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The contributor mechanically described him.

Julia Tinker broke into a loud, hoarse laugh. "Yes, it's him, sure
enough." And then, as if the joke were too good to keep: "Mis' Hapford,
Mis' Hapford, father's got out. Do come here!" she called into a back
room.

When Mrs. Hapford appeared, Julia fell back, and, having deftly caught a
fly on the doorpost, occupied herself in plucking it to pieces, while
she listened to the conversation of the others.

"It's all true enough," said Mrs. Hapford, when the writer had recounted
the moving story of Jonathan Tinker, "so far as the death of his wife
and baby goes. But he hasn't been to sea for a good many years, and he
must have just come out of State's Prison, where he was put for bigamy.
There's always two sides to a story, you know; but they say it broke his
first wife's heart, and she died. His friends don't want him to find his
children, and this girl especially."

"He's found his children in the city," said the contributor gloomily,
being at a loss what to do or say, in view of the wreck of his romance.

"Oh, he's found 'em, has he?" cried Julia, with heightened amusement.
"Then he'll have me next, if I don't pack and go."

"I'm very, very sorry," said the contributor, secretly resolved never to
do another good deed, no matter how temptingly the opportunity presented
itself. "But you may depend he won't find out from _me_ where you are.
Of course I had no earthly reason for supposing his story was not true."

"Of course," said kind-hearted Mrs. Hapford, mingling a drop of honey
with the gall in the contributor's soul, "you only did your duty."

And indeed, as he turned away, he did not feel altogether without
compensation. However Jonathan Tinker had fallen in his esteem as a man,
he had even risen as literature. The episode which had appeared so
perfect in its pathetic phases did not seem less finished as a farce;
and this person, to whom all things of every-day life presented
themselves in periods more or less rounded, and capable of use as facts
or illustrations, could not but rejoice in these new incidents, as
dramatically fashioned as the rest. It occurred to him that, wrought
into a story, even better use might be made of the facts now than
before, for they had developed questions of character and of human
nature which could not fail to interest. The more he pondered upon his
acquaintance with Jonathan Tinker, the more fascinating the erring
mariner became, in his complex truth and falsehood, his delicately
blended shades of artifice and naivete. He must, it was felt, have
believed to a certain point in his own inventions: nay, starting with
that groundwork of truth,--the fact that his wife was really dead, and
that he had not seen his family for two years,--why should he not place
implicit faith in all the fictions reared upon it? It was probable that
he felt a real sorrow for her loss, and that he found a fantastic
consolation in depicting the circumstances of her death so that they
should look like his inevitable misfortunes rather than his faults. He
might well have repented his offence during those two years of prison;
and why should he not now cast their dreariness and shame out of his
memory, and replace them with the freedom and adventure of a two years'
voyage to China,--so probable, in all respects, that the fact should
appear an impossible nightmare? In the experiences of his life he had
abundant material to furnish forth the facts of such a voyage, and in
the weariness and lassitude that should follow a day's walking equally
after a two years' voyage and two years' imprisonment, he had as much
physical proof in favor of one hypothesis as the other. It was doubtless
true, also, as he said, that he had gone to his house at dawn, and sat
down on the threshold of his ruined home; and perhaps he felt the desire
he had expressed to see his daughter, with a purpose of beginning life
anew; and it may have cost him a veritable pang when he found that his
little ones did not know him. All the sentiments of the situation were
such as might persuade a lively fancy of the truth of its own
inventions; and as he heard these continually repeated by the
contributor in their search for Mr. Hapford, they must have acquired an
objective force and repute scarcely to be resisted. At the same time,
there were touches of nature throughout Jonathan Tinker's narrative
which could not fail to take the faith of another. The contributor, in
reviewing it, thought it particularly charming that his mariner had not
overdrawn himself, or attempted to paint his character otherwise than as
it probably was; that he had shown his ideas and practices of life to be
those of a second mate, nor more nor less, without the gloss of regret
or the pretences to refinement that might be pleasing to the supposed
philanthropist with whom he had fallen in. Captain Gooding was of course
a true portrait; and there was nothing in Jonathan Tinker's statement of
the relations of a second mate to his superiors and his inferiors which
did not agree perfectly with what the contributor had just read in "Two
Years before the Mast,"--a book which had possibly cast its glamour upon
the adventure. He admired also the just and perfectly characteristic air
of grief in the bereaved husband and father,--those occasional escapes
from the sense of loss into a brief hilarity and forgetfulness, and
those relapses into the hovering gloom, which every one has observed in
this poor, crazy human nature when oppressed by sorrow, and which it
would have been hard to simulate. But, above all, he exulted in that
supreme stroke of the imagination given by the second mate when, at
parting, he said he believed he would go down and sleep on board the
vessel. In view of this, the State's Prison theory almost appeared a
malign and foolish scandal.

Yet even if this theory were correct, was the second mate wholly
answerable for beginning his life again with the imposture he had
practised? The contributor had either so fallen in love with the
literary advantages of his forlorn deceiver that he would see no moral
obliquity in him, or he had touched a subtler verity at last in
pondering the affair. It seemed now no longer a farce, but had a pathos
which, though very different from that of its first aspect, was hardly
less tragical. Knowing with what coldness, or at the best, uncandor, he
(representing Society in its attitude toward convicted Error) would have
met the fact had it been owned to him at first, he had not virtue enough
to condemn the illusory stranger, who must have been helpless to make at
once evident any repentance he felt or good purpose he cherished. Was it
not one of the saddest consequences of the man's past,--a dark necessity
of misdoing,--that, even with the best will in the world to retrieve
himself, his first endeavor must involve a wrong? Might he not, indeed,
be considered a martyr, in some sort, to his own admirable impulses? I
can see clearly enough where the contributor was astray in this
reasoning, but I can also understand how one accustomed to value
realities only as they resembled fables should be won with such pensive
sophistry; and I can certainly sympathize with his feeling that the
mariner's failure to reappear according to appointment added its final
and most agreeable charm to the whole affair, and completed the mystery
from which the man emerged and which swallowed him up again.

NOTES

=Mr. Charles Reade=:--An English novelist (1814-1884).

=protege= (French):--A person under the care of another. The form given
here is masculine; the feminine is _protegee_.

=coup de theatre=:--(French) A very striking scene, such as might appear
on the stage.

=Two Years before the Mast=:--A sea story written by R.H. Dana, about
1840.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

What is a romance? The phrase _already mentioned_ refers to earlier
parts of the book _Suburban Sketches_, from which this story is taken.
What effect does the author gain by the ring at the door-bell? How does
he give you a quick and vivid idea of the visitor? What significance do
the man's clothes have in the story? By means of what devices does the
author interest you in the stranger? Do adventures really happen in
everyday life? Why does the author speak of one's own "register"? Mr.
Howells has written a number of novels in which he pictures ordinary
people, and shows the romance of commonplace events. Why does the
listener "exult"? How does the man's story affect you? What is gained by
having it told in his own words? Is Jonathan Tinker's toast a happy one?
What does the contributor mean by saying that he would have been a good
subject for "the predatory arts"? _The last horse-car_: To Boston; the
scene is probably laid in Cambridge where Mr. Howells lived for some
years. In what way does the sailor's language emphasize the pathetic
quality of his story? How was the man "literature made to the author's
hand"? What are the "national traditions" mentioned in connection with
the boy? Why was the story regarded as "too perfect" when it was related
at home? In what way was Julia Tinker's face "disappointing"? How does
the author feel when he hears the facts in the case? Why does he resolve
never to do a good deed again? The author gives two reasons why Jonathan
Tinker did not tell the truth: what seems to you the real reason?
Characterize Tinker in your own words. Is the ending of the selection
satisfactory? Did you think that Tinker would come back? Can you make a
little drama of this story?

THEME SUBJECTS

An Old Sailor
People who do not Tell the Truth
The Forsaken House
Asking Directions
A Tramp
The Lost Address
An Evening at Home
A Sketch of Julia Tinker
The Surprise
A Long-lost Relative
What Becomes of the Ex-Convicts?
The Jail
A Stranger in Town
A Late Visitor
What I Think of Jonathan Tinker
The Disadvantages of a Lively Imagination
Unwelcome
If Jonathan Tinker had Told the Truth
The Lie
A Call at a Stranger's House
An Unfortunate Man
A Walk in Dark Streets
The Sea Captain
Watching the Sailors

SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=A Late Visitor=:--Try to write this in the form of a dialogue or little
play. The host is reading or conversing in the family sitting-room, when
the doorbell rings. There is a conversation at the door, and then the
caller is brought in. Perhaps the stranger has some evil design. Perhaps
he (or she) is lost, or in great need. Perhaps he turns out to be in
some way connected with the family. Think out the plan of the dialogue
pretty thoroughly before you begin to write. It is possible that you
will want to add a second act in which the results of the first are
shown. Plan your stage directions with the help of some other drama, as,
for instance, that given on page 52.

=The Lie=:[13]--This also may be written in the form of a slight
dramatic composition. There might be a few brief scenes, according to
the following plan:--

Scene 1: The lie is told.
Scene 2: It makes trouble.
Scene 3: It is found out.
Scene 4: Complications are untangled, and the lie is atoned for.
(Perhaps this scene can be combined with the preceding.)

=A Long-lost Relative=:--This may be taken from a real or an imaginary
circumstance. Tell of the first news that the relative is coming. Where
has he (or she) been during the past years? Speak of the period before
the relative arrives: the conjectures as to his appearance; the
preparations made; the conversation regarding him. Tell of his arrival.
Is his appearance such as has been expected? Describe him rather fully.
What does he say and do? Does he make himself agreeable? Are his ideas
in any way peculiar? Do the neighbors like him? Give some of the
incidents of his visit. Tell about his departure. Are the family glad or
sorry to have him go? What is said about him after he has gone? What has
been heard of him since?

COLLATERAL READINGS

Suburban Sketches William Dean Howells
A Boy's Town " " "
The Rise of Silas Lapham " " "
The Minister's Charge " " "
Their Wedding Journey " " "
The Lady of the Aroostook " " "
Venetian Life " " "
Italian Journeys " " "
The Mouse Trap (a play) " " "
Evening Dress (a play) " " "
The Register (a play) " " "
The Elevator (a play) " " "
Unexpected Guests (a play) " " "
The Albany Depot (a play) " " "
Literary Friends and Acquaintances " " "
Their California Uncle Bret Harte
A Lodging for the Night R.L. Stevenson
Kidnapped " "
Ebb Tide " "
Enoch Arden Alfred Tennyson
Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving
Wakefield Nathaniel Hawthorne
Two Years before the Mast R.H. Dana
Out of Gloucester J.B. Connolly
Jean Valjean (from _Les Miserables_) Victor Hugo (Ed. S.E. Wiltse)
Historic Towns of New England
(Cambridge) L.P. Powell (Ed.)
Old Cambridge T.W. Higginson
American Authors at Home, pp. 193-211 J.L. and J.B. Gilder
American Authors and their Homes,
pp. 99-110 F.W. Halsey
American Writers of To-day, pp. 43-68 H.C. Vedder

Bookman, 17:342 (Portrait); 35:114, April, 1912; Current Literature,
42:49, January, 1907 (Portrait).

THE WILD RIDE

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

_I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing_.

Let cowards and laggards fall back! but alert to the saddle,
Weather-worn and abreast, go men of our galloping legion,
With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him.

The trail is through dolour and dread, over crags and morasses;
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us:
What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.

Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb,
And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sun-beam:
Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing.

A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle,
A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty:
We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers.

(_I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing._)

We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the storm-wind;
We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil.
Thou leadest, O God! All's well with Thy troopers that follow.

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

This poem is somewhat like the _Road-Hymn for the Start_, on page 184.
It is about those people who go forward eagerly into the work of the
world, without fearing, and without shrinking from difficulties. Read it
through completely, trying to get its meaning. Regard the lines in
italic as a kind of chorus, and study the meaning of the other stanzas
first. Who are the galloping legions? A _stirrup-cup_ was a draught of
wine, taken just before a rider began his journey; it was usually drunk
to some one's health. Is _dolour_ a common word? Is it good here? Try to
put into your own words the ideas in the "land of no name," and "the
infinite dark," remembering what is said above about the general meaning
of the poem. What picture and what idea do you get from "like sparks
from the anvil"? Now go back to the lines in italic, and look for their
meaning.

What do you notice about the length of the words in this poem? Why has
the author used this kind of words? Notice carefully how the sound and
the sense are made harmonious. Look for the rhyme. How does the poem
differ from most short poems?

Bead the verses aloud, trying to make your reading suggest "the hoofs of
invisible horses."

OTHER POEMS TO READ

A Troop of the Guard Hermann Hagedorn
How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix Robert Browning
Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr " "
Reveille Bret Harte
A Song of the Road Richard Watson Gilder
The House and the Road J.P. Peabody
The Mystic Cale Young Rice
(In _The Little Book of Modern Verse_, Ed. by J.B. Rittenhouse.)
A Winter Ride Amy Lowell
(In _The Little Book of Modern Verse_.)
The Ride Clinton Scollard
(In _Songs of Sunrise Lands_.)

CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS

DALLAS LORE SHARP

(In _The Lay of the Land_)

On the night before this particular Christmas every creature of the
woods that could stir was up and stirring; for over the old snow was
falling swiftly, silently, a soft, fresh covering that might mean a
hungry Christmas unless the dinner were had before morning.

But when the morning dawned, a cheery Christmas sun broke across the
great gum swamp, lighting the snowy boles and soft-piled limbs of the
giant trees with indescribable glory, and pouring, a golden flood, into
the deep spongy bottoms below. It would be a perfect Christmas in the
woods, clear, mild, stirless, with silent footing for me, and everywhere
the telltale snow.

And everywhere the Christmas spirit, too. As I paused among the pointed
cedars of the pasture, looking down into the cripple at the head of the
swamp, a clear wild whistle rang in the thicket, followed by a flash
through the alders like a tongue of fire, as a cardinal grosbeak shot
down to the tangle of greenbrier and magnolia under the slope. It was a
fleck of flaming summer. As warm as summer, too, the staghorn sumac
burned on the crest of the ridge against the group of holly
trees,--trees as fresh as April, and all aglow with berries. The woods
were decorated for the holy day. The gentleness of the soft new snow
touched everything; cheer and good-will lighted the unclouded sky and
warmed the thick depths of the evergreens, and blazed in the
crimson-berried bushes of the ilex and alder. The Christmas woods were
glad.

Nor was the gladness all show, mere decoration. There was real cheer in
abundance; for I was back in the old home woods, back along the
Cohansey, back where you can pick persimmons off the trees at Christmas.
There are persons who say the Lord might have made a better berry than
the strawberry, but He didn't. Perhaps He didn't make the strawberry at
all. But He did make the Cohansey Creek persimmon, and He made it as
good as He could. Nowhere else under the sun can you find such
persimmons as these along the creek, such richness of flavor, such
gummy, candied quality, woodsy, wild, crude,--especially the fruit of
two particular trees on the west bank, near Lupton's Pond. But they
never come to this perfection, never quite lose their pucker, until
midwinter,--as if they had been intended for the Christmas table of the
woods.

It had been nearly twenty years since I crossed this pasture of the
cedars on my way to the persimmon trees. The cows had been crossing
every year, yet not a single new crook had they worn in the old paths.
But I was half afraid as I came to the fence where I could look down
upon the pond and over to the persimmon trees. Not one of the Luptons,
who owned pasture and pond and trees, had ever been a boy, so far as I
could remember, or had ever eaten of those persimmons. Would they have
left the trees through all these years?

I pushed through the hedge of cedars and stopped for an instant,
confused. The very pond was gone! and the trees! No, there was the
pond,--but how small the patch of water! and the two persimmon trees?
The bush and undergrowth had grown these twenty years. Which way--Ah,
there they stand, only their leafless tops showing; but see the hard
angular limbs, how closely globed with fruit! how softly etched upon the
sky!

I hurried around to the trees and climbed the one with the two broken
branches, up, clear up to the top, into the thick of the persimmons.

Did I say it had been twenty years? That could not be. Twenty years
would have made me a man, and this sweet, real taste in my mouth only a
_boy_ could know. But there was college, and marriage, a Massachusetts
farm, four boys of my own, and--no matter! it could not have been
_years_--twenty years--since. It was only yesterday that I last climbed
this tree and ate the rich rimy fruit frosted with a Christmas snow.

And yet, could it have been yesterday? It was storming, and I clung here
in the swirling snow and heard the wild ducks go over in their hurry
toward the bay. Yesterday, and all this change in the vast treetop
world, this huddled pond, those narrowed meadows, that shrunken creek! I
should have eaten the persimmons and climbed straight down, not stopped
to gaze out upon the pond, and away over the dark ditches to the creek.
But reaching out quickly I gathered another handful,--and all was
yesterday again.

I filled both pockets of my coat and climbed down. I kept those
persimmons and am tasting them to-night. Lupton's Pond may fill to a
puddle, the meadows may shrivel, the creek dry up and disappear, and old
Time may even try his wiles on me. But I shall foil him to the
end; for I am carrying still in my pocket some of yesterday's
persimmons,--persimmons that ripened in the rime of a winter when I was
a boy.

High and alone in a bare persimmon tree for one's dinner hardly sounds
like a merry Christmas. But I was not alone. I had noted the fresh
tracks beneath the tree before I climbed up, and now I saw that the snow
had been partly brushed from several of the large limbs as the 'possum
had moved about in the tree for his Christmas dinner. We were guests at
the same festive board, and both of us at Nature's invitation. It
mattered not that the 'possum had eaten and gone this hour or more. Such
is good form in the woods. He was expecting me, so he came early, out of
modesty; and, that I too might be entirely at my ease, he departed
early, leaving his greetings for me in the snow.

Thus I was not alone; here was good company and plenty of it. I never
lack a companion in the woods when I can pick up a trail. The 'possum
and I ate together. And this was just the fellowship I needed, this
sharing the persimmons with the 'possum. I had broken bread, not with
the 'possum only, but with all the out-of-doors. I was now fit to enter
the woods, for I was filled with good-will and persimmons, as full as
the 'possum; and putting myself under his gentle guidance, I got down
upon the ground, took up his clumsy trail, and descended toward the
swamp. Such an entry is one of the particular joys of the winter. To go
in with a fox, a mink, or a 'possum through the door of the woods is to
find yourself at home. Any one can get inside the out-of-doors, as the
grocery boy or the census man gets inside our houses. You can bolt in at
any time on business. A trail, however, is Nature's invitation. There
may be other, better beaten paths for mere feet. But go softly with the
'possum, and at the threshold you are met by the spirit of the wood, you
are made the guest of the open, silent, secret out-of-doors.

I went down with the 'possum. He had traveled home in leisurely fashion
and without fear, as his tracks plainly showed. He was full of
persimmons. A good happy world this, where such fare could be had for
the picking! What need to hurry home, except one were in danger of
falling asleep by the way? So I thought, too, as I followed his winding
path; and if I was tracking him to his den, it was only to wake him for
a moment with the compliments of the season. But it was not even a
momentary disturbance; for when I finally found him in his hollow gum,
he was sound asleep, and only half realized that some one was poking him
gently in the ribs and wishing him a merry Christmas.

The 'possum had led me to the center of the empty, hollow swamp, where
the great-boled gums lifted their branches like a timbered, unshingled
roof between me and the wide sky. Far away through the spaces of the
rafters I saw a pair of wheeling buzzards and, under them, in lesser
circles, a broad-winged hawk. Here, at the feet of the tall, clean
trees, looking up through the leafless limbs, I had something of a
measure for the flight of the birds. The majesty and the mystery of the
distant buoyant wings were singularly impressive.

I have seen the turkey-buzzard sailing the skies on the bitterest winter
days. To-day, however, could hardly be called winter. Indeed, nothing
yet had felt the pinch of the cold. There was no hunger yet in the
swamp, though this new snow had scared the raccoons out, and their
half-human tracks along the margin of the swamp stream showed that, if
not hungry, they at least feared that they might be.

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