BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Conrard to the Author; _Poet-Lore_ (Boston, Fall Issue, 1907).
IN OLD TUCSON[59]
[From _Quivira_ (Boston, 1907)]
In old Tucson, in old Tucson, What cared I how the days ran on?
A brown hand trailing the viol-strings, Hair as black as the raven's wing, Lips that laughed and a voice that clung To the sweet old airs of the Spanish tongue Had drenched my soul with a mellow rime Till all life shone, in that golden clime, With the tender glow of the morning-time.
In old Tucson, in old Tucson, How swift the merry days ran on!
In old Tucson, in old Tucson, How soon the parting day came on!
But I oft turn back in my hallowed dreams, And the low adobe a palace seems, Where her sad heart sighs and her sweet voice sings To the notes that throb from her viol-strings.
Oh, those tear-dimmed eyes and that soft brown hand!
And a soul that glows like the desert sand-- The golden fruit of a golden land!
In old Tucson, in old Tucson, The long, lone days, O Time, speed on!
A KENTUCKY SUNRISE
[From the same]
Faint streaks of light; soft murmurs; sweet Meadow-breaths; low winds; the deep gray Yielding to crimson; a lamb's bleat; Soft-tinted hills; a mockbird's lay: And the red Sun brings forth the Day.
A KENTUCKY SUNSET
[From the same]
The great Sun dies in the west; gold And scarlet fill the skies; the white Daisies nod in repose; the fold Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight: The long shadows come, and then--Night.
FOOTNOTE:
[59] Copyright, 1907, by Richard G. Badger.
ALICE HEGAN RICE
Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice, creator of "Mrs. Wiggs," was born at Shelbyville, Kentucky, January 11, 1870. She was educated at Hampton College, Louisville. On December 18, 1902, she was married to Mr. Cale Young Rice, the Louisville poetic dramatist. Mrs. Rice is a member of several clubs, and to this work she has devoted considerable attention. Her first book, published under her maiden name of Alice Caldwell Hegan, the redoubtable _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ (New York, 1901), is an epic of optimism, "David Harum's Widow," to its admirers; and a platitudinous production, to its non-admirers. At any rate, it achieved the success it was written to achieve: one of the "six best sellers" for more than a year, and now in its forty-seventh edition! That, surely, is glory--and money--enough for the most exacting. The love episode running through the little tale did not greatly add to its merit, and when the old woman of the many trials and tribulations is absent, it drags itself endlessly along. _Lovey Mary_ (New York, 1903), was a weakish sequel, partly redeemed by the one readable chapter upon the old Kentucky woman of Martinsville, Indiana, and her _Denominational Garden_. That chapter and _The 'Christmas Lady'_ from _Mrs. Wiggs_, were reprinted in London as very slight volumes. _Sandy_ (New York, 1905), was the story of a little Scotch stowaway in Kentucky; _Captain June_ (New York, 1907), related the experiences of an American lad in Japan; _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909), was a rather unpleasant tale of an eccentric Kentucky journalist, yet quite the strongest thing she has done. Mrs. Gusty, Jimmy Fallows, Cove City, _The Opp Eagle_, its editor, D. Webster Opp, his half-crazed sister, Kippy, are very real and very pathetic. Mrs.
Rice's latest story, _A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill_ (New York, 1912), was heralded as a "delightful blend of Cabbage Patch philosophy and high romance;" and it was said to have been the result of a suggestion made to the author by the late editor and poet, Richard Watson Gilder, that she should paint upon a larger canvas--which suggestion was both good and timely. That the "Cabbage Patch philosophy" is present no one will deny; but the "high romance" is reached at the top of Billy-Goat Hill which is, after all, not a very dizzy altitude. It was, of course, one of the "six best sellers" for several months. Indeed, more than a million copies of her books have been sold; and nearly as many people have seen the dramatization of _Mr. Opp_ and _Mrs. Wiggs_.[60]
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 6, 1902); _The Bookman_ (May, 1903); _The Critic_ (June, 1904).
THE OPPRESSED MR. OPP DECIDES[61]
[From _Mr. Opp_ (New York, 1909)]
Half an hour later Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!
With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.
The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white, spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke from the stillness.
"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.
From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"
At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him from Coreyville.
As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the girl's clear, round hand:
Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the asylum.
Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly; "she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road, calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.
Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat had evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town, for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman, without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had been wild and unmanageable.
"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not to see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming on, and wanted to be taken care of."
He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of insanity.
"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr.
Opp. "This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that won't ever, probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all winter; I've learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a number of cities on the geographical atlas."
"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never be any better, but she may be a great deal worse. Her mind should never be stimulated or excited in any way. Here, of course, we understand all these things and treat the patient accordingly."
"Then I must just go back to treating her like a child again?" asked Mr. Opp, "not endeavoring to improve her intellect, or help her grow up in any way?"
The doctor laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
"You leave her to us," he said. "The State provides this excellent institution for just such cases as hers. You do yourself and your family, if you have one, an injustice by keeping her at home. Let her stay here for six months or so, and you will see what a relief it will be."
Mr. Opp sat with his elbow on the desk and his head propped in his hand and stared miserably at the floor. He had not had his clothes off for two nights, and he had scarcely taken time from his search to eat anything. His face looked old and wizened and haunted from the strain.
Yet here and now he was called upon to make his great decision. On the one hand lay the old, helpless life with Kippy, and on the other a future of dazzling possibility with Guinevere. All of his submerged self suddenly rose and demanded happiness. He was ready to snatch it, at any cost, regardless of everything and everybody--of Kippy; of Guinevere, who, he knew, did not love him, but would keep her promise; of Hinton, whose secret he had long ago guessed. And, as a running accompaniment to his thoughts, was the quiet, professional voice of the doctor urging him to the course that his heart prompted. For a moment the personal forces involved trembled in equilibrium.
After a long time he unknotted his fingers, and drew his handkerchief across his brow.
"I guess I'll go up and see her now," he said, with the gasping breath of a man who has been under water.
In vain the doctor protested. Mr. Opp was determined.
As the door to the long ward was being unlocked, he leaned for a moment dizzily against the wall.
"You'd better let me give you a swallow of whiskey," suggested the doctor, who had noted his exhaustion.
Mr. Opp raised his hand deprecatingly, with a touch of his old professional pride. "I don't know as I've had occasion to mention," he said, "that I am the editor and sole proprietor of 'The Opp Eagle'; and that bird," he added, with a forced smile, "is, as everybody knows, a complete teetotaler."