"Another colonel," he observed grimly. "The last one was a major; the one before him was a capting. Ain't they got nothin' but soldiers to send out here? Who's goin' to run the army? Are you a real colonel or jest a newspaper colonel, or are you a colonel on the governor's staff? There's your office over there on the other side of the hall.
Kin you speak Spanish?"
FOOTNOTE:
[30] Copyright, 1905, by the Century Company.
ZOE A. NORRIS
Mrs. Zoe Anderson Norris, novelist and editor, was born at Harrodsburg, Kentucky, in 1861, the daughter of Rev. Henry T.
Anderson, who held pastorates in many Kentucky towns. She was graduated from Daughters, now Beaumont, College, when she was seventeen years of age, or in 1878; and two days later she married Spencer W. Norris, of Harrodsburg, and removed to Wichita, Kansas, to live. Years afterwards Mrs. Norris divorced her husband and went to New York to make a name for herself in literature. She began with a Western story, _Georgiana's Mother_, which appeared in George W.
Cable's magazine, _The Symposium_. Some time thereafter Mrs. Norris went to England--"like an idiot," as she now puts it. In London she "got swamped among the million thieving magazines, threw up the whole job," and traveled for two years on the Continent, writing for American periodicals. When she returned to New York she again wrote for _McClure's_, _Cosmopolitan_, _The Smart Set_, _Everybody's_, and several other magazines. Mrs. Norris's first novel, _The Quest of Polly Locke_ (New York, 1902) was a story of the poor of Italy. It was followed by her best known novel, _The Color of His Soul_ (New York, 1903), set against a background of New York's Bohemia, and suppressed two weeks after its publication because of the earnest objections of a young Socialist, who had permitted the author to make a type of him, and, when the story was selling, became dissatisfied because he was not sharing in the profits. The publishers feared a libel suit, and withdrew the little novel. Their action scared other publishers, and she could not find any one to print her writings. A short time later Mrs. Norris narrowly escaped dying as a charity patient in a New York hospital. When she did recover she worked for two years on _The Sun_, _The Post_, _The Press_, and several other newspapers in Manhattan.
_Twelve Kentucky Colonel Stories_ (New York, 1905), which were originally printed in _The Sun_, "describing scenes and incidents in a Kentucky Colonel's life in the Southland," were told Mrs. Norris by Phil B. Thompson, sometime Congressman from Kentucky. The stories have enjoyed a wide sale; and she is planning to issue another set of them shortly. Being badly treated by a well-known magazine, she became so infuriated that she decided to establish--at the suggestion of Marion Mills Miller--a magazine of her own. Thus _The East Side_, a little thing not so large--speaking of its physical size--as Elbert Hubbard's _The Philistine_, was born. That was early in 1909; and it has been issued every other month since. Mrs. Norris is nothing if not original; her opinions may not matter much, but they are hers. The four bound volumes of _The East Side_ lie before me now, and they are almost bursting with love, sympathy, and understanding for the poor of New York. She has been and is everything from printer's "devil" to editor-in-chief, but she has made a success of the work. Her one eternal theme is the poor, in whom she has been interested all her life. For the last seven years she has lived among them; and among them she hopes to spend the remainder of her days. Her one best friend has been William Oberhardt, the artist, who has illustrated _The East Side_ from its inception until the present time. To celebrate the little periodical's first anniversary, Mrs. Norris founded--at the suggestion of Will J. Lampton--The Ragged Edge Klub, which is composed of her friends and subscribers, and which gave her an opportunity to meet all of her "distinguished life preservers" in person. The Klub's dinners delight the diners--and the newspapers! Mrs. Norris's latest novel, _The Way of the Wind_ (New York, 1911), is a story of the sufferings of the Kansas pioneers, and is generally regarded as her finest work. So long as _Zoe's Magazine_--which is the sub-title of _The East Side_--continues to come from the press, the pushcart people, the rag pickers, the turkish towel men, the kindling-wood women, the homeless of New York's great East Side will have a voice in the world worth having.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Everybody's Magazine_ (September, 1909); _Cosmopolitan Magazine_ (January, 1910).
THE CABARET SINGER[31]
[From _The East Side_ (September, 1912)]
For a few moments the orchestra, with dulcet wail of cello and violin, held the attention of those at the tables, then the Cabaret singer stepped out upon the soft, red carpet.
Against the mirrored wall at a small table set a young chap with his wife. The eyes of his wife followed his quick, admiring glances at the singer.
She began to sing "Daddy," sweeping the crowd with her long, soft glance, selecting her victim for the chorus.
She advanced toward the couple. She stood by the husband, pressed her rosy, perfumed cheek upon his hair, and began to sing.
The young wife flushed crimson as she watched her husband in this delicate embrace, the crowd applauded; and the Cabaret singer, leaving him, went from one to the other of the men, some bald, some young, singing the chorus of "Daddy."
The young wife sighed as the flashing eyes of her husband followed the singer.
"Shall we go home?" she asked presently.
"Not yet!" he implored.
"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home."
The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began to cry softly.
The negress patted her white shoulder.
"What's de mattah, honey," she purred.
"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to go home!"
IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS
[From the same]
I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life, I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife, I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain, If I could go back and be little again, I'd like it.
I'm tired of the day that must end in the night, I'm afraid of the dark and I faint in the light, I'm sick of the sorrow and sadness and pain, If I could be rocked in a cradle again, I'd like it.
But tired or not, we must keep up the fight, We must work thru the day, lie awake thru the night, Stand the heat of the sun and the fall of the rain, Be brave in the dark and endure the pain; For we'll never, never be little again, And we'll never be rocked in a cradle again, Tho we'd most of us like it.
FOOTNOTE:
[31] Copyright, 1912, by the Author.
LUCY CLEAVER McELROY
Mrs. Lucy Cleaver McElroy, author of "uneuphonious feminine, but very characteristic Dickensy sketches," was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, on Christmas Day of 1861. She was the daughter of the late Doctor W. W.
Cleaver, a physician of Lebanon. Miss Cleaver was educated in the schools of her native town, and, on September 28, 1881, she was married to Mr. G. W. McElroy, who now resides at Covington, Kentucky. Mrs.
McElroy was an invalid for many years, but she did not allow herself to become discouraged and she produced at least one book that was a success. She began her literary career by contributing articles to _The Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, _The Ladies' Home Journal_, and other newspapers and periodicals. Mrs. McElroy's first volume, _Answered_ (Cincinnati), a poem, was highly praised by several competent critics.
The first book she published that won a wide reading was _Juletty_ (New York, 1901), a tale of old Kentucky, in which lovers and moonshiners, fox-hunters and race horses, Morgan and his men, and a girl with "whiskey-colored eyes," make the _motif_. _Juletty_ was followed by _The Silent Pioneer_ (New York, 1902), published posthumously. "The silent pioneer" was, of course, Daniel Boone. Both of these novels are now out of print, and they are seldom seen in the old book-shops. Mrs. McElroy died at her home on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kentucky, which she called "Myrtledene," on December 15, 1901.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Critic_ (May, 1901); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).
OLD ALEC HAMILTON[32]
[From _Juletty_ (New York, 1901)]
"If you remember him at all, doctor, you remember that he was a curious man; curious in person, manner, habits, and thoughts.
"He was six feet two inches in height and tipped the Fairbanks needle at the two hundred notch; I believe he had the largest head and the brightest eyes I have ever seen. That big head of his was covered by a dense growth of auburn hair, and as every hair stood separately erect it looked like a big sunburned chestnut burr; his eyes twinkled and snapped, sparkled and glowed, like blue blazes, though on occasion they could beam as softly and tenderly through their tears as those of some lovesick woman. His language was a curious idiom; the result of college training and after association with negroes and illiterate neighbors. Of course, as a child, I did not know his peculiarities, and looked forward with much pleasure to seeing him and my grandmother, of whose many virtues I had heard. My father had expatiated much on the beauty of my grandfather's farm--three thousand broad acres (you have doubtless noticed, doctor, that Kentucky acres always are broad, about twice as broad as the average acre) in the heart of the Pennyrile District. As good land, he said, as a crow ever flew over; red clay for subsoil, and equal to corn crops in succession for a hundred years. But I am going to tell you, doctor, of my visit as a child to my grandfather. I had never seen him, and felt a little natural shrinking from the first meeting. My mother had only been dead a few weeks and--well, in short, my young heart was pretty full of conflicting emotions when I drew near the old red brick house. He was not expecting me, and I had to walk from the railway station. It was midsummer, and the old gentleman sat, without hat, coat, or shoes, outside his front door. As I drew near he called out threateningly:
"'Who are you?'
"'Why, don't you know me?' I asked pleasantly.
"'No, by Jacks! How in hell should I know you?' he thundered.
"There was nothing repulsive about his profanity; falling from his lips it seemed guileless as cooings of suckling doves, so nothing daunted, I cried out cheerily as one who brings good news:
"'I'm Jack Burton, your grandson!'
"'What yer want here?'