The Holy Cross and Other Tales | Page 4

so mixed a compound that it will always be
impossible quite to decide whether he was wont to judge critically of
either his own conduct or his literary creations. As to the latter, he put
the worst and the best side by side, and apparently cared alike for both.
That he did much beneath his standard, fine and true at times,--is
unquestionable, and many a set of verses went the rounds that harmed
his reputation. On the whole, I think this was due to the fact that he got
his stated income as a newspaper poet and jester, and had to furnish his
score of "Sharps and Flats" with more or less regularity. For all this, he
certainly has left pieces, compact of the rarer elements, sufficient in
number to preserve for him a unique place among America's most
original characters, scholarly wits, and poets of brightest fancy. Yorick
is no more! But his genius will need no chance upturning of his
grave-turf for its remembrance. When all is sifted, its fame is more
likely to strengthen than to decline.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
[Originally contributed to the "Souvenir Book" of the N.Y. Hebrew
Fair, December, 1895.]

Contents
THE HOLY CROSS
THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH
THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE
FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND
THE TOUCH IN THE HEART
DANIEL AND THE DEVIL
METHUSELAH
FÉLICE AND PETIT-POULAIN
THE RIVER
FRANZ ABT
MISTRESS MERCILESS
THE PLATONIC BASSOON
HAWAIIAN FOLK TALES
LUTE BAKER AND HIS WIFE EM
JOEL'S TALK WITH SANTA CLAUS
THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE

THE HOLY CROSS
Whilst the noble Don Esclevador and his little band of venturesome
followers explored the neighboring fastnesses in quest for gold, the
Father Miguel tarried at the shrine which in sweet piety they had hewn
out of the stubborn rock in that strangely desolate spot. Here, upon that
serene August morning, the holy Father held communion with the
saints, beseeching them, in all humility, to intercede with our beloved
Mother for the safe guidance of the fugitive Cortes to his native shores,
and for the divine protection of the little host, which, separated from
the Spanish army, had wandered leagues to the northward, and had
sought refuge in the noble mountains of an unknown land. The Father's
devotions were, upon a sudden, interrupted by the approach of an aged
man who toiled along the mountain-side path,--a man so aged and so
bowed and so feeble that he seemed to have been brought down into
that place, by means of some necromantic art, out of distant centuries.
His face was yellow and wrinkled like ancient parchment, and a beard
whiter than Samite streamed upon his breast, whilst about his withered
body and shrunken legs hung faded raiment which the elements had
corroded and the thorns had grievously rent. And as he toiled along, the
aged man continually groaned, and continually wrung his palsied hands,
as if a sorrow, no lighter than his years, afflicted him.
"In whose name comest thou?" demanded the Father Miguel,
advancing a space toward the stranger, but not in threatening wise;
whereat the aged man stopped in his course and lifted his eyebrows,
and regarded the Father a goodly time, but he spake no word.
"In whose name comest thou?" repeated the priestly man. "Upon these
mountains have we lifted up the cross of our blessed Lord in the name
of our sovereign liege, and here have we set down a tabernacle to the
glory of the Virgin and of her ever-blessed son, our Redeemer and
thine,--whoso thou mayest be!"
"Who is thy king I know not," quoth the aged man, feebly; "but the
shrine in yonder wall of rock I know; and by that symbol which I see

therein, and by thy faith for which it stands, I conjure thee, as thou
lovest both, give me somewhat to eat and to drink, that betimes I may
go upon my way again, for the journey before me is a long one."
These words spake the old man in tones of such exceeding sadness that
the Father Miguel, touched by compassion, hastened to meet the
wayfarer, and, with his arms about him, and with whisperings of sweet
comfort, to conduct him to a resting-place. Coarse food in goodly
plenty was at hand; and it happily fortuned, too, that there was a
homely wine, made by Pietro del y Saguache himself, of the wild
grapes in which a neighboring valley abounded. Of these things anon
the old man partook, greedily but silently, and all that while he rolled
his eyes upon the shrine; and then at last, struggling to his feet, he made
as if to go upon his way.
"Nay," interposed the Father Miguel, kindly; "abide with us a season.
Thou art an old man and sorely spent. Such as we have thou shalt have,
and