COLLIER'S FOR EASTER 1 91 2 亞 fore, the eyes becoming mere dull excrescences; and the little violet flames, slowly rising, once more trembled and nodded invitingly above it. Suddenly the flame went out, dead out. A series of massive concussions had disturbed the heavy water. All the other definite lights in the neighborhood-the glowworm clusters, the gliding points and stars, the sliding eyes and spectral streamers, and even the pallid display of the imperturbable sea lilies-extinguished themselves abruptly, and there was nothing to be seen but the nebulous patches of the infusoria and the elusive glimmer of the ooze beds. Somewhere in the obscurity, too far off to be visible but near enough to make itself startlingly felt, a battle of monsters was going on. For all lesser beings of the underworld it was a case of "Lights Out, and Lie Hid!" Even that great stone slab of a creature, though some seven or eight feet long, and a good two feet across at the place where the cavernous mouth had opened, had no wish to attract the notice of those fighters. He kept his dainty violet lure safely concealed, and was content to be the most unconsidered of rock slabs that ever gathered silt on the ocean bottom. Presently the disturbance died away, and once more the water lay. in heavy stillness. The first of the deep-sea dwellers to recover confidence were the sea lilies, which slowly relit the glow in their pale lilac and pinkish petals. The glow was an irre sistible attraction to all sorts of tiny living organisms, who swam or floated toward it to be captured Then by the carnivorous, ever-hungry blooms. other cautious beings began to let their ghost-lights glimmer again as they resumed their prowling, their swimming, or their crawling-fish, shrimps, starfish, crabs, monstrous sea urchins, and huge black-purple trepangs. And, last of all, that monstrous Lyer-in-Wait, the deep-sea Angler, hung out once more the lovely violet death-lamp above the hidden cavern of his jaws. T HESE spectral deeps were not by any means lonely-at least, not in this particular section of them. Mysterious, busy, almost invisible life swarmed everywhere, hunting and being hunted. But for a few moments nothing more came near the fluttering lure. The monster grew impatient. His appetite was huge, and he lived only to satisfy it. But as, with all his strength, he had nc speed for the pursuit and capture of his prey, there was nothing for him to do but wait, sinking ever deeper into the silt to make his ambush the more secure. The only sign of his impatience was an added activity and persuasiveness in the noddings and wavings of the little violet flame on its slender tentacle. And presently its activity was rewarded. It caught the notice of a most grotesque-looking crablike creature, with a small, circular, rosecolored body mounted on immensely long, jointed, stiltlike stalks of legs. Its jaws were almost as big as its body, and it waved from its head two slim, whiplike antennæ, or feelers, even more ludicrously elongated than its legs. It may have been by some delicate perception in these feelers that it noticed the trembling violet light; for where its eyes should have been were merely two pin points of black, a mere rudimentary suggestion of what may have been eyes in some remote shoalwater ancestor. However that may be, the storkHe came like crab certainly perceived the lure. sidling toward it awkwardly but swiftly, his great jaws working with eagerness. But another prowler had also caught sight of the enticing wisp of violet. An immense scarlet shrimp, as big as a lobster, came swimming at it backward. He could see well enough, having a pair of extravagantly large eyes, each with a bright white bull's-eye lamp glowing beside it. He saw not only the lure, but the sidling approach of his long-legged rival; and he shot down in jealous haste. The two arrived together. The little flame eluded their rush, and sank. They followed, clashing against each other and plunged into a black cavern which opened and rose to meet them. The cavern gave a suckling gulp, and closed again with a snap. For a second or two those veiled, pale eyes on either side of it glowed faintly green, and then were extinguished again. And once more the little violet flame lifted its lure above the silted slab. The next passer-by to heed the flame was so for The colossal but almost naked skeleton of a whale midable-looking that one would have thought the Lyer-in-Wait would take alarm and withdraw the lure. It was an immense, serpentine "oar-fish," a good eighteen feet in length, with two long, slender fins, like a pair of oars, spreading from the sides of his head. The body was extraordinarily slender for its length, being little more than a foot in diameter, and carried a back fin running all the way from the tail to the top of the head. At the top of the head this fin was enlarged by several huge spines, perhaps two feet long, which slanted forward imposingly and threateningly over the owner's snout. The body was silvery in hue, and carried a uniform faint green phosphorescence. IN A LEISURELY fashion the oar-fish swam up toward the quivering violet lure. Formidable as he looked, it awaited his approach. At last he lunged at it, opening a smallish and not very dangerous mouth as he did so. The lure, of course, vanished. The cavern yawned beneath him, lurched upward, and closed upon his body well behind the gill covers. For a few moments the long tail lashed the water desperately, till all the surrounding lights were extinguished in terror. But the captive, for all his length and strength, was utterly helpless in the grip of those terrific jaws and long, rending fangs. In a very few seconds he was bitten clean in two, and the head, with its protecting spines, rolled to one side. The broad, ungainly figure of the angler flopped clear of the silt and snapped voraciously at the quivering body, biting off twofoot lengths of it and gulping them almost without effort. His stomach swelled and swelled, but he kept cramming the banquet down, till not more than three or four feet of the tail end of the victim remained. Then he settled back into his lair, fanned his fins cleverly till his swollen form was once more veiled in silt, and proceeded to digest his gigantic meal. Having no more use for food at the moment, he refrained from hanging out the violet lure. 25 I.-Chores on the Farm T HE life of the prosperous Western farmer might be one round of pleasure but for the ever-present problem of securing competent and faithful help-a problem that grows more difficult each year. The industrious, intelligent "hired man" is more precious than rubies and about as scarce. The farmer's sons go to business college and become stenographers and wear boiled linen; the farm work must be done, and the task of finding somebody to do it is bringing the husbandman's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. I was a farm laborer for several years and worked for various employers; my wages ranging from $12 to $15 a month with board and washing. A hungry school-teacher boarded at one of the places where I worked, and paid $2 a week for meals and lodging, and she ate at least as much as I did. The item of washing didn't amount to much, as I had only two shirts and went barefooted. So the entire remuneration for my arduous toil amounted to about $25 a month, and for this I worked from fifteen to eighteen hours a day. This was in the grand old times when corn sold for 15 cents a bushel and hogs for $3 a hundredweight. Nowadays the Western farmer gets 50 cents a bushel for his corn and $6 or more for his hogs, and everything he sells has increased in value accordingly. He gets almost as much for a roll of butter as he used to get for a cow, and everybody knows eggs are so valuable the grocer keeps them in his safe. THE wages of the hired man should have in creased correspondingly, but they haven't. The able-bodied yeoman gets more than I used to get when my furrow broke the stubborn glebe, but he isn't paid more than half what he should receive. For farm work, even in these days when every implement has a spring seat on it, is exhausting and heartbreaking, and gives a man no time for recreation or reading or diversions of any kind. The hired man must have all his fun in the winter when it's too cold for fun. From the day when the spring work opens until the last load of corn has been shucked, he is chained to his oar as closely as the gentlemen of the ancient Roman galleys. Every young man who can do it quits farm work at the earliest opportunity, and the opportunity comes frequently in these days of mail-order edu B Walt Mason cations, when a man can fit himself for a job as The wages are small, and the work in the field is work carrying refreshments a hundred yards. This work being done, several bushels of corn had to be carried an equal distance to relieve the ravening creatures. THE hogs being supplied with the necessaries of life, I had to do an equal service for the calves. There were eight or ten of them in an inclosure, and each had to be given its bucket of milk. Mine not to reason why, mine not to make reply; mine but to do or die, and I dyed the atmosphere blue with language. Men who have never taught calves to drink don't know what sorrow is. One calf isn't so bad, but when you have to go into a den of the bloodthirsty brutes, and have them climb all over you, in an effort to get at the bucket first; when they butt you in the stomach and run between your legs and upset you, and trample your whiskers into the ground, then you cry with Bernardo del Carpio : "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" (Concluded on page 32) Literature loses its charm 19 12 In Blackwell's Wood, with empty purse, a knade of ill renown Which same y Varlet carried off despite Dame's protest. He bore it deep within Wood and there with might and main, At last, exhausted with his toil, ý knave took pause for thought. Said be, "Where proper tools are found, coffer must be brought. And straightway he began ý task of bearing on his back Ye Treasure-chest unto his home, to wit~a woodsman's shack. With such reward for dangers braved; for toil and pain endured, W ITH its red brick, green shutters, and white portico, the outside of Mr. Ames's Little Theatre is like a Colonial house. You find it tucked away in a side street, just outside the glare of Broadway, and as you enter the white hall-severe except for a bit of old Italian brocaded velvet-with its fireplace and carpeted stairway leading down to the tea room, you feel as if you were going to somebody's private party. The auditorium continues this novel impression. It is a cozy little room, without balcony or boxes, just big enough for the 299 seats, set at such a slant that everybody can see. There is high wood paneling on the side walls with tapestry in between; carpet, seats, and curtain are in soft unobtrusive tones. The lighting comes from shaded ceiling candelabra and electric candles on the side walls, which carry out the idea of a house rather than a public place. It is in such a theatre that plays whose appeal is intimate rather than external, those in which the author gets down and talks face to face with his audience, so to speak, really get a fair chance. And its beneficent uses could scarcely be better illustrated than they are in the presentation of Mr. Galsworthy's "The Pigeon." Mr. Galsworthy's Play FOR "The Pigeon," according to the conventional rules of the game, is, perhaps, not a play at all. The author merely says-very much as the Russians have a way of sayinghere are some people and this is the way they act. Here, for instance, is this soft-hearted artist person, Christopher Wellwyn, who gives money to every beggar who asks him for it and then gives his card, too, and tells them to hunt him up if they need help. Of course they come soon enough. They sleep in all his spare rooms, borrow all his clothes, and, after all, his kindness seems to do little good. The broken-down old cabby only goes and gets drunk again; the vagabond Frenchman, with his quick understanding, snatches of philosophy, and determination not to be exploited by the bourgeoisie, is soon as desperate as ever. The pretty, pleasure-loving, weak-mouthed Mrs. Megan, who sells flowers and won't live with her husband, no sooner gets rested and fed than she's out and into trouble again. The If the old cabman, with his hearty British. hatred of "aliens," were but in a slightly different material husk, people would find him a "fine oldfashioned gentleman, carrying his liquor well." The young Frenchman would be a traveler, a graceful amateur, with a "soul above mere trade." flower girl would be "that charming Mrs. So-andSo, so light-hearted, chic, full of the joie de vivre." Unfortunately, luck didn't do that for them. And here they are, "rotters" all, as the artist's crisp, practical young daughter puts it. He might better stop helping them and take care of himself, but even he, it appears, is not his own master. "If I've got to give up feeling nice here," says he, tapping himself on the chest, "then I don't know what I am going to do. I'll just have to sit with my head in a bag!" It is stronger than he is-as is drink for By & Arthur Ruhl the cabman, soft, pleasant things for Mrs. Megan, and, for the Frenchman, the open road. In come some of the artist's friends-a justice of the peace, a professor, a clergyman. They are more stiff-necked, with vigorous theories as to what should be done. The J. P. is all for old-fashioned individualism. What these people want is a shock -wake 'em up to some sense of responsibility, help the deserving and the devil take the hindmost! The professor, on the other hand, is for modern, scientific teamwork, for "giving the State all we can spare so that the undeserving may be made deserving." And each gentleman is so sure that he can make the other see the light if he will give him but a minute's time that they bustle off the stage in a gale of their own argument. The flower girl goes out to service-"an excellent place" the clergyman beams with great satisfaction, only to find out a little later that "she's got the footman into trouble." The Frenchman goes to an institution-"a palace," says he, after his escape; "one may eat on the floor," but it appears that there's something which scientific management, sanitation, and germless food will not reach -"there is in some human souls, Monsieur, what cannot be made tame".. Mrs. Megan, in a burst of despair, finally jumps into the river, but even this stiffening of will is short-lived. The water is cold, it gets into her mouth, she's sorry she did it, and thinks in that sharp moment "of her baby that died-an' dancin' -an'"-in short, the policeman drags her out before she can drown. And then, everybody believing and having said that it would be much better for her if she could die, she is lugged off to court to be punished for attempting suicide. It was Christmas Eve when these waifs came together in the artist's studio. It is April Fool's Day when they are seen for the last time, and Mr. Wellwyn, having tipped three times instead of once the men who are moving his household effects to a new studio, whose address his daughter intends the derelicts shall not know, of course ends by secretly giving his card to all three again. Nothing is "proved," and the author ventures no personal opinion except a certain implied criticism of institutionalism which ignores the individual's need of "being himself." There is no plot; characters merely come and go. One could imagine Mr. Augustus Thomas, who watched proceedings the opening night with great interest from a third-row seat, inwardly observing: "All very well, my dear fellow, but suppose you leave this nice little room and this sympathetic family party and fly your pigeon against the jumbled-up and more or less boneheaded collection of listeners which fills the average theatre?" SUCH The Little Theatre's Opportunity UCH a question is pertinent, but it is precisely in escaping some of the mechanical difficulties which the dramatist must generally surmount that such a theatre performs its spe cial service, and gives a chance for work like this, which, ineffective as it might be as a roughand-ready theatrical machine, is six times more worth hearing than the average play. It is difficult to convey in a hasty review any adequate notion of the lively and continuous charm of the piece as this excellent company presents it-its vigorous freshness and rich humor, the sense the spectator constantly gets of listening to the real thing. Of course, by humor one doesn't mean mere quotable "lines," but that more suggestive humor which springs from the general irony of things-the grim contrasts between humans and the vast forces which swirl them about. The broken-down old cabby, helpless, hopeless, drunk as a lord, lurching out to heaven knows what, and mumbling cheerfully as he disappears, "Where to, mister?" is an example. So are the two theorists, stumbling over him as-still talking-they hurry out. The individual is not taken account of in their reckoning. Or the Frenchman. struggling to describe that "something which cannot be made tame"-"You English are so-so civilized." Everything that could be done to give a perfect presentation of the author's work has been done, it would seem, by Mr. Ames, Mr. Platt, his producer, and the dozen players. As the Frenchman, Mr. Frank Reicher had the most picturesque part, and his performance was a very delicate and vivid one. Scarcely less entertaining was the cabman of Mr. Sydney Valentine, while Mr. Russ Whytal gave genuine personality to the artist, even if his voice seemed occasionally to overaccent the sentimental note. Miss Pamela Gaythorne was perfectly cast as Mrs. Megan, and Miss Louise Seymour as crisp and characteristic a young English girl as if she had just stepped out of the Christmas "Graphic." |