The Best Short Stories of 1915

shed. Pigalle sauntered

e asked, slowly, in

's t

. Also wot you call loafer: 'e do not work wen 'e wish not to. But, mon Dieu, 'ow 'e can play, that man!" He made a sua

" I exclaimed. "Wha

mme

ke this?" I held up the c

the astonished Pigalle.

ustrated Sunday Magazine. Copyri

OF YOU

ER J. M

The M

side of the road. He spoke sharply to the plodding team and turned the cultivator around, lowering the blades for another row. Then,

p on the heavy levers. When he raised the blades, his fingers became streaked with red and the corners of his mouth drew back and grew hard with concentrated effort. Occasionally he tugged at the reins knotted about his shoulders,

reen, while the more distant fields of grain were dark against the light ash of plowed land. Above, the sun shone slanti

ivator, a flock of blackbirds fed in the fresh-turned earth. The boy watched them with half-shut eyes. When one of the birds had fed, it would hop upon a lump of wet, black earth, and being satisfied that it could eat no more, would skim in rapid, undulating fl

r seat. The tugs straightened and the horses walked again into the corn. One of the

in. In sudden violence of anger, the boy pulled cruelly at the horse's mouth, cursing in low, abrupt sentences. The horse stopped, the blades slipped, again tearing up a hill of corn. From sheer rage the boy was silent, th

face. At last he stopped. A slight color had come to his cheeks. For a moment he watched the horse, which stood with muscles moving in quivering ripples of pain and fear; then he walked soberly back and climbed up

by the road and jumping down from the seat walked to the horse he had beat

Whoa, boy!"

e of fear gone as they reached out their necks for the young grass. Over the boy's face passed a conflict of expressions. At one time the cheeks were soft, and a boyish look lay in h

furiously down the hill. The boy turned quickly about in the seat as if he had not seen Bill and tried to hurry the horses. What did Bill want, anyway? It was like him to blu

ute!" Bill slid awkward

ins about the levers a

l," he answered w

colt, a bay, t

rd against the fence. "I broke him in myself-all alone, too! Now, that was

ing clods at the colt, which jumped wildly each time one st

lods Bill tur

be I'll be l

looked u

It's work, work, work all the time with a little while for eatin' and sleepin'. All summer you c'n wo

hich the small eyes peered inquisitively, disgusted the boy. Bill picked up another bit of tu

d to Bill, hi

cut out firing stones at that colt. You'll nev

incredulous surprise on Bill's face. Then it became brick-re

with the rhythm of the gallop. The boy was glad that Bill was angry. He didn't want

warm dust, swinging his water-pail in cadence with his steps. They reached the top of the hill. The house was only a short distance from the road. He could see his father carrying a basket of wood to the house. He hoped that his father would not come and help him unharness the horses. He wanted to be alone; he dreaded facing their

down on the edge of the trough, fanning himself with his hat. The boy noticed that his father seemed more tired than usual. His brown

rom the trough, the boy led them to

Frank?" he asked as he

t wasn

as pretty har

t v

ed and fell upon his foot. His face writhed in a flash of temper and he began cursing in a low tone, heavily and deliberately. Then he picked up the collar and struck the horse. Under lowered ey

o be looking out of the open window into the orchard; instead, through his lowered eyelashes, he followed his mother's movements about the room as she set the small table for three, still humming as she worked. The boy saw that she stopped often to cough. This was not unusual, bu

emed different to-day. He wished that she didn't wear that black dress, it made her face look too white and her eyes too large and bright. He ate rapidly. Why didn't his father

ickly at his father. The boy watched them closely and uneasily. Both seemed to be shrinking from something. His father ca

Frank," he spoke

d at his father a mom

ate this afternoon, Frank,"

tened grayness return to his mother's face. His father, too,

't been feelin' well for quite a while and we rode over

d feel her hand on his shoulders. He turned ha

Frank-the doctor said

twining his hair

ed. The boy sat staring at his mother with an intensity that made a color come to her cheeks, but he was not looking at her any more. Instead, he was wondering fiercely why h

g on, his voice devoid of life or feeling. "But he said that she

t was?" he asked i

r lungs,

the window at a far-away straw-stack which lay a ma

eavy silence of the room he could hear her uneven

us go," he spoke with an attempt at cheerfuln

ther's hand press more heavily on his shoulder. He turned from the win

r price. Help is scarce and rent's low sinc

is father's glance res

he old place; we hav

tiffened. Did they expect him to stay on the farm? He wouldn't-he could not do that! The

hout looking at her, picked up his hat and went outs

anguorous mist had fallen. The boy looked out to where earth and sky met in a haze of indefinable color. W

a quiet summer afternoon, dressed as Indians, and in heavy seriousness would plan a desperate attack on the little white house with its green trimmings. What

reached his destination. A tree, broken off a couple of feet from the ground, had l

grove brought old memories. As he brooded there, relaxed, the sunlight coming in b

father and mother would not expect him to stay on the farm. With his reflections came the picture of his mother, her dark eyes shining unnaturally out o

d chirping. A blue-jay, in a cracked crescendo, was attacking the established order of things among birds. A bee droned idly past. Occasion

, hovered a brown wood-thrush. He stiffened. His flesh always crawled at the sight of a snake! Yet, leaning forward, he watched intently. The thrush, its body a blur of brown feathers, rose and fell in continuous at

again its body flashed in silent deadly attack. The snake, rearing its head f

eathers and a glimpse of a twisting, bluish body were all that the boy could see. A moment, and the snake writhed out from the nest. T

had a horror of seeing a creature maimed or killed. He felt it doubly now, and he might have helped the bird,-no one else could. Yet it was only a bird

e tranquillity of space lay lightly in the air and bathed the earth with a drowsy light. And the b

rs, black where they reached the sun, darkening the earth with the gray misty twilight

im all the afternoon had spent themselves, and he whistled as he walked on between the trees. When he turned into the lane near the house, he c

ome-like it all was! The boy walked quickly toward the house, took the milk pails from the hooks on the porch and went into the barn. The horses did not raise their heads from the grain as he entered. The

ight, son. You don't get a vacati

ad a queer pity for his father. He almost wis

ted through its sleep. Out of the oak-grove sounded the hopeless lament of the turtle-dove, voicing the mystery and sadness of the night. From the farm to the north came the fai

ve of pity and understanding. It seemed to him there, in the darkness, that suddenly he wa

seemed a living and beautiful power, ever-veiled but always near. For a moment

n T. Frederick. Copyright, 1

OF THE

WBOLD

Every

thousand feet above the lake, stands a little weather-stained church. Beneath it lie the two villages of Cadenabbia and Menaggio; b

inds up the face of the chrome-colored cliff. Once a year, in a creeping procession of black and white, the nat

ot a rustle in the gray-green olive trees that shimmered silver in the sunlight. Little lizards, sunning themselves on warm flat stones, watched him with brilliant eyes, and dar

otsteps echoing heavily through the shadows, though he walked on tiptoe. After the brilliant sunlight outside he could make out bu

n amazement. It had evidently been painted by a master hand. Blagden was no artist; but the face told him that. It was drawn with won

dows, and the flickering candlelight lent a witchery to blurred outlines that half dec

lean stroke-and opened in a disfiguring gash. Beneath it, on a l

pick it up-and a voice spoke

Signor," it said, and B

in the shadow, al

ore the long brown gown of a monk. His face was like a wit

den with their strange brilliance. The

?" said

tingly at the younger man before him, searching his face with his wonderfully piercing eyes. He seemed t

y. Would the Sig

ont line of little low chairs. Before them, over the dancing light of the four c

an speaking, and Blagden liste

years ago," said the old man

io. And every day in the warm sunlight of the open fields she sang as she watched the goats fo

was young, and the sun had never stopped shini

where the yellow roses with the pink hearts grew so sweetly

ength of his youth, and he too would sing

s singing, hand in hand, as the sun slipped golden over the top of the hills across the lake. Sometimes they would walk together in the

en he told her of his dreams, while the gentlest of winds stirred her curls against hi

when the grapes were pick

orce came into the girl's

nk. She was torn with the idea that she should join her church, g

. This young, beautiful girl who seemed so much a part of the sunsh

king it was s

frantic-you

little sun-kissed hands in his and begged on his knees with tears streaming down his cheeks. And Rosa wept also-but could n

ould come up here to this little church and pray for Ma

doubted but that she would c

ing; for she loved him. And the Virgin above the four candles looked down with the

ed the white walls across the la

med out his hate for the world and his God, and rushed up

h the Virgin and stabbed with an oath on his

ld monk was silent for a

still. He was met by a white funeral winding up the little path. You understand, S

or what he had done, no bittern

ward that her face was strangely like that of the Virgin when they found her,-beautiful and pleading and sad. There wa

lagden and the withered, white-haired man, staring mutely up at th

ink happened?"

know," sai

r pause, then Bl

nd across his eyes, "she paid in p

oftly. "I wonder, Sign

ery Week Corporation. Copyr

ND THE GRAS

UMAS

ustrated Sun

nderful place when you come to think about it, an' Ireland is a wonderful place an' so is America, an' though there are lots of places like each other there's no place like Ballysantamalo.

ou're poor is extravagance, an

?" said

ich an' the rich give to the poor an' when the poor

n an' enlightenment. Sure if the poor weren't dacent they'd be rich an' if the rich we

rd that can't p

n wing an' couldn't fly to wher

e pickings to him. T

is holding your tongue when you don

ll the young women worrying their heads off reading trashy novels an' doin' all sorts of silly things like fixin' their hair in a

than the last until you meet the next an' so you go on to another until you're so old that

y heart can always get a young lady to marry him," said Felix, "thoug

nothin' like a weak constitution, a col

re quare,"

re then they'd be only young fools in the world. I don't wonder a bit at the suffragett

d the strain of doin' what they please without encountering opposition. When a man falls in love he falls int

nk we will leave the women wh

that?" as

answered

ry fine if they staye

n't you take a swim for yourself?' So I did take a swim, an' I swam to the rocks where the seals goes to get their photograph's taken an' while I was havin' a rest for meself I noticed a grasshopper sittin' a short distance away an' 'pon me word, but he was the most sorrowful

grasshopper. 'Me grandmother died las

e poor old soul had her fill of days, an' sure we all must die, an' 'tis cheaper to be dead than alive at

out, like the barbers and the cobblers,' said the grasshopper.

for the tenth time, an' as I was in China on the last few occasions I m

pper, 'because you are heartily welcome an'

ale, 'but America doesn't

that?' ses th

an' don't I read the ne

society columns, then

,' ses the whale 'have they society

d they oftentimes devote a few columns to oth

adth of it. I swam around it twice last week without stoppin,' to try an' reduce me weight, an' would

bad,' said th

American?' sa

think 'tis the way I'd be born at sea an' no nation

y, might

ricans? Think of all the connoisseurs who wouldn't buy a work of art in their own country when they could go to E

industry,' ses the whale, 'i

ws about it, either. A work of art is like a flower, it grows, it happens. That's all. An'

all you can get an' if you want to be a philanthropis

in' I misses, like the fisherwoman who missed the fish and caught a

was preaching civilization for centuries so that she

e whale. 'Is there anything else w

sh question,' ses

es the whale. 'Isn't that an i

, 'but England is an islan

g about Ireland. Sure, I nearly swallowed it up be mistake while I was

w something about indigestion. The less you have to say about Ireland the

what I like?'

grasshopper, 'but say what other people

much abused as poli

ng about poetry and the drama to-day. Only for fools they'd be no wise people an' only f

e saying?' ses the

se me temper with you

nners, you insignificant little spalpeen. How

r?' ses the grassh

then,' ses

the whale, 'an' I'll put you w

ubt but vanity, ignorance and ambition are t

d do hurt or harm to me. You could have every soldier in the German Army, the Frenc

he whale's nose as happy an' contented as if nothing happened. An' when he jumped back to the rock again he says: 'A little exercise when 'tis tempered with discretion, never

u,' ses the whale, 'I'd knock

ly way of displaying your disp

y of any kind. All you want is self-control and a little education. You should

ning to the likes of you,' ses the whale. 'If any of

ever again if they thought I was trying to make a whale behave himself. There

nonsense can you do except

on dry land all me life if I choose, while you can't live under water, or over water, on land or on sea, and while all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't catch me if they were trying till the crack of doom, you could

corsets an' paper knives, and what about all the storie

," said Felix. "Is it a pint of

int, I think,"

lustrated Sunday Magazine. Copy

ERLI

BOYLE

oston Dail

ho seemed weak and ill. Above the click-clack of the car wheels passengers could hear her counting: "One, two, three," evidently absorbed in her own thoughts. Sometimes she rep

nconscious woman. Again the girls giggled s

that this poor lady is my wife. We have just lost our three sons in battle. Be

ribly quiet i

915, by The Bosto

TING YE

RINE MET

Century

ms-these were the most sharply defined elements of Mark Faraday's picture of home. Born in Italy, for most of his young life a sojourner in foreign lands, he yet remembered being utterly happy at "Aunt Lucretia's" when at seven he had made his first visit

ere dreams of unheard melodies, for Mark Faraday was a composer. So little of his life had been spent in his own country that outside the garden he felt less at home in Am

ded the grass plot about the dial. From it as a center curved paths wandered outward dividing the flower-beds. The flowers were planted without much regularity except for the borders of four o'clock and mignonette. It was this spot that had inspired Mark's song cycle, "The Sun-dial

iciently trained. Stella was a fair musician and was fond of trying over new music, but to-day she was playing in a more musicianly manner than he had believed her capable of playing. He had expected that his aunt would ask her over for tea. He enjoyed the girl's companionship. He had not known many of his own countrywomen. Their naturalness and freedom from the personal attitude of the Continental woman interested him. It was perhaps this quality in Stella that most appealed to him

for the interruption: Stella should not attempt Brahms. The hazardous attempt broke off as abruptly as it had begun. There was something fragmentary, or perhaps more correctly, something unfinished about Stella. She never had just fulfilled the

cally tentative, wavering, fearful of intruding, a gentle, k

t. They had been large and dark once; now the filmy rim of age was visible about the iris. Her white hair lay in neat ringlets upon her bro

"but you won't mind her," she added, recalling the

ne of some old friend of the family. "An old lady." He had not re

lison is universally admired. Mrs. Herrick"-she quoted the oracle of her circle in that

toward the house; her

historian, bane of

back to him as his aunt preceded him with her small, hesitating steps up the narrow path. The picture of an old lady playing the "Songs with

la playing,"

joined afte

ople aren't in these days. At her age, if

at her, hooking her w

The 'Blue Alsatian Mountains'

ile held a f

id you

nd did you sing, 'Then

ng; but Mary-yo

cisiveness of voice and feature. As he released her hand, still aware of its hard, boyish grip, he heard his aunt's voice, light, wandering, non-arresting, as if continuing some conversational thread, "And Miss Allison Clyde, Mark-my old friend." He had been vaguely aware of some one else in the room, but when he met the smile of the older woman who held out her hand to him, he wondere

her and unconsciously glanced at Stella. The older woman belonged t

e, and Miss Lucretia presided. Mark's eyes again wandered fr

ted, carelessly and not quite gracefully. Miss Allison Clyde was taller than Stella, yet sh

rabbéd Age' for me again," she

d, going to the piano, plunged at once into the opening ba

, unabashed, as her fingers stumbled. "I think Miss Allison

you I heard a

melancholy attraction for me. I had no idea the composer wa

ted. "It would give me so much ple

son rose

they ran through it together, the older woman playing it with a musician's sense

e piano stool, Miss Allison let her fingers wander through passages of "

The gaucherie of that "still" struck upon Mark's artistic sensibiliti

imentality, but, as she spoke, lightly touched the delicate theme of the "Golden Apples" that brought eternal youth to the gods, passing into the sublimity of the Valhalla motive. Looking up, she met Mark's comprehension and smiled, then, bringing her chord to a resolution, rose from the piano stool. Mark watched he

resigned in favor of Shakespeare," Mark explained

ad the

love, t

Time's p

hour ha

wers ar

as pas

ove, to

ands at

t as the eyes of youth-autumn pools shot through with the sun. The mouth was a generous one, finely molded by the experience of the years. He remembered that she was a spinster, yet there was about her none of the emptiness, the starved quality, of the woman with her destiny unfulfilled; nothing of the futility,

yde was neither wife nor mother. She had turned, no doubt, to other interests with her un

It had been surely a vain waiting; yet, viewed as a p

ote a long letter to her lifelon

ed, so beyond us, in others they are further away from life's responsibilities than we were at their age. There is a suggestion of his Uncle William about Mark, but he is somehow stronger, more imperative. I was drawn to him at once because of his music. And he has the charming manner, the almost excessive chivalry, toward our sex that we see so little of any more, or at least seldom encounter at our age. Lucretia had asked Stella in for tea. She is a dear child and quite alarmingly composed, but not altogether musical, despite her excellent musical opportunities. She played one

and the mild, small daily occurrences that a

y seventies. Something in the face, clear-eyed, warm-lipped, trusting, caught and held his attention. He turned it over to see if the girl's name was on the back, but the only inscription was a dat

eye. Perhaps Uncle William had taken the little picture away with him to the war. The date must have been just about the time that he had enlisted and marched away. He had gone without telling her perh

Uncle William's picture beside the girl's, and impulsively he went back to the darkened drawing-room, groped for the fram

actually found a package of letters. He picked it up, and with a little thrill of realization recognized his uncle's writing. The paper was old and yellowed with time. It had no address, but was sealed with red wax. Scarcely expecting fulfillment of his romantic hope, he broke the seal and opened the package. There was no address on