of affections, and an effusion of fears. People are afraid of being frank and therefore cultivate the sulks, suffer and become ill from the repression. If you cannot greet the morning and likewise every living thing and every inanimate thing that there is with "Happy Day," you had better take medicine for the trouble, for you are really ill. _Happy Day!_ * * * * * Forethought is Optimism. All good men are optimists. The contrastive definitions of "optimism," and "pessimism" and "content," as given by Rev. Dr. Newel Dwight Hillis in an address on optimism, which the author had the pleasure of hearing, are in themselves an epitome of good suggestion relative to the profitable attitude toward the past, the present and the future. Said Dr. Hillis, "The pessimist cries, 'all is ill, and nothing can be well'; the idle dreamer assumes that 'all is well,' but the optimist declares that 'all has not been ill, and all has not been well--all is not ill, and all is not well--but all _can be_ and therefore _shall be_ well.'" Appreciation of ever-present blessings--the sun, the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the mist, the constant changes in the aspect of nature, the love of friends, the hurdles that are met and cleared at a bound, and even the obstructions that Providence places in the _wrong road_, make them all seem to chant in chorus,--"No matter what has been; no matter what is; all _can be_ and _shall be_ well." _Optimism is life._ * * * * * Fearthought inspires Pessimism. Pessimism is a false prophet. It would certainly seem to be in the interest of freedom if the utterances of evil foreboding and pessimistic prophesy were frowned upon, if pessimists were avoided as lepers are avoided, and if their effect on growth and development were to measure the merit or demerit of thoughts or teachings, as well as of actions. Society's duty toward the individual is wisely to prevent him from doing harm, either to himself or to others. All experience teaches that pessimism is generally lying prophesy. To prohibit false prophesy, that can only injure both the maker and the hearer of it, would seem, then, to be not only the right, but the duty, of society. To prohibit bad suggestion as well as bad action, when action is known to be but materialized or realized suggestion, would seem to be a duty of society. _Pessimism is poison._ * * * * * "Perfect Love Casteth out Fear." But: Perfect Love cannot exist until Fear is _first cast out_. * * * * * Forethought is essential to cultivation and happiness. But: _Fearthought in forethought_ prevents cultivation and kills happiness. * * * * * Fear is Habit-of-Fearthought only, and is self-imposed, or imported. It is, therefore: Unnecessary. * * * * * Fearthought, being unnecessary, is a weak, or a cowardly, self-infliction. It is, therefore: Not-Respectable. * * * * * Fearthought, the arch-enemy of mankind, can be eliminated from the Habit-of-Thought--can be entirely eradicated. But: NOT BY REPRESSION. * * * * * Man, equipped with _divine selection_, is the only cultivator in Nature. Nature does all growing herself, and assigns all cultivating to Man. But: He cultivates only through removing deterrents to growth. * * * * * Man's value, as assistant in evolution, consists in his ability to create harmonic conditions favorable to growth through the exercise of _divine selection_. But: He secures perfect harmony only by first harmonizing himself. * * * * * Happiness is "the aim and the end of existence." But: Happiness can rest only in Harmony, Appreciation, Love and Altruism. * * * * * Happiness is "The Greatest Thing in the World." But:--_If sought aright_, IT IS EASIER THAN NOT! SUGGESTIONS IN MENTICULTURE. STOP IMPORTING; OR ERADICATION VERSUS REPRESSION. The attitude of Man towards his weaknesses is commonly that of repression. He assumes that fearthought, and fear, and anger, and worry, and all of the evil passions are inherent things that may be repressed but not eradicated; modified but not eliminated; kept under partial control but not gotten rid of; and cut down below the surface, so as not to be exposed to the world, but not rooted out entirely. By some persons it is even thought to be an accomplishment of great merit to acknowledge strong roots of carnal weakness and to then succeed in hiding any outward expression of them. In others, equally well-meaning, the aggressive and consumptive passions are nursed and exhibited as evidences of unusual sensitiveness and virility appertaining to fineness, goodness and greatness. It is not long since it was the custom of clergymen in some denominations to assume unworthiness for themselves in order to glorify the redeeming power of the Saviour, notwithstanding all of Christ's teachings inculcated that true forgiveness consisted in the simple process of _ceasing to have_--ceasing to admit, or import. When, in former times, priesthood was degraded to a business--an occupation for a living, or for convenience or power--it was natural that the difficulty of the service rendered the laity by the priests should be exaggerated so as to command the highest respect, the greatest power and the largest compensation. Sin was made to seem powerful and ever-present in order that the service rendered in keeping it in check might seem important and everlasting. Under such circumstances, and especially when the one great unpardonable sin against the church was that of doubting the teachings of these teachers, how almost impossible must it have been for the laity to rise superior to evil, when those whose profession it was to combat it, found it so potent an enemy, and who, thereby, filled the atmosphere of thought with dense clouds of evil suggestion. It is fortunate for the present generation that such shadows of suggestion do not hopelessly oppress it. There are many churches now where appreciation, and love, and purity, and the delights of unselfishness are offered as the attractions towards religion, and where the teachers in them stand for examples of pure thinking, pure living, and spontaneous altruism, practiced as a result of natural impulses that are both agreeable and profitable, and not to save from hell or to fit for a remote heaven. But the shadow of the old method, that so long hid the Christ-method of true thinking and living, still has an influence in giving strength to evil to afflict the weaker sons of our civilization. This shadow, however, cannot long remain. The light of the present awakening is too strong--too electric and too penetrating--to permit it to remain. It is even looked upon now as a curiosity--a relic of antiquity--to hear the old fears given expression from the pulpit, but root eradication of them is not yet insisted upon as the first and most important teaching, as it should be. It is a common thing now, also, to hear altruistic teaching and optimistic preaching from the pulpits of all denominations, and to hear from the teachers and preachers the assurance that "it is easier than not and more profitable in every way to be unselfish and not to tolerate evil," the new good suggestion of which, is the inspiring assertion that, "_it is easier than not_." It would be a rare thing now to find a religious teacher of intelligence who would not agree with the assertion that, when a person is angry, he cannot be, at the moment, a Christian, for being angry is as unchristian as profanity. The same condemnation applies to worry, which is especially commanded against, and which, in the light of the observed promises of God as expressed by the preponderance of the prevalence of good, is not less than blasphemous in its exhibition of lack of confidence in, and appreciation of, the Giver of All Good. A most helpful thought in connection with the easy subjugation of the _animalesque_ expressions of fearthought is, that they are not inherent things, and that they are imported whenever suffered. The tendency to import is inherent, and the _tendency_ to entertain evil is the shadow of past error in the race which is called race-habit-of-thought, and it is that which has to be replaced by right-habit-of-thought before one is entirely free, but tendency is easily overcome when its parents are discredited and made not-respectable thereby. The spiritual awakening of the present era that is reclaiming Christianity from the supernatural, or unnatural, and applying it to everyday affairs, may be called practical or business Christianity. A business man who has an occupation wherein it is possible for him to be altruistic, after reading the theory that is the contention of _Menticulture_, wrote a commentary in which he said: "On these precepts not only 'hang all of the law and the prophets,' but, also, common business sense and _all of the profits_." As an illustration of the difference between eradication (or filtration) and repression (or gradual dilution or reform) I will cite a common example: Suppose a vessel to be filled with muddy water which we wish to make clear, so that it will perfectly reflect the ether above, which we call the sky; the easy and effective method is first to pass the water through a filter and thereafter to protect it from contamination. On the contrary, the difficult, expensive, endless and, therefore ineffective method is to pour unlimited clear water into the vessel, in order to gradually replace the muddy water with the excess of pure water. While it is true that "perfect love casteth out fear," it also is true that there can be no perfect love until there is first perfect freedom from fear, so that the right way to approach the problem of creating the harmonious condition in the human mind wherein growth ripens in happiness, is to take the mind when it is returned to us at the moment of awaking from sleep, when it has been purified by contact with Spiritual Cerebration, and protect it from that time forth through each day, by refusing _to import_ suspicion, anger or worry into it, a process that is _easier than not_, and pleasanter and more profitable than any. Each day, the tendency to import, which is the only part of the process of eradication that is in any way real, will become less strong, and, with even the weakest attempts to discourage it; but if you are sufficiently in earnest to say, "Begone, you tempter," and thereby slam the door in his face, you will accomplish freedom at once. The self-infliction of fearthought is a shoveling-in process--all that you have to do to become free from it is to stop shoveling. It is easier to stop importing fearthought, and anger, and worry, and suspicion, than it is to import them; therefore, _Stop importing!_ THE IMPOTENCE OF PAIN. During the Japanese-Chinese war, two Japanese students were arrested in Shanghai on the charge of espionage, and were taken to Ningpo and tortured to death. The method of torture was the most cruel known, and included a slow crushing of the most sensitive parts of their anatomy. The young patriots displayed such heroism under the torture that the incident gave rise to considerable discussion as to the relative sensitiveness of the Mongolian and the Caucasian races to pain. The consensus of the opinion that I saw expressed, which was, by the way, Caucasian opinion only, was that the Oriental was less sensitive, and therefore was not entitled to as much credit for withstanding pain as the self-adjudged, more-sensitive Westerner. The truth of the matter is, that there is a limit to actual pain within the power of any one to endure, if the element of fearthought-of-more-pain is eliminated, so that the absorbing heroism of the patriot--almost courting torture for the honor of his cause--puts the element of fearthought out of the case, and leaves only the actual sensation to be suffered. Pain is undoubtedly intended as a warning of disordered conditions, and not as a punishment, and, having performed its mission, is relieved by a kind paralysis before the shock is too severe for human endurance. This is the beneficent provision of the natural law, but when it comes to the exercise of unnatural fearthought, there is no limit to the torture a victim may impose upon himself, and, on a basis of a very little real pain, build up most terrible suffering. The author has tested the truth of this assertion personally. Being condemned to submit to a dental operation of unusual severity, the opportunity to experiment was gladly availed of, even at the expense of comfort. One special aggravation of the operation was the prying open of the mouth, in order to build up from the root one of the teeth located farthest back in the mouth. The mouth was not large enough to suit the facile convenience of the dentist, and hence he made use of all the skill and power he possessed to enlarge the cavity, and having stretched it to the utmost, firm wedges held it open, without possibility of protest, for three hours on a stretch; and on these instruments and conditions of torture I had ample opportunity to experiment; so sufficient--for all practical purposes--that I do not feel it necessary to repeat the experiment, even in the interest of scientific investigation. The experiment proved, however, my contention, that even the greatest possible pain is of itself not very severe, and that it requires but a slight diversion to make one forget it, for the time being, entirely. I was able, at any moment of the combined irritation, to concentrate my mind upon some subject or object, and to lose the sense of pain out of my consciousness altogether--and at will. Major General O. O. Howard, U. S. A. (retired) has recently corroborated, to the author, out of his own experience, the possibility of forgetting pain through slight diversion. He lost an arm during the Civil War, and in the process of recovery some of the nerve-ends were not properly cicatrized, so that ever since the wound healed the General has not been free from the sensation of pain, whenever his mind has reverted to it, and yet he is able at any time to forget it by change of thought. In like manner, fear-of-trouble is the major part of all the so-called trouble that is experienced. As intimated in the "definitions," under the caption of "Trouble," there are few real conditions that are very uncomfortable, if apprehension of still more uncomfortable conditions is not imported to exaggerate the existing discomfort. Fear of freezing to death or of drowning may be made very terrible, for instance, whereas the end in freezing and in drowning is known to be so comfortable, and even blissful, that those who are on the point of passing out of life by those means dislike to be called back to life again. The heroism of mothers in the event of child-birth is too well known to call for reference, but there is the greatest difference in the ease or in the discomfort of the condition attending the process, which is largely influenced by the feeling of welcome or the attitude of aversion with which the new-comer is greeted by the mother. The point-of-view has much to do with the sting of pain. Whoever has suffered that severest of all spankings, the water spanking incident to a clumsy dive, or a wrongly-calculated somersault into the water from a wharf, or from a natatorium springboard, will remember that the pain of it is not half so hard to bear as the form of parental correction called by the same name, that in itself is not nearly so severe. Sensitiveness to pain is largely due to the fear of pain, and a reversal of the accustomed attitude towards fear will have an immediate effect upon the severity of pain by mitigating much of its sting. Christian scientists, mental scientists, spiritual scientists, faith curists, and all others who practice mental therapeutics in physical diseases, escape much suffering in this way, and the happy result of this attitude towards pain serves to strengthen their faith. Whatever the cause of the relief, it is good, for it teaches, in a most practical way, the potency of thought in overcoming, or, dismissing, real pain as well as all imaginary evil, and also the possibility of eliminating fearthought from the mental equipment, by showing how impotent to harm are the realities that inspire it, when it is prevented from exaggerating them. UNHAPPY UNLESS MISERABLE. There are some persons, in fact, a great many persons, who are not happy unless they have real or fancied cause for complaint. Martyrdom is the recreation of such people and they are liable to be more greedy for recreation than those whose recreation is of a joyous sort. It is certainly a misplaced kindness to impose unwelcome attentions on any one. In the category of nuisances unwelcome attentions are perhaps the most disagreeable, and to cram joy down the maw of one who has no taste for it, is as rude, and even vulgar, as insisting that he shall eat something that is nauseating to him. It is true that persons who gloat over misery; who love to mope about in grave-yards; and are forever telling grewsome tales for the supposed delectation of their victims, are not as agreeable to others as they seem to be to themselves, and their presence at festivals and other ostensibly joyous occasions may be looked on as discordant, and, as such, out of place. In these times of license, which are sometime mistaken for times of unusual liberty, it is not for anyone to define what is altogether bad, nor to confine good, nor good taste, within too narrow limits; neither is it generous to prescribe anything that shall be universally eaten or worn; and, above all liberties, the liberty to wear a smile or a frown should prevail; but it is within the province of organized society to put its stamp of approval or disapproval on the time and place for appropriate use of them. Certain costumes are suitable in certain places and not suitable in others. For example, the bathing suit and the night-robe have uses that are appropriate for their special purposes, but they would not be tolerated on the street by the police, and it would be no greater curtailment of liberty to order that frowns shall be worn only in dark places and not be permitted to cloud the sunlight, than that undue levity should be tabooed on occasions considered to be serious. If such prescription were to be imposed, it would be necessary, of course, to furnish dark places at appropriate, or, rather, convenient intervals, for the use of the miserably inclined, in the same way that spittoons are provided for the use of those who must expectorate sputum. Liberty is so precious a thing that it must be protected as the holiest of our possessions, and even if it lap over into the debatable ground sometimes called license, it should yet be protected, and therefore the permission to wear frowns in appropriate places and to enjoy being miserable in the privacy of one's own chamber should be respected; on the street, or anywhere in public, however, they should not be tolerated, for they are harmful generally, and particularly injurious to children. As individuals, those of us who accept God's promises as truths, who prefer to live in the sunlight rather than in a cave, who glorify Appreciation as the first and best suggestion in the language, who believe that growth is the object of life, that its fallow field is harmony, and that its fruit is happiness, and also those of us who, by comparison of conditions have learned to believe that our pessimistic friends can be happier than they are, and can become better companions and citizens by a change of attitude towards life, although we may not pass laws of restriction against the frown-habit or against the misery-habit, can use the gentle method of counter-suggestion to good effect, and even go so far as to laugh at and otherwise ridicule the misery-habit, if by thus doing we may possibly correct that which logic has failed to cure. From long observation it has become evident that the misery-habit feeds on sympathy. Children, who are the best examples of honest expression that we have, whereby to see ourselves in an unartificial light, will not continue a mad or a surly crying spell if they are sure it is not producing a sympathetic effect. If they think they are not heard they will at once cease crying. In the same way, grown persons who practice the misery-habit in public take a rest when they are unobserved. They try to hide it, but they are frequently caught in the act of unbuttoning their pouts, and thereby allowing their faces a rest, as soon as they have thought themselves out of sight. We must believe, if this observation be correct, that the object of pessimism, or, the misery-habit, is generally to secure, by dishonest means, selfish attentions that are not earned, and for which no value is given. There are cases no doubt where the misery-habit has been acquired by contact with respected ones who have been the cause of perverse suggestions too strong to be resisted, and for such there can only be pity, and in the cure of whom gentle and loving suggestion should be used, but to the perverse and the chronic practicers of the misery-habit, no toleration is good, for it is on that, and unmerited sympathy, that they live and thrive. On such, all of the misery possible to be scraped up from the discords of life should be dumped, and they should be condemned to herd together, and if it were possible, they should be isolated, as lepers are isolated, from healthy society. Sometimes the victim of the misery-habit practices the habit only within the family. This is especially severe on the family, and is much more difficult to treat. The family is at once the seat of the greatest liberty, and the home and breeding-ground of the greatest tyranny. The family is supposed to be under the holy protection of the divine principle of love, but if that principle is not a possession of the family, there is no protection whatever from most inhuman practices, but instead a license to the cultivation of most discordant passions. It is in the family that mollygrubs are grown and tolerated. It is in the family that one cannot get rid of them by running away, for the family, like the poor, you have with you always. And who would have it otherwise? The whole tendency of civilization is to appreciate the family more and more, and to cultivate respect for the family model as the basis of good government. But it is the very security of the natural, and therefore indissoluble, bonds that gives the selfishly inclined opportunity to practice the misery-habit without fear of being thrown out, left behind, cremated or otherwise gotten rid of, as dead and disagreeable matter is usually treated, in civilized communities. The symptoms of the misery-habit, or martyr-habit, are easy to detect, for while they may be cultivated and laboriously practiced in private, they are intended to be seen, and are displayed at times when they are calculated to be most conspicuous. The victim of the martyr-habit is usually an industrious person. He, or possibly she, will perform any amount of necessary, and even unnecessary, manual labor, in order to exhibit martyr-like fatigue; is always hanging behind in order to be slighted; condemns attentions honestly intended as perfunctory politeness; interprets praise as being patronage; finds any part of a chicken served him at the family table the worst piece, and at the same time assures the carver that he has been unduly partial or over-generous--but, with a tone of voice or an expression of countenance that belies the utterance. A common phrase of the afflicted martyrite is, "Don't mind me," and hysterics is the favorite amusement, while pain and trouble are the chief stock in trade. And is there a remedy? Yes. If Christianity were to be measured by the optimism of the Master, if the gauge of optimism prescribed by the Master were to be used to measure professing Christians for the name; if cause and effect were to be placed in their true relation to each other, and the ills we cultivate were to be classed as self-imposed causes and not effects; and if the unnecessary and unprofitable were to be ranked as not-respectable; the misery-habit or martyr-habit would cease to be fashionable, mollygrubs would disappear, and the principal breeding-ground of pessimism--the family--would be purified, as becoming to its holy office. THOU SHALT NOT STRIKE A WOMAN. If a queer sort of human being, dressed in a costume we had never seen before, and hailing from some island we had never heard of, were to land on our shores and ask our protection and the privilege of teaching the religion of his people; if he were to learn our language sufficiently to convey his ideas to us; if he were to have printed the formulas of his religion, and, among them, his deity's commandments to men; if the first of these commandments were to read, "Thou shalt not strike a woman," what would we say to such a commandment? and what would we think of a people who found it necessary to have such a formula? Our question would naturally be, "Do the people of your country _ever_ strike women?" In our particular state of chivalric civilization, striking women is one of the things so entirely out of the question that we do not consider it even a possibility, except in cases of insanity or of drunkenness, where the brute of the moment is not responsible for his action. The very fact of its being an impossible, and therefore unmentionable, crime is the strongest suggestion against it. If "Thou shalt not strike a woman" were listed in the category of commandments, and were constantly repeated as something hard to resist, and hence commanded against, I believe the crime would become common in circles where it is not thought of as possible now. The best thing to do with a condemned thing is to cover it up, seal it up, and relegate it to the custody of the awful, unwritten law of unanimous disapproval. It is said that when the Jesuit fathers went to Japan at the end of the sixteenth century they were warmly welcomed, and not only were permitted but invited to teach their religion. One of the first things they did was to have the ten commandments of the old Mosaic law printed in Japanese, in the form of what we call a tract, and distributed among the people. Reading was then, as now, a common accomplishment with the Japanese, and they were interested in the tract. They did not quite understand its purport, however, and one of their number was delegated to ask for an explanation. Japan is the land, above all others, where poetry and flowers and idealism and art and other refinements are cherished and appreciated. Poetry, in Japan, is sometimes so idealistic that it is somewhat vague to any but the poet. It is the custom, therefore, to consider that anything not quite comprehensible must be poetry; and not understanding the tract of the fathers, the Japanese naturally thought it to be a specimen of Portuguese poetry. Approaching one of the fathers, the spokesman of the people bowed with accustomed politeness and said: "I trust you will pardon the wretched ignorance and dullness of my humble self, but the great interest of my companions, as well of myself, in your poem, impels us to ask you to interpret to us the great depth of its beauteous crystalline sweetness, in order that we may enjoy it as it is worthy of being enjoyed." The father was shocked to hear his sacred commandments classed as worldly poetry, and, drawing himself up to the full impressiveness of holy indignation, replied, "That is not poetry; that is what our God commands that we _must not_ do." "Sayo de go zarimasu, gomen na sai," answered the spokesman in the polite idiom of his country; "but--_do the people of your country ever do these things?_" Whether the Japanese are, or were three hundred years ago, as exempt from evil as the enquiry about the ten commandments would imply, matters not. The rebuke was well merited and taught a great, good lesson. We are the sum of our impressions, and the suggestions we receive from experience are the source of our impressions. Some suggestions are so respected that they make deep impressions, notably the suggestions given us by our parents at our most impressionable age; but all suggestions have some weight, and to such purpose that a thing we know to be untrue becomes a reality to us by constant repetition, as attested by the common expression, "He has told that story so many times that he has come to believe it himself." There is scarcely any difference of opinion about the justice of the ten commandments; but the constant repetition of "_you must not_" is like shaking a red rag before a wild bull, to many self-assertive children; whereas, if the things to be commanded against were understood to be _impossible_, and therefore _unmentionable_, the commandments would come to fit crimes that had become as much out of date to us now as is the crime of striking women. We have constant evidence of the fact that beliefs, or, rather, habits-of-belief, follow persistent assertion, and that character is largely molded by existing formulas as well as other influences of our environment. Without desire to criticise the formulas of any creeds, except in the way of counter-suggestion, I would ask, "What would be the probable effect of teaching the constant repetition of the eleventh commandment in place of the older ten?--'A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another.'" It is impossible to love and to hate at the same time. It is impossible to obey the eleventh commandment and disobey any of the ten at the same time. Is it not better practice of suggestion, in order to form habit-of-thought, to repeat the eleventh commandment eleven times, than to repeat each of the ten once and the eleventh only once? It is true that the easy way to attain good is to _cease to have evil_, but, it is a poor way to cease to have evil to nurse it in the memory as a thing _difficult not to have_. If there is to be repetition of anything, it is better that it should be of such suggestions as "Appreciation" and "Love." The mind is as amenable to the force of habit as are any of the physical members of the body. The soul is much more amenable to suggestion than either, for it is much more impressionable. If you were teaching a child to play the piano, would you have him run all the scales, or, rather, combinations of notes that do not form scales, that are to be avoided in music, in order to teach him the habit of _not_ playing them? Would it be good teaching to have him habituate his fingers to the sequence of false scales as well as to the sequence of true scales? May not the constant repetition of the commandments that refer to lewd practices suggest thoughts about lewdness that never would come to young minds by other means, and therefore taint pure thought, in brutal fashion, by vile suggestion? THE POINT-OF-VIEW. Suppose two men of equal physical strength were to start in a thousand-mile bicycle race. Suppose one of the men were to greet the passing of each mile-post in this wise: "Only nine hundred and ninety-nine miles more; only nine hundred and ninety miles more," or whatever the distance covered might be at the time. Suppose the other were to greet the same mile-posts otherwise, as "only one mile;" or, "hang it, only ten miles." Which racer would win? In effect, one of the men would be going down hill and the other would be going up hill, and just that difference of approach would win the race for the person who was rolling down from one thousand miles to one mile, from the person who was struggling along the upward course from one mile to a thousand miles. Suppose two men were to each feel a pain in the joint of his big toe. Suppose one of the attacked ones were to greet the pain as follows: "Well! I suppose that means the gout, and I am to be afflicted for the balance of my life with that horrible disease. What have I done to deserve such a fate? I suppose some of my ancestors are responsible for this, but I will have to suffer for it all the same." Suppose the other victim were to greet the same symptom in himself differently, as follows: "Hello, old fellow, what does all this mean?--too much rich food, too much rich wine, too much of everything that is good to the taste and bad for the stomach. Well, I might have expected it. Am ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Pain, for having warned me so promptly; I'll take the hint and correct the error before the trouble gets seated. Keep me well posted, Mr. Pain. If the disorder does not disappear, please keep on prodding me so that I will know if I am doing the right thing or the wrong thing towards it." Which of these men would recover more quickly, and which of them would suffer more discomfort? There are always different points-of-view and different attitudes towards every problem of life. The different points-of-view are always in competition, and, other conditions being equal, winning or losing is a question of attitude. The attitude that is directed by appreciation, gratitude, hope, trust, or any of the attributes of Forethought, will always win, as against the attitude that is handicapped by any shade of Fearthought. Life may be filled with disappointments or with successes merely by the choice of point-of-view, the pessimistic point-of-view leading from disappointment to disappointment, and the optimistic point of view leading to a succession of successes. As a man thinks, so does he act, and so does the world help him to act. Evolution never places obstacles in the _right_ road. A seeming obstacle may be but a hurdle, the clearing of which may win a prize in the life race. Some one has said that the supreme obstacle in life is surmounted by aid of the progressively difficult smaller obstacles that are overcome with increasing ease, and which, if their beneficent uses are known, become only hurdles instead of obstructions. "Set 'em up again; they are all down but nine," said, in the spirit of hopeful determination, has won games for many contestants. It is the point-of-view that determines whether an obstacle is a hurdle or an obstruction, or whether the obstruction, if it be such, is in the _wrong_ road or not. If a traveler on life's road starts with an optimistic point-of-view he will enjoy obstacles as hurdles, or he will greet obstructions with pleasure, as being Providentially placed in the _wrong_ road. In any case he will be happy about it, and his happiness will be the best possible stimulant in aiding him to clear hurdles or to seek new paths to pleasant places. The optimistic and pessimistic points-of-view are the means by which the concordant and discordant notes in life are sounded. The merit or demerit of things lies less within the things themselves, as far as the observer is concerned, than in his ability to accept them complacently, if inevitable, and to mould or to shape them to profitable and agreeable uses, rather than to suffer them as unprofitable and disagreeable. For example, it is profitable to look upon all persons and upon all experiences as teachers, but to reserve the superiority of choosing to be guided by them or warned by them according as the quality of the teaching is good or bad. There are proverbs in all languages that teach the preference of the optimistic point-of-view, but they will avail little as long as fearthought is tolerated as a necessary and respectable thing. Experience endorses the proverbs and discredits the necessity and respectability of fearthought. The Japanese have a proverb, born of the optimistic point-of-view, that is very useful to them, inasmuch as the light wood-construction of their houses invites frequent fires and sweeping losses in consequence. After a fire it is fashionable in Japan for sufferers to greet each other in sympathy with the truism, always accompanied by a smile, "Not much trouble to move," and then they all pitch in to assist as much as possible to rehabilitate each other through kind attentions that really make the fires but hot-bed nurseries of altruistic sympathy, in which there is more joy than in the greatest accumulation of possessions. After the war--the recent sectional dispute, whose theater of destruction was in the Southern States of America--many of the families of the ante-bellum slave aristocracy were mainly reduced in possessions, and deprived of some of the means of ostentation, and in rare instances, of the necessary means of comfort; but they had been defeated in their Cause, and many of them settled into a state of depression that was more cruel to them than all the reverses of the war. Nature continued to be as kind, the seasons smiled on the crops with unvarying regularity, and the physical scars of war were soon healed and overgrown, but the disappointed ones heeded not the return of material prosperity. They focused their point-of-view upon the past, and refused to see the smiles and the warmth of the present and the promise of the future. Property aristocracy always creates a false pride, in which the point-of-view is distorted. It will undoubtedly be the same with the name-proud Greeks as it was with the property-proud Southrons, and bespeaks little for the respectability of a pride that afflicts its victims more seriously than the destruction of property. It is a meritorious pride that rises superior to defeat, and after saying "Thy Will Be Done" adds, "Teach Thou Me Appreciation," and begins the pursuit of peace anew with the point of view directed by optimism and not by pessimism. I have seen whole families, suffering from self-imposed humiliation and depression, leap into new life, new growth, and new happiness at a change of the point-of-view. The Southerners are, above all other Americans, chivalrous and loyally American in their natures. They are also generally religious, and cling to the teachings of their parents. In focusing their point-of-view upon the past, and, nursing the sting of defeat, they have thought that they were conserving filial regard, chivalry and religion, and they have held to the distorted point-of-view with loyal purpose. A change of the point-of-view, rising superior to disappointment, more nearly satisfied filial pride, while Christian optimism and gratitude more nearly became the profession of religion than the fault-finding dictated by the antiquated point-of-view. Finding fault with the happenings of the past is as much blasphemy as any other disapproval of the Almighty, and yet blasphemy is regarded as the wickedest of sins in religious estimation; and, at the same time, loading up with a burden of depression and self-humiliation is the most unprofitable form of self-abuse known to economics. It is better to have an intelligent and optimistic command of the point-of-view and hold title to nothing, than to have possessions valued at millions, and not count this as the richest possession of them all. If anything seem to be wrong with you, first examine the point-of-view. If you do this conscientiously, you will probably find the fault therein and seek a remedy by _changing the point-of-view_. DON'T BE A SEWER. A sewer is a channel for the conveyance of disagreeable matter. Any person who receives and carries mean report or suspicion of his neighbor is therefore a human sewer. A good sewer is a good thing. It receives disagreeable matter and carries it along, hidden from sight and away from the other senses, to some remote place, and discharges it there. A leaky sewer is an abomination. Human sewers usually leak. They take delight in letting out the disagreeable matter they are carrying, at every street corner, in every parlor, and in the midst of the multitude, wherever they may chance to be. The characteristic of the human sewer is that it is a leaky sewer. By its leaks it is known. Human sewers themselves generally create much of their sewage. I once had a friend, an otherwise good fellow, who had acquired the habit of collecting and distributing social sewage. He was not amenable to logical suggestion against the habit. He held the idea that a spade should be called a spade, and that if disagreeable things existed, honesty required that they should be discussed. One day, when my friend was carrying an unusually heavy load of sewage, and was distributing it freely, this thought came into my mind, and I gave it utterance. "You remind me of a sewer," said I. There might have been a serious impairment of our friendship as the result of my utterance, for my friend is full of so-called "spirit," had I not immediately followed my offensive remark by an apology, and a brotherly explanation somewhat in the vein as above. The good effect of the comparison on my friend is my excuse for introducing it here. What logic and persuasion had not been able to accomplish, offensive comparison accomplished. My friend is too self-respecting to allow himself to be in any way related to a leaky sewer, and has reformed beautifully. A short time since, in speaking of the incident, he acknowledged its effectiveness by saying, "Every time I think of anything mean I fancy I can smell it." CALL SUSPICION A LIAR. It is an excellent rule to follow to call Suspicion a liar five times before basing judgment upon its testimony. If you will take the trouble to investigate the average accuracy of your suspicions, you will note that they are wrong in so many cases that they are not a safe guide, and are generally unjust accusers. While the person who harbors the suspicion is the worst sufferer in the end, when the accusations have been proved to be groundless, there is always a possibility of injustice, that, falling on servants or others holding inferior positions, is exceedingly cruel. How often, in the household or in the hotel apartment, is a carelessly mislaid ring the cause of great unhappiness to both mistress and maid, because of the ready mischief of Fearthought and its attendant imp, Suspicion. It is an axiom of the detective service, that untrained suspicion generally takes the wrong scent, and that it usually saves time to look in some other direction for the culprit, than in that pointed out by the accuser. The elimination of the seeds of Fearthought from the mind, the possibility of which is the contention of my theory, will carry with it suspicion, and relieve one of endless chance of doing and suffering injustice, but if emancipation should, unfortunately, not have been accomplished, it is an excellent rule to follow, to meet Suspicion with suspicion, and call it "liar"! five times, before making accusation on its testimony. I CAN'T _NOT_ DO IT. A person more frequently lies when he says "I can't" than when he says "I can." There are, to be sure, more things that one cannot do than there are that he can do, because the ability of the strongest and most skillful is comparatively limited; but the person who is in the habit of saying "I can't" usually says it about the wrong thing or at the wrong time. Whenever a person says that he cannot do a thing that God has made it possible for him to do, and which he knows to be possible, he is not only a liar, but also a blasphemer. If one is asked to climb a tree or lift a very heavy weight, there may be reason for saying "I can't," because of lack of ability, strength or practice. For the same reason, difficult "runs" on a piano, perilous feats of balancing or turning in gymnastics, and even a great many simple things that are easy to the accustomed, may be impossible to the unaccustomed without certain practice, and with reference to them it is reasonable to say, "I can't." If, however, one is asked _not_ to climb a tree, or _not_ to lift a weight, or _not_ to perform a "run" on a piano, there is no excuse for saying, "I cannot _not_ do it," for it is as illogical as it is ungrammatical, and as false as any other lie. Applied to mental accomplishment, it is even more illogical and false, because thought is more pliable than muscle. Not being evil is simply _not being evil_, and whoever says, "I cannot _not_ be bad," is a liar. When he is asleep he proves the lie. There are habits-of-desire which seem attractive to perverted taste, that may need a strong counter-suggestion to correct, but there is no habit-of-desire but what can easily be corrected by the right counter-suggestion. For instance, drinking whisky habitually is recognized to be a bad habit of perverted desire, but one habitual drunkard I know of abjured whisky for life on account of having discovered a dead fly in his glass. Sometimes it requires a mania to cure a mania. Dr. H. Holbrook Curtis, the eminent throat-specialist of New York, who has in his care, during grand opera season, millions of dollars' worth of voices, and who makes special study of the mental condition of his patients, once said to me, "The only cure that I know of for dipsomania is religio-mania." This same assertion is frequently made in quite a different way, but to the same effect. Dr. Curtis did not mean by religio-mania religious _appreciation_; neither did he mean by dipsomania, temperate use of stimulants. He referred to the intemperate emotion and the morbid taste. The practice of drinking unduly because of the social temptation of it may be cured by logical suggestion, but a mania may be amenable only to a mania. There is, however, no bad habit but that can be corrected by _some_ means, and as there is some remedy for every separate phase of evil, it should be considered not respectable to say, "I cannot _not_ do"; and, as measure of respectability is the highest social desideratum in the present age, the best weapon to be used against the toleration of evil in one's self or in others is a general protest against it on the score of its being unnecessary and not-respectable. In my experiments I have used all sorts of means of suggestion with which to reach perverse habits of evil thought. As stated elsewhere, offensive comparisons and ridicule are more frequently effective than reason or logic, and, as such, are often necessary, in the same way that offensive medicines are sometimes effective in removing indigestible matter from the stomach,--for example, ipecac. I had a friend who was in the habit of saying "I can't" to almost everything. The habit-of-opposition was so strong that it was the first to assert itself on every occasion. The attitude of opposition was strengthened by the perverse idea that brutal frankness is an expression of honesty, and hence reference to his honesty or dishonesty was a tender point of etiquette with my friend. To touch this tender spot, and administer the strong suggestion--medicine--necessary in the case, I hit upon this expedient: Whenever my friend said "I can't" to a proposition which it did not fit, I immediately ejaculated "Liar!" At first there was some danger attending my experiment, but I took the precaution to be out of reach, and the fact that my intention was good assured me ultimate pardon. At first my offensive criticism was frequently necessary, but it became less and less so, till at last the cure is so complete that the once favorite expression, "I can't," is as disagreeable to my friend, as must have been the dead fly in the glass of the drunkard previously mentioned, that was the means of curing him of a deeply rooted habit. A MILLION TO ONE ON THE UNEXPECTED. One evening, at a meeting of the "Ganglionics," in the city of New Orleans, I asked the president of the club, Dr. William Benjamin Smith, the question, "Why is it that the unexpected generally happens?" His reply, which induced the caption to this chapter, was, "Because the expected is only one thing, while the unexpected may be a million things." This is really, as well as figuratively, true, and, being true, what idiots are we to waste our time and paralyze our energies, by thinking fearthought into the future, on a million-to-one chance of its hitting the mark. There is one bull's-eye that we are sure to hit if we aim at it constantly and long enough. Death is the one universal bull's-eye that figures in every life. At the same time that we are sure of hitting it, we know by the experience of others that we do not realize death when it actually comes, for Nature kindly administers an anÃ¦sthetic just before death, and sometimes long before. Then why should we fear even death? Persons who have been at the open door of the unexplored state called death say that a delightful feeling of rest comes over the emigrant, and that entry into the next state is like being in a beautiful dream. If this be so, there is also nothing disagreeable in death--only in the fearthought about it--and hence the one only bull's-eye we have been sure of hitting--the cause of fear of death--does not exist, except in our hopes or our fears. Many persons who are in the habit of apprehending cause for fearthought about the future, and who spend much of their time in worry, would not like to be put down in the category of false prophets, and yet their apprehension must be false in the ratio of chances of a million to one. Thought about chance, as related to forethought, and from the point-of-view of the speculator or gambler, suggests the absurdity of wasting any good coin--calm and happiness--by "laying it on"--betting on--fear. The chances against having "coppered" the right fear are not only _not even_, but are ten to one against--an hundred to one against--or more--never less. Even if you should win by correctly guessing a fear, you would get back again none of the happiness that you had sacrificed--would not even get your "stake" back. As a matter of actual experience, the following incident is a good example: A young man employed in a publishing house, where the proprietor was afflicted with the fuss-and-fret-habit, contracted the disease, and unconsciously became a victim to its toils. Robust good health began to give way to languor that induced dyspepsia and other contingent disorders, until suicide stared the young man in the face and haunted his dreams. One day some one whispered a suspicion in the young employee's ear that was directed at worry and anger as the causes of his ill-health and unhappiness and the thought led his systematic habits-of-business to suggest "keeping tab" on at least one of the suspects, to see if it were the liar and thief, as charged. Each day, when worry made its predictions, record of them was carefully kept, and at the end of the month the reports were checked up by results. _Only three per cent. of the predictions were even remotely realized!_ The old proprietor of the business, through whom the contagious poison started, is dead, and the happy young menticulturist owns the business, which has become very successful by influence of the sunny optimism of its new owner, which attracts trade unconsciously to it. LOVE CANNOT BE QUALIFIED. The merit of loving is in the act, and should not--cannot--be qualified by the merit or demerit of the object under consideration. There may be more effort required, perhaps, in loving something that seems to us unlovely, but no more virtue in so doing, as loving, like virtue, is its own reward. God-love does not discriminate. It is, therefore, ungodly to discriminate. In the performance of the Man-Nature partnership-function of "divine selection" in the harmonizing of things that are antagonistic to each other and to Man--selecting for survival those things that are not deterrent to the harmonious growth and happiness of Man--if selection is to be made, it should be done in the spirit of calm justice, and not in the spirit of hate, for, as love blesses the lover, so does hate react upon the hater. We cannot afford _not to love_. There are animals and insects that seem to us to be undesirable and prejudicial to the harmony we are seeking to secure, that may serve most excellent purposes in relation to existing conditions. They are frequently a warning against unfavorable conditions, in the same way that pain is a warning against diseased conditions in the body. In the same way, crime is a warning against social or political conditions which invite or compel crime, and remedy should be sought in change of the conditions in preference to the punishment of the crime. I believe that a change of our point-of-view--our attitude towards causes and effects--would find punishment generally unnecessary, and, as such, brutal. There is, then, a double reason why we should hate nothing. In the first place, it is probable that we are hating the wrong thing, and thereby are unjust, and we are certainly doing injury to ourselves by nursing the feeling of hatred. Disapproval--calm disapproval--is a better judge in the exercise of "divine selection" than angry antagonism. Pity, as well as love, is a divine attribute, but hate is an attribute of the devil. Pity suggests change of conditions producing inharmonious results. Hate suggests punishment of the victim of the inharmony. In its relation to personal comfort, the practice of not permitting hate, nor annoyance, nor irritation, nor repulsion to possess one's feelings, will bring greatest good results. Take the mosquito pest, for instance: One who begins to feel irritation at the sound made by the wings of the insect, is already creating within himself a condition favorable to inflammation from the effects of the bite. Many who suffer by mosquitos admit that the buzz is worse, to them, than the bite, which is proof of a purely mental and unnecessary affliction. There was a time in my boyhood when mosquitos poisoned and annoyed me beyond endurance. Each bite represented a great itching welt, and the buzzing was full of terror in consequence, or, more likely, in the light of present knowledge, the buzzing inspired fearthought or dread, and the bite was very poisonous in consequence. At present, mosquito bites are not poisonous to me, and mosquito sounds are no longer disagreeable. I do not remember when the deliverance came. Possibly the cure came through intimate acquaintance. I have lived in localities where the mosquito thrives all the year round, and in such numbers that he tires his victims into a state of non-resistance, and in the calm of non-resistance, physical and mental irritations cease. This is sometimes called acclimatization, but it proves the contention, whichever way it is interpreted. In the practice of my freedom from what was once a great affliction, I sometimes brave a swarm of mosquitos by sleeping in their presence without drawing the bar. If the mosquitos light on me freely, I find comfort in the evidence of my popularity, and in the fact that I am probably being of service to something, or somebody, by possibly diverting attentions that would not be appreciated in like manner by them. In the morning, when I look in the glass and note the little red spots that the bites have left, but of which I am not otherwise conscious, I consider them as a record of my hospitality, and am proud of them, as the German corps student is proud of the scars on his face, that are a record of equally foolish bravery or exposure, taken out of his university course at Heidelberg or elsewhere. My braving of the mosquitos would certainly be classed as foolish, except as a test of superiority, but the pin-point red spots soon disappear and do no permanent harm. Mosquitos are said to breed in malarial conditions, and for the purpose of absorbing the malaria. Flies do not exist except in conditions of ferment, and are of greatest service in carrying it away. Roaches are splendid scavengers, and are a result, and not a cause, of unclean conditions. Our warfare should be waged against unclean and inharmonious conditions, and not against the purifiers and harmonizers of the conditions. It is not a difficult matter to rid one's self of repulsions if the point-of-view is changed. I presume that the most generally detested creature that is not altogether deadly in its venom is the bedbug. The bedbug is more of a tradition than a fact, and many of those who shudder at mention of him have never seen one of his kind. I am sure that none of his enemies have much if, any, acquaintance with him, as to the color of his eyes, his habits of thrift, his amiability in his family and other qualities that serve to make a creature attractive and respectable within his sphere. The truth about this much despised creature is that he is useful as a warning against unclean conditions, and his odor and his bite are his notes of warning. Instead of filling one's self with a feeling of repulsion or anger or any other emotion that affects the free circulation of the blood, and relaxes and disorders the tissues of the body, at sight or mention of a bedbug, the discovery should elicit the expression, "Thank you for the information." If it should happen in one's own house, no hidden crack nor corner should escape an overhauling to get rid of the cause of the bedbug's warning; or, if it should happen in a hotel, there should be a change of hotel. Mention is made of mosquitos and roaches and bedbugs in this connection, not for the purpose of degrading the feeling of love by applying it to things that are disagreeable, no matter what their mission of usefulness, but to put stress upon the fact that one cannot afford to hate anything. It is especially useful, in seeking to change the point-of-view, to consider the greatest of causes of repulsion in order to more easily reach the lesser causes, for the lesser fade of themselves by the removal of the greater. If you can learn not to hate a bedbug, to thank a roach for informing you of unclean conditions and to endure mosquitos, you are pretty sure to modify all prejudices by thus doing. LAST SOMETIMES FIRST. It is my own habit to read the last chapter of a book first and if the summary of its contentions and deductions, which are sure to be found in the closing chapter, interest me, I go carefully through the book with the author to learn how he has reached his conclusions. I find, upon enquiry, that many others do the same. This is made necessary because of the vast number of books that are published and the impossibility of learning by other than the easiest means more than a small proportion of the ideas that are given out each year. There are published, yearly, in English, twenty to thirty thousand volumes of new matter, or new arrangements or new editions of old matter, so that to read carefully only a catalogue of them would be a considerable task for the ordinary reader. This being the closing chapter of my book, and being especially possessed of my subject and desirous of being understood, I may be pardoned for offering a brief syllabus of my effort as a benediction. I have endeavored to show that fearthought is the arch-enemy of civilized man. Through the fears of his progenitors, it is the cause of the weaknesses he inherits; and through his own permission, it is also the cause of his personally acquired ill health, ill success, discontent and unhappiness. Fearthought, however, can be eradicated from the habit-of-thought of even the most timid persons, who are cursed by the hereditary affliction of fear, or by their own weak habit-of-thought, by persistent counter-suggestion, as soon as they are convinced of the possibility of freedom, and have thereby, learned the profitable point-of-view regarding it. I have shown that forethought becomes strong-thought as soon as fearthought, or weak-thought, is separated from it; that the condition of harmony which is created by the eradication of fearthought, is the normal condition in civilized nature; that growth is immediate and strong within the harmonic atmosphere thus created; that happiness is the certain result; and that fearthought and its various expressions are the basic deterrents to growth and happiness in man. That God, in the process of Evolution, has developed Man to the point where he executes the Higher Law of Harmony through the exercise of Divine Selection in modifying the brute law of "the survival of the fittest" (or, strongest), and thereby proves the "superiority of mind over matter." That God has created a partnership between Growth and Man, which is properly distinguished as the Man-Nature partnership. That the functions of the partners are clearly defined by rigid limitations; Nature doing all the growing without harmonizing or cultivating anything; while Man performs all of the harmonizing or cultivating, but none of the growing. That Man's only method of harmonizing or cultivating is through learning and removing the deterrents to growth. That in watering plants, Man removes the deterrent, drouth. That in building hot-houses, Man removes the deterrent, cold. That in oiling machinery, Man removes the deterrent, friction. That in refusing to be the bondman of fearthought and anger and worry, Man escapes the only deterrents within himself, to harmony, health, growth and happiness. And, that in cultivating Appreciation all of the possibilities of Happiness are opened to him. I have tried to show that one of the great deterrents to growth and the acquisition of happiness is nursed by focussing the point-of-view on worn-out traditions, instead of on the present accomplishments and acceleration of progress in which all of the elements of happiness rest. That while happiness is possible to all under present conditions, indications point to the possibility, within the assured possession of surplus wealth-of-means, that Altruism may soon "have an inning," during which conditions will be so rearranged that dire poverty and unhappiness will be impossible to any but the perverse. That normal, civilized human nature is _good_ nature, and that if conditions are intelligently arranged most men will eagerly mold themselves into good men to fit the conditions. That the Material Age has become so rich that it can now afford leisure to give attention to the Higher Self, and in so doing will soon refuse to permit any one born under the prejudices and the protection of the Nation--the social family--to be ignorant nor idle nor poor; that the era of the three great A's--Appreciation, Attraction and Altruism--is upon us, and that it will inaugurate the Age of the Higher Self, wherein Man will realize that he is not simply the highest among animals, but is endowed with divine possibilities, and cannot longer be respectable with only animal characteristics. That the resetting of the gauge of respectability rendered necessary by the Awakening, and the new conditions that must grow out of it, will be above the toleration of anything that is unaltruistic, as surely as the gauge of the present is above the toleration of petty thieving and convicted perjury. There is not only hope, but there _is assurance_, of harmonic conditions in the signs of the times and in the constantly increasing acceleration of progress. A BEGINNING AND NOT AN END. It is argued that the Stoics and other philosophers of ancient Greece attained the perfection of self-control, and successfully suppressed, and even eliminated, all of the passions and desires which so commonly dominate man, and attained thereby a state of happiness that is quite unknown in the present times of ostentation and ambition; but that the result was a state of lethargic indifference, that became more fatal to growth and progress in the end than any known condition of tumult and competition in the history of the race. This is undoubtedly a just arraignment of the result of the Grecian philosophical teachings but, at the same time, the reason for so unhappy a result is not difficult to find. The Greeks cultivated self-control and the harmonic conditions growing out of it as an end, and not as a preparatory means to growth. They prepared a weedless and wormless soil within the mind, but in it planted poppies, breathed of their poisonous perfume, and slept the sleep of indifference, which leads to the sleep called death. Since the time of the Stoics, the world has been told by the God-Man Jesus of Nazareth, that living means growing, that true happiness is gained only through works in the service of something, that the necessary attribute of perfect manhood is spontaneous altruism, and that there is no other road towards growth, refinement, spirituality and happiness than along the way made easy by consistent altruism. During the time that has passed since the power and glory of Hellas began to wane, mankind has had experience with the forces of nature and the efficacy of machinery to teach the great universal law of compensation, which is also the law of happiness. This great law prescribes that there shall be no balance without support or motion, no poise without alertness, no life without growth, and no happiness without service. Learning a wise lesson from the law of compensation, man has come to appreciate the value of a wormless and weedless soil, but he has learned to plant in it trees that bear altruistic fruit, instead of the poppy of sloth and indifference, which is now classed as a poisonous weed; he has learned to clean and polish the journals of his engines and has invented balance wheels to regulate, and ball bearings to accelerate, their power; but not for the purpose of idleness. The decadence of Greek manhood was not the result of culture, but the result of the uses to which it was put, and hence we should not condemn culture, nor cultivate friction, as an antidote for decadence, because Greek civilization did not defend itself against assault and decay, but, rather, let us emulate the good they achieved, and cultivate the power they attained, and use them as _a beginning and not as an end_. APPENDICES. APPENDIX A. THE INFLUENCE OF FEAR IN DISEASE. BY DR. WM. H. HOLCOMB. Our sanitarians are doing a good work in exploring the physical causes of disease, and endeavoring to protect the individual and the public health. But there is a higher and larger sphere of causes which they have seldom penetrated, and of whose existence even many of them seem to be ignorant. I allude to the extraordinary influence of affection and thought, or of emotion and ideas, in the causation and prevention of disease. The body is a mirror, in which all the states of the soul are reflected. We are familiar with the wonderful effects of the will, the passions, the emotions, of the imagination, sympathy, hope, fear, faith, and confident expectation upon the physical system. We are accustomed to regard the phenomena as illustrations of the fact that the soul can, under certain circumstances, act powerfully upon the body, with the tacit assumption, however, as a general rule, that the body executes all the functions by chemical or mechanical law, without the necessary intervention of any mental influences whatever. This is the great illusion of the materialist. Imagination, intellect, will, emotion, faith, hope, expectation, etc., are only states or modes of the soul's own life, and they are in perpetual activity, whether we are conscious of it or not. The operations of the soul of which we are not conscious, are almost infinite in comparison with the very small portion of them which comes at any moment within the range of our external consciousness. The soul organizes its own body in the womb of the mother, holds all its parts together in due order and functional activity during life, and when he quits it at death, its material tenement falls into dissolution. The mind of man is constantly at work, silently pervading every tissue of his body by its vital influence, repeating itself in every function, throbbing in the heart, breathing in the lungs, reflecting itself in the blood, weaving its own form into every act of nutrition, realizing its own life in every sensation, and working its own will in every motion. The power of the mind over the body indeed! There is no power in the body, but in the mind, for the body is the mind, translated into flesh and blood. When a limb is broken--the bones shattered, the flesh torn, the blood-vessels severed, the nerves lacerated, what can the surgeon or doctor do to repair the injury? A little outside mechanical work. He ligates, he stitches, he plasters, he fixes the parts in apparatus so they will remain motionless in the natural position. He can do no more. The soul which creates the body and keeps it in health, repairs it when injured. By her own occult forces she regulates the movement of the blood and development of nerve power, the chemical decomposition and re-combination, going on in every tissue, according to ideas and models implanted upon her by the Divine Mind, the Over-Soul of the universe. The old writers call this wonderful power the _vis medicatrix naturi_, the curative power of nature. Swedenborg, for whom nature has no powers underived from spiritual sources, teaches that this vital power is the soul itself. His view that the soul itself acts unconsciously to our perceptions in the development and conservation of the body is advocated by Morell in his "Elements of Psychology," and is highly spoken of by Professor William B. Carpenter. When we have constructed a true psychological pathology, we shall understand clearly why and how it is that fear can turn the hair gray in a single night; that a mother's milk can be poisoned by a moment of terror; that the heart may be paralyzed by a sudden joy or sorrow; that dyspepsia, paralysis, and many other diseases are produced by mental worry and fret and the brain-fag of overwork and anxiety. Yea, we will understand that away back of all physical causation, the roots of our disease originate in the spiritual conditions of the race, in our false religions, our false philosophies, our false way of thinking, our false relations to God and each other. The most extensive of all the morbid mental conditions which reflect themselves so disastrously on the human system, is the state of fear. It has many degrees or gradations, from the state of extreme alarm, fright, or terror, down to the slightest shade of apprehension of impending evil. But all along the line it is the same thing--a paralyzing impression upon the centers of life which can produce, through the agency of the nervous system, a vast variety of morbid symptoms in every tissue of the body. We have very seldom reflected upon the fact that fear runs like a baleful thread through the whole web of our life from beginning to end. We are born into the atmosphere of fear and dread, and the mother who bore us had lived in the same atmosphere for weeks and months before we were born. We are surrounded in infancy and childhood by clouds of fear and apprehension on the part of our parents, nurses, and friends. As we advance in life we become, instinctively or by experience, afraid of almost everything. We are afraid of our parents, afraid of our teachers, afraid of our playmates, afraid of ghosts, afraid of rules and regulations and punishments, afraid of the doctor, the dentist, the surgeon. Our adult life is a state of chronic anxiety, which is fear in a milder form. We are afraid of failure in business, afraid of disappointments and mistakes, afraid of enemies, open or concealed; afraid of poverty, afraid of public opinion, afraid of accidents, of sickness, of death, and unhappiness after death. Man is like a haunted animal from the cradle to the grave, the victim of real or imaginary fears, not only his own, but those reflected upon him from the superstitions, self-deceptions, sensory illusions, false beliefs and concrete errors of the whole human race, past and present. If fear produces disease, acute or chronic, suddenly or gradually, through the correlations existing between the spirit and the body, how can there be a genuinely and perfectly healthy man or woman in the world? There is none. That fear does produce all kinds of disease, has been frequently observed and fully substantiated by the medical profession. Dr. Tuke, in his admirable book, "Influence of the Mind upon the Body," cites well authenticated instances of the following diseases as having been produced by fear or fright: Insanity, idiocy, paralysis of various muscles and organs, profuse perspirations, cholerina, jaundice, turning of the hair gray in a short time, baldness, sudden decay of the teeth, nervous shock followed by fatal anÃ¦mia, uterine troubles, malformation of embryo through the mother, and even skin disease--erysipelas, eczema, and impetigo. We observe in this list that fear not only affects the mind and the nervous and muscular tissues, but the molecular chemical transformations of the organic network, even to the skin, the hair, and the teeth. This might be expected of a passion which disturbs the whole mind, which is represented or externalized in the whole body. Dr. Tuke reiterates the fact which has been so frequently observed, that epidemics owe a great deal of their rapid extension and violence to the panic of fear which exists among the people. When yellow fever, cholera, smallpox, diphtheria, and other malignant diseases obtain a footing in a community, hundreds and thousands of people fall victims to their own mental conditions, which invite the attack and insure its fatality. When the disease was new and strange, as the yellow fever was to the interior in its visitation in 1878, when the doctors were not familiar with it, the nurses not trained to it, the people, having no confidence in its management, lost hope, their fears became excessive, and consequent mortality was frightful. How does fear operate upon the body to produce sickness? By paralyzing the nerve centres, especially those of the vasomotor nerves, thus producing not only muscular relaxation, but capillary congestions of all kinds. This condition of the system invites attack, and there is no resilience, or power of resistance. The gates of the citadel have been opened from within, and the enemy may enter at any point. What determines the specific nature of the disease which attacks a person thus prostrated by fear? Men are frequently prostrated by fear in storms or fire or earthquakes or accidents, and no disease results. It is because they have been not thinking and brooding over any special morbid conditions. But in an epidemic, say of yellow fever, the subjects connected with the disease are strongly pictured on the mind. They are talked of, read about, discussed and written about, until the mind is full of images of fever, delirium, black vomit, jaundice, death, funerals, etc. When such is the case, no microbes or bacteria are needed to produce an outburst of yellow fever. The whole mass of horrors already stamped upon the mind is simply reflected and repeated in the body. "As a man thinketh, so is he," said Solomon. Thoughts become things, apprehensions take form and substance, and lo! the disease. In the height of his happiness and prosperity, Job permitted himself to brood in silent fear over the possibility of losses and misfortunes, and he had at last to exclaim, "The thing which I greatly feared has come upon me." Sudden and great fears are not frequent. The fears of every day, the constant apprehensions and anxieties of life, which are really fears of impending evil, prey upon our vitality and lessen our power of resisting, so that any passing disease may be photographed on our minds and seen upon our bodies. Fear is itself a contagious disease, and is sometimes reflected from one to another mind with great rapidity. It needs no speech or sign to propagate it, for by psychological laws we are just beginning to comprehend, it passes from one to another, from the healthy to the sick, from the doctor or the nurse to the patient, from the mother to the child. Thus malignant influences may be cast around us by even our best friends and would-be helpers, under whose baleful shadow, without our even knowing of its existence, we and our children may sicken and die. The summer of 1888 was signalized by a moderately severe epidemic of yellow fever at Jacksonville, Florida, and a very extensive epidemic of fear throughout the Southern states. The latter disease was much more contagious than the former, and much less amenable to treatment. This mental malady visited every little town, village, and railway station, and kept the people in a chill of trepidation for many weeks. This causeless and senseless terror originated many precipitate and unjust measures of self-defense. Under its influence public and private rights were disrespected, and the panic greatly intensified. In a few cases the refugee was driven from the door, the hungry left unfed, the sick unattended. There was exhibited on a small scale, here and there, that same principle of terror which is manifested in a burning theatre, on a sinking ship, or in a stampeded army, when brave men suddenly become cowards, and wise men fools, and merciful men brutes. Truly, something ought to be done for the moral treatment of yellow fever. I will relate an anecdote of Dr. Samuel Cartwright, of Natchez, Mississippi, which furnishes an ideal type for the mental treatment of yellow fever. It was away back in the thirties, and yellow fever was prevailing in New Orleans, and the places above it were in a state of watchful fear. A young Northern teacher, trying to return home, started from Woodville, Mississippi, and arrived at Natchez about midnight in a high fever. Dr. Cartwright was immediately called in. Early in the morning he summoned the officers of the hotel and all the regular boarders into the parlor and made them a little speech. "This young lady," he said, "has yellow fever. It is not contagious. None of you will take it from her; and if you will follow my advice you will save this town from a panic, and a panic is the hotbed of an epidemic. Say nothing about this case. Ignore it absolutely. Let the ladies of the house help nurse her, and take flowers and delicacies to her, and act altogether as if it were some every-day affair, unattended by danger. It will save her life, and perhaps in the long run many others." It was agreed to by all but one person--a woman, who proceeded to quarantine herself in the most remote room of the establishment. The young teacher got well, and no one was sick in the house but the self-quarantined woman, who took yellow fever from fear, but happily recovered. By his great reputation and his strong magnetic power, Dr. Cartwright dissipated the fears of those around him, and prevented an epidemic. For this grand appreciation and successful application of a principle--the power of mind and thought over physical conditions, a power just dawning on the perception of the race--he deserves a nobler monument than any we have accorded to heroes and statesmen. The sanitarians of the present day would think on the contrary that Dr. Cartwright was worthy of condemnation and imprisonment. Dr. Cartwright, however, honestly believed that yellow fever was not a contagious disease. At that time the non-contagionists were numerous, learned, experienced, and respectable. The contagionists, however, finally carried the day in the face of innumerable evidences of non-contagion, which, strangely enough, have now about ceased to exist. Whether they transformed a non-contagious into a contagious disease by repeated and violent asseverations, which played upon and hypnotized the professional and public mind, is a subtle point for psychological investigation, not likely to be made by the present generation of doctors. Can a non-contagious disease become contagious by mental action? The power of fear to modify the currents of the blood and all the secretions, to whiten the hair, to paralyze the nervous system, and even to produce death is well known. Its power to impress organic changes upon the child in the womb through the mother's mind is well established. When yellow fever is reported about and believed to be imminent and contagious, fear, combined with a vivid imagination of the horrors and woes of the pest, can precipitate sickness which will take on the form and color present to the thought, and yellow fever may spread rapidly from person to person, all through the medium of the mind. "Everything," said a great philosopher, "was at first a thought." We see a non-contagious disease in the very process of transformation into a contagious one in the case of pulmonary consumption. It was observed occasionally that one of the married partners who had nursed the other through the disease fell a victim after a while to the same malady. Doctors and people began to suggest contagion. The cases of one attack following the other were noticed more and more, and were reported in the medical journals. It was spoken of, thought of, brooded over. The confirmatory cases were all carefully noted; the failures to infect were all ignored, as they always are by people who are looking for contagion. The germ theory has given a great impetus to the idea of contagion. Dr. Loomis actually classifies tuberculosis among miasmatic contagious diseases. Fear will do the rest. In another generation the occasional fact will be a common fact, and in still another, a fixed fact; and the contagiousness of consumption will be enrolled among the concrete errors of the profession. Such has probably been the genesis of all contagious diseases in the remote past. Fear being recognized as a powerful cause of disease, and a direct and great obstacle to recovery, a wise sanitation will exert itself to prevent or antidote its influences. To eradicate fear is to avert disease, to shorten its duration, diminish its virulence, and promote recovery. How shall we accomplish it? By educating the people up to a higher standard of life. By teaching them a sounder hygiene, a wiser philosophy, a more cheerful theology. By erasing a thousand errors, delusions, and superstitions from their minds, and giving instead the light, the beauty, and the loveliness of truth. There is a mental and moral sanitation ahead of us, which is far more valuable and desirable than all our quarantines, inventions, experimentations, and microscopic search for physical causes. I will draw the picture of a sick room in charge of physicians and nurse, by whom this enlighted sanitation has been ignored or unheeded. It is a chamber of fear, soon, in all probability, to be the chamber of death. The room is darkened, for they are afraid of the light, that emblem of God's wisdom which should shine into all rooms, except when it is disagreeable to the patient. The ventilation is insufficient, for draughts, you must know, are very dangerous. The friends have doleful faces, moist eyes, sad voices, which reveal danger and doubt, and they converse in subdued whispers, which alarm and annoy the patient. The nurse and the doctor sometimes talk of their cases before the sick man, tell how very ill they were, how they suffered, how they got well miraculously, or how they died. The sympathetic visitor regales his hearers, the patient included, with his or her knowledge of similar cases, and their results, the great amount of sickness prevailing, and the success or ill success of this or that doctor. They all agree that it is dangerous to change the patient's linen, dangerous to sponge the body, dangerous to give him cold water; milk is feverish, meat is too strong. A shadow of fear seems to hang over everybody. The pulse is counted, the temperature is taken. Nurse or nearest friend wants to know aloud the report of the watch and the thermometer. The doctor answers aloud, and all look grave. And so it goes on day after day, thoughts and images of pain and sickness and danger and death being impressed and reflected upon the mind of the patient, and the great, sound, glorious spirit within finds it impossible to break through this dense atmosphere of material superstitions, fear, ignorance, and folly, and restore its own body to health and happiness. The true sanitarian will remember in his treatment the tremendous power of words and ideas upon the sick. He will never indicate by his language, his looks, or his conduct that he thinks the patient is very ill. He will cleanse his own mind of morbid fears and apprehensions, and reflect the stimulating light of hope on all around him. The suppression of anxiety, and even sometimes of sympathy, is necessary. His sickness should not be discussed before the patient, or any other case of sickness alluded to. The doctor's opinion of the case should never be asked, and never given within the patient's hearing. Erase, as far as possible, all thoughts of disease, danger, or death. The sick-room should not be darkened and made silent. It should be made cheerful and natural, as if no sickness existed. It should have fresh air, and cool water, and the fragrance of flowers, instead of the odor of drugs. Hope, and not fear, should be the presiding genius of the place. The mind-curers and the Christian Scientists say that almost all acute diseases can be cured without medicine by the simple dissipation of fear from the mind of the patient, of his friends, and of his doctor. Whether this be true or not, it is very certain that when an epidemic is threatened or prevailing, the people who are constantly talking about and discussing the disease, the newspapers which daily report its progress and fatality, and the doctors and nurses who ventilate their experiences, who predict evil, speak ominously and enjoin all sorts of precautions, are themselves fomenters and carriers of the disease, infectious centers to the whole community. Education can do much, but it is useless to expect the total eradication of fear without the aid and guidance of the religious principle. Fear is the cry of the wounded selfhood for something he has suffered or lost, or is about to lose. "Perfect love casteth out fear"--the perfect love of God and the neighbor. He who is in bondage to the senses has everything to dread. He alone is free from all apprehensions whose heart and mind are stayed upon the living God. He truly "sits under his own vine and fig-tree, with none to make him afraid." APPENDIX B. MR. KENNAN'S APPRENTICESHIP IN COURAGE. Mr. George Kennan's great work in Russian exploration and in the investigation of Russian institutions has been due to certain qualities of character which impress every one who knows him well. Of these qualities, bravery and strength of will are not the least conspicuous. In his conversations with me, he has often spoken of certain things in connection with his own development and training, which are of much interest. Once when I spoke to him of his bravery and coolness under danger, he said:-- "Many things which have been significant and controlling in what I may call my psychological life are wholly unknown to my friends, and yet they might be made public, if you wish. For instance, as I look back to my boyhood, the cause of the only unhappiness that boyhood had for me was a secret but a deeply rooted suspicion that I was physically a coward. This gave me intense suffering. I do not know precisely at what time I first became conscious of it, but when I peered, one day, through the window of a surgeon's office to see an amputation I had proof of my fear. One of my playmates had caught his hand between two cog-wheels in a mill, and his arm had been badly crushed. When he was taken to the surgeon's office, I followed to see what was going to be done with him. While I was watching the amputation, with my face pressed to the glass of the window, the surgeon accidentally let slip from his forceps the end of one of the severed arteries, and a jet of blood spurted against the inside of the window-pane. The result upon me was a sensation that I had never had before in all my life,--a sensation of nausea, faintness, and overwhelming fear. I was twenty-four hours in recovering from the shock, and from that time I began to think about the nature of my emotions and the unsuspected weakness of my character. "I had a nervous, imaginative temperament, and not long after this incident I began to be tortured by a vague suspicion that I was lacking in what we now call 'nerve,' that I was afraid of things that involved suffering or peril. I brooded over this suggestion of physical cowardice until I became almost convinced of its reality, and at last I came to be afraid of things that I had never before thought about. In less than a year I had lost much of my self-respect, and was as miserable as a boy could be. It all seems now very absurd and childish, but at that time, with my boyish visions of travel and exploration, it was a spiritual tragedy. 'Of what use is it to think of exploration and wild life in wild countries,' I used to ask myself, 'if the first time my courage or fortitude is put to the test I become faint and sick?' "I began at last to experiment upon myself,--to do things that were dangerous merely to see whether I dared do them; but the result was only partially reassuring. I could not get into much danger in a sleepy little village like Norwalk, Ohio, and although I found I could force myself to walk around the six-inch stone coping of a bell-tower five stories from the ground (a most perilous and foolhardy exploit), and go and sit alone in a graveyard in the middle of dark, still nights, I failed to recover my own respect. My self-reproach continued for a year or two, during which I was as wretched as a boy can be who admires courage above all things and has a high ideal of intrepid manhood, but who secretly fears that he himself is hopelessly weak and nerveless. There was hardly a day that I did not say to myself, 'You'll never be able to do the things that you dream about; you haven't any self-reliance or nerve. Even as a little child you were afraid of the dark; you shrink now from fights and rows, and you turn faint at the mere sight of blood. You're nothing but a coward.' "At last, when I was seventeen or eighteen years of age, I went to Cincinnati as a telegraph operator. I had become so morbid and miserable by that time that I said one day, 'I'm going to put an end to this state of affairs here and now. If I'm afraid of anything, I'll conquer my fear of it or die. If I'm a coward I might as well be dead, because I can never feel any self-respect or have any happiness in life; and I'd rather get killed trying to do something that I'm afraid to do than to live in this way.' I was at that time working at night, and had to go home from the office between midnight and four o'clock A. M. It was during the Civil War, and Cincinnati was a more lawless city than it has ever been since. Street robberies and murders were of daily occurrence, and all of the 'night men' in our office carried weapons as a matter of course. I bought a revolver, and commenced a course of experiments upon myself. When I finished my night work at the office, instead of going directly home through well-lighted and police-patrolled streets, I directed my steps to the slums and explored the worst haunts of vice and crime in the city. If there was a dark, narrow, cut-throat alley down by the river that I felt afraid to go through at that hour of the night, I clenched my teeth, cocked my revolver, and went through it,--sometimes twice in succession. If I read in the morning papers that a man had been robbed or murdered on a certain street, I went to that street the next night. I explored the dark river-banks, hung around low drinking-dives and the resorts of thieves and other criminals, and made it an invariable rule to do at all hazards the thing that I thought I might be afraid to do. Of course I had all sorts of experiences and adventures. One night I saw a man attacked by highwaymen and knocked down with a slung-shot, just across the street. I ran to his assistance, frightened away the robbers, and picked him up from the gutter in a state of unconsciousness. Another night, after two o'clock, I saw a man's throat cut, down by the river,--and a ghastly sight it was; but, although somewhat shaken, I did not become faint or sick. Every time I went through a street that I believed to be dangerous, or had any startling experience, I felt an accession of self-respect. "In less than three months I had satisfied myself that while I did feel fear, I was not so much daunted by any undertaking but I could do it if I willed to do it, and then I began to feel better. "Not long after this I went on my first expedition to Siberia, and there, in almost daily struggles with difficulties, dangers, and sufferings of all sorts, I finally lost the fear of being afraid which had poisoned the happiness of my boyhood. It has never troubled me, I think, since the fall of 1867, when I was blown out to sea one cold and pitch-dark night in a dismasted and sinking sailboat, in a heavy, offshore gale, without a swallow of water or a mouthful of food. I faced then for about four hours what seemed to be certain death, but I was steady, calm, and under perfect self-control." --_Kenyon West._ ADVERTISEMENT OF "MENTICULTURE." "Menticulture" was first issued in a sufficiently modest way. It described a personal experience which has been of inestimable value to the author. The revelation to him of the possibility of the absolute elimination of the seeds of unhappiness has changed life from a period of constant struggle to a period of security and repose, and has insured delightful realities instead of uncertain possibilities. One hundred and fifty copies of the book were privately printed, and entitled "The A B C of True Living." It also carried within its pages the title of "Emancipation." The suggestion met with such hearty appreciation on the part of personal friends in many various walks of life, that a public edition was proposed, and the name of "Menticulture," a name that had to be coined for the purpose, was chosen for it. The aptness of the suggestion has been evidenced by the approval of the brotherhood at large by appreciative notices in many of the leading periodicals of the country, by the receipt of more than a thousand personal letters by the author, many of them attesting to greatest benefits growing out of the new point of view of life suggested by the book, and by very large sales. One gentleman--altruist--whose name is W. J. Van Patten, found the suggestion contained in "Menticulture" so helpful to himself and friends that he purchased a special edition of two thousand copies of the book for distribution in his home city of Burlington, Vermont, one to each household, with the idea of accentuating the suggestion by widespread inter-discussion. The special Burlington edition has an inset page bearing Mr. Van Patten's _raison d'Ãªtre_ for the distribution, which reads as follows: PERSONAL NOTE. Some time in the early part of the year 1896 a friend sent me a copy of "Menticulture." I read it with interest, and became convinced that I could apply its truths to my own life with profit. Experience confirmed my faith in the power of its principles to overcome many of the most annoying and damaging ills that are common to humanity. I procured a number of copies from time to time and gave to friends who I felt would appreciate it. The universal testimony to the good which the little book did, and the new strength of purpose and will it gave to some who were sore beset with the cares and worries of life, increased my interest and my confidence in the truths set forth. I formed the idea of making an experiment by giving the book a general distribution in our city, to see if it would not promote the general good and happiness of people. I wrote to the author, Mr. Fletcher, and he entered into the plan very cordially, and had this special edition prepared for me. The object which we hope to gain is to turn the thoughts and purposes of those whom we reach to the old truths taught by Christ, and a determination to live above those evils which do so much to make our lives unhappy for ourselves and annoying to those about us. I would ask, therefore, that you would kindly give the book careful and thoughtful reading, and, when you have opportunity, recommend it to your friends. W. J. VAN PATTEN. PERSONAL NOTE. Mr. Van Patten is a prominent manufacturer of Vermont, and was recently Mayor of Burlington for two years. He is also prominent in the Christian Endeavorer movement, having been the first president of the United Society, and being at present one of its trustees, as well as the president of the Congregational Club of western Vermont. "Menticulture" has found favor among physicians, and also with life-insurance companies, obviously because of the live-saving quality of the suggestions contained in it. Explanation of The A. B. C. Life Series THE ESSENTIALS AND SEQUENCE IN LIFE It would seem a considerable departure from the study of menticulture as advised in the author's book, "Menticulture," to jump at once to an investigation of the physiology and psychology of nutrition of the body and then over to the department of infant and child care and education as pursued in the _crÃªche_ and in the kindergarten; but as a matter of fact, if study of the causation of human disabilities and misfortunes is attempted at all, the quest leads naturally into all the departments of human interest, and first into these primary departments. The object of this statement is to link up the different publications of the writer into a chain of consistent suggestions intended to make life a more simple and agreeable problem than many of us too indifferent or otherwise inefficient and bad fellow-citizens make of it. It is not an altogether unselfish effort on the part of the author of the A. B. C. Life Series to publish his findings. In the consideration of his own mental and physical happiness it is impossible to leave out environment, and all the units of humanity who inhabit the world are part of his and of each other's environment. It would be rank presumption for any person, even though gifted with the means to circulate his suggestions as widely as possible, and armed with the power to compel the reading of his publications, to think that any suggestions of his could influence any considerable number of his fellow-citizens of the world, or even of his own immediate neighbourhood, to accept or follow his advice relative to the management of their lives and of their communal and national affairs; but while the general and complete good of humanity should be aimed at in all publications, one's immediate neighbours and friends come first, and the wave of influence spreads according to the effectiveness of the ideas suggested in doing good; that is, in altering the point of view and conduct of people so as to make them a better sympathetic environment. For instance, the children of your neighbours are likely to be the playmates of your own children, and the children of degenerate parents in the slum district of your city will possibly be the fellow-citizen partners of your own family. Again, when it is known that right or wrong nutrition of the body is the most important agent in forming character, in establishing predisposition to temperance or intemperance of living, including the desire for intoxicating stimulants, it is revealed to one that right nutrition of the community as a whole is an important factor in his own environment, as is self-care in the case of his own nourishment. The moment a student of every-day philosophy starts the study of problems from the A. B. C. beginning of things, and to shape his study according to an A. B. C. sequence, each cause of inharmony is at once traced back to its first expression in himself and then to causes influenced by his environments. If we find that the largest influences for good or bad originate with the right or wrong instruction of children during the home training or kindergarten period of their development, and that a dollar expended for education at that time is worth more for good than whole bancs of courts and whole armies of police to correct the effect of bad training and bad character later in life, it is quite logical to help promote the spread of the kindergarten or the kindergarten idea to include all of the children born into the world, and to furnish mothers and kindergarten teachers with knowledge relative to the right nutrition of their wards which they can themselves understand and can teach effectively to children. If we also find that the influence of the kindergarten upon the parents of the infants is more potent than any other which can be brought to bear upon them, we see clearly that the way to secure the widest reform in the most thorough manner is to concentrate attention upon the kindergarten phase of education, advocate its extension to include even the last one of the children, beginning with the most needy first, and extending the care outward from the centre of worst neglect to finally reach the whole. Experience in child saving so-called, and in child education on the kindergarten principle, has taught the cheapest and the most profitable way to insure an environment of good neighbours and profit-earning citizens; and investigation into the problem of human alimentation shows that a knowledge of the elements of an economic nutrition is the first essential of a family or school training; and also that this is most impressive when taught during the first ten years of life. One cannot completely succeed in the study of menticulture from its A. B. C. beginning and in A. B. C. sequence without appreciation of the interrelation of the physical and the mental, the personal and the social, in attaining a complete mastery of the subject. The author of the A. B. C. Life Series has pursued his study of the philosophy of life in experiences which have covered a great variety of occupations in many different parts of the world and among peoples of many different nations and races. His first book, "Menticulture," dealt with purging the mind and habits of sundry weaknesses and deterrents which have possession of people in general in some degree. He recognised the depressing effect of anger and worry and other phases of _fearthought_. In the book "Happiness," which followed next in order, _fearthought_ was shown to be the unprofitable element of forethought. The influence of environment on each individual was revealed as an important factor of happiness, or the reverse, by means of an accidental encounter with a neglected waif in the busy streets of Chicago during a period of intense national excitement incident to the war with Spain, and this led to the publication of "That Last Waif; or, Social Quarantine." During the time that this last book was being written, attention to the importance of right nutrition was invited by personal disabilities, and the experiments described in "Glutton or Epicure; or, Economic Nutrition" were begun and have continued until now. In the study of the latter, but most important factor in profitable living, circumstances have greatly favoured the author, as related in his latest book, "The A. B.-Z. of Our Own Nutrition." The almost phenomenal circulation of "Menticulture" for a book of its kind, and a somewhat smaller interest in the books on nutrition and the appeal for better care of the waifs of society, showed that most persons wished, like the author, to find a short cut to happiness by means of indifference to environment, both internal and external, while habitually sinning against the physiological dietetic requirements of Nature. In smothering worry and guarding against anger the psychic assistance of digestion was stimulated and some better results were thereby obtained, but not the best attainable results. Living is easy and life may be made constantly happy by beginning right; and the right beginning is none other than the careful feeding of the body. This done there is an enormous reserve of energy, a naturally optimistic train of thought, a charitable attitude towards everybody, and a loving appreciation of everything that God has made. Morbidity of temperament will disappear from an organism that is economically and rightly nourished, and death will cease to have any terrors for such; and as _fear_ of death is the worst depressant known, many of the _worries_ of existence take their everlasting flight from the atmosphere of the rightly nourished. The wide interest now prevalent in the subjects treated in The A. B. C. Life Series is evidenced by the scientific, military, and lay activity, in connection with the experiments at the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University and elsewhere, as related in the "A. B.-Z. of Our Own Nutrition" and in "The New Glutton or Epicure" of the series. The general application is more fully shown, however, by the indorsement of the great Battle Creek Sanitarium, which practically studies all phases of the subject, from health conservation and child saving to general missionary work in social reform. HORACE FLETCHER. Transcriber's Note: Missing punctuation has been inserted. The oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe'. Spelling, grammar, and variation in hyphenation and word usage have been retained as in the original publication except as follows: p. 198: on a milllion-to-one chance changed to on a million-to-one chance 


