No More Learning

So be it: joys will end and tears will dry. —
Album! my master bids me wish good-by.
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery.
Nor signed the page that registered a lie.
AT THE CHURCH GATE
LTHOUGH I enter not,
A
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming:
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell:
She's coming, she's coming!


## p. 14729 (#303) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14729
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes-she's here - she's past-
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly:
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.
THE MAHOGANY-TREE
HRISTMAS is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,—
C
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,-
Shelter about
The Mahogany-Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom:
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.


## p. 14730 (#304) ##########################################

14730
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Life is but short;
THE
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet:
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite :
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
THE END OF THE PLAY
HE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.


## p. 14731 (#305) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14731
It is an irksome word and task;
And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
One word ere yet the evening ends; –
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas-time.
On life's wide scene you too have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play:
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!
Good-night! I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
-
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the foo'
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be he who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,


## p. 14732 (#306) ##########################################

14732
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
2
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
Who brought him to that mirth and state?
His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow.
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize. -
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead —
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still,-
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.


## p. 14733 (#307) ##########################################

14733
OCTAVE THANET
(1860 ? -)
HE Arkansas and other stories of the South and West by Oc-
tave Thanet-known in private life as Miss Alice French
are part of the vital contribution to sectional American lit-
erature. She belongs with those writers in the United States who
are studying with insight and sympathy varied types of humanity;
and while producing good literature, are drawing East and West,
North and South together, by making them better known to each
other. Miss French's stories are skillful in workmanship, warm with
humanity, and very dramatic in conception
and handling. She is a realist in the best
sense; basing her fiction on close observa-
tion and understanding of the characters
she creates. She is doing for a certain part
of the Southwest what no previous author
has done so well.
—

Although Arkansas is her favorite study
ground, and Iowa is her present home,
Miss French was born about 1860 at Ando-
ver, Massachusetts; and comes of an old
New England family, which traces back to
Massachusetts Bay colonists. Her father
went West for his health, and settled in
Davenport, Iowa; keeping in touch with
the East, however, by annual visits to the Massachusetts coast and
sojourns in Boston. Alice was graduated at Andover Academy. Her
early tastes in reading were historical, and she began by writing on
social and economic themes. Her first story to attract attention was
( The Bishop's Vagabond,' in the Atlantic Monthly; a South Carolina
watering-place sketch, which contains a salient bit of characterization
humorously presented, yet with strong undercurrents of pathos and
tragedy, and which proved the forerunner of many which revealed to
her and her public the true scope and nature of her powers.
Miss French passes her winters on her plantation, Clover Bend,
on the Black River, in Arkansas; and it is there that she has made
the careful studies of the native life upon which her tales are based.
The scenery, the characters, and even the incidents, in some of her
OCTAVE THANET


## p. 14734 (#308) ##########################################

14734
OCTAVE THANET
fiction, are direct transcripts of what she has seen and heard, ideal-
ized by the artist touch. The pseudonym "Octave Thanet" is in
derivation a curious composite: the first of the two names is that of
a school room-mate, the second was discovered on the side of a pass-
ing freight-car.
Miss French's first collection of short stories was 'Knitters in the
Sun' (1884): and it has been followed by 'Expiation,' a novel (1890);
'Otto the Knight, and other Trans-Mississippi Stories' (1891); 'We
All,' another novel (1891); Stories of a Western Town' (1893); 'An
Adventure in Photography,' a practical treatise on amateur picture-
taking (1893); and 'The Missionary Sheriff,' in which the West instead
of the Southwest is depicted, -the tales being laid in Iowa and
Illinois. The author's growth, from the lurid massing of horrors in
'Expiation, an Arkansas war-tale of the most grewsome sort,- to
the later short stories, with their artistic restraint and fine sense of
balanced comedy and tragedy, has been steady in the direction of an
assured command of her material. Her fiction as a whole furnishes
an admirably vivid interpretation of a very individual and interest-
ing kind of American life. Dialect, character, and scenery are put
before the reader with force and truth; and while interest is aroused
by the fresh locale, it is held by the writer's power in story-making,
and in dramatic situations. When she shifts the scene from Arkansas
to Iowa, as in the title-story, The Missionary Sheriff,'— one of her
most enjoyable character studies, she displays the same effective
qualities. She deals with the main motives and passions of plain
men and women. Miss French is strongest in the short story; that
medium affords her talent its best expression. She is at once accu-
rate and picturesque in her descriptions. The land of the canebrake
and the cypress swamp, of the poor white, the decayed planter and
the negro, the Western town with its crude energy and strongly
marked types, are painted in a way to make it all real; yet a fine
romanticism colors Miss French's work: she has faith in the good in
rough, uncouth folk; she finds nobler traits masking in unexpected
quarters. Her interest in the great practical problems that concern
her country is illustrated in the series of Stories of Capital and
Labor,' which at the present writing stand for her latest work. Her
fiction thus satisfies the desire for truth in the literal sense, and for
that higher truth which is just as true and much more inspiring.


## p. 14735 (#309) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14735
THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF
From The Missionary Sheriff. Copyright 1897, by Harper & Brothers
HERIFF WICKLIFF leaned out of his office window, the better to
watch the boy soldiers march down the street.
The huge
SHE
pile of stone that is the presumed home of Justice for the
county, stands in the same yard with the old yellow stone jail.
The court-house is ornate and imposing, although a hundred
active chimneys daub its eaves and carvings; but the jail is as
plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet during Sheriff Wickliff's adminis
tration, while Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron,
window-gardens brightened the grim walls all summer, and
chrysanthemums and roses blazoned the black bars in winter.
Above the jail the street is a pretty street, with trim cottages.
and lawns and gardens; below, the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into
shabby one and two story wooden shops devoted to the humbler
handicrafts. It is not a street favored by processions: only the
little soldiers of the Orphans' Home Company would choose to
tramp over its unkempt macadam. Good reason they had, too;
since thus they passed the sheriff's office, and it was the sheriff
who had given most of the money for their uniforms, and their
drums and fifes outright.
A voice at the sheriff's elbow caused him to turn.
"Well, Amos," said his deputy with Western familiarity, "get-
ting the interest on your money? "
Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame: he was six feet
two inches in height, with bones and thews to match his stat-
ure. A stiff black mustache, curving about his mouth and lift-
ing as he smiled, made his white teeth look the whiter. One of
the upper teeth was crooked. That angle had come in an ugly
fight (when he was a special officer and detective) in the Chicago
stock-yards; he having to hold a mob at bay, single-handed, to
save the life of a wounded policeman. The scar seaming his jaw
and neck belonged to the time that he captured a notorious gang
of train robbers. He brought the robbers in—that is, he brought
their bodies; and "That scar was worth three thousand dollars
to me," he was wont to say. In point of fact it was worth more;
because he had invested the money so advantageously, that thanks
to it and the savings which he had been able to add, in spite
of his free hand, he was now become a man of property.
The


## p. 14736 (#310) ##########################################

14736
OCTAVE THANET
sheriff's high cheek-bones, straight hair (black as a dead coal),
and narrow black eyes, were the arguments for a general belief
that an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage of his
genealogical tree. All that people really knew about him was
that his mother died when he was a baby, and his father about
the same time was killed in battle, leaving their only child to
drift from one reluctant protector to another, until he brought
up in the Soldiers' Orphans' Home of the State. If the sheriff's
eyes were Indian, Indians may have very gentle eyes. He turned
them now on the deputy with a smile.
"Well, Joe, what's up? " said he.
"The lightning-rod feller wants to see you as soon as you
come back to the jail, he says. And here's something he dropped
as he was going to his room. Don't look much like it could be
his mother. Must have prigged it. "
The sheriff examined the photograph,- an ordinary cabinet
card. The portrait was that of a woman, pictured with the re-
lentless frankness of a rural photographer's camera. Every sad
line in the plain elderly face, every wrinkle in the ill-fitting silk
gown, showed with a brutal distinctness, and somehow made the
picture more pathetic. The woman's hair was gray and thin;
her eyes, which were dark, looked straight forward, and seemed
to meet the sheriff's gaze. They had no especial beauty of form;
but they, as well as the mouth, had an expression of wistful kind-
liness that fixed his eyes on them for a full minute. He sighed
as he dropped his hand. Then he observed that there was writ-
ing on the reverse side of the carte, and lifted it again to read.
In a neat cramped hand was written:
"FEB. 21, 1889.
"To Eddy, from Mother.
"The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to
shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. "
Wickliff put the carte in his pocket.
"That's just the kind of mother I'd like to have," said he:
"awful nice and good, and not so fine she'd be ashamed of me.
And to think of him. "
"He's an awful slick one," assented the deputy cordially.
«< Two years we've been ayfter him. New games all the time;
but the lightning-rods ain't in it with this last scheme,- working


## p. 14737 (#311) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14737
hisself off as a Methodist parson on the road to a job, and stop-
ping all night, and then the runaway couple happening in, and
that poor farmer and his wife so excited and interested, and of
course they'd witness and sign the certificate: wisht I'd seen them
when they found out! "
"They gave 'em cake and some currant wine, too. "
"That's just like women. Say, I didn't think the girl was
much to brag on for looks -
>>
"Got a kinder way with her, though," Wickliff struck in.
"Depend on it, Joseph, the most dangerous of them all are the
homely girls with a way to them. A man's off his guard with
them: he's sorry for them not being pretty, and being so nice
and humble; and before he knows it they're winding him round
their finger. "
"I didn't know you was so much of a philosopher, Amos,"
said the deputy, admiring him.
"It ain't me, Joe: it's the business. Being a philosopher, I
take it, ain't much more than seeing things with the paint off;
and there's nothing like being a detective to get the paint off.
It's a great business for keeping a man straight, too, seeing the
consequences of wickedness so constantly,-especially fool wicked-
ness that gets found out. Well, Joe, if this lady"-touching his
breast pocket-"is that guy's mother, I'm awful sorry for her,
for I know she tried to train him right. I'll go over and find
out, I guess. "
So saying, and quite unconscious of the approving looks of
his subordinate (for he was a simple-minded, modest man, who
only spoke out of the fullness of his heart), the sheriff walked
over to the jail.
The corridor into which the cells of the unconvicted prison-
ers opened was rather full to-day. As the sheriff entered, every
one greeted him, even the sullen-browed man talking with a
sobbing woman through the bars,—and every one smiled. He
nodded to all, but only spoke to the visitor.
He said, "I guess
he didn't do it this time, Lizzie; he won't be in long. "
―――
"That's what I been tellin' her," growled the man, "and she
won't believe me; I told her I promised you- >>
"And God A'mighty bless you, sheriff, for what you done! "
the woman wailed. The sheriff had some ado to escape from her
benedictions politely; but he got away, and knocked at the door
of the last cell on the tier. The inmate opened the door himself.
XXV-922


## p. 14738 (#312) ##########################################

14738
OCTAVE THANET
He was a small man, who was still wearing the clerical habit
of his last criminal masquerade; and his face carried out the
suggestion of his costume, being an actor's face, not only in the
clean-shaven cheeks and lips, but in the flexibility of the features
and the unconscious alertness of gaze. He was fair of skin, and
his light-brown hair was worn off his head at the temples. His
eyes were fine, well shaped, of a beautiful violet color and an
extremely pleasant expression. He looked like a mere boy across
the room in the shadow; but as he advanced, certain deep lines
about his mouth displayed themselves and raised his age. The
sunlight showed that he was thin; he was haggard the instant
he ceased to smile. With a very good manner he greeted the
sheriff, to whom he proffered the sole chair of the apartment.
"Guess the bed will hold me," said the sheriff, testing his
words by sitting down on the white-covered iron bedstead.
"Well, I hear you wanted to see me. "
"Yes, sir. I want to get my money that you took away from
me. "
"Well, I guess you can't have it. " The sheriff spoke with a
smile, but his black eyes narrowed a little. "I guess the court
will have to decide first if that ain't old man Goodrich's money
that you got from the note he supposed was a marriage certifi
cate. I guess you'd better not put any hopes on that money,
Mr. Paisley. — Wasn't that the name you gave me? "
"Paisley 'll do," said the other man indifferently. "What be-
came of my friend? "
"The sheriff of Hardin County wanted the man; and the
ladywell, the lady is here boarding with me. "
"Going to squeal? "
«< Going to tell all she knows. "
Paisley's hand went up to his mouth; he changed color.
"It's like her," he muttered; "oh, it's just like her! " And he
added a villainous epithet.
"None of that talk," said Wickliff.
The man had jumped up and was pacing his narrow space,
fighting against a climbing rage. "You see," he cried, unable to
contain himself,- "you see, what makes me so mad is now I've
got to get my mother to help me: and I'd rather take a licking! "
"I should think you would," said Wickliff dryly. "Say, this
your mother? " He handed him the photograph, the written side
upward.


## p. 14739 (#313) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14739
"It came in a Bible," explained Paisley with an embarrassed
air.
"Your mother rich? "
"She can raise the money. "
"Meaning, I expect, that she can mortgage her house and lot.
Look here, Smith, this ain't the first time your ma has sent you
money; but if I was you I'd have the last time stay the last.
She don't look equal to much more hard work. "
"My name's Paisley, if you please," returned the prisoner stol-
idly; and I can take care of my own mother. If she's lent me
money I have paid it back.
This is only for bail, to deposit — »
"There is the chance," interrupted Wickliff, "of your skipping.
Now I tell you, I like the looks of your mother, and I don't
mean she shall run any risks. So if you do get money from
her, I shall personally look out you don't forfeit your bail. Be-
sides, court is in session now, so the chances are you wouldn't
more than get the money before it would be your turn. See ? »
"Anyhow I've got to have a lawyer. "
"Can't see why, young feller. I'll give you a straight tip.
There ain't enough law in Iowa to get you out of this scrape.
We've got the cinch on you, and there ain't any possible squirm-
ing out. "
>>
"So you say;
-the sneer was a little forced; "I've heard
of your game before. Nice kind officers, ready to advise a man
and pump him dry, and witness against him afterwards. I ain't
that kind of a sucker, Mr. Sheriff. "
"Nor I ain't that kind of an officer, Mr. Smith. You'd ought
to know about my reputation by this time. "
self. "
-
«< They say you're square," the prisoner admitted: "but you
ain't so stuck on me as to care a damn whether I go over the
road; expect you'd want to send me for the trouble I've given
you; "—and he grinned. "Well, what are you after? "
"Helping your mother, young feller. I had a mother my-
"It ain't uncommon. "
«< Maybe a mother like mine- and yours — is, though. ”
The prisoner's eyes traveled down to the face on the carte.
"That's right," he said, with another ring in his voice.
<< I
wouldn't mind half so much if I could keep my going to the pen
from her. She's never found out about me. "
"How much family you got? " said Wickliff thoughtfully.


## p. 14740 (#314) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14740
"Just a mother. I ain't married. There was a girl, my
sister-good sort too, 'nough better 'n me. She used to be a
clerk in the store,- typewriter, bookkeeper, general utility, you
know. My position in the first place; and when I-well — re-
signed, they gave it to her. She helped mother buy the place.
Two years ago she died. You may believe me or not, but I
would have gone back home then and run straight if it hadn't
been for Mame. I would, by! I had five hundred dollars
then, and I was going back to give every damned cent of it to
ma, tell her to put it into the bakery-»
"That how she makes a living? "
"Yes-little two-by-four bakery; -oh, I'm giving you straight
goods; - makes pies and cakes and bread,- good, too, you bet:
makes it herself. Ruth Graves, who lives round the corner,
comes in and helps-keeps the books, and tends shop busy
times; tends the oven too, I guess. She was a great friend of
Ellie's and mine. She's a real good girl. Well, I didn't get
mother's letters till it was too late, and I felt bad; I had a mind
to go right down to Fairport and go in with ma. That- She
stopped it. Got me off on a tear somehow, and by the time I
was sober again the money was 'most all gone. I sent what was
left off to ma, and I went on the road again myself. But she's
the devil. "
―――
-
"That the time you hit her? "
The prisoner nodded. "Oughtn't to, of course. Wasn't
brought up that way. My father was a Methodist preacher, and
a good one. But I tell you the coons that say you never must
hit a woman don't know anything about that sort of woman:
there ain't nothing on earth so infernally exasperating as a
woman. They can make you worse than forty men. ”
It was the sheriff's turn to nod; which he did gravely, with
even a glimmer of sympathy in his mien.
"Well, she never forgave you," said he: "she's had it in for
you since. »
"And she knows I won't squeal, 'cause I'd have to give poor
Ben away," said the prisoner: "but I tell you, sheriff, she was at
the bottom of the deviltry every time; and she managed to bag
the best part of the swag too. "
"I daresay. Well, to come back to business: the question
with you is how to keep these here misfortunes of yours from
your mother, ain't it? "


## p. 14741 (#315) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14741
"Of course. "
"Well, the best plan for you is to plead guilty, showing you
don't mean to give the court any more trouble. Tell the judge
you are sick of your life, and going to quit. You are, ain't
you? " the sheriff concluded simply; and the swindler, after an
instant's hesitation, answered: -
"Damned if I won't, if I can get a job! "
"Well, that admitted"- the sheriff smoothed his big knees
gently as he talked, his mild attentive eyes fixed on the pris-
oner's nervous presence "that admitted, best plan is for you
to plead guilty; and maybe we can fix it so's you will be sen-
tenced to jail instead of the pen. Then we can keep it from
your mother easy. Write her you've got a job here in this
town, and have your letters sent to my care. I'll get you some-
thing to do. She'll never suspect that you are the notorious
Ned Paisley. And it ain't likely you go home often enough to
make not going awkward. "
"I haven't been home in four years. But see here: how long
am I likely to get? "
The sheriff looked at him,- at the hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes and narrow chest, all so cruelly declared in the sunshine,-
and unconsciously he modulated his voice when he spoke.
"I wouldn't worry about that, if I was you. You need a
You are run down pretty low. You ain't rugged enough
for the life you've been leading. "
rest.
The prisoner's eyes strayed past the grating to the green
hills and the pleasant gardens, where some children were play-
ing. The sheriff did not move. There was as little sensibility
in his impassive mask as in a wooden Indian's; but behind the
trained apathy was a real compassion. He was thinking: "The
boy don't look like he had a year's life in him. I bet he knows
it himself. And when he stares that way out of the window he's
thinking he ain't never going to be foot-loose in the sun again.
Kinder tough, I call it. "
The young man's eyes suddenly met his. "Well, it's no great
matter, I guess," said he. "I'll do it. But I can't for the life of
me make out why you are taking so much trouble "
He was surprised at Wickliff's reply. It was, "Come on down-
stairs with me, and I'll show you. "
"You mean it? "
-


## p. 14742 (#316) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14742
"Yes; go ahead. "
"You want my parole not to cut and run? »
"Just as you like about that. Better not try any fooling. "
The prisoner uttered a short laugh, glancing from his own
puny limbs to the magnificent muscles of the officer.
"Straight ahead, after you're out of the corridor, down-stairs,
and turn to the right," said Wickliff.
Silently the prisoner followed his directions, and when they
had descended the stairs and turned to the right, the sheriff's
hand pushed beneath his elbow, and opened the door before them.
"My rooms," said Wickliff. "Being a single man, it's handier for
me living in the jail. " The rooms were furnished with the un-
chastened gorgeousness of a Pullman sleeper; the brilliant hues
of a Brussels carpet on the floor, blue plush at the windows and
on the chairs. The walls were hung with the most expensive
gilt paper that the town could furnish (after all, it was a modest
price per roll), and against the gold, photographs of the district
judges assumed a sinister dignity. There was also a photograph
of the court-house, and one of the jail, and a model in bas-relief of
the capitol at Des Moines; but more prominent than any of these
were two portraits opposite the windows. They were oil paintings,
elaborately framed; and they had cost so much that the sheriff
rested happily content that they must be well painted. Certainly
the artist had not recorded impressions; rather he seemed to have
worked with a microscope, not slighting an eyelash. One of the
portraits was that of a stiff and stern young man in a soldier's
uniform. He was dark, and had eyes and features like the sher-
iff. The other was the portrait of a young girl. In the original
daguerreotype from which the artist worked, the face was comely,
if not pretty, and the innocence in the eyes and the timid smile
made it winning. The artist had enlarged the eyes and made
the mouth smaller, and bestowed (with the most amiable inten-
tions) a complexion of hectic brilliancy; but there still remained,
in spite of paint, a flicker of the old touching expression. Be-
tween the two canvases hung a framed letter. It was labeled
in bold Roman script, "Letter of Capt. R. T. Manley"; and a
glance showed the reader that it was the description of a battle,
to a friend. One sentence was underlined: "We also lost Private
A. T. Wickliff, killed in the charge,-a good man, who could
always be depended on to do his duty. "


## p. 14743 (#317) ##########################################

OCTAVE THANET
14743
The sheriff guided his bewildered visitor opposite these por-
traits, and lifted his hand above the other's shoulder. "You see
them? " said he. "They're my father and mother. You see that
letter? It was wrote by my father's old captain and sent to me.
What he says about my father is everything that I know. But
it's enough. He was a good man, who could always be de-
pended on to do his duty. ' You can't say no more of the Presi-
dent of the United States. I've had a pretty tough time of it
in my own life, as a man's got to have who takes up my line;
but I've tried to live so my father needn't be ashamed of me.
That other picture is my mother. I don't know nothing about
her, nothing at all; and I don't need to- except those eyes of
hers. There's a look someway about your mother's eyes like
mine. Maybe it's only the look one good woman has like
another; but whatever it is, your mother made me think of
mine. She's the kind of mother I'd like to have; and if I can
help it, she shan't know her son's in the penitentiary.
come on back. "
Now
As silently as he had gone, the prisoner followed the sheriff
back to his cell. "Good-by, Paisley," said the sheriff at the door.
་ Good-by, sir; I'm much obliged," said the prisoner. Not
another word was said.
That evening, however, good Mrs. Raker told the sheriff that
to her mind, if ever a man was struck with death, that new
young fellow was; and he had been crying too,- his eyes were
all red.
"He needs to cry," was all the comfort that the kind soul
received from the sheriff,- the cold remark being accompanied
by what his familiars called his Indian scowl.
Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the prisoner as a quiet
intercessor, and his merciful prophecy was accomplished: Edgar
S. Paisley was permitted to serve out his sentence in the jail
instead of the State prison. His state of health had something
to do with the judge's clemency; and the sheriff could not but
suspect that in his own phrase, “Paisley played his cough and
his hollow cheeks for all they were worth. "
"But that's natural," he observed to Raker, "and he's doing
it partially for the old lady. Well, I'll try to give her a quiet
spell. "
"Yes," Raker responds dubiously, "but he'll be at his old
games the minute he gits out. "


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14744
OCTAVE THANET
"You don't suppose >>
the sheriff speaks with a certain em-
barrassment "you don't suppose there'd be any chance of really
reforming him, so as he'd stick? - he ain't likely to live long. "
"Nah," says the unbelieving deputy: "he's a deal too slick to
be reformed. "
――――
――――――
The sheriff's pucker of his black brows, and his slow nod,
might have meant anything. Really he was saying to himself
(Amos was a dogged fellow): "Don't care; I'm going to try. I
am sure ma would want me to. I ain't a very hefty missionary;
but if there is such a thing as clubbing a man half-way decent,
- and I think there is, I'll get him that way.
Poor old lady,
she looked so unhappy! "
During the trial Paisley was too excited and dejected to write
to his mother. But the day after he received his sentence the
sheriff found him finishing a large sheet of foolscap.
It contained a detailed and vivid description of the reasons
why he had left a mythical grocery firm, and described with
considerable humor the mythical boarding-house where he was
waiting for something to turn up. It was very well done, and
he expected a smile from the sheriff. The red mottled his pale
cheeks when Wickliff, with his blackest frown, tore the letter into
pieces, which he stuffed into his pocket.
"You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage of your posi-
tion," fumed Paisley.
"I shall take more advantage of it if you give me any sass,”
returned Wickliff calmly. "Now set down and listen. " Pais-
ley, after one helpless glare, did sit down. "I believe you fairly
revel in lying. I don't. That's where we differ. I think lies
are always liable to come home to roost; and I like to have
the flock as small as possible. Now you write that you are here,
and you're helping me. You ain't getting much wages, but they
will be enough to keep you: these hard times any job is better
than none. And you can add that you don't want any money
from her. Your other letter sorter squints like you did. You
can say you are boarding with a very nice lady,- that's Mrs.
Raker, everything very clean, and the table plain but abundant.
Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. Wickliff. How's that? »
Paisley's anger had ebbed away. Either from policy or some
other motive, he was laughing now. "It's not nearly so inter-
esting in a literary point of view, you know," said he; "but I
guess it will be easier not to have so many things to remember.


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OCTAVE THANET
14745
And you're right: I didn't mean to hint for money, but it did
look like it. "
"He did mean to hint," thought the sheriff; "but he's got
some sense. " The letter finally submitted was a masterpiece in
its way.
This time the sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also
gave Paisley a cigar.
liff.
Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted to Wick-
Raker never thought of reading them. The replies came
with a pathetic promptness. "That's from your ma," said Wick-
liff when the first letter came; - Paisley was at the jail ledgers
in the sheriff's room, as it happened, directly beneath the por-
traits; "you better read it first. "
―
Paisley read it twice; then he turned and handed it to the
sheriff with a half apology. "My mother talks a good deal better
than she writes. Women are naturally interested in petty things,
you know. Besides, I used to be fond of the old dog; that's why
she writes so much about him.