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eighteen. After three years of this hard labor there was a period of employment by a carriage painter, and of the emergence from this work into that of the writer there is no more definite account than the statement with which the story of his courtship comes to a climax: "Being married, I set resolutely to work to learn the only trade for which I seemed fitted literature.” The rarely congenial life of the married poets, the good and evil fortunes which they faced with equal courage, the intimacies with such men from the front rank of the second order in letters as G. H. Boker, T. B. Read, and Bayard Taylor, the frequent glimpses of others with more abiding claims to greatness, these are the chief themes of Mr. Stoddard's reminiscences. Interesting as many of them are, they fail as a whole to impress one with the importance which would attach to a small collection of the very best lyrics from the published writings of Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard.

Of a type of boyhood quite as unfamiliar in American annals as that of Mr. Stoddard Professor Newcomb's Reminiscences afford a striking example. The Canadian provinces have so far supplied but few of our men of distinction. Yet the picture of Nova Scotia in the fourth and fifth decades of the century is drawn against a background like that of the remoter parts of New England at an earlier time. The anomaly of Professor Newcomb's formative period was his apprenticeship through the important years between sixteen and eighteen to a quack botanic doctor whose theory of life was summed up in his declaration : "This world is all a humbug, and the biggest humbug is the best man. That's the Yankee doctrine, and that's the reason the Yankees get along so well." It was a good augury for the future of the apprentice that this man and his theory filled him with increasing disgust, which finally expressed itself in just such a running away to seek his fortunes as many a

writer of fiction has utilized as 66 material" for his opening chapters. The hero of the escape soon found himself in those thickly trodden paths of schoolteaching which have so often led on to eminence. On the avenues by which it was reached through work on the Nautical Almanac, in the Naval Observatory at Washington, in many important astronomical undertakings - he came into contact with many men of distinction in the world of science. Of them, and of the various scientific enterprises with which Washington and the national government have had to do, Professor Newcomb has written with enthusiasm and a contagious sympathy. To some readers it will be a matter of surprise to find how many of the names which are instantly recognized as important mean less to the uninstructed in scientific lore than corresponding, or even less important, names in almost any of the arts would signify. With the realization of this fact comes a sense of the usefulness of Reminiscences like these of Professor Newcomb's: they will bring into the clearer light of recog nition some of the most valuable phases of intellectual activity in America through the generations which may now fairly begin to be reminiscent.

The beginning and the long continuance of Whittier's career are matters of profuse and familiar record. One does not look, therefore, for many surprises in the new attempts to picture his life. It is more interesting to compare the points of view of two writers who bring to their task respectively the qualifications of the younger contemporary and of the very much younger student who belongs to a later generation.

Colonel Higginson's book1 has already been a year before the public. The personality of the writer finds expression in it perhaps a little less freely than one might wish. Like one without the ad

1 John Greenleaf Whittier. BY THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. English Men of Let

ters. New York: The Macmillan Co. 1902.

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Roxella carried the basket to the door of No. 6 and tapped gently.

"Your folks have sent you some little tokens," she explained. The tall prisoner's face lighted.

"Well, now, that's something I was n't lookin' for," he said.

"Most people get more or less that they don't really deserve," remarked Roxella. "I hope 't will lead you to serious thoughts of a better life." She crowded the lilacs through the grating as she spoke and looked doubtfully at the basket. "This won't go through; shall I open the basket and pass the things in?" she asked. He looked with interest at the doughnuts and sponge cake.

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"The sheep man don't feel worthy of all this which his folks has sent," she explained. "And I'm glad to see him show a little proper feelin'. Could you relish a piece? He finally accepted the entire loaf of cake under protest. "The others like doughnuts best, so I will leave them all for them," he said. "The cake is n't frosted as mother used to do, but it may be I can eat a piece." He slipped a folded paper through the grate.

"This will show you how I brighten the weary hours," he explained.

It was a little poem, written upon a sheet of letter paper and entitled A Fettered Bird. "It was just lovely," Roxella assured him next day as she passed a tiny dish of early strawberries through the grate.

She was becoming very good friends with most of the prisoners, even while following Sheriff Thomas's command to say little to them. "You can get pretty well acquainted with folks by just listening," Roxella decided. She brought to the gray-haired man in No. 2 a daily offering of spring blossoms, wrote occasional letters for illiterate No. 3, and one June afternoon paused triumphantly before the door of No. 5, bearing upon Mrs. Thomas's best china platter a frosted mound encircled by exactly two dozen wild roses. Upon the snowy surface of the cake, wrought in pink candy, was the inscription "No. 5 aged 24." "It's angel underneath," Roxella announced. "Too bad you can't

have it whole, but I've brought a long knife so you could cut it yourself through the grating and then take in the pieces. I heard you holler to No. 4 this mornin' about to-day bein' your birthday." No. 5 sliced the cake carefully, concealing beneath a gay exterior some real emotion.

"There never was any woman livin' ever made me a birthday cake before," he said solemnly as he swallowed the last pink crumb of the "5," "and this 's the first time I ever even tasted angel. I would n't be surprised if it went clear through and made another fellow of me. Now, miss, please pass some of it to the other boys."

Even No. 6, after a moment's hesitation, accepted a piece, and No. 9, having eaten his, spent the rest of the afternoon in writing a poem entitled The Angel of the Prison.

A week later Nos. 4 and 5, having served their ninety days' sentence for drunkenness and disorderly conduct, were dismissed, and the gray-haired prisoner finished his term for vagrancy soon after. Roxella found her midday duties lightened. She was becoming She was becoming deeply interested in the political prisoner, who confided to her by degrees long portions of his early history and blighted

career.

"My real name is Philip Cartwright," he whispered one day. "I wanted you to know, though for political reasons I am now bearing another. It does n't matter, since the rest of my life will undoubtedly be passed in prison. If I could only be brought to trial all might yet be well. But my enemies prevent that, knowing that my innocence could soon be proved."

"I didn't know those things ever happened outside of story books," Roxella assured him with distressed face.

No. 6 beckoned to her one day as she passed his door. "It's none of my affair," he said kindly, "but I sh'd want somebody to meddle if 't was a sister of mine. I'm no hand to talk about

my neighbors, and I would n't for the world carry tales to Peterson Thomas as mebbe I ought to do, but I want to advise you as a wellwisher not to go too far with any of us fellows in here, or to take too much stock in what we say. Our judgment gets warped till we think too well of ourselves and too little of other folks, and we ain't to be trusted. I would n't listen to that fellow in No. 9 quite so long to a time, if I was you."

Roxella's cheeks blazed. "That's about what I should have expected from you," she said with indignation. "If I want advice, thank you, I can get it outside the jail."

Next day she defiantly spent a full half hour in conversation with No. 9. The political prisoner was looking ill from his long confinement. "I am wasting for want of sunshine and fresh air," he reluctantly admitted when Roxella anxiously remarked upon his failing health. "Roxella, would it not be possible for you to grant me a brief hour in the open air, sometimes? It would be perfectly safe. The wall is far too high for me to scale in my weak condition even were other bonds than my word necessary. Let me have an hour there with you in the moonlight, since sunlight is no more for me."

Roxella assented eagerly. "It's just what you need,' " she declared. "I'll ask Sheriff Thomas this very night."

He stopped her sadly. "That is worse than useless," he said. "It would only end in depriving me of the one pleasure left in life your visits. No, if you do not pity me enough to grant this little boon without the knowledge of any one, I must still languish here."

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For a week Roxella held firm against pleading and reproaches, while No. 9 grew paler and weaker each day. Then she yielded.

"Broad daylight's the best time," she said shortly. "Sheriff's gone all day, and Mis' Thomas's room is on the

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He drew in deep breaths of the summer air as they sat in the shadow of the south wall upon a long bench. A huge elm tree drooped its branches from the other side, and fragrant odors of summer floated about them. "Oh, to be free again and go my way unhindered with beside me, you "he sighed. Roxella rose hastily. "The kitchen clock's striking four," she announced.

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She locked the door of No. 9 upon him once more, and went back to preparations for the evening meal with troubled face. "It's nothing short of unfaithfulness to them that trust me,' she acknowledged to her conscience. "I'm choosin' a wrong course deliberately rather than see a fellow bein' who is really innocent waste away before my eyes."

The following day was rainy, but Roxella and her charge walked for an hour up and down the gravel walk beneath a large umbrella.

"Even the rain is a blessed privilege with you," he whispered.

On the fourth day, as they sat again beneath the wall, the prisoner leaned suddenly toward his jailer. "Dearest" he began, but Roxella shrank away. "Don't!" she commanded.

A sudden push sent her headlong upon the soft grass. Half stunned she scrambled to her feet, to find her prisoner scaling the high wall in a manner which indicated both strength and agility. Already his hands were grasping the very top. In Roxella's bewildered brain there was room for but one thought, her responsibility to Evergreen County. She flung herself against the wall, grasping his right foot with desperate energy, while the other flourished wildly about her head, and threats of dire vengeance all unheeded floated down to her from the top of the wall.

"Help help-help!" screamed Roxella, though hopeless of aid; for Sheriff Thomas and his farm hands were two good miles away.

A well-aimed kick struck the top of her head. Roxella felt her brain reel

and her grasp weaken. He would escape, and she had betrayed the trust of Evergreen County. Her hands weakly slipped from their hold, but a pair of strong arms reaching above her head pulled the escaping prisoner to the ground.

"You contemptible villain!" cried the indignant voice of No. 6. "I don't see why I didn't stop you before you got this fur."

He marched the recaptured prisoner back to his cell, delivering upon the way sundry pungent bits of advice and warning, while Roxella, with aching head and deep humiliation of spirit, followed with the political prisoner's hat.

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"How'd you get out? she questioned of No. 6 as they locked their prisoner in once more.

"I ain't ever been locked in," replied No. 6 lightly. "Pete Thomas said he could n't help my bein' fool enough to come here, since that was a matter between me and my own brains or the lack of 'em, but he swore he would n't never turn a key on me, and he has n't." He turned to Roxella. "What did you s'pose I was here for?" he asked. "No, I ain't goin' in again. My time was up two days ago, but I made a bogus excuse to Pete and hung on here to watch that fellow. knew he was up to something of this kind, and I'd ought to stopped him sooner. What 'd you say you thought I was here for?"

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He laughed shortly at Roxella's faltered confession.

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No. 6's sar

into a flood of emotion.
castic tone changed instantly.

"Oh, come now, little girl, don't take it that way," he pleaded. ""T ain't any wonder after all. Hi's the slickest liar I ever saw, and he's fooled many a shrewd man who had long experience in the art himself. Why should n't he take in a tender-hearted little woman, who, bein' the soul of truth herself, has a right to expect it in other folks? That interestin' paleness of his was chalk, and them circles round his eyes black lead. More or less of it got rubbed off in rescuing him, but he'll have it on again before he goes before a jury. There, there, never mind. He ain't worth sheddin' But with all his lyin' propensities there never was truer words spoke than those poetry pieces he wrote off about sunshine and angels gettin' into the jail."

a tear over.

"I would n't never believed it of a Hodges, Roxelly," said Sheriff Thomas in a reproachful tone as he listened to Roxella's confession. "I'm terribly disappointed. But there, as Töm Leslie says, it wa'n't any more than natural for one so innocent and trustin' to be taken in, and I've a strong sus

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"That," replied Peterson Thomas with satisfaction, "was Tom Leslie. He's been one of my best deputies for years, for all he's a young feller. And he's jest served a term of sixty days for contempt of Court in refusin' to testify against a neighbor, and send him to jail away from his dyin' wife and little children. It ought to been settled by a fine, but Tom and the Court was both stuffy, though the judge says to me afterwards, says he, Every inch of that fellow's six feet is clear man, ' says he. And that's the truth. You've done well for yourself, Roxelly, and your father, who knows the Leslies, won't find no fault with me on that ground."

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'But it's not I did n't I have n't done anything," protested Roxella with burning cheeks.

"You wait and see," replied Sheriff Thomas in prophetic tones.

Harriet A. Nash.

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