The Project Gutenberg EBook of Song of the Lark, by Willa Cather

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Title: Song of the Lark

Author: Willa Cather

Posting Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #44]

Release Date: 1992

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONG OF THE LARK ***

Produced by Judith Boss and Marvin Peterson

SONG OF THE LARK

By Willa Cather

(1915 edition)

CONTENTS:

PART

I.

FRIENDS

OF

CHILDHOOD

II.

THE

SONG

OF

THE

LARK

III

.

STUPID

FACES

IV.

THE

ANCIENT

PEOPLE

V.

DOCTOR

ARCHIE’S

VENTURE

VI.

KRONBORG

EPILOGUE

PART I. FRIENDS OF CHILDHOOD

I

Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish

clothier and two traveling men who happened to be staying overnight in

Moonstone. His offices were in the Duke Block, over the drug store.

Larry, the doctor’s man, had lit the overhead light in the waiting-room

and the double student’s lamp on the desk in the study. The isinglass

sides of the hard-coal burner were aglow, and the air in the study was

so hot that as he came in the doctor opened the door into his little

operating-room, where there was no stove. The waiting room was carpeted

and stiffly furnished, something like a country parlor. The study had

worn, unpainted floors, but there was a look of winter comfort about it.

The doctor’s flat-top desk was large and well made; the papers were in

orderly piles, under glass weights. Behind the stove a wide bookcase,

with double glass doors, reached from the floor to the ceiling. It was

filled with medical books of every thickness and color. On the top shelf

stood a long row of thirty or forty volumes, bound all alike in dark

mottled board covers, with imitation leather backs.

As the doctor in New England villages is proverbially old, so the doctor

in small Colorado towns twenty-five years ago was generally young.

Dr. Archie was barely thirty. He was tall, with massive shoulders

which he held stiffly, and a large, well-shaped head. He was a

distinguished-looking man, for that part of the world, at least.

There was something individual in the way in which his reddish-brown

hair, parted cleanly at the side, bushed over his high forehead. His

nose was straight and thick, and his eyes were intelligent. He wore a

curly, reddish mustache and an imperial, cut trimly, which made him look

a little like the pictures of Napoleon III. His hands were large and

well kept, but ruggedly formed, and the backs were shaded with crinkly

reddish hair. He wore a blue suit of woolly, wide-waled serge; the

traveling men had known at a glance that it was made by a Denver tailor.

The doctor was always well dressed.

Dr. Archie turned up the student’s lamp and sat down in the swivel chair

before his desk. He sat uneasily, beating a tattoo on his knees with his

fingers, and looked about him as if he were bored. He glanced at his

watch, then absently took from his pocket a bunch of small keys,

selected one and looked at it. A contemptuous smile, barely perceptible,

played on his lips, but his eyes remained meditative. Behind the door

that led into the hall, under his buffalo-skin driving-coat, was a locked

cupboard. This the doctor opened mechanically, kicking aside a pile of

muddy overshoes. Inside, on the shelves, were whiskey glasses and

decanters, lemons, sugar, and bitters. Hearing a step in the empty,

echoing hall without, the doctor closed the cupboard again, snapping the

Yale lock. The door of the waiting-room opened, a man entered and came

on into the consulting-room.

“Good-evening, Mr. Kronborg,” said the doctor carelessly. “Sit down.”

His visitor was a tall, loosely built man, with a thin brown beard,

streaked with gray. He wore a frock coat, a broad-brimmed black hat, a

white lawn necktie, and steel rimmed spectacles. Altogether there was a

pretentious and important air about him, as he lifted the skirts of his

coat and sat down.

“Good-evening, doctor. Can you step around to the house with me? I think

Mrs. Kronborg will need you this evening.” This was said with profound

gravity and, curiously enough, with a slight embarrassment.

“Any hurry?” the doctor asked over his shoulder as he went into his

operating-room.

Mr. Kronborg coughed behind his hand, and contracted his brows. His face

threatened at every moment to break into a smile of foolish excitement.

He controlled it only by calling upon his habitual pulpit manner. “Well,

I think it would be as well to go immediately. Mrs. Kronborg will be

more comfortable if you are there. She has been suffering for some

time.”

The doctor came back and threw a black bag upon his desk. He wrote some

instructions for his man on a prescription pad and then drew on his

overcoat. “All ready,” he announced, putting out his lamp. Mr. Kronborg

rose and they tramped through the empty hall and down the stairway to

the street. The drug store below was dark, and the saloon next door was

just closing. Every other light on Main Street was out.

On either side of the road and at the outer edge of the board sidewalk,

the snow had been shoveled into breastworks. The town looked small and

black, flattened down in the snow, muffled and all but extinguished.

Overhead the stars shone gloriously. It was impossible not to notice

them. The air was so clear that the white sand hills to the east of

Moonstone gleamed softly. Following the Reverend Mr. Kronborg along the

narrow walk, past the little dark, sleeping houses, the doctor looked up

at the flashing night and whistled softly. It did seem that people were

stupider than they need be; as if on a night like this there ought to be

something better to do than to sleep nine hours, or to assist Mrs.

Kronborg in functions which she could have performed so admirably

unaided. He wished he had gone down to Denver to hear Fay Templeton sing

“See-Saw.” Then he remembered that he had a personal interest in this

family, after all. They turned into another street and saw before them

lighted windows; a low story-and-a-half house, with a wing built on at

the right and a kitchen addition at the back, everything a little on the

slant—roofs, windows, and doors. As they approached the gate, Peter

Kronborg’s pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough annoyed the

doctor. “Exactly as if he were going to give out a text,” he thought. He

drew off his glove and felt in his vest pocket. “Have a troche,

Kronborg,” he said, producing some. “Sent me for samples. Very good for

a rough throat.”

“Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a hurry. I neglected to

put on my overshoes. Here we are, doctor.” Kronborg opened his front

door—seemed delighted to be at home again.

The front hall was dark and cold; the hatrack was hung with an

astonishing number of children’s hats and caps and cloaks. They were

even piled on the table beneath the hatrack. Under the table was a heap

of rubbers and overshoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat,

Peter Kronborg opened the door into the living-room. A glare of light

greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale air, smelling of warming

flannels.

At three o’clock in the morning Dr. Archie was in the parlor putting on

his cuffs and coat—there was no spare bedroom in that house. Peter

Kronborg’s seventh child, a boy, was being soothed and cosseted by his

aunt, Mrs. Kronborg was asleep, and the doctor was going home. But he

wanted first to speak to Kronborg, who, coatless and fluttery, was

pouring coal into the kitchen stove. As the doctor crossed the

dining-room he paused and listened. From one of the wing rooms, off to

the left, he heard rapid, distressed breathing. He went to the kitchen

door.

“One of the children sick in there?” he asked, nodding toward the

partition.

Kronborg hung up the stove-lifter and dusted his fingers. “It must be

Thea. I meant to ask you to look at her. She has a croupy cold. But in

my excitement—Mrs. Kronborg is doing finely, eh, doctor? Not many of

your patients with such a constitution, I expect.”

“Oh, yes. She’s a fine mother.” The doctor took up the lamp from the

kitchen table and unceremoniously went into the wing room. Two chubby

little boys were asleep in a double bed, with the coverlids over their

noses and their feet drawn up. In a single bed, next to theirs, lay a

little girl of eleven, wide awake, two yellow braids sticking up on the

pillow behind her. Her face was scarlet and her eyes were blazing.

The doctor shut the door behind him. “Feel pretty sick, Thea?” he asked

as he took out his thermometer. “Why didn’t you call somebody?”

She looked at him with greedy affection. “I thought you were here,” she

spoke between quick breaths. “There is a new baby, isn’t there? Which?”

“Which?” repeated the doctor.

“Brother or sister?”

He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Brother,” he said,

taking her hand. “Open.”

“Good. Brothers are better,” she murmured as he put the glass tube under

her tongue.

“Now, be still, I want to count.” Dr. Archie reached for her hand and

took out his watch. When he put her hand back under the quilt he went

over to one of the windows—they were both tight shut—and lifted it a

little way. He reached up and ran his hand along the cold, unpapered

wall. “Keep under the covers; I’ll come back to you in a moment,” he

said, bending over the glass lamp with his thermometer. He winked at her

from the door before he shut it.

Peter Kronborg was sitting in his wife’s room, holding the bundle which

contained his son. His air of cheerful importance, his beard and

glasses, even his shirt-sleeves, annoyed the doctor. He beckoned

Kronborg into the living-room and said sternly:—

“You’ve got a very sick child in there. Why didn’t you call me before?

It’s pneumonia, and she must have been sick for several days. Put the

baby down somewhere, please, and help me make up the bed-lounge here in

the parlor. She’s got to be in a warm room, and she’s got to be quiet.

You must keep the other children out. Here, this thing opens up, I see,”

swinging back the top of the carpet lounge. “We can lift her mattress

and carry her in just as she is. I don’t want to disturb her more than

is necessary.”

Kronborg was all concern immediately. The two men took up the mattress

and carried the sick child into the parlor. “I’ll have to go down to my

office to get some medicine, Kronborg. The drug store won’t be open.

Keep the covers on her. I won’t be gone long. Shake down the stove and

put on a little coal, but not too much; so it’ll catch quickly, I mean.

Find an old sheet for me, and put it there to warm.”

The doctor caught his coat and hurried out into the dark street. Nobody

was stirring yet, and the cold was bitter. He was tired and hungry and

in no mild humor. “The idea!” he muttered; “to be such an ass at his

age, about the seventh! And to feel no responsibility about the little

girl. Silly old goat! The baby would have got into the world somehow;

they always do. But a nice little girl like that—she’s worth the whole

litter. Where she ever got it from—” He turned into the Duke Block and

ran up the stairs to his office.

Thea Kronborg, meanwhile, was wondering why she happened to be in the

parlor, where nobody but company—usually visiting preachers—ever

slept. She had moments of stupor when she did not see anything, and

moments of excitement when she felt that something unusual and pleasant

was about to happen, when she saw everything clearly in the red light

from the isinglass sides of the hard-coal burner—the nickel trimmings

on the stove itself, the pictures on the wall, which she thought very

beautiful, the flowers on the Brussels carpet, Czerny’s “Daily Studies”

which stood open on the upright piano. She forgot, for the time being,

all about the new baby.

When she heard the front door open, it occurred to her that the pleasant

thing which was going to happen was Dr. Archie himself. He came in and

warmed his hands at the stove. As he turned to her, she threw herself

wearily toward him, half out of her bed. She would have tumbled to the

floor had he not caught her. He gave her some medicine and went to the

kitchen for something he needed. She drowsed and lost the sense of his

being there. When she opened her eyes again, he was kneeling before the

stove, spreading something dark and sticky on a white cloth, with a big

spoon; batter, perhaps. Presently she felt him taking off her nightgown.

He wrapped the hot plaster about her chest. There seemed to be straps

which he pinned over her shoulders. Then he took out a thread and needle

and began to sew her up in it. That, she felt, was too strange; she must

be dreaming anyhow, so she succumbed to her drowsiness.

Thea had been moaning with every breath since the doctor came back, but

she did not know it. She did not realize that she was suffering pain.

When she was conscious at all, she seemed to be separated from her body;

to be perched on top of the piano, or on the hanging lamp, watching the

doctor sew her up. It was perplexing and unsatisfactory, like dreaming.

She wished she could waken up and see what was going on.

The doctor thanked God that he had persuaded Peter Kronborg to keep out

of the way. He could do better by the child if he had her to himself. He

had no children of his own. His marriage was a very unhappy one. As he

lifted and undressed Thea, he thought to himself what a beautiful thing

a little girl’s body was,—like a flower. It was so neatly and

delicately fashioned, so soft, and so milky white. Thea must have got

her hair and her silky skin from her mother. She was a little Swede,

through and through. Dr. Archie could not help thinking how he would

cherish a little creature like this if she were his. Her hands, so

little and hot, so clever, too,—he glanced at the open exercise book on

the piano. When he had stitched up the flaxseed jacket, he wiped it

neatly about the edges, where the paste had worked out on the skin. He

put on her the clean nightgown he had warmed before the fire, and tucked

the blankets about her. As he pushed back the hair that had fuzzed down

over her eyebrows, he felt her head thoughtfully with the tips of his

fingers. No, he couldn’t say that it was different from any other

child’s head, though he believed that there was something very different

about her. He looked intently at her wide, flushed face, freckled nose,

fierce little mouth, and her delicate, tender chin—the one soft touch

in her hard little Scandinavian face, as if some fairy godmother had

caressed her there and left a cryptic promise. Her brows were usually

drawn together defiantly, but never when she was with Dr. Archie. Her

affection for him was prettier than most of the things that went to make

up the doctor’s life in Moonstone.

The windows grew gray. He heard a tramping on the attic floor, on the

back stairs, then cries: “Give me my shirt!” “Where’s my other

stocking?”

“I’ll have to stay till they get off to school,” he reflected, “or

they’ll be in here tormenting her, the whole lot of them.”

II

For the next four days it seemed to Dr. Archie that his patient might

slip through his hands, do what he might. But she did not. On the

contrary, after that she recovered very rapidly. As her father remarked,

she must have inherited the “constitution” which he was never tired of

admiring in her mother.

One afternoon, when her new brother was a week old, the doctor found

Thea very comfortable and happy in her bed in the parlor. The sunlight

was pouring in over her shoulders, the baby was asleep on a pillow in a

big rocking-chair beside her. Whenever he stirred, she put out her hand

and rocked him. Nothing of him was visible but a flushed, puffy forehead

and an uncompromisingly big, bald cranium. The door into her mother’s

room stood open, and Mrs. Kronborg was sitting up in bed darning

stockings. She was a short, stalwart woman, with a short neck and a

determined-looking head. Her skin was very fair, her face calm and

unwrinkled, and her yellow hair, braided down her back as she lay in

bed, still looked like a girl’s. She was a woman whom Dr. Archie

respected; active, practical, unruffled; goodhumored, but determined.

Exactly the sort of woman to take care of a flighty preacher. She had

brought her husband some property, too,—one fourth of her father’s

broad acres in Nebraska,—but this she kept in her own name. She had

profound respect for her husband’s erudition and eloquence. She sat

under his preaching with deep humility, and was as much taken in by his

stiff shirt and white neckties as if she had not ironed them herself by

lamplight the night before they appeared correct and spotless in the

pulpit. But for all this, she had no confidence in his administration of

worldly affairs. She looked to him for morning prayers and grace at

table; she expected him to name the babies and to supply whatever

parental sentiment there was in the house, to remember birthdays and

anniversaries, to point the children to moral and patriotic ideals. It

was her work to keep their bodies, their clothes, and their conduct in

some sort of order, and this she accomplished with a success that was a

source of wonder to her neighbors. As she used to remark, and her

husband admiringly to echo, she “had never lost one.” With all his

flightiness, Peter Kronborg appreciated the matter-of-fact, punctual way

in which his wife got her children into the world and along in it. He

believed, and he was right in believing, that the sovereign State of

Colorado was much indebted to Mrs. Kronborg and women like her.

Mrs. Kronborg believed that the size of every family was decided in

heaven. More modern views would not have startled her; they would simply

have seemed foolish—thin chatter, like the boasts of the men who built

the tower of Babel, or like Axel’s plan to breed ostriches in the

chicken yard. From what evidence Mrs. Kronborg formed her opinions on

this and other matters, it would have been difficult to say, but once

formed, they were unchangeable. She would no more have questioned her

convictions than she would have questioned revelation. Calm and even

tempered, naturally kind, she was capable of strong prejudices, and she

never forgave.

When the doctor came in to see Thea, Mrs. Kronborg was reflecting that

the washing was a week behind, and deciding what she had better do about

it. The arrival of a new baby meant a revision of her entire domestic

schedule, and as she drove her needle along she had been working out new

sleeping arrangements and cleaning days. The doctor had entered the

house without knocking, after making noise enough in the hall to prepare

his patients. Thea was reading, her book propped up before her in the

sunlight.

“Mustn’t do that; bad for your eyes,” he said, as Thea shut the book

quickly and slipped it under the covers.

Mrs. Kronborg called from her bed: “Bring the baby here, doctor, and

have that chair. She wanted him in there for company.”

Before the doctor picked up the baby, he put a yellow paper bag down on

Thea’s coverlid and winked at her. They had a code of winks and

grimaces. When he went in to chat with her mother, Thea opened the bag

cautiously, trying to keep it from crackling. She drew out a long bunch

of white grapes, with a little of the sawdust in which they had been

packed still clinging to them. They were called Malaga grapes in

Moonstone, and once or twice during the winter the leading grocer got a

keg of them. They were used mainly for table decoration, about

Christmas-time. Thea had never had more than one grape at a time before.

When the doctor came back she was holding the almost transparent fruit

up in the sunlight, feeling the pale-green skins softly with the tips of

her fingers. She did not thank him; she only snapped her eyes at him in

a special way which he understood, and, when he gave her his hand, put

it quickly and shyly under her cheek, as if she were trying to do so

without knowing it—and without his knowing it.

Dr. Archie sat down in the rocking-chair. “And how’s Thea feeling

to-day?”

He was quite as shy as his patient, especially when a third person

overheard his conversation. Big and handsome and superior to his fellow

townsmen as Dr. Archie was, he was seldom at his ease, and like Peter

Kronborg he often dodged behind a professional manner. There was

sometimes a contraction of embarrassment and self consciousness all over

his big body, which made him awkward—likely to stumble, to kick up

rugs, or to knock over chairs. If any one was very sick, he forgot

himself, but he had a clumsy touch in convalescent gossip.

Thea curled up on her side and looked at him with pleasure. “All right.

I like to be sick. I have more fun then than other times.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t have to go to school, and I don’t have to practice. I can read

all I want to, and have good things,”—she patted the grapes. “I had

lots of fun that time I mashed my finger and you wouldn’t let Professor

Wunsch make me practice. Only I had to do left hand, even then. I think

that was mean.”

The doctor took her hand and examined the forefinger, where the nail had

grown back a little crooked. “You mustn’t trim it down close at the

corner there, and then it will grow straight. You won’t want it crooked

when you’re a big girl and wear rings and have sweethearts.”

She made a mocking little face at him and looked at his new scarf-pin.

“That’s the prettiest one you ev-ER had. I wish you’d stay a long while

and let me look at it. What is it?”

Dr. Archie laughed. “It’s an opal. Spanish Johnny brought it up for me

from Chihuahua in his shoe. I had it set in Denver, and I wore it to-day

for your benefit.”

Thea had a curious passion for jewelry. She wanted every shining stone

she saw, and in summer she was always going off into the sand hills to

hunt for crystals and agates and bits of pink chalcedony. She had two

cigar boxes full of stones that she had found or traded for, and she

imagined that they were of enormous value. She was always planning how

she would have them set.

“What are you reading?” The doctor reached under the covers and pulled

out a book of Byron’s poems. “Do you like this?”

She looked confused, turned over a few pages rapidly, and pointed to “My

native land, good-night.” “That,” she said sheepishly.

“How about ‘Maid of Athens’?”

She blushed and looked at him suspiciously. “I like ‘There was a sound

of revelry,’” she muttered.

The doctor laughed and closed the book. It was clumsily bound in padded

leather and had been presented to the Reverend Peter Kronborg by his

Sunday-School class as an ornament for his parlor table.

“Come into the office some day, and I’ll lend you a nice book. You can

skip the parts you don’t understand. You can read it in vacation.

Perhaps you’ll be able to understand all of it by then.”

Thea frowned and looked fretfully toward the piano. “In vacation I have

to practice four hours every day, and then there’ll be Thor to take care

of.” She pronounced it “Tor.”

“Thor? Oh, you’ve named the baby Thor?” exclaimed the doctor.

Thea frowned again, still more fiercely, and said quickly, “That’s a

nice name, only maybe it’s a little—old fashioned.” She was very

sensitive about being thought a foreigner, and was proud of the fact

that, in town, her father always preached in English; very bookish

English, at that, one might add.

Born in an old Scandinavian colony in Minnesota, Peter Kronborg had been

sent to a small divinity school in Indiana by the women of a Swedish

evangelical mission, who were convinced of his gifts and who skimped and

begged and gave church suppers to get the long, lazy youth through the

seminary. He could still speak enough Swedish to exhort and to bury the

members of his country church out at Copper Hole, and he wielded in his

Moonstone pulpit a somewhat pompous English vocabulary he had learned

out of books at college. He always spoke of “the infant Saviour,” “our

Heavenly Father,” etc. The poor man had no natural, spontaneous human

speech. If he had his sincere moments, they were perforce inarticulate.

Probably a good deal of his pretentiousness was due to the fact that he

habitually expressed himself in a book learned language, wholly remote

from anything personal, native, or homely. Mrs. Kronborg spoke Swedish

to her own sisters and to her sister-in-law Tillie, and colloquial

English to her neighbors. Thea, who had a rather sensitive ear, until

she went to school never spoke at all, except in monosyllables, and her

mother was convinced that she was tongue-tied. She was still inept in

speech for a child so intelligent. Her ideas were usually clear, but she

seldom attempted to explain them, even at school, where she excelled in

“written work” and never did more than mutter a reply.

“Your music professor stopped me on the street to-day and asked me how

you were,” said the doctor, rising. “He’ll be sick himself, trotting

around in this slush with no overcoat or overshoes.”

“He’s poor,” said Thea simply.

The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid he’s worse than that. Is he always all

right when you take your lessons? Never acts as if he’d been drinking?”

Thea looked angry and spoke excitedly. “He knows a lot. More than

anybody. I don’t care if he does drink; he’s old and poor.” Her voice

shook a little.

Mrs. Kronborg spoke up from the next room. “He’s a good teacher, doctor.

It’s good for us he does drink. He’d never be in a little place like

this if he didn’t have some weakness. These women that teach music

around here don’t know nothing. I wouldn’t have my child wasting time

with them. If Professor Wunsch goes away, Thea’ll have nobody to take

from. He’s careful with his scholars; he don’t use bad language. Mrs.

Kohler is always present when Thea takes her lesson. It’s all right.”

Mrs. Kronborg spoke calmly and judicially. One could see that she had

thought the matter out before.

“I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Kronborg. I wish we could get the old man

off his bottle and keep him tidy. Do you suppose if I gave you an old

overcoat you could get him to wear it?” The doctor went to the bedroom

door and Mrs. Kronborg looked up from her darning.

“Why, yes, I guess he’d be glad of it. He’ll take most anything from me.

He won’t buy clothes, but I guess he’d wear ‘em if he had ‘em. I’ve

never had any clothes to give him, having so many to make over for.”

“I’ll have Larry bring the coat around to-night. You aren’t cross with

me, Thea?” taking her hand.

Thea grinned warmly. “Not if you give Professor Wunsch a coat—and

things,” she tapped the grapes significantly. The doctor bent over and

kissed her.

III

Being sick was all very well, but Thea knew from experience that

starting back to school again was attended by depressing difficulties.

One Monday morning she got up early with Axel and Gunner, who shared her

wing room, and hurried into the back living-room, between the

dining-room and the kitchen. There, beside a soft-coal stove, the

younger children of the family undressed at night and dressed in the

morning. The older daughter, Anna, and the two big boys slept upstairs,

where the rooms were theoretically warmed by stovepipes from below. The

first (and the worst!) thing that confronted Thea was a suit of clean,

prickly red flannel, fresh from the wash. Usually the torment of

breaking in a clean suit of flannel came on Sunday, but yesterday, as

she was staying in the house, she had begged off. Their winter underwear

was a trial to all the children, but it was bitterest to Thea because

she happened to have the most sensitive skin. While she was tugging it

on, her Aunt Tillie brought in warm water from the boiler and filled the

tin pitcher. Thea washed her face, brushed and braided her hair, and got

into her blue cashmere dress. Over this she buttoned a long apron, with

sleeves, which would not be removed until she put on her cloak to go to

school. Gunner and Axel, on the soap box behind the stove, had their

usual quarrel about which should wear the tightest stockings, but they

exchanged reproaches in low tones, for they were wholesomely afraid of

Mrs. Kronborg’s rawhide whip. She did not chastise her children often,

but she did it thoroughly. Only a somewhat stern system of discipline

could have kept any degree of order and quiet in that overcrowded house.

Mrs. Kronborg’s children were all trained to dress themselves at the

earliest possible age, to make their own beds,—the boys as well as the

girls,—to take care of their clothes, to eat what was given them, and

to keep out of the way. Mrs. Kronborg would have made a good chess

player; she had a head for moves and positions.

Anna, the elder daughter, was her mother’s lieutenant. All the children

knew that they must obey Anna, who was an obstinate contender for

proprieties and not always fair minded. To see the young Kronborgs

headed for Sunday School was like watching a military drill. Mrs.

Kronborg let her children’s minds alone. She did not pry into their

thoughts or nag them. She respected them as individuals, and outside of

the house they had a great deal of liberty. But their communal life was

definitely ordered.

In the winter the children breakfasted in the kitchen; Gus and Charley

and Anna first, while the younger children were dressing. Gus was

nineteen and was a clerk in a dry-goods store. Charley, eighteen months

younger, worked in a feed store. They left the house by the kitchen door

at seven o’clock, and then Anna helped her Aunt Tillie get the breakfast

for the younger ones. Without the help of this sister-in-law, Tillie

Kronborg, Mrs. Kronborg’s life would have been a hard one. Mrs. Kronborg

often reminded Anna that “no hired help would ever have taken the same

interest.”

Mr. Kronborg came of a poorer stock than his wife; from a lowly,

ignorant family that had lived in a poor part of Sweden. His

great-grandfather had gone to Norway to work as a farm laborer and had

married a Norwegian girl. This strain of Norwegian blood came out

somewhere in each generation of the Kronborgs. The intemperance of one

of Peter Kronborg’s uncles, and the religious mania of another, had been

alike charged to the Norwegian grandmother. Both Peter Kronborg and his

sister Tillie were more like the Norwegian root of the family than like

the Swedish, and this same Norwegian strain was strong in Thea, though

in her it took a very different character.

Tillie was a queer, addle-pated thing, as flighty as a girl at

thirty-five, and overweeningly fond of gay clothes—which taste, as Mrs.

Kronborg philosophically said, did nobody any harm. Tillie was always

cheerful, and her tongue was still for scarcely a minute during the day.

She had been cruelly overworked on her father’s Minnesota farm when she

was a young girl, and she had never been so happy as she was now; had

never before, as she said, had such social advantages. She thought her

brother the most important man in Moonstone. She never missed a church

service, and, much to the embarrassment of the children, she always

“spoke a piece” at the Sunday-School concerts. She had a complete set of

“Standard Recitations,” which she conned on Sundays. This morning, when

Thea and her two younger brothers sat down to breakfast, Tillie was

remonstrating with Gunner because he had not learned a recitation

assigned to him for George Washington Day at school. The unmemorized

text lay heavily on Gunner’s conscience as he attacked his buckwheat

cakes and sausage. He knew that Tillie was in the right, and that “when

the day came he would be ashamed of himself.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered, stirring his coffee; “they oughtn’t to make

boys speak. It’s all right for girls. They like to show off.”

“No showing off about it. Boys ought to like to speak up for their

country. And what was the use of your father buying you a new suit, if

you’re not going to take part in anything?”

“That was for Sunday-School. I’d rather wear my old one, anyhow. Why

didn’t they give the piece to Thea?” Gunner grumbled.

Tillie was turning buckwheat cakes at the griddle. “Thea can play and

sing, she don’t need to speak. But you’ve got to know how to do

something, Gunner, that you have. What are you going to do when you git

big and want to git into society, if you can’t do nothing? Everybody’ll

say, ‘Can you sing? Can you play? Can you speak? Then git right out of

society.’ An’ that’s what they’ll say to you, Mr. Gunner.”

Gunner and Alex grinned at Anna, who was preparing her mother’s

breakfast. They never made fun of Tillie, but they understood well

enough that there were subjects upon which her ideas were rather

foolish. When Tillie struck the shallows, Thea was usually prompt in

turning the conversation.

“Will you and Axel let me have your sled at recess?” she asked.

“All the time?” asked Gunner dubiously.

“I’ll work your examples for you to-night, if you do.”

“Oh, all right. There’ll be a lot of ‘em.”

“I don’t mind, I can work ‘em fast. How about yours, Axel?”

Axel was a fat little boy of seven, with pretty, lazy blue eyes. “I

don’t care,” he murmured, buttering his last buckwheat cake without

ambition; “too much trouble to copy ‘em down. Jenny Smiley’ll let me

have hers.”

The boys were to pull Thea to school on their sled, as the snow was

deep. The three set off together. Anna was now in the high school, and

she no longer went with the family party, but walked to school with some

of the older girls who were her friends, and wore a hat, not a hood like

Thea.

IV

“And it was Summer, beautiful Summer!” Those were the closing words of

Thea’s favorite fairy tale, and she thought of them as she ran out into

the world one Saturday morning in May, her music book under her arm. She

was going to the Kohlers’ to take her lesson, but she was in no hurry.

It was in the summer that one really lived. Then all the little

overcrowded houses were opened wide, and the wind blew through them with

sweet, earthy smells of garden-planting. The town looked as if it had

just been washed. People were out painting their fences. The cottonwood

trees were a-flicker with sticky, yellow little leaves, and the feathery

tamarisks were in pink bud. With the warm weather came freedom for

everybody. People were dug up, as it were. The very old people, whom one

had not seen all winter, came out and sunned themselves in the yard. The

double windows were taken off the houses, the tormenting flannels in

which children had been encased all winter were put away in boxes, and

the youngsters felt a pleasure in the cool cotton things next their

skin.

Thea had to walk more than a mile to reach the Kohlers’ house, a very

pleasant mile out of town toward the glittering sand hills,—yellow this

morning, with lines of deep violet where the clefts and valleys were.

She followed the sidewalk to the depot at the south end of the town;

then took the road east to the little group of adobe houses where the

Mexicans lived, then dropped into a deep ravine; a dry sand creek,

across which the railroad track ran on a trestle. Beyond that gulch, on

a little rise of ground that faced the open sandy plain, was the

Kohlers’ house, where Professor Wunsch lived. Fritz Kohler was the town

tailor, one of the first settlers. He had moved there, built a little

house and made a garden, when Moonstone was first marked down on the

map. He had three sons, but they now worked on the railroad and were

stationed in distant cities. One of them had gone to work for the Santa

Fe, and lived in New Mexico.

Mrs. Kohler seldom crossed the ravine and went into the town except at

Christmas-time, when she had to buy presents and Christmas cards to send

to her old friends in Freeport, Illinois. As she did not go to church,

she did not possess such a thing as a hat. Year after year she wore the

same red hood in winter and a black sunbonnet in summer. She made her

own dresses; the skirts came barely to her shoe-tops, and were gathered

as full as they could possibly be to the waistband. She preferred men’s

shoes, and usually wore the cast-offs of one of her sons. She had never

learned much English, and her plants and shrubs were her companions. She

lived for her men and her garden. Beside that sand gulch, she had tried

to reproduce a bit of her own village in the Rhine Valley. She hid

herself behind the growth she had fostered, lived under the shade of

what she had planted and watered and pruned. In the blaze of the open

plain she was stupid and blind like an owl. Shade, shade; that was what

she was always planning and making. Behind the high tamarisk hedge, her

garden was a jungle of verdure in summer. Above the cherry trees and

peach trees and golden plums stood the windmill, with its tank on

stilts, which kept all this verdure alive. Outside, the sage-brush grew

up to the very edge of the garden, and the sand was always drifting up

to the tamarisks.

Every one in Moonstone was astonished when the Kohlers took the

wandering music-teacher to live with them. In seventeen years old Fritz

had never had a crony, except the harness-maker and Spanish Johnny. This

Wunsch came from God knew where,—followed Spanish Johnny into town when

that wanderer came back from one of his tramps. Wunsch played in the

dance orchestra, tuned pianos, and gave lessons. When Mrs. Kohler

rescued him, he was sleeping in a dirty, unfurnished room over one of

the saloons, and he had only two shirts in the world. Once he was under

her roof, the old woman went at him as she did at her garden. She sewed

and washed and mended for him, and made him so clean and respectable

that he was able to get a large class of pupils and to rent a piano. As

soon as he had money ahead, he sent to the Narrow Gauge lodging-house,

in Denver, for a trunkful of music which had been held there for unpaid

board. With tears in his eyes the old man—he was not over fifty, but

sadly battered—told Mrs. Kohler that he asked nothing better of God

than to end his days with her, and to be buried in the garden, under her

linden trees. They were not American basswood, but the European linden,

which has honey-colored blooms in summer, with a fragrance that

surpasses all trees and flowers and drives young people wild with joy.

Thea was reflecting as she walked along that had it not been for

Professor Wunsch she might have lived on for years in Moonstone without

ever knowing the Kohlers, without ever seeing their garden or the inside

of their house. Besides the cuckoo clock,—which was wonderful enough,

and which Mrs. Kohler said she kept for “company when she was

lonesome,”—the Kohlers had in their house the most wonderful thing Thea

had ever seen—but of that later.

Professor Wunsch went to the houses of his other pupils to give them

their lessons, but one morning he told Mrs. Kronborg that Thea had

talent, and that if she came to him he could teach her in his slippers,

and that would be better. Mrs. Kronborg was a strange woman. That word

“talent,” which no one else in Moonstone, not even Dr. Archie, would

have understood, she comprehended perfectly. To any other woman there,

it would have meant that a child must have her hair curled every day and

must play in public. Mrs. Kronborg knew it meant that Thea must practice

four hours a day. A child with talent must be kept at the piano, just as

a child with measles must be kept under the blankets. Mrs. Kronborg and

her three sisters had all studied piano, and all sang well, but none of

them had talent. Their father had played the oboe in an orchestra in

Sweden, before he came to America to better his fortunes. He had even

known Jenny Lind. A child with talent had to be kept at the piano; so

twice a week in summer and once a week in winter Thea went over the

gulch to the Kohlers’, though the Ladies’ Aid Society thought it was not

proper for their preacher’s daughter to go “where there was so much

drinking.” Not that the Kohler sons ever so much as looked at a glass of

beer. They were ashamed of their old folks and got out into the world as

fast as possible; had their clothes made by a Denver tailor and their

necks shaved up under their hair and forgot the past. Old Fritz and

Wunsch, however, indulged in a friendly bottle pretty often. The two men

were like comrades; perhaps the bond between them was the glass wherein

lost hopes are found; perhaps it was common memories of another country;

perhaps it was the grapevine in the garden—knotty, fibrous shrub, full

of homesickness and sentiment, which the Germans have carried around the

world with them.

As Thea approached the house she peeped between the pink sprays of the

tamarisk hedge and saw the Professor and Mrs. Kohler in the garden,

spading and raking. The garden looked like a relief-map now, and gave no

indication of what it would be in August; such a jungle! Pole beans and

potatoes and corn and leeks and kale and red cabbage—there would even

be vegetables for which there is no American name. Mrs. Kohler was

always getting by mail packages of seeds from Freeport and from the old

country. Then the flowers! There were big sunflowers for the canary

bird, tiger lilies and phlox and zinnias and lady’s-slippers and

portulaca and hollyhocks,—giant hollyhocks. Beside the fruit trees

there was a great umbrella-shaped catalpa, and a balm-of-Gilead, two

lindens, and even a ginka,—a rigid, pointed tree with leaves shaped

like butterflies, which shivered, but never bent to the wind.

This morning Thea saw to her delight that the two oleander trees, one

white and one red, had been brought up from their winter quarters in the

cellar. There is hardly a German family in the most arid parts of Utah,

New Mexico, Arizona, but has its oleander trees. However loutish the

American-born sons of the family may be, there was never one who refused

to give his muscle to the back-breaking task of getting those tubbed

trees down into the cellar in the fall and up into the sunlight in the

spring. They may strive to avert the day, but they grapple with the tub

at last.

When Thea entered the gate, her professor leaned his spade against the

white post that supported the turreted dove-house, and wiped his face

with his shirt-sleeve; someway he never managed to have a handkerchief

about him. Wunsch was short and stocky, with something rough and

bear-like about his shoulders. His face was a dark, bricky red, deeply

creased rather than wrinkled, and the skin was like loose leather over

his neck band—he wore a brass collar button but no collar. His hair was

cropped close; iron-gray bristles on a bullet-like head. His eyes were

always suffused and bloodshot. He had a coarse, scornful mouth, and

irregular, yellow teeth, much worn at the edges. His hands were square

and red, seldom clean, but always alive, impatient, even sympathetic.

“MORGEN,” he greeted his pupil in a businesslike way, put on a black

alpaca coat, and conducted her at once to the piano in Mrs. Kohler’s

sitting-room. He twirled the stool to the proper height, pointed to it,

and sat down in a wooden chair beside Thea.

“The scale of B flat major,” he directed, and then fell into an attitude

of deep attention. Without a word his pupil set to work.

To Mrs. Kohler, in the garden, came the cheerful sound of effort, of

vigorous striving. Unconsciously she wielded her rake more lightly.

Occasionally she heard the teacher’s voice. “Scale of E minor…WEITER,

WEITER!...IMMER I hear the thumb, like a lame foot. WEITER...WEITER,

once…SCHON! The chords, quick!”

The pupil did not open her mouth until they began the second movement of

the Clementi sonata, when she remonstrated in low tones about the way he

had marked the fingering of a passage.

“It makes no matter what you think,” replied her teacher coldly. “There

is only one right way. The thumb there. EIN, ZWEI, DREI, VIER,” etc.

Then for an hour there was no further interruption.

At the end of the lesson Thea turned on her stool and leaned her arm on

the keyboard. They usually had a little talk after the lesson.

Herr Wunsch grinned. “How soon is it you are free from school? Then we

make ahead faster, eh?”

“First week in June. Then will you give me the ‘Invitation to the

Dance’?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It makes no matter. If you want him, you

play him out of lesson hours.”

“All right.” Thea fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled slip

of paper. “What does this mean, please? I guess it’s Latin.”

Wunsch blinked at the line penciled on the paper. “Wherefrom you get

this?” he asked gruffly.

“Out of a book Dr. Archie gave me to read. It’s all English but that.

Did you ever see it before?” she asked, watching his face.

“Yes. A long time ago,” he muttered, scowling. “Ovidius!” He took a stub

of lead pencil from his vest pocket, steadied his hand by a visible

effort, and under the words:

“LENTE CURRITE, LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI,” he wrote in a clear,

elegant Gothic hand,—

“GO SLOWLY, GO SLOWLY, YE STEEDS OF THE NIGHT.”

He put the pencil back in his pocket and continued to stare at the

Latin. It recalled the poem, which he had read as a student, and thought

very fine. There were treasures of memory which no lodging-house keeper

could attach. One carried things about in one’s head, long after one’s

linen could be smuggled out in a tuning-bag. He handed the paper back

to Thea. “There is the English, quite elegant,” he said, rising.

Mrs. Kohler stuck her head in at the door, and Thea slid off the stool.

“Come in, Mrs. Kohler,” she called, “and show me the piece-picture.”

The old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening gloves, and pushed

Thea to the lounge before the object of her delight. The

“piece-picture,” which hung on the wall and nearly covered one whole end

of the room, was the handiwork of Fritz Kohler. He had learned his trade

under an old-fashioned tailor in Magdeburg who required from each of his

apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his shop, each

apprentice had to copy in cloth some well known German painting,

stitching bits of colored stuff together on a linen background; a kind

of mosaic. The pupil was allowed to select his subject, and Fritz Kohler

had chosen a popular painting of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The

gloomy Emperor and his staff were represented as crossing a stone

bridge, and behind them was the blazing city, the walls and fortresses

done in gray cloth with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes

and minarets. Napoleon rode his white horse; Murat, in Oriental dress, a

bay charger. Thea was never tired of examining this work, of hearing how

long it had taken Fritz to make it, how much it had been admired, and

what narrow escapes it had had from moths and fire. Silk, Mrs. Kohler

explained, would have been much easier to manage than woolen cloth, in

which it was often hard to get the right shades. The reins of the

horses, the wheels of the spurs, the brooding eyebrows of the Emperor,

Murat’s fierce mustaches, the great shakos of the Guard, were all worked

out with the minutest fidelity. Thea’s admiration for this picture had

endeared her to Mrs. Kohler. It was now many years since she used to

point out its wonders to her own little boys. As Mrs. Kohler did not go

to church, she never heard any singing, except the songs that floated

over from Mexican Town, and Thea often sang for her after the lesson was

over. This morning Wunsch pointed to the piano.

“On Sunday, when I go by the church, I hear you sing something.”

Thea obediently sat down on the stool again and began, ”COME, YE

DISCONSOLATE.” Wunsch listened thoughtfully, his hands on his knees.

Such a beautiful child’s voice! Old Mrs. Kohler’s face relaxed in a

smile of happiness; she half closed her eyes. A big fly was darting in

and out of the window; the sunlight made a golden pool on the rag carpet

and bathed the faded cretonne pillows on the lounge, under the

piece-picture. ”EARTH HAS NO SORROW THAT HEAVEN CANNOT HEAL,” the song

died away.

“That is a good thing to remember,” Wunsch shook himself. “You believe

that?” looking quizzically at Thea.

She became confused and pecked nervously at a black key with her middle

finger. “I don’t know. I guess so,” she murmured.

Her teacher rose abruptly. “Remember, for next time, thirds. You ought

to get up earlier.”

That night the air was so warm that Fritz and Herr Wunsch had their

after-supper pipe in the grape arbor, smoking in silence while the sound

of fiddles and guitars came across the ravine from Mexican Town. Long

after Fritz and his old Paulina had gone to bed, Wunsch sat motionless

in the arbor, looking up through the woolly vine leaves at the

glittering machinery of heaven.

“LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI.”

That line awoke many memories. He was thinking of youth; of his own, so

long gone by, and of his pupil’s, just beginning. He would even have

cherished hopes for her, except that he had become superstitious. He

believed that whatever he hoped for was destined not to be; that his

affection brought ill-fortune, especially to the young; that if he held

anything in his thoughts, he harmed it. He had taught in music schools

in St. Louis and Kansas City, where the shallowness and complacency of

the young misses had maddened him. He had encountered bad manners and

bad faith, had been the victim of sharpers of all kinds, was dogged by

bad luck. He had played in orchestras that were never paid and wandering

opera troupes which disbanded penniless. And there was always the old

enemy, more relentless than the others. It was long since he had wished

anything or desired anything beyond the necessities of the body. Now

that he was tempted to hope for another, he felt alarmed and shook his

head.

It was his pupil’s power of application, her rugged will, that

interested him. He had lived for so long among people whose sole

ambition was to get something for nothing that he had learned not to

look for seriousness in anything. Now that he by chance encountered it,

it recalled standards, ambitions, a society long forgot. What was it she

reminded him of? A yellow flower, full of sunlight, perhaps. No; a thin

glass full of sweet-smelling, sparkling Moselle wine. He seemed to see

such a glass before him in the arbor, to watch the bubbles rising and

breaking, like the silent discharge of energy in the nerves and brain,

the rapid florescence in young blood—Wunsch felt ashamed and dragged

his slippers along the path to the kitchen, his eyes on the ground.

V

The children in the primary grades were sometimes required to make

relief maps of Moonstone in sand. Had they used colored sands, as the

Navajo medicine men do in their sand mosaics, they could easily have

indicated the social classifications of Moonstone, since these conformed

to certain topographical boundaries, and every child understood them

perfectly.

The main business street ran, of course, through the center of the town.

To the west of this street lived all the people who were, as Tillie

Kronborg said, “in society.” Sylvester Street, the third parallel with

Main Street on the west, was the longest in town, and the best dwellings

were built along it. Far out at the north end, nearly a mile from the

court-house and its cottonwood grove, was Dr. Archie’s house, its big

yard and garden surrounded by a white paling fence. The Methodist Church

was in the center of the town, facing the court-house square. The

Kronborgs lived half a mile south of the church, on the long street that

stretched out like an arm to the depot settlement. This was the first

street west of Main, and was built up only on one side. The preacher’s

house faced the backs of the brick and frame store buildings and a draw

full of sunflowers and scraps of old iron. The sidewalk which ran in

front of the Kronborgs’ house was the one continuous sidewalk to the

depot, and all the train men and roundhouse employees passed the front

gate every time they came uptown. Thea and Mrs. Kronborg had many

friends among the railroad men, who often paused to chat across the

fence, and of one of these we shall have more to say.

In the part of Moonstone that lay east of Main Street, toward the deep

ravine which, farther south, wound by Mexican Town, lived all the

humbler citizens, the people who voted but did not run for office. The

houses were little story-and-a-half cottages, with none of the fussy

architectural efforts that marked those on Sylvester Street. They

nestled modestly behind their cottonwoods and Virginia creeper; their

occupants had no social pretensions to keep up. There were no half-glass

front doors with doorbells, or formidable parlors behind closed

shutters. Here the old women washed in the back yard, and the men sat in

the front doorway and smoked their pipes. The people on Sylvester Street

scarcely knew that this part of the town existed. Thea liked to take

Thor and her express wagon and explore these quiet, shady streets, where

the people never tried to have lawns or to grow elms and pine trees, but

let the native timber have its way and spread in luxuriance. She had

many friends there, old women who gave her a yellow rose or a spray of

trumpet vine and appeased Thor with a cooky or a doughnut. They called

Thea “that preacher’s girl,” but the demonstrative was misplaced, for

when they spoke of Mr. Kronborg they called him “the Methodist

preacher.”

Dr. Archie was very proud of his yard and garden, which he worked

himself. He was the only man in Moonstone who was successful at growing

rambler roses, and his strawberries were famous. One morning when Thea

was downtown on an errand, the doctor stopped her, took her hand and

went over her with a quizzical eye, as he nearly always did when they

met.

“You haven’t been up to my place to get any strawberries yet, Thea.

They’re at their best just now. Mrs. Archie doesn’t know what to do with

them all. Come up this afternoon. Just tell Mrs. Archie I sent you.

Bring a big basket and pick till you are tired.”

When she got home Thea told her mother that she didn’t want to go,

because she didn’t like Mrs. Archie.

“She is certainly one queer woman,” Mrs. Kronborg assented, “but he’s

asked you so often, I guess you’ll have to go this time. She won’t bite

you.”

After dinner Thea took a basket, put Thor in his baby buggy, and set out

for Dr. Archie’s house at the other end of town. As soon as she came

within sight of the house, she slackened her pace. She approached it

very slowly, stopping often to pick dandelions and sand-peas for Thor to

crush up in his fist.

It was his wife’s custom, as soon as Dr. Archie left the house in the

morning, to shut all the doors and windows to keep the dust out, and to

pull down the shades to keep the sun from fading the carpets. She

thought, too, that neighbors were less likely to drop in if the house

was closed up. She was one of those people who are stingy without motive

or reason, even when they can gain nothing by it. She must have known

that skimping the doctor in heat and food made him more extravagant than

he would have been had she made him comfortable. He never came home for

lunch, because she gave him such miserable scraps and shreds of food. No

matter how much milk he bought, he could never get thick cream for his

strawberries. Even when he watched his wife lift it from the milk in

smooth, ivory-colored blankets, she managed, by some sleight-of-hand, to

dilute it before it got to the breakfast table. The butcher’s favorite

joke was about the kind of meat he sold Mrs. Archie. She felt no

interest in food herself, and she hated to prepare it. She liked nothing

better than to have Dr. Archie go to Denver for a few days—he often

went chiefly because he was hungry—and to be left alone to eat canned

salmon and to keep the house shut up from morning until night.

Mrs. Archie would not have a servant because, she said, “they ate too

much and broke too much”; she even said they knew too much. She used

what mind she had in devising shifts to minimize her housework. She used

to tell her neighbors that if there were no men, there would be no

housework. When Mrs. Archie was first married, she had been always in a

panic for fear she would have children. Now that her apprehensions on

that score had grown paler, she was almost as much afraid of having dust

in the house as she had once been of having children in it. If dust did

not get in, it did not have to be got out, she said. She would take any

amount of trouble to avoid trouble. Why, nobody knew. Certainly her

husband had never been able to make her out. Such little, mean natures

are among the darkest and most baffling of created things. There is no

law by which they can be explained. The ordinary incentives of pain and

pleasure do not account for their behavior. They live like insects,

absorbed in petty activities that seem to have nothing to do with any

genial aspect of human life.

Mrs. Archie, as Mrs. Kronborg said, “liked to gad.” She liked to have

her house clean, empty, dark, locked, and to be out of it—anywhere. A

church social, a prayer meeting, a ten-cent show; she seemed to have no

preference. When there was nowhere else to go, she used to sit for hours

in Mrs. Smiley’s millinery and notion store, listening to the talk of

the women who came in, watching them while they tried on hats, blinking

at them from her corner with her sharp, restless little eyes. She never

talked much herself, but she knew all the gossip of the town and she had

a sharp ear for racy anecdotes—“traveling men’s stories,” they used to

be called in Moonstone. Her clicking laugh sounded like a typewriting

machine in action, and, for very pointed stories, she had a little

screech.

Mrs. Archie had been Mrs. Archie for only six years, and when she was

Belle White she was one of the “pretty” girls in Lansing, Michigan. She

had then a train of suitors. She could truly remind Archie that “the

boys hung around her.” They did. They thought her very spirited and were

always saying, “Oh, that Belle White, she’s a case!” She used to play

heavy practical jokes which the young men thought very clever. Archie

was considered the most promising young man in “the young crowd,” so

Belle selected him. She let him see, made him fully aware, that she had

selected him, and Archie was the sort of boy who could not withstand

such enlightenment. Belle’s family were sorry for him. On his wedding

day her sisters looked at the big, handsome boy—he was twenty-four—as

he walked down the aisle with his bride, and then they looked at each

other. His besotted confidence, his sober, radiant face, his gentle,

protecting arm, made them uncomfortable. Well, they were glad that he

was going West at once, to fulfill his doom where they would not be

onlookers. Anyhow, they consoled themselves, they had got Belle off

their hands.

More than that, Belle seemed to have got herself off her hands. Her

reputed prettiness must have been entirely the result of determination,

of a fierce little ambition. Once she had married, fastened herself on

some one, come to port,—it vanished like the ornamental plumage which

drops away from some birds after the mating season. The one aggressive

action of her life was over. She began to shrink in face and stature. Of

her harum-scarum spirit there was nothing left but the little screech.

Within a few years she looked as small and mean as she was.

Thor’s chariot crept along. Thea approached the house unwillingly. She

didn’t care about the strawberries, anyhow. She had come only because

she did not want to hurt Dr. Archie’s feelings. She not only disliked

Mrs. Archie, she was a little afraid of her. While Thea was getting the

heavy baby-buggy through the iron gate she heard some one call, “Wait a

minute!” and Mrs. Archie came running around the house from the back

door, her apron over her head. She came to help with the buggy, because

she was afraid the wheels might scratch the paint off the gateposts. She

was a skinny little woman with a great pile of frizzy light hair on a

small head.

“Dr. Archie told me to come up and pick some strawberries,” Thea

muttered, wishing she had stayed at home.

Mrs. Archie led the way to the back door, squinting and shading her eyes

with her hand. “Wait a minute,” she said again, when Thea explained why

she had come.

She went into her kitchen and Thea sat down on the porch step. When Mrs.

Archie reappeared she carried in her hand a little wooden butter-basket

trimmed with fringed tissue paper, which she must have brought home from

some church supper. “You’ll have to have something to put them in,” she

said, ignoring the yawning willow basket which stood empty on Thor’s

feet. “You can have this, and you needn’t mind about returning it. You

know about not trampling the vines, don’t you?”

Mrs. Archie went back into the house and Thea leaned over in the sand

and picked a few strawberries. As soon as she was sure that she was not

going to cry, she tossed the little basket into the big one and ran

Thor’s buggy along the gravel walk and out of the gate as fast as she

could push it. She was angry, and she was ashamed for Dr. Archie. She

could not help thinking how uncomfortable he would be if he ever found

out about it. Little things like that were the ones that cut him most.

She slunk home by the back way, and again almost cried when she told her

mother about it.

Mrs. Kronborg was frying doughnuts for her husband’s supper. She laughed

as she dropped a new lot into the hot grease. “It’s wonderful, the way

some people are made,” she declared. “But I wouldn’t let that upset me

if I was you. Think what it would be to live with it all the time. You

look in the black pocketbook inside my handbag and take a dime and go

downtown and get an ice-cream soda. That’ll make you feel better. Thor

can have a little of the ice-cream if you feed it to him with a spoon.

He likes it, don’t you, son?” She stooped to wipe his chin. Thor was

only six months old and inarticulate, but it was quite true that he

liked ice-cream.

VI

Seen from a balloon, Moonstone would have looked like a Noah’s ark town

set out in the sand and lightly shaded by gray-green tamarisks and

cottonwoods. A few people were trying to make soft maples grow in their

turfed lawns, but the fashion of planting incongruous trees from the

North Atlantic States had not become general then, and the frail,

brightly painted desert town was shaded by the light-reflecting,

wind-loving trees of the desert, whose roots are always seeking water

and whose leaves are always talking about it, making the sound of rain.

The long porous roots of the cottonwood are irrepressible. They break

into the wells as rats do into granaries, and thieve the water.

The long street which connected Moonstone with the depot settlement

traversed in its course a considerable stretch of rough open country,

staked out in lots but not built up at all, a weedy hiatus between the

town and the railroad. When you set out along this street to go to the

station, you noticed that the houses became smaller and farther apart,

until they ceased altogether, and the board sidewalk continued its

uneven course through sunflower patches, until you reached the solitary,

new brick Catholic Church. The church stood there because the land was

given to the parish by the man who owned the adjoining waste lots, in

the hope of making them more salable—“Farrier’s Addition,” this patch

of prairie was called in the clerk’s office. An eighth of a mile beyond

the church was a washout, a deep sand-gully, where the board sidewalk

became a bridge for perhaps fifty feet. Just beyond the gully was old

Uncle Billy Beemer’s grove,—twelve town lots set out in fine,

well-grown cottonwood trees, delightful to look upon, or to listen to,

as they swayed and rippled in the wind. Uncle Billy had been one of the

most worthless old drunkards who ever sat on a store box and told filthy

stories. One night he played hide-and-seek with a switch engine and got

his sodden brains knocked out. But his grove, the one creditable thing

he had ever done in his life, rustled on. Beyond this grove the houses

of the depot settlement began, and the naked board walk, that had run in

out of the sunflowers, again became a link between human dwellings.

One afternoon, late in the summer, Dr. Howard Archie was fighting his

way back to town along this walk through a blinding sandstorm, a silk

handkerchief tied over his mouth. He had been to see a sick woman down

in the depot settlement, and he was walking because his ponies had been

out for a hard drive that morning.

As he passed the Catholic Church he came upon Thea and Thor. Thea was

sitting in a child’s express wagon, her feet out behind, kicking the

wagon along and steering by the tongue. Thor was on her lap and she held

him with one arm. He had grown to be a big cub of a baby, with a

constitutional grievance, and he had to be continually amused. Thea took

him philosophically, and tugged and pulled him about, getting as much

fun as she could under her encumbrance. Her hair was blowing about her

face, and her eyes were squinting so intently at the uneven board

sidewalk in front of her that she did not see the doctor until he spoke

to her.

“Look out, Thea. You’ll steer that youngster into the ditch.”

The wagon stopped. Thea released the tongue, wiped her hot, sandy face,

and pushed back her hair. “Oh, no, I won’t! I never ran off but once,

and then he didn’t get anything but a bump. He likes this better than a

baby buggy, and so do I.”

“Are you going to kick that cart all the way home?”

“Of course. We take long trips; wherever there is a sidewalk. It’s no

good on the road.”

“Looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. Are you going to be

busy to-night? Want to make a call with me? Spanish Johnny’s come home

again, all used up. His wife sent me word this morning, and I said I’d

go over to see him to-night. He’s an old chum of yours, isn’t he?”

“Oh, I’m glad. She’s been crying her eyes out. When did he come?”

“Last night, on Number Six. Paid his fare, they tell me. Too sick to

beat it. There’ll come a time when that boy won’t get back, I’m afraid.

Come around to my office about eight o’clock,—and you needn’t bring

that!”

Thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and

began to kick the side of the wagon, shouting, “Go-go, go-go!” Thea

leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. Dr. Archie stepped in front

of her and blocked the way. “Why don’t you make him wait? What do you

let him boss you like that for?”

“If he gets mad he throws himself, and then I can’t do anything with

him. When he’s mad he’s lots stronger than me, aren’t you, Thor?” Thea

spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. He grunted approvingly as

his sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off

and soon disappeared in the flying currents of sand.

That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted

back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp. All the windows were

open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was

moist where it hung over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his

book and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. When Thea Kronborg

entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his

paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the

case. It was one out of the long row of uniform volumes on the top

shelf.

“Nearly every time I come in, when you’re alone, you’re reading one of

those books,” Thea remarked thoughtfully. “They must be very nice.”

The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still

in his hand. “They aren’t exactly books, Thea,” he said seriously.

“They’re a city.”

“A history, you mean?”

“Yes, and no. They’re a history of a live city, not a dead one. A

Frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the

kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it’s very

interesting. You’ll like to read it some day, when you’re grown up.”

Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, “A Distinguished

Provincial in Paris.”

“It doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“Perhaps not, but it is.” The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low

enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. “Yes,”

he went on with some satisfaction, “I think you’ll like them some day.

You’re always curious about people, and I expect this man knew more

about people than anybody that ever lived.”

“City people or country people?”

“Both. People are pretty much the same everywhere.”

“Oh, no, they’re not. The people who go through in the dining-car aren’t

like us.”

“What makes you think they aren’t, my girl? Their clothes?”

Thea shook her head. “No, it’s something else. I don’t know.” Her eyes

shifted under the doctor’s searching gaze and she glanced up at the row

of books. “How soon will I be old enough to read them?”

“Soon enough, soon enough, little girl.” The doctor patted her hand and

looked at her index finger. “The nail’s coming all right, isn’t it? But

I think that man makes you practice too much. You have it on your mind

all the time.” He had noticed that when she talked to him she was always

opening and shutting her hands. “It makes you nervous.”

“No, he don’t,” Thea replied stubbornly, watching Dr. Archie return the

book to its niche.

He took up a black leather case, put on his hat, and they went down the

dark stairs into the street. The summer moon hung full in the sky. For

the time being, it was the great fact in the world. Beyond the edge of

the town the plain was so white that every clump of sage stood out

distinct from the sand, and the dunes looked like a shining lake. The

doctor took off his straw hat and carried it in his hand as they walked

toward Mexican Town, across the sand.

North of Pueblo, Mexican settlements were rare in Colorado then. This

one had come about accidentally. Spanish Johnny was the first Mexican

who came to Moonstone. He was a painter and decorator, and had been

working in Trinidad, when Ray Kennedy told him there was a “boom” on in

Moonstone, and a good many new buildings were going up. A year after

Johnny settled in Moonstone, his cousin, Famos Serrenos, came to work in

the brickyard; then Serrenos’ cousins came to help him. During the

strike, the master mechanic put a gang of Mexicans to work in the

roundhouse. The Mexicans had arrived so quietly, with their blankets and

musical instruments, that before Moonstone was awake to the fact, there

was a Mexican quarter; a dozen families or more.

As Thea and the doctor approached the ‘dobe houses, they heard a guitar,

and a rich barytone voice—that of Famos Serrenos—singing “La

Golandrina.” All the Mexican houses had neat little yards, with tamarisk

hedges and flowers, and walks bordered with shells or whitewashed

stones. Johnny’s house was dark. His wife, Mrs. Tellamantez, was sitting

on the doorstep, combing her long, blue-black hair. (Mexican women are

like the Spartans; when they are in trouble, in love, under stress of

any kind, they comb and comb their hair.) She rose without embarrassment

or apology, comb in hand, and greeted the doctor.

“Good-evening; will you go in?” she asked in a low, musical voice. “He

is in the back room. I will make a light.” She followed them indoors,

lit a candle and handed it to the doctor, pointing toward the bedroom.

Then she went back and sat down on her doorstep.

Dr. Archie and Thea went into the bedroom, which was dark and quiet.

There was a bed in the corner, and a man was lying on the clean sheets.

On the table beside him was a glass pitcher, half-full of water. Spanish

Johnny looked younger than his wife, and when he was in health he was

very handsome: slender, gold-colored, with wavy black hair, a round,

smooth throat, white teeth, and burning black eyes. His profile was

strong and severe, like an Indian’s. What was termed his “wildness”

showed itself only in his feverish eyes and in the color that burned on

his tawny cheeks. That night he was a coppery green, and his eyes were

like black holes. He opened them when the doctor held the candle before

his face.

“MI TESTA!” he muttered, “MI TESTA,” doctor. “LA FIEBRE!” Seeing the

doctor’s companion at the foot of the bed, he attempted a smile.

“MUCHACHA!” he exclaimed deprecatingly.

Dr. Archie stuck a thermometer into his mouth. “Now, Thea, you can run

outside and wait for me.”

Thea slipped noiselessly through the dark house and joined Mrs.

Tellamantez. The somber Mexican woman did not seem inclined to talk, but

her nod was friendly. Thea sat down on the warm sand, her back to the

moon, facing Mrs. Tellamantez on her doorstep, and began to count the

moon flowers on the vine that ran over the house. Mrs. Tellamantez was

always considered a very homely woman. Her face was of a strongly marked

type not sympathetic to Americans. Such long, oval faces, with a full

chin, a large, mobile mouth, a high nose, are not uncommon in Spain.

Mrs. Tellamantez could not write her name, and could read but little.

Her strong nature lived upon itself. She was chiefly known in Moonstone

for her forbearance with her incorrigible husband.

Nobody knew exactly what was the matter with Johnny, and everybody liked

him. His popularity would have been unusual for a white man, for a

Mexican it was unprecedented. His talents were his undoing. He had a

high, uncertain tenor voice, and he played the mandolin with exceptional

skill. Periodically he went crazy. There was no other way to explain his

behavior. He was a clever workman, and, when he worked, as regular and

faithful as a burro. Then some night he would fall in with a crowd at

the saloon and begin to sing. He would go on until he had no voice left,

until he wheezed and rasped. Then he would play his mandolin furiously,

and drink until his eyes sank back into his head. At last, when he was

put out of the saloon at closing time, and could get nobody to listen to

him, he would run away—along the railroad track, straight across the

desert. He always managed to get aboard a freight somewhere. Once beyond

Denver, he played his way southward from saloon to saloon until he got

across the border. He never wrote to his wife; but she would soon begin

to get newspapers from La Junta, Albuquerque, Chihuahua, with marked

paragraphs announcing that Juan Tellamantez and his wonderful mandolin

could be heard at the Jack Rabbit Grill, or the Pearl of Cadiz Saloon.

Mrs. Tellamantez waited and wept and combed her hair. When he was

completely wrung out and burned up,—all but destroyed,—her Juan always

came back to her to be taken care of,—once with an ugly knife wound in

the neck, once with a finger missing from his right hand,—but he played

just as well with three fingers as he had with four.

Public sentiment was lenient toward Johnny, but everybody was disgusted

with Mrs. Tellamantez for putting up with him. She ought to discipline

him, people said; she ought to leave him; she had no self-respect. In

short, Mrs. Tellamantez got all the blame. Even Thea thought she was

much too humble. To-night, as she sat with her back to the moon, looking

at the moon flowers and Mrs. Tellamantez’s somber face, she was thinking

that there is nothing so sad in the world as that kind of patience and

resignation. It was much worse than Johnny’s craziness. She even

wondered whether it did not help to make Johnny crazy. People had no

right to be so passive and resigned. She would like to roll over and

over in the sand and screech at Mrs. Tellamantez. She was glad when the

doctor came out.

The Mexican woman rose and stood respectful and expectant. The doctor

held his hat in his hand and looked kindly at her.

“Same old thing, Mrs. Tellamantez. He’s no worse than he’s been before.

I’ve left some medicine. Don’t give him anything but toast water until I

see him again. You’re a good nurse; you’ll get him out.” Dr. Archie

smiled encouragingly. He glanced about the little garden and wrinkled

his brows. “I can’t see what makes him behave so. He’s killing himself,

and he’s not a rowdy sort of fellow. Can’t you tie him up someway? Can’t

you tell when these fits are coming on?”

Mrs. Tellamantez put her hand to her forehead. “The saloon, doctor, the

excitement; that is what makes him. People listen to him, and it excites

him.”

The doctor shook his head. “Maybe. He’s too much for my calculations. I

don’t see what he gets out of it.”

“He is always fooled,”—the Mexican woman spoke rapidly and tremulously,

her long under lip quivering.

“He is good at heart, but he has no head. He fools himself. You do not

understand in this country, you are progressive. But he has no judgment,

and he is fooled.” She stooped quickly, took up one of the white

conch-shells that bordered the walk, and, with an apologetic inclination

of her head, held it to Dr. Archie’s ear. “Listen, doctor. You hear

something in there? You hear the sea; and yet the sea is very far from

here. You have judgment, and you know that. But he is fooled. To him, it

is the sea itself. A little thing is big to him.” She bent and placed

the shell in the white row, with its fellows. Thea took it up softly and

pressed it to her own ear. The sound in it startled her; it was like

something calling one. So that was why Johnny ran away. There was

something awe-inspiring about Mrs. Tellamantez and her shell.

Thea caught Dr. Archie’s hand and squeezed it hard as she skipped along

beside him back toward Moonstone. She went home, and the doctor went

back to his lamp and his book. He never left his office until after

midnight. If he did not play whist or pool in the evening, he read. It

had become a habit with him to lose himself.

VII

Thea’s twelfth birthday had passed a few weeks before her memorable call

upon Mrs. Tellamantez. There was a worthy man in Moonstone who was

already planning to marry Thea as soon as she should be old enough. His

name was Ray Kennedy, his age was thirty, and he was conductor on a

freight train, his run being from Moonstone to Denver. Ray was a big

fellow, with a square, open American face, a rock chin, and features

that one would never happen to remember. He was an aggressive idealist,

a freethinker, and, like most railroad men, deeply sentimental. Thea

liked him for reasons that had to do with the adventurous life he had

led in Mexico and the Southwest, rather than for anything very personal.

She liked him, too, because he was the only one of her friends who ever

took her to the sand hills. The sand hills were a constant

tantalization; she loved them better than anything near Moonstone, and

yet she could so seldom get to them. The first dunes were accessible

enough; they were only a few miles beyond the Kohlers’, and she could

run out there any day when she could do her practicing in the morning

and get Thor off her hands for an afternoon. But the real hills—the

Turquoise Hills, the Mexicans called them—were ten good miles away, and

one reached them by a heavy, sandy road. Dr. Archie sometimes took Thea

on his long drives, but as nobody lived in the sand hills, he never had

calls to make in that direction. Ray Kennedy was her only hope of

getting there.

This summer Thea had not been to the hills once, though Ray had planned

several Sunday expeditions. Once Thor was sick, and once the organist in

her father’s church was away and Thea had to play the organ for the

three Sunday services. But on the first Sunday in September, Ray drove

up to the Kronborgs’ front gate at nine o’clock in the morning and the

party actually set off. Gunner and Axel went with Thea, and Ray had

asked Spanish Johnny to come and to bring Mrs. Tellamantez and his

mandolin. Ray was artlessly fond of music, especially of Mexican music.

He and Mrs. Tellamantez had got up the lunch between them, and they were

to make coffee in the desert.

When they left Mexican Town, Thea was on the front seat with Ray and

Johnny, and Gunner and Axel sat behind with Mrs. Tellamantez. They

objected to this, of course, but there were some things about which Thea

would have her own way. “As stubborn as a Finn,” Mrs. Kronborg sometimes

said of her, quoting an old Swedish saying. When they passed the

Kohlers’, old Fritz and Wunsch were cutting grapes at the arbor. Thea

gave them a businesslike nod. Wunsch came to the gate and looked after

them. He divined Ray Kennedy’s hopes, and he distrusted every expedition

that led away from the piano. Unconsciously he made Thea pay for

frivolousness of this sort.

As Ray Kennedy’s party followed the faint road across the sagebrush,

they heard behind them the sound of church bells, which gave them a

sense of escape and boundless freedom. Every rabbit that shot across the

path, every sage hen that flew up by the trail, was like a runaway

thought, a message that one sent into the desert. As they went farther,

the illusion of the mirage became more instead of less convincing; a

shallow silver lake that spread for many miles, a little misty in the

sunlight. Here and there one saw reflected the image of a heifer, turned

loose to live upon the sparse sand-grass. They were magnified to a

preposterous height and looked like mammoths, prehistoric beasts

standing solitary in the waters that for many thousands of years

actually washed over that desert;—the mirage itself may be the ghost

of that long-vanished sea. Beyond the phantom lake lay the line of

many-colored hills; rich, sun-baked yellow, glowing turquoise, lavender,

purple; all the open, pastel colors of the desert.

After the first five miles the road grew heavier. The horses had to slow

down to a walk and the wheels sank deep into the sand, which now lay in

long ridges, like waves, where the last high wind had drifted it. Two

hours brought the party to Pedro’s Cup, named for a Mexican desperado

who had once held the sheriff at bay there. The Cup was a great

amphitheater, cut out in the hills, its floor smooth and packed hard,

dotted with sagebrush and greasewood.

On either side of the Cup the yellow hills ran north and south, with

winding ravines between them, full of soft sand which drained down from

the crumbling banks. On the surface of this fluid sand, one could find

bits of brilliant stone, crystals and agates and onyx, and petrified

wood as red as blood. Dried toads and lizards were to be found there,

too. Birds, decomposing more rapidly, left only feathered skeletons.

After a little reconnoitering, Mrs. Tellamantez declared that it was

time for lunch, and Ray took his hatchet and began to cut greasewood,

which burns fiercely in its green state. The little boys dragged the

bushes to the spot that Mrs. Tellamantez had chosen for her fire.

Mexican women like to cook out of doors.

After lunch Thea sent Gunner and Axel to hunt for agates. “If you see a

rattlesnake, run. Don’t try to kill it,” she enjoined.

Gunner hesitated. “If Ray would let me take the hatchet, I could kill

one all right.”

Mrs. Tellamantez smiled and said something to Johnny in Spanish.

“Yes,” her husband replied, translating, “they say in Mexico, kill a

snake but never hurt his feelings. Down in the hot country, MUCHACHA,”

turning to Thea, “people keep a pet snake in the house to kill rats and

mice. They call him the house snake. They keep a little mat for him by

the fire, and at night he curl up there and sit with the family, just as

friendly!”

Gunner sniffed with disgust. “Well, I think that’s a dirty Mexican way

to keep house; so there!”

Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps,” he muttered. A Mexican learns

to dive below insults or soar above them, after he crosses the border.

By this time the south wall of the amphitheater cast a narrow shelf of

shadow, and the party withdrew to this refuge. Ray and Johnny began to

talk about the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, two places much shrouded

in mystery in those days, and Thea listened intently. Mrs. Tellamantez

took out her drawn-work and pinned it to her knee. Ray could talk well

about the large part of the continent over which he had been knocked

about, and Johnny was appreciative.

“You been all over, pretty near. Like a Spanish boy,” he commented

respectfully.

Ray, who had taken off his coat, whetted his pocketknife thoughtfully on

the sole of his shoe. “I began to browse around early. I had a mind to

see something of this world, and I ran away from home before I was

twelve. Rustled for myself ever since.”

“Ran away?” Johnny looked hopeful. “What for?”

“Couldn’t make it go with my old man, and didn’t take to farming. There

were plenty of boys at home. I wasn’t missed.”

Thea wriggled down in the hot sand and rested her chin on her arm. “Tell

Johnny about the melons, Ray, please do!”

Ray’s solid, sunburned cheeks grew a shade redder, and he looked

reproachfully at Thea. “You’re stuck on that story, kid. You like to get

the laugh on me, don’t you? That was the finishing split I had with my

old man, John. He had a claim along the creek, not far from Denver, and

raised a little garden stuff for market. One day he had a load of melons

and he decided to take ‘em to town and sell ‘em along the street, and he

made me go along and drive for him. Denver wasn’t the queen city it is

now, by any means, but it seemed a terrible big place to me; and when we

got there, if he didn’t make me drive right up Capitol Hill! Pap got out

and stopped at folkses houses to ask if they didn’t want to buy any

melons, and I was to drive along slow. The farther I went the madder I

got, but I was trying to look unconscious, when the end-gate came loose

and one of the melons fell out and squashed. Just then a swell girl, all

dressed up, comes out of one of the big houses and calls out, ‘Hello,

boy, you’re losing your melons!’ Some dudes on the other side of the

street took their hats off to her and began to laugh. I couldn’t stand

it any longer. I grabbed the whip and lit into that team, and they tore

up the hill like jack-rabbits, them damned melons bouncing out the back

every jump, the old man cussin’ an’ yellin’ behind and everybody

laughin’. I never looked behind, but the whole of Capitol Hill must have

been a mess with them squashed melons. I didn’t stop the team till I got

out of sight of town. Then I pulled up an’ left ‘em with a rancher I was

acquainted with, and I never went home to get the lickin’ that was

waitin’ for me. I expect it’s waitin’ for me yet.”

Thea rolled over in the sand. “Oh, I wish I could have seen those melons

fly, Ray! I’ll never see anything as funny as that. Now, tell Johnny

about your first job.”

Ray had a collection of good stories. He was observant, truthful, and

kindly—perhaps the chief requisites in a good story-teller.

Occasionally he used newspaper phrases, conscientiously learned in his

efforts at self-instruction, but when he talked naturally he was always

worth listening to. Never having had any schooling to speak of, he had,

almost from the time he first ran away, tried to make good his loss. As

a sheep-herder he had worried an old grammar to tatters, and read

instructive books with the help of a pocket dictionary. By the light of

many camp-fires he had pondered upon Prescott’s histories, and the works

of Washington Irving, which he bought at a high price from a book-agent.

Mathematics and physics were easy for him, but general culture came

hard, and he was determined to get it. Ray was a freethinker, and

inconsistently believed himself damned for being one. When he was

braking, down on the Santa Fe, at the end of his run he used to climb

into the upper bunk of the caboose, while a noisy gang played poker

about the stove below him, and by the roof-lamp read Robert Ingersoll’s

speeches and “The Age of Reason.”

Ray was a loyal-hearted fellow, and it had cost him a great deal to give

up his God. He was one of the stepchildren of Fortune, and he had very

little to show for all his hard work; the other fellow always got the

best of it. He had come in too late, or too early, on several schemes

that had made money. He brought with him from all his wanderings a good

deal of information (more or less correct in itself, but unrelated, and

therefore misleading), a high standard of personal honor, a sentimental

veneration for all women, bad as well as good, and a bitter hatred of

Englishmen. Thea often thought that the nicest thing about Ray was his

love for Mexico and the Mexicans, who had been kind to him when he

drifted, a homeless boy, over the border. In Mexico, Ray was Senor

Ken-ay-dy, and when he answered to that name he was somehow a different

fellow. He spoke Spanish fluently, and the sunny warmth of that tongue

kept him from being quite as hard as his chin, or as narrow as his

popular science.

While Ray was smoking his cigar, he and Johnny fell to talking about the

great fortunes that had been made in the Southwest, and about fellows

they knew who had “struck it rich.”

“I guess you been in on some big deals down there?” Johnny asked

trustfully.

Ray smiled and shook his head. “I’ve been out on some, John. I’ve never

been exactly in on any. So far, I’ve either held on too long or let go

too soon. But mine’s coming to me, all right.” Ray looked reflective. He

leaned back in the shadow and dug out a rest for his elbow in the sand.

“The narrowest escape I ever had, was in the Bridal Chamber. If I hadn’t

let go there, it would have made me rich. That was a close call.”

Johnny looked delighted. “You don’ say! She was silver mine, I guess?”

“I guess she was! Down at Lake Valley. I put up a few hundred for the

prospector, and he gave me a bunch of stock. Before we’d got anything

out of it, my brother-in-law died of the fever in Cuba. My sister was

beside herself to get his body back to Colorado to bury him. Seemed

foolish to me, but she’s the only sister I got. It’s expensive for dead

folks to travel, and I had to sell my stock in the mine to raise the

money to get Elmer on the move. Two months afterward, the boys struck

that big pocket in the rock, full of virgin silver. They named her the

Bridal Chamber. It wasn’t ore, you remember. It was pure, soft metal you

could have melted right down into dollars. The boys cut it out with

chisels. If old Elmer hadn’t played that trick on me, I’d have been in

for about fifty thousand. That was a close call, Spanish.”

“I recollec’. When the pocket gone, the town go bust.”

“You bet. Higher’n a kite. There was no vein, just a pocket in the rock

that had sometime or another got filled up with molten silver. You’d

think there would be more somewhere about, but NADA. There’s fools

digging holes in that mountain yet.”

When Ray had finished his cigar, Johnny took his mandolin and began

Kennedy’s favorite, “Ultimo Amor.” It was now three o’clock in the

afternoon, the hottest hour in the day. The narrow shelf of shadow had

widened until the floor of the amphitheater was marked off in two

halves, one glittering yellow, and one purple. The little boys had come

back and were making a robbers’ cave to enact the bold deeds of Pedro

the bandit. Johnny, stretched gracefully on the sand, passed from

“Ultimo Amor” to “Fluvia de Oro,” and then to “Noches de Algeria,”

playing languidly.

Every one was busy with his own thoughts. Mrs. Tellamantez was thinking

of the square in the little town in which she was born; of the white

church steps, with people genuflecting as they passed, and the

round-topped acacia trees, and the band playing in the plaza. Ray

Kennedy was thinking of the future, dreaming the large Western dream of

easy money, of a fortune kicked up somewhere in the hills,—an oil well,

a gold mine, a ledge of copper. He always told himself, when he accepted

a cigar from a newly married railroad man, that he knew enough not to

marry until he had found his ideal, and could keep her like a queen. He

believed that in the yellow head over there in the sand he had found his

ideal, and that by the time she was old enough to marry, he would be

able to keep her like a queen. He would kick it up from somewhere, when

he got loose from the railroad.

Thea, stirred by tales of adventure, of the Grand Canyon and Death

Valley, was recalling a great adventure of her own. Early in the summer

her father had been invited to conduct a reunion of old frontiersmen, up

in Wyoming, near Laramie, and he took Thea along with him to play the

organ and sing patriotic songs. There they stayed at the house of an old

ranchman who told them about a ridge up in the hills called Laramie

Plain, where the wagon-trails of the Forty-niners and the Mormons were

still visible. The old man even volunteered to take Mr. Kronborg up into

the hills to see this place, though it was a very long drive to make in

one day. Thea had begged frantically to go along, and the old rancher,

flattered by her rapt attention to his stories, had interceded for her.

They set out from Laramie before daylight, behind a strong team of

mules. All the way there was much talk of the Forty-niners. The old

rancher had been a teamster in a freight train that used to crawl back

and forth across the plains between Omaha and Cherry Creek, as Denver

was then called, and he had met many a wagon train bound for California.

He told of Indians and buffalo, thirst and slaughter, wanderings in

snowstorms, and lonely graves in the desert.

The road they followed was a wild and beautiful one. It led up and up,

by granite rocks and stunted pines, around deep ravines and echoing

gorges. The top of the ridge, when they reached it, was a great flat

plain, strewn with white boulders, with the wind howling over it. There

was not one trail, as Thea had expected; there were a score; deep

furrows, cut in the earth by heavy wagon wheels, and now grown over with

dry, whitish grass. The furrows ran side by side; when one trail had

been worn too deep, the next party had abandoned it and made a new trail

to the right or left. They were, indeed, only old wagon ruts, running

east and west, and grown over with grass. But as Thea ran about among

the white stones, her skirts blowing this way and that, the wind brought

to her eyes tears that might have come anyway. The old rancher picked up

an iron ox-shoe from one of the furrows and gave it to her for a

keepsake. To the west one could see range after range of blue mountains,

and at last the snowy range, with its white, windy peaks, the clouds

caught here and there on their spurs. Again and again Thea had to hide

her face from the cold for a moment. The wind never slept on this plain,

the old man said. Every little while eagles flew over.

Coming up from Laramie, the old man had told them that he was in

Brownsville, Nebraska, when the first telegraph wires were put across

the Missouri River, and that the first message that ever crossed the

river was “Westward the course of Empire takes its way.” He had been in

the room when the instrument began to click, and all the men there had,

without thinking what they were doing, taken off their hats, waiting

bareheaded to hear the message translated. Thea remembered that message

when she sighted down the wagon tracks toward the blue mountains. She

told herself she would never, never forget it. The spirit of human

courage seemed to live up there with the eagles. For long after, when

she was moved by a Fourth-of-July oration, or a band, or a circus

parade, she was apt to remember that windy ridge.

To-day she went to sleep while she was thinking about it. When Ray

wakened her, the horses were hitched to the wagon and Gunner and Axel

were begging for a place on the front seat. The air had cooled, the sun

was setting, and the desert was on fire. Thea contentedly took the back

seat with Mrs. Tellamantez. As they drove homeward the stars began to

come out, pale yellow in a yellow sky, and Ray and Johnny began to sing

one of those railroad ditties that are usually born on the Southern

Pacific and run the length of the Santa Fe and the “Q” system before

they die to give place to a new one. This was a song about a Greaser

dance, the refrain being something like this:—

“Pedro, Pedro, swing high, swing low, And it’s allamand left again; For there’s boys that’s bold and there’s some that’s cold, But the gold boys come from Spain, Oh, the gold boys come from Spain!”

VIII

Winter was long in coming that year. Throughout October the days were

bathed in sunlight and the air was clear as crystal. The town kept its

cheerful summer aspect, the desert glistened with light, the sand hills

every day went through magical changes of color. The scarlet sage

bloomed late in the front yards, the cottonwood leaves were bright gold

long before they fell, and it was not until November that the green on

the tamarisks began to cloud and fade. There was a flurry of snow about

Thanksgiving, and then December came on warm and clear.

Thea had three music pupils now, little girls whose mothers declared

that Professor Wunsch was “much too severe.” They took their lessons on

Saturday, and this, of course, cut down her time for play. She did not

really mind this because she was allowed to use the money—her pupils

paid her twenty-five cents a lesson—to fit up a little room for herself

upstairs in the half-story. It was the end room of the wing, and was not

plastered, but was snugly lined with soft pine. The ceiling was so low

that a grown person could reach it with the palm of the hand, and it

sloped down on either side. There was only one window, but it was a

double one and went to the floor. In October, while the days were still

warm, Thea and Tillie papered the room, walls and ceiling in the same

paper, small red and brown roses on a yellowish ground. Thea bought a

brown cotton carpet, and her big brother, Gus, put it down for her one

Sunday. She made white cheesecloth curtains and hung them on a tape. Her

mother gave her an old walnut dresser with a broken mirror, and she had

her own dumpy walnut single bed, and a blue washbowl and pitcher which

she had drawn at a church fair lottery. At the head of her bed she had a

tall round wooden hat-crate, from the clothing store. This, standing on

end and draped with cretonne, made a fairly steady table for her

lantern. She was not allowed to take a lamp upstairs, so Ray Kennedy

gave her a railroad lantern by which she could read at night.

In winter this loft room of Thea’s was bitterly cold, but against her

mother’s advice—and Tillie’s—she always left her window open a little

way. Mrs. Kronborg declared that she “had no patience with American

physiology,” though the lessons about the injurious effects of alcohol

and tobacco were well enough for the boys. Thea asked Dr. Archie about

the window, and he told her that a girl who sang must always have plenty

of fresh air, or her voice would get husky, and that the cold would

harden her throat. The important thing, he said, was to keep your feet

warm. On very cold nights Thea always put a brick in the oven after

supper, and when she went upstairs she wrapped it in an old flannel

petticoat and put it in her bed. The boys, who would never heat bricks

for themselves, sometimes carried off Thea’s, and thought it a good joke

to get ahead of her.

When Thea first plunged in between her red blankets, the cold sometimes

kept her awake for a good while, and she comforted herself by

remembering all she could of “Polar Explorations,” a fat, calf-bound

volume her father had bought from a book-agent, and by thinking about

the members of Greely’s party: how they lay in their frozen

sleeping-bags, each man hoarding the warmth of his own body and trying

to make it last as long as possible against the on-coming cold that

would be everlasting. After half an hour or so, a warm wave crept over

her body and round, sturdy legs; she glowed like a little stove with the

warmth of her own blood, and the heavy quilts and red blankets grew warm

wherever they touched her, though her breath sometimes froze on the

coverlid. Before daylight, her internal fires went down a little, and

she often wakened to find herself drawn up into a tight ball, somewhat

stiff in the legs. But that made it all the easier to get up.

The acquisition of this room was the beginning of a new era in Thea’s

life. It was one of the most important things that ever happened to her.

Hitherto, except in summer, when she could be out of doors, she had

lived in constant turmoil; the family, the day school, the

Sunday-School. The clamor about her drowned the voice within herself. In

the end of the wing, separated from the other upstairs sleeping-rooms by

a long, cold, unfinished lumber room, her mind worked better. She

thought things out more clearly. Pleasant plans and ideas occurred to

her which had never come before. She had certain thoughts which were

like companions, ideas which were like older and wiser friends. She left

them there in the morning, when she finished dressing in the cold, and

at night, when she came up with her lantern and shut the door after a

busy day, she found them awaiting her. There was no possible way of

heating the room, but that was fortunate, for otherwise it would have

been occupied by one of her older brothers.

From the time when she moved up into the wing, Thea began to live a

double life. During the day, when the hours were full of tasks, she was

one of the Kronborg children, but at night she was a different person.

On Friday and Saturday nights she always read for a long while after she

was in bed. She had no clock, and there was no one to nag her.

Ray Kennedy, on his way from the depot to his boardinghouse, often

looked up and saw Thea’s light burning when the rest of the house was

dark, and felt cheered as by a friendly greeting. He was a faithful

soul, and many disappointments had not changed his nature. He was still,

at heart, the same boy who, when he was sixteen, had settled down to

freeze with his sheep in a Wyoming blizzard, and had been rescued only

to play the losing game of fidelity to other charges.

Ray had no very clear idea of what might be going on in Thea’s head, but

he knew that something was. He used to remark to Spanish Johnny, “That

girl is developing something fine.” Thea was patient with Ray, even in

regard to the liberties he took with her name. Outside the family, every

one in Moonstone, except Wunsch and Dr. Archie, called her “Thee-a,” but

this seemed cold and distant to Ray, so he called her “Thee.” Once, in a

moment of exasperation, Thea asked him why he did this, and he explained

that he once had a chum, Theodore, whose name was always abbreviated

thus, and that since he was killed down on the Santa Fe, it seemed

natural to call somebody “Thee.” Thea sighed and submitted. She was

always helpless before homely sentiment and usually changed the subject.

It was the custom for each of the different Sunday Schools in Moonstone

to give a concert on Christmas Eve. But this year all the churches were

to unite and give, as was announced from the pulpits, “a semi-sacred

concert of picked talent” at the opera house. The Moonstone Orchestra,

under the direction of Professor Wunsch, was to play, and the most

talented members of each Sunday School were to take part in the

programme. Thea was put down by the committee “for instrumental.” This

made her indignant, for the vocal numbers were always more popular. Thea

went to the president of the committee and demanded hotly if her rival,

Lily Fisher, were going to sing. The president was a big, florid,

powdered woman, a fierce W.C.T.U. worker, one of Thea’s natural enemies.

Her name was Johnson; her husband kept the livery stable, and she was

called Mrs. Livery Johnson, to distinguish her from other families of

the same surname. Mrs. Johnson was a prominent Baptist, and Lily Fisher

was the Baptist prodigy. There was a not very Christian rivalry between

the Baptist Church and Mr. Kronborg’s church.

When Thea asked Mrs. Johnson whether her rival was to be allowed to

sing, Mrs. Johnson, with an eagerness which told how she had waited for

this moment, replied that “Lily was going to recite to be obliging, and

to give other children a chance to sing.” As she delivered this thrust,

her eyes glittered more than the Ancient Mariner’s, Thea thought. Mrs.

Johnson disapproved of the way in which Thea was being brought up, of a

child whose chosen associates were Mexicans and sinners, and who was, as

she pointedly put it, “bold with men.” She so enjoyed an opportunity to

rebuke Thea, that, tightly corseted as she was, she could scarcely

control her breathing, and her lace and her gold watch chain rose and

fell “with short, uneasy motion.” Frowning, Thea turned away and walked

slowly homeward. She suspected guile. Lily Fisher was the most stuck-up

doll in the world, and it was certainly not like her to recite to be

obliging. Nobody who could sing ever recited, because the warmest

applause always went to the singers.

However, when the programme was printed in the Moonstone GLEAM, there it

was: “Instrumental solo, Thea Kronborg. Recitation, Lily Fisher.”

Because his orchestra was to play for the concert, Mr. Wunsch imagined

that he had been put in charge of the music, and he became arrogant. He

insisted that Thea should play a “Ballade” by Reinecke. When Thea

consulted her mother, Mrs. Kronborg agreed with her that the “Ballade”

would “never take” with a Moonstone audience. She advised Thea to play

“something with variations,” or, at least, “The Invitation to the

Dance.”

“It makes no matter what they like,” Wunsch replied to Thea’s

entreaties. “It is time already that they learn something.”

Thea’s fighting powers had been impaired by an ulcerated tooth and

consequent loss of sleep, so she gave in. She finally had the molar

pulled, though it was a second tooth and should have been saved. The

dentist was a clumsy, ignorant country boy, and Mr. Kronborg would not

hear of Dr. Archie’s taking Thea to a dentist in Denver, though Ray

Kennedy said he could get a pass for her. What with the pain of the

tooth, and family discussions about it, with trying to make Christmas

presents and to keep up her school work and practicing, and giving

lessons on Saturdays, Thea was fairly worn out.

On Christmas Eve she was nervous and excited. It was the first time she

had ever played in the opera house, and she had never before had to face

so many people. Wunsch would not let her play with her notes, and she

was afraid of forgetting. Before the concert began, all the participants

had to assemble on the stage and sit there to be looked at. Thea wore

her white summer dress and a blue sash, but Lily Fisher had a new pink

silk, trimmed with white swansdown.

The hall was packed. It seemed as if every one in Moonstone was there,

even Mrs. Kohler, in her hood, and old Fritz. The seats were wooden

kitchen chairs, numbered, and nailed to long planks which held them

together in rows. As the floor was not raised, the chairs were all on

the same level. The more interested persons in the audience peered over

the heads of the people in front of them to get a good view of the

stage. From the platform Thea picked out many friendly faces. There was

Dr. Archie, who never went to church entertainments; there was the

friendly jeweler who ordered her music for her,—he sold accordions and

guitars as well as watches,—and the druggist who often lent her books,

and her favorite teacher from the school. There was Ray Kennedy, with a

party of freshly barbered railroad men he had brought along with him.

There was Mrs. Kronborg with all the children, even Thor, who had been

brought out in a new white plush coat. At the back of the hall sat a

little group of Mexicans, and among them Thea caught the gleam of

Spanish Johnny’s white teeth, and of Mrs. Tellamantez’s lustrous,

smoothly coiled black hair.

After the orchestra played “Selections from Erminie,” and the Baptist

preacher made a long prayer, Tillie Kronborg came on with a highly

colored recitation, “The Polish Boy.” When it was over every one

breathed more freely. No committee had the courage to leave Tillie off a

programme. She was accepted as a trying feature of every entertainment.

The Progressive Euchre Club was the only social organization in the town

that entirely escaped Tillie. After Tillie sat down, the Ladies’

Quartette sang, “Beloved, it is Night,” and then it was Thea’s turn.

The “Ballade” took ten minutes, which was five minutes too long. The

audience grew restive and fell to whispering. Thea could hear Mrs.

Livery Johnson’s bracelets jangling as she fanned herself, and she could

hear her father’s nervous, ministerial cough. Thor behaved better than

any one else. When Thea bowed and returned to her seat at the back of

the stage there was the usual applause, but it was vigorous only from

the back of the house where the Mexicans sat, and from Ray Kennedy’s

CLAQUEURS. Any one could see that a good-natured audience had been

bored.

Because Mr. Kronborg’s sister was on the programme, it had also been

necessary to ask the Baptist preacher’s wife’s cousin to sing. She was a

“deep alto” from McCook, and she sang, “Thy Sentinel Am I.” After her

came Lily Fisher. Thea’s rival was also a blonde, but her hair was much

heavier than Thea’s, and fell in long round curls over her shoulders.

She was the angel-child of the Baptists, and looked exactly like the

beautiful children on soap calendars. Her pink-and-white face, her set

smile of innocence, were surely born of a color-press. She had long,

drooping eyelashes, a little pursed-up mouth, and narrow, pointed teeth,

like a squirrel’s.

Lily began:—

“ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, carelessly the maiden sang.”

Thea drew a long breath. That was the game; it was a recitation and a

song in one. Lily trailed the hymn through half a dozen verses with

great effect. The Baptist preacher had announced at the beginning of the

concert that “owing to the length of the programme, there would be no

encores.” But the applause which followed Lily to her seat was such an

unmistakable expression of enthusiasm that Thea had to admit Lily was

justified in going back. She was attended this time by Mrs. Livery

Johnson herself, crimson with triumph and gleaming-eyed, nervously

rolling and unrolling a sheet of music. She took off her bracelets and

played Lily’s accompaniment. Lily had the effrontery to come out with,

“She sang the song of Home, Sweet Home, the song that touched my heart.”

But this did not surprise Thea; as Ray said later in the evening, “the

cards had been stacked against her from the beginning.” The next issue

of the GLEAM correctly stated that “unquestionably the honors of the

evening must be accorded to Miss Lily Fisher.” The Baptists had

everything their own way.

After the concert Ray Kennedy joined the Kronborgs’ party and walked

home with them. Thea was grateful for his silent sympathy, even while it

irritated her. She inwardly vowed that she would never take another

lesson from old Wunsch. She wished that her father would not keep

cheerfully singing, “When Shepherds Watched,” as he marched ahead,

carrying Thor. She felt that silence would become the Kronborgs for a

while. As a family, they somehow seemed a little ridiculous, trooping

along in the starlight. There were so many of them, for one thing. Then

Tillie was so absurd. She was giggling and talking to Anna just as if

she had not made, as even Mrs. Kronborg admitted, an exhibition of

herself.

When they got home, Ray took a box from his overcoat pocket and slipped

it into Thea’s hand as he said goodnight. They all hurried in to the

glowing stove in the parlor. The sleepy children were sent to bed. Mrs.

Kronborg and Anna stayed up to fill the stockings.

“I guess you’re tired, Thea. You needn’t stay up.” Mrs. Kronborg’s clear

and seemingly indifferent eye usually measured Thea pretty accurately.

Thea hesitated. She glanced at the presents laid out on the dining-room

table, but they looked unattractive. Even the brown plush monkey she had

bought for Thor with such enthusiasm seemed to have lost his wise and

humorous expression. She murmured, “All right,” to her mother, lit her

lantern, and went upstairs.

Ray’s box contained a hand-painted white satin fan, with pond lilies—an

unfortunate reminder. Thea smiled grimly and tossed it into her upper

drawer. She was not to be consoled by toys. She undressed quickly and

stood for some time in the cold, frowning in the broken looking glass at

her flaxen pig-tails, at her white neck and arms. Her own broad,

resolute face set its chin at her, her eyes flashed into her own

defiantly. Lily Fisher was pretty, and she was willing to be just as big

a fool as people wanted her to be. Very well; Thea Kronborg wasn’t. She

would rather be hated than be stupid, any day. She popped into bed and

read stubbornly at a queer paper book the drug-store man had given her

because he couldn’t sell it. She had trained herself to put her mind on

what she was doing, otherwise she would have come to grief with her

complicated daily schedule. She read, as intently as if she had not been

flushed with anger, the strange “Musical Memories” of the Reverend H. R.

Haweis. At last she blew out the lantern and went to sleep. She had many

curious dreams that night. In one of them Mrs. Tellamantez held her

shell to Thea’s ear, and she heard the roaring, as before, and distant

voices calling, “Lily Fisher! Lily Fisher!”

IX

Mr. Kronborg considered Thea a remarkable child; but so were all his

children remarkable. If one of the business men downtown remarked to him

that he “had a mighty bright little girl, there,” he admitted it, and at

once began to explain what a “long head for business” his son Gus had,

or that Charley was “a natural electrician,” and had put in a telephone

from the house to the preacher’s study behind the church.

Mrs. Kronborg watched her daughter thoughtfully. She found her more

interesting than her other children, and she took her more seriously,

without thinking much about why she did so. The other children had to be

guided, directed, kept from conflicting with one another. Charley and

Gus were likely to want the same thing, and to quarrel about it. Anna

often demanded unreasonable service from her older brothers; that they

should sit up until after midnight to bring her home from parties when

she did not like the youth who had offered himself as her escort; or

that they should drive twelve miles into the country, on a winter night,

to take her to a ranch dance, after they had been working hard all day.

Gunner often got bored with his own clothes or stilts or sled, and

wanted Axel’s. But Thea, from the time she was a little thing, had her

own routine. She kept out of every one’s way, and was hard to manage

only when the other children interfered with her. Then there was trouble

indeed: bursts of temper which used to alarm Mrs. Kronborg. “You ought

to know enough to let Thea alone. She lets you alone,” she often said to

the other children.

One may have staunch friends in one’s own family, but one seldom has

admirers. Thea, however, had one in the person of her addle-pated aunt,

Tillie Kronborg. In older countries, where dress and opinions and

manners are not so thoroughly standardized as in our own West, there is

a belief that people who are foolish about the more obvious things of

life are apt to have peculiar insight into what lies beyond the obvious.

The old woman who can never learn not to put the kerosene can on the

stove, may yet be able to tell fortunes, to persuade a backward child to

grow, to cure warts, or to tell people what to do with a young girl who

has gone melancholy. Tillie’s mind was a curious machine; when she was

awake it went round like a wheel when the belt has slipped off, and when

she was asleep she dreamed follies. But she had intuitions. She knew,

for instance, that Thea was different from the other Kronborgs, worthy

though they all were. Her romantic imagination found possibilities in

her niece. When she was sweeping or ironing, or turning the ice-cream

freezer at a furious rate, she often built up brilliant futures for

Thea, adapting freely the latest novel she had read.

Tillie made enemies for her niece among the church people because, at

sewing societies and church suppers, she sometimes spoke vauntingly,

with a toss of her head, just as if Thea’s “wonderfulness” were an

accepted fact in Moonstone, like Mrs. Archie’s stinginess, or Mrs.

Livery Johnson’s duplicity. People declared that, on this subject,

Tillie made them tired.

Tillie belonged to a dramatic club that once a year performed in the

Moonstone Opera House such plays as “Among the Breakers,” and “The

Veteran of 1812.” Tillie played character parts, the flirtatious old

maid or the spiteful INTRIGANTE. She used to study her parts up in the

attic at home. While she was committing the lines, she got Gunner or

Anna to hold the book for her, but when she began “to bring out the

expression,” as she said, she used, very timorously, to ask Thea to hold

the book. Thea was usually—not always—agreeable about it. Her mother

had told her that, since she had some influence with Tillie, it would be

a good thing for them all if she could tone her down a shade and “keep

her from taking on any worse than need be.” Thea would sit on the foot

of Tillie’s bed, her feet tucked under her, and stare at the silly text.

“I wouldn’t make so much fuss, there, Tillie,” she would remark

occasionally; “I don’t see the point in it”; or, “What do you pitch your

voice so high for? It don’t carry half as well.”

“I don’t see how it comes Thea is so patient with Tillie,” Mrs. Kronborg

more than once remarked to her husband. “She ain’t patient with most

people, but it seems like she’s got a peculiar patience for Tillie.”

Tillie always coaxed Thea to go “behind the scenes” with her when the

club presented a play, and help her with her make-up. Thea hated it, but

she always went. She felt as if she had to do it. There was something in

Tillie’s adoration of her that compelled her. There was no family

impropriety that Thea was so much ashamed of as Tillie’s “acting” and

yet she was always being dragged in to assist her. Tillie simply had

her, there. She didn’t know why, but it was so. There was a string in

her somewhere that Tillie could pull; a sense of obligation to Tillie’s

misguided aspirations. The saloon-keepers had some such feeling of

responsibility toward Spanish Johnny.

The dramatic club was the pride of Tillie’s heart, and her enthusiasm

was the principal factor in keeping it together. Sick or well, Tillie

always attended rehearsals, and was always urging the young people, who

took rehearsals lightly, to “stop fooling and begin now.” The young

men—bank clerks, grocery clerks, insurance agents—played tricks,

laughed at Tillie, and “put it up on each other” about seeing her home;

but they often went to tiresome rehearsals just to oblige her. They were

good-natured young fellows. Their trainer and stage-manager was young

Upping, the jeweler who ordered Thea’s music for her.

Though barely thirty, he had followed half a dozen professions, and had

once been a violinist in the orchestra of the Andrews Opera Company,

then well known in little towns throughout Colorado and Nebraska.

By one amazing indiscretion Tillie very nearly lost her hold upon the

Moonstone Drama Club. The club had decided to put on “The Drummer Boy of

Shiloh,” a very ambitious undertaking because of the many supers needed

and the scenic difficulties of the act which took place in Andersonville

Prison. The members of the club consulted together in Tillie’s absence

as to who should play the part of the drummer boy. It must be taken by a

very young person, and village boys of that age are self-conscious and

are not apt at memorizing. The part was a long one, and clearly it must

be given to a girl. Some members of the club suggested Thea Kronborg,

others advocated Lily Fisher. Lily’s partisans urged that she was much

prettier than Thea, and had a much “sweeter disposition.” Nobody denied

these facts. But there was nothing in the least boyish about Lily, and

she sang all songs and played all parts alike. Lily’s simper was

popular, but it seemed not quite the right thing for the heroic drummer

boy.

Upping, the trainer, talked to one and another: “Lily’s all right for

girl parts,” he insisted, “but you’ve got to get a girl with some ginger

in her for this. Thea’s got the voice, too. When she sings, ‘Just Before

the Battle, Mother,’ she’ll bring down the house.”

When all the members of the club had been privately consulted, they

announced their decision to Tillie at the first regular meeting that was

called to cast the parts. They expected Tillie to be overcome with joy,

but, on the contrary, she seemed embarrassed. “I’m afraid Thea hasn’t

got time for that,” she said jerkily. “She is always so busy with her

music. Guess you’ll have to get somebody else.”

The club lifted its eyebrows. Several of Lily Fisher’s friends coughed.

Mr. Upping flushed. The stout woman who always played the injured wife

called Tillie’s attention to the fact that this would be a fine

opportunity for her niece to show what she could do. Her tone was

condescending.

Tillie threw up her head and laughed; there was something sharp and wild

about Tillie’s laugh—when it was not a giggle. “Oh, I guess Thea hasn’t

got time to do any showing off. Her time to show off ain’t come yet. I

expect she’ll make us all sit up when it does. No use asking her to take

the part. She’d turn her nose up at it. I guess they’d be glad to get

her in the Denver Dramatics, if they could.”

The company broke up into groups and expressed their amazement. Of

course all Swedes were conceited, but they would never have believed

that all the conceit of all the Swedes put together would reach such a

pitch as this. They confided to each other that Tillie was “just a

little off, on the subject of her niece,” and agreed that it would be as

well not to excite her further. Tillie got a cold reception at

rehearsals for a long while afterward, and Thea had a crop of new

enemies without even knowing it.

X

Wunsch and old Fritz and Spanish Johnny celebrated Christmas together,

so riotously that Wunsch was unable to give Thea her lesson the next

day. In the middle of the vacation week Thea went to the Kohlers’

through a soft, beautiful snowstorm. The air was a tender blue-gray,

like the color on the doves that flew in and out of the white dove-house

on the post in the Kohlers’ garden. The sand hills looked dim and

sleepy. The tamarisk hedge was full of snow, like a foam of blossoms

drifted over it. When Thea opened the gate, old Mrs. Kohler was just

coming in from the chicken yard, with five fresh eggs in her apron and a

pair of old top-boots on her feet. She called Thea to come and look at a

bantam egg, which she held up proudly. Her bantam hens were remiss in

zeal, and she was always delighted when they accomplished anything. She

took Thea into the sitting-room, very warm and smelling of food, and

brought her a plateful of little Christmas cakes, made according to old

and hallowed formulae, and put them before her while she warmed her

feet. Then she went to the door of the kitchen stairs and called: “Herr

Wunsch, Herr Wunsch!”

Wunsch came down wearing an old wadded jacket, with a velvet collar. The

brown silk was so worn that the wadding stuck out almost everywhere. He

avoided Thea’s eyes when he came in, nodded without speaking, and

pointed directly to the piano stool. He was not so insistent upon the

scales as usual, and throughout the little sonata of Mozart’s she was

studying, he remained languid and absent-minded. His eyes looked very

heavy, and he kept wiping them with one of the new silk handkerchiefs

Mrs. Kohler had given him for Christmas. When the lesson was over he did

not seem inclined to talk. Thea, loitering on the stool, reached for a

tattered book she had taken off the music-rest when she sat down. It was

a very old Leipsic edition of the piano score of Gluck’s “Orpheus.” She

turned over the pages curiously.

“Is it nice?” she asked.

“It is the most beautiful opera ever made,” Wunsch declared solemnly.

“You know the story, eh? How, when she die, Orpheus went down below for

his wife?”

“Oh, yes, I know. I didn’t know there was an opera about it, though. Do

people sing this now?”

“ABER JA! What else? You like to try? See.” He drew her from the stool

and sat down at the piano. Turning over the leaves to the third act, he

handed the score to Thea. “Listen, I play it through and you get the

RHYTHMUS. EINS, ZWEI, DREI, VIER.” He played through Orpheus’ lament,

then pushed back his cuffs with awakening interest and nodded at Thea.

“Now, VOM BLATT, MIT MIR.”

“ACH, ICH HABE SIE VERLOREN, ALL’ MEIN GLUCK IST NUN DAHIN.”

Wunsch sang the aria with much feeling. It was evidently one that was

very dear to him.

“NOCH EINMAL, alone, yourself.” He played the introductory measures,

then nodded at her vehemently, and she began:—

“ACH, ICH HABE SIE VERLOREN.”

When she finished, Wunsch nodded again. ”SCHON,” he muttered as he

finished the accompaniment softly. He dropped his hands on his knees and

looked up at Thea. “That is very fine, eh? There is no such beautiful

melody in the world. You can take the book for one week and learn

something, to pass the time. It is good to know—always. EURIDICE,

EU—RI—DI—CE, WEH DASS ICH AUF ERDEN BIN!” he sang softly, playing the

melody with his right hand.

Thea, who was turning over the pages of the third act, stopped and

scowled at a passage. The old German’s blurred eyes watched her

curiously.

“For what do you look so, IMMER?” puckering up his own face. “You see

something a little difficult, may-be, and you make such a face like it

was an enemy.”

Thea laughed, disconcerted. “Well, difficult things are enemies, aren’t

they? When you have to get them?”

Wunsch lowered his head and threw it up as if he were butting something.

“Not at all! By no means.” He took the book from her and looked at it.

“Yes, that is not so easy, there. This is an old book. They do not print

it so now any more, I think. They leave it out, may-be. Only one woman

could sing that good.”

Thea looked at him in perplexity.

Wunsch went on. “It is written for alto, you see. A woman sings the

part, and there was only one to sing that good in there. You understand?

Only one!” He glanced at her quickly and lifted his red forefinger

upright before her eyes.

Thea looked at the finger as if she were hypnotized. “Only one?” she

asked breathlessly; her hands, hanging at her sides, were opening and

shutting rapidly.

Wunsch nodded and still held up that compelling finger. When he dropped

his hands, there was a look of satisfaction in his face.

“Was she very great?”

Wunsch nodded.

“Was she beautiful?”

“ABER GAR NICHT! Not at all. She was ugly; big mouth, big teeth, no

figure, nothing at all,” indicating a luxuriant bosom by sweeping his

hands over his chest. “A pole, a post! But for the voice—ACH! She have

something in there, behind the eyes,” tapping his temples.

Thea followed all his gesticulations intently. “Was she German?”

“No, SPANISCH.” He looked down and frowned for a moment. ”ACH, I tell

you, she look like the Frau Tellamantez, some-thing. Long face, long

chin, and ugly al-so.”

“Did she die a long while ago?”

“Die? I think not. I never hear, anyhow. I guess she is alive somewhere

in the world; Paris, may-be. But old, of course. I hear her when I was a

youth. She is too old to sing now any more.”

“Was she the greatest singer you ever heard?”

Wunsch nodded gravely. “Quite so. She was the most—” he hunted for an

English word, lifted his hand over his head and snapped his fingers

noiselessly in the air, enunciating fiercely, “KUNST-LER-ISCH!” The word

seemed to glitter in his uplifted hand, his voice was so full of

emotion.

Wunsch rose from the stool and began to button his wadded jacket,

preparing to return to his half-heated room in the loft. Thea

regretfully put on her cloak and hood and set out for home.

When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea

had not forgotten to take it with her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic

smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubbly chin with his red fingers.

When Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying

faster, Mrs. Kohler was cooking HASENPFEFFER in the kitchen, and the

professor was seated at the piano, playing the Gluck, which he knew by

heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay

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