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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
of the Javanese woman. With all the energy of her body and soul
she wanted to be free, to work and to live and to love.
Then the complaint became a song of rejoicing. For she not only
longed to lead the new life of the modern woman, but she had the
strength to accomplish it, and more than that, to win the sympathy
of her family and of her friends for her ideals. This little “princess”
lifted the concealing veil from her daily life and not only her life, her
thoughts were revealed. An Oriental woman had dared to fight for
feminism, even against her tenderly loved parents. For although her
father and mother were enlightened for noble Javanese, they had at
first strongly opposed her ideas as unheard of innovations.
She wanted to study and later to become a teacher to open a school
for the daughters of Regents, and to bring the new spirit into their
lives. She battled bravely, she would not give up; in the end she
won.
Raden Adjeng Kartini freed herself from the narrow oppression of
tradition, and the simple language of these letters chants a paean
“From Darkness into Light.”[10] The mist of obscurity is cleared away
from her land and her people. The Javanese soul is shown simple,
gentle, and less hostile than we Westerners had ever dared to hope.
For the soul of this girl was one with the soul of her people, and it is
through her that a new confidence has grown up between West and
the East, between the Netherlands and Java. The mysterious “Quiet
Strength” is brought into the light, it is tender, human and full of
love and Holland may well be grateful to the hand that revealed it.
This noble and pure soul was not destined to remain long upon
earth. Had she lived, who knows what Raden Adjeng Kartini might
not have accomplished for the well being of her country and her
people; above all, for the Javanese women and the Javanese child.
She was the first Regent’s daughter to break the fixed tradition in
regard to marriage; it was customary to give the bride to a strange
bridegroom, whom she had never seen, perhaps never even heard
of, until her wedding day. Kartini chose her own husband, a man
whom she loved, but her happy life with him was cut short by her
early death.
It is sometimes granted to those whom the gods love to bring their
work to fruition in all the splendour of youth, in the springtime or the
summer of their lives. To have worked and to have completed a
great task, when one is young, so that the world is left richer for all
time—is not that the most beautiful of all the gifts of the gods?
 APRIL’S CHARMS
[11]

By William H. Davies

When April scatters coins of primrose gold

Among the copper leaves in thickets old,
And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,
To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;

When I can hear the small woodpecker ring

Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;
And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long—
The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;

When I can hear the woodland brook, that could

Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood:
Upon whose banks the violets make their home,
And let a few small strawberry blossoms come;

When I go forth on such a pleasant day,

One breath outdoors takes all my care away;
It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold
Of wood that’s green and fill a grate with gold.
 CHAPTER V
[12]

By this time, it was plain, Thimble and Thumb had found something
to raise them to the window-hole, for Nod, as he glanced up, saw
half of both their astonished faces (one eye of each) peering in at
the window. He waved his lean little arms, and their faces vanished.
“Why do you wave your long thumbs in the air?” said the old Gunga
uneasily.
“I wave to Tishnar,” said Nod, “who watches over her wandering
Princes, and will preserve them from thieves and cunning ones. And
as for your filthy green-weed soup, how should a Mulla-mulgar soil
his thumbs with gutting fish? And as for the Water-midden’s song,
that I cannot teach you, nor would I teach it you if I could, Master
Fish-catcher. But I can catch fish with it.”
The old Gunga squatted close on his stool, and grinned as graciously
as he could. “I am poor and growing old,” he said, “and I cannot
catch fish as once I could. How is that done, O Royal Traveller?”
 BURBANK WITH A BAEDEKER; BLEISTEIN
WITH A CIGAR
[13]

By T. S. Eliot

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—

the gondola stopped, the old place was there, how charming its grey
and pink—goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess
passed on until she came through the little park, where Niobe
presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea

Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree

Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein’s way:

A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye

Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canalotto.
The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once.

The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends

A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the water-stair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings

And flea’d his rump and pared his claws;
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.
 FROM
“WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD”
[14]

By E. M. Forster

Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-

scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the
chorus of Scotch retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied
with tappings and drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the
wind. Harriet, though she did not care for music, knew how to listen
to it. She uttered an acid “Shish!”
“Shut it,” whispered her brother.
“We must make a stand from the beginning. They’re talking.”
“It is tiresome,” murmured Miss Abbott; “but perhaps it isn’t for us to
interfere.”
Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet,
not because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is
natural to be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole
house in order, and could smile at her brother complacently.
Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in
Italy—it aims not at illusion but at entertainment—and he did not
want this great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But
soon the boxes began to fill, and Harriet’s power was over. Families
greeted each other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed
their brothers and sons in the chorus, and told them how well they
were singing. When Lucia appeared by the fountain there was loud
applause, and cries of “Welcome to Monteriano!”
“Ridiculous babies!” said Harriet, settling down in her stall.
“Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Apennines,” cried Philip; “the
one who had never, never before—”
“Ugh! Don’t. She will be very vulgar. And I’m sure it’s even worse
here than in the tunnel. I wish we’d never—”
Lucia began to sing, and there was a moment’s silence. She was
stout and ugly; but her voice was still beautiful, and as she sang the
theatre murmured like a hive of happy bees. All through the
coloratura she was accompanied by sighs, and its top note was
drowned in a shout of universal joy.
So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the
audience, and the two great sextettes were rendered not unworthily.
Miss Abbott fell into the spirit of the thing. She, too, chatted and
laughed and applauded and encored, and rejoiced in the existence
of beauty. As for Philip, he forgot himself as well as his mission. He
was not even an enthusiastic visitor. For he had been in this place
always. It was his home.
Harriet, like M. Bovary on a more famous occasion, was trying to
follow the plot. Occasionally she nudged her companions, and asked
them what had become of Walter Scott. She looked round grimly.
The audience sounded drunk, and even Caroline, who never took a
drop, was swaying oddly. Violent waves of excitement, all arising
from very little, went sweeping round the theatre. The climax was
reached in the mad scene. Lucia, clad in white, as befitted her
malady, suddenly gathered up her streaming hair and bowed her
acknowledgment to the audience. Then from the back of the stage—
she feigned not to see it—there advanced a kind of bamboo clothes-
horse, stuck all over with bouquets. It was very ugly, and most of
the flowers in it were false. Lucia knew this, and so did the
audience; and they all knew that the clothes-horse was a piece of
stage property, brought in to make the performance go year after
year. None the less did it unloose the great deeps. With a scream of
amazement and joy she embraced the animal, pulled out one or two
practicable blossoms, pressed them to her lips, and flung them into
her admirers. They flung them back, with loud melodious cries, and
a little boy in one of the stage-boxes snatched up his sister’s
carnations and offered them. “Che carino!” exclaimed the singer. She
darted at the little boy and kissed him. Now the noise became
tremendous. “Silence! silence!” shouted many old gentlemen behind.
“Let the divine creature continue!” But the young men in the
adjacent box were imploring Lucia to extend her civility to them. She
refused, with a humorous, expressive gesture. One of them hurled a
bouquet at her. She spurned it with her foot. Then, encouraged by
the roars of the audience, she picked it up and tossed it to them.
Harriet was always unfortunate. The bouquet struck her full in the
chest, and a little billet-doux fell out of it into her lap.
“Call this classical!” she cried, rising from her seat. “It’s not even
respectable! Philip! take me out at once.”
 DOROTHY EASTON’S “THE GOLDEN BIRD”
[15]

By John Galsworthy

The sketch is, I take it, commonly supposed to be the easiest form
that a writer can use, and the bad sketch probably is. The good
sketch, on the other hand, is about the hardest, for there is no time
to go wrong, or, rather, in which to recover if one does go wrong.
Moreover, it demands a very faithful objectivity, and a rare
sensitiveness of touch. The good sketcher does not bite off more
than he or she can chew, does not waste a word, and renders into
writing that alone which is significant. To catch the flying values of
life, and convey them to other minds and hearts in a few pages of
picture may seem easy to the lay reader, but is, I do assure him,
mortal hard.
The sketches in this, the first book of a young writer, are so really
good, that they should require no preliminary puff. But the fact is
that the reading public in America and England get so few good
sketches, indeed so few volumes of sketches at all, that even the
best work of this kind has unfairly little chance.
If I know anything and I am not alone in my opinion, the writer of
this book has a sympathetic apprehension of life, and a perfection in
rendering it which is altogether out of the common. Those readers
who want not snapshots but little pictures, entirely without
preciosity, extraordinarily sensitive and faithful, and never dull,
because they have real meaning and truth, will appreciate this
volume.
Those who don’t know the southern countryside of England, and the
simpler people thereof, will make a real acquaintanceship with it
through some of these unpretentious pages. And the French
sketches, especially, by their true flavour of French life, guarantee
the writer’s possession of that spiritual insight without which art is
nothing worth.
I will beat the drum no more; for if the reader likes not this mental
fare, no noise of mine will make him.
—Foreword to “The Golden Bird.”
 WAR AND THE SMALL NATIONS
[16]

By Kahlil Gibran

Once, high above a pasture, where a sheep and a lamb were

grazing, an eagle was circling and gazing hungrily down upon the
lamb. And as he was about to descend and seize his prey, another
eagle appeared and hovered above the sheep and her young with
the same hungry intent. Then the two rivals began to fight, filling
the sky with their fierce cries.
The sheep looked up and was much astonished. She turned to the
lamb and said,
“How strange, my child, that these two noble birds should attack
one another. Is not the vast sky large enough for both of them?
Pray, my little one, pray in your heart that God may make peace
between your winged brothers.”
And the lamb prayed in his heart.
 A FIRST REVIEW
[17]

By Robert Graves

Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys

Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
My Country Sentiment.

But Kate says, “Cut that anger and fear,

True love’s the stuff we need!
With laughing children and the running deer,
That makes a book indeed.”

Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap,

Though much beloved by me,
“Robert, have done with nursery pap,
Write like a man,” says he.

Hate and Fear are not wanted here,

Nor Toys nor Country Lovers,
Everything they took from my new poem book
But the flyleaf and the covers.
 JOE WARD
[18]

By E. W. Howe

I was lately making a little automobile journey and met Joe Ward, a
high-priced man. We were passing through the town of Centerville
and stopped a moment to inquire the road to Fairview.
It happened that the man we addressed was Joe Ward himself, who
said he was just about to leave for Fairview and would show us the
way if we would give him a ride.
So he sat beside the driver and turned round and told us about the
farms we passed. He knew every farmer on the way; how his crops
were turning out and many other interesting facts, for this man was
a clerk in the New York Store in Centerville and had been so
employed nine years.
When we came to a crossroad he would say “Straight ahead” or
“Turn to the right” to the driver and then tell us something of
interest about his work in the New York Store. It seemed he was a
very popular clerk; so popular, indeed, that the proprietor of the
Boston Store, the principal opposition, had long wanted him.
“But I said to him frankly,” Joe Ward explained, “if you get me you’ll
have to pay a man’s wages. I’m no cheap skate. I was born over on
Cow Creek and no citizen of that neighbourhood would think of
going to Centerville without trading with me.”
“Here,” I thought, “is a very high-priced man.”
I began wondering how much would induce him to leave the New
York Store. And he proceeded to tell us—he couldn’t keep a secret.
“Besides the pull I have on Cow Creek, my grandfather is the leading
farmer out the Fairview way and everybody knows I control the best
trade round Fairview. So I says to Persinger, of the Boston Store: ‘If
you get me you’ll get the best, but you’ll have to pay me. I’m human
like everybody else; if you pay me I’ll work for you and do you all
the good I can, but we might as well understand each other first as
last—if you get me you’ll have to pay me. I’m no amateur. If you get
me you’ll have to pay me twelve dollars a week.’”
But it developed before we reached the next town that Persinger, of
the opposition store, wouldn’t stand an innovation like that, so Joe
Ward got out at Fairview and said he was going back next morning
to resume his work at the New York Store.
 DOC ROBINSON

I have noticed that the people take as much delight in praising a

worthless man as they take in abusing a respectable one. People say
Doc Robinson, the town drunkard, was once a noted surgeon in
London; that he was engaged to a beautiful young lady of New York,
but gave her up because his parents objected, and thus went to the
dogs; that he has the best education of any man in town; that he is
a man of fine intellect; that he is a younger son of a titled family in
England, and that when his brother dies he will become a duke.
I looked Doc up and discovered that the only notable thing that ever
happened in his life was that he attended a veterinary college in
Canada, where he was born on a farm and where he lived until he
came to this country to make horse liniment, the basis of which,
alcohol, he sweetened and drank, and thus became a drunkard.
 JOHN DAVIS

A travelling man yesterday gave John Davis, the grocer, a twenty-

cent cigar. John Davis has been selling cigars at his grocery store
and smoking twenty years—and a good cigar made him sick.
 CONCERNING “A LITTLE BOY LOST”

A Letter from W. H. Hudson[19]

Dear Mr. Knopf:

Your request for a Foreword to insert in the American reprint of the

little book worries me. A critic on this side has said that my Prefaces
to reprints of my earlier works are of the nature of parting kicks, and
I have no desire just now to kick this poor innocent. That evil-
tempered old woman, Mother Nature, in one of her worst tantrums,
has been inflicting so many cuffs and blows on me that she has left
me no energy or disposition to kick anything—even myself.
The trouble is that I know so little about it. Did I write this book?
What then made me do it?
In reading a volume of Fors Clavigera I once came upon a passage
which sounded well but left me in a mist, and it relieved me to find a
footnote to it in which the author says: “This passage was written
many years ago and what I was thinking about at the time has quite
escaped my memory. At all events, though I let it stand, I can find
no meaning in it now.”
Little men may admire but must not try to imitate these gestures of
the giants. And as a result of a little quiet thinking it over I seem
able to recover the idea I had in my mind when I composed this
child’s story and found a title for it in Blake. Something too of the
semi-wild spirit of the child hero in the lines:
 “Naught loves another as itself ...
And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little birds
That pick up crumbs about the door.”

There nature is, after picking up the crumbs to fly away.

A long time ago I formed a small collection of children’s books of the
early years of the nineteenth century; and looking through them,
wishing that some of them had fallen into my hands when I was a
child I recalled the books I had read at that time—especially two or
three. Like any normal child I delighted in such stories as the Swiss
Family Robinson, but they were not the books I prized most; they
omitted the very quality I liked best—the little thrills that nature itself
gave me, which half frightened and fascinated at the same time, the
wonder and mystery of it all. Once in a while I got a book with
something of this rare element in it, contained perhaps in some
perfectly absurd narrative of animals taking human shape or using
human speech, with such like transformations and vagaries; they
could never be too extravagant, fantastic and incredible, so long as
they expressed anything of the feeling I myself experienced when
out of sight and sound of my fellow beings, whether out on the
great level plain, with a glitter of illusory water all round me, or
among the shadowy trees with their bird and insect sounds, or by
the waterside and bed of tall dark bull-rushes murmuring in the
wind.
These ancient memories put it in my mind to write a book which, I
imagined, would have suited my peculiar taste of that early period,
the impossible story to be founded on my own childish impressions
and adventures, with a few dreams and fancies thrown in and two or
three native legends and myths, such as the one of the Lady of the
Hills, the incarnate spirit of the rocky Sierras on the great plains,
about which I heard from my gaucho comrades when on the spot—
the strange woman seldom viewed by human eye who is jealous of
man’s presence and is able to create sudden violent tempests to
frighten them from her sacred haunts.
That’s the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher’s
practical mind, I’m sorry to have to say I don’t know. I have no way
of finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors
to tell them what they think of their books. And after all these
excuses it just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and
introductions; they have to be addressed to adults who do not read
children’s books, so that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if
a foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will have to get
it out of this letter.
I remain,
Yours cordially,
W. H. Hudson.

November 14, 1917.

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