me there is nothing in all the Universe without mind. All is alive and all make merry or are sad — bring joy or sorrow, as their bent may be. Just as man can be kind, or cruel, make beautiful the world or destroy, so do the Beings dwelling in the elements.
Tonight they will tell me whether I make merry or pass out in sorrow.”
“That is a strange thing you say! ‘Make merry or pass out in sorrow/ What does that portend?” I questioned.
“Sir,” he answered, “you do not understand, and yet you look to me as one of us.
Tonight I am going home and I have not yet made the necessary decision as to my going — whether it shall be a right merry leave-taking or one of sadness. Today a winged messenger came and told me my exile was ended and I could start for my home tonight.”
“And where is your home?” I asked.
“That is for me to decide.”
“For you to decide! Is it not where you lived last?” I asked.
“Alas! no. I have lost that beautiful place, but there are others for me to choose from. Or, perhaps, I shall elect to remain here a little longer — I have left so much undone. I find so many words unspoken which would have given joy, perhaps, — so many things postponed. I did not give heed to the passing of hours for I felt years were before me. But the summons has come and I am to go home — to go to the house I have been building.”
His eyes were fixed on the horizon and my gaze followed him, for so intent was he that I felt there was some thing there I could see. Then, suddenly, the wind swept past us with a mighty gust. The trees bent beneath its force, and. with a sudden upfling-ing of his head he turned toward me, and said, pointing to the horizon:
“See! There is my road and just at the end of the lane my home. Yes!
after all, it will be good to go back. The weeds are in the garden and it seems neglected, for no love has entered into the care of it; but there are blossoms among the grass which has overgrown the doorstep, and I can make it beautiful, after all. Just a little care, a bit of love, and time spent in taking out the nettles, and — yes, it can be made a home. See! there are children down the street. I can build swings and make toys for their playthings, and it can be a merry place.”
Watching him with amazement, I moved along at his side, speaking no word, until we came to a little shanty all by itself, on the dreariest part of the bluff. It was forbidding, and I remembered it was the place of the old miser and renegade of the town. As we reached the door a sudden noise within made me pause, and I pushed open the rickety door. From a corner of the hut came a voice:
“So you have come at last! I have just been waiting until you reached me, for I am going home. Going home to just a little place like this, but it has flowers in its yard and there are children who need me.”
There came a sudden terrific whirl of wind and dust — the door slammed to and my knees shook, — for I was alone — no soul in sight, no habitation — only scurrying clouds and trees bending under the blast, while above me floated down a voice:
“I am going home! Are you ready? Make ready! for soon you, too, will be GOING HOME
MY HEARTH
Grandfather sits in an old armchair. The back of it boasts an anti-macassar in many colors, while the seat has a patchwork cushion.
Grandmother occupies a low rocker, which moves slowly to and fro, as she softly hums the hymn of the Sunday service.
Keeping silence is grandfather’s “long suit” — while making, in reality, my life.
He is a sturdy old chap, with a will and determination which has carried him beyond anti-macassars and patchwork cushions, and centered itself upon me No fly was ever more helpless!
I make the announcement:
“Life is going to give me something more than this country town.”
Silence reigns on the left of the hearth, and creak! creak! and a gentle hum answers me from the right.
Minutes, which seem hours, pass — but emboldened by the pictures seen in the coals, once more a voice is heard:
“When I am grown up I am going to the city! and I am going to travel! and I am going around the world! and I am going to make a heap of money and be famous!”
Silence!
Creak — creak!!
Half of eternity passes — when once more, emboldened spirit takes hold of courage and dares to speak.
“I have made up my mind and I am going to do what I said, and nothing shall keep me from it!”
Silence!
Creak — creak!!
Years pass in review. The coals burn to ash, and from a far-off sphere issues a voice:
“I’ll have none of that nonsense. You’ll do what you are told to do!”
Silence!
Creak — creak!!
The pictures fade. A clock strikes. The chair groans and grandfather goes in search of his lantern.
Creak — creak! and then the touch of a gentle hand and a voice made sweet from singing many hymns:
“Make your pictures, my boy, for they will come true. Make them, hold them, and most of all believe in them. Good night.”
Silence!
Creak — creak!!
The Three H’s
FOREWORD
Without Health, Life seems Hell.
With Harmony it becomes Heaven.
And when combined, Happiness,
here, is the result.
PART I.
In a tavern, which was on the waterfront and visited mostly by sailors on shore leave, lay a semblance of a man. He was tattered and in rags. Crouching at his feet was a dog as forlorn as he was and in a starved condition.
Standing around the pair was a circle of men — the regular habitues of the place.
“Where”d you find him, Pete?” inquired a sour-visaged standee.
“On the wharf. I heard the dog, and as my boy wants a cur, I followed the sound. But love ye! I couldn’t touch the dog, for he was that crazy at seeing me. Seemed like he would never stop running around me — but always out of reach — first to me and then to the bundle.
Finally
