Charles H. Parkhurst, D.D.

A Remarkable Dream

MANY stories are told of children, but this strikes me as a remarkable one in many ways, not the least of which is that it

is true.

This child was allowed to sit up one evening when there were guests at dinner. The child was five years old.

Her grandmother was her especial guardian in matters of conduct, and toward the middle of the dinner, feeling that the child had been up longer than was good for her, told her that she must say good night and go up to bed.

The child did not show any ill-temper. She had been well brought up, and she left the table without any protest.

But the next morning at breakfast she complained to her mother that she had had such a terrible dream. Her mother and her grandmother tried to get her to tell what it was, but she hesitated. She did not want to tell her dream. Finally she said:

"I dreamed that I was dead."

Her mother was worried, and asked her to tell the rest of her dream.

"I dreamed that I was dead, and I went up to heaven and knocked at the gate. And then some one came to the gate, and he had keys in his hand, and so I knew it must be St. Peter"-the child had had Bible instruction-"and St. Peter said, 'Well, little girl, what do you want here?'

"And I said, 'I died, and I've come up to heaven.'

"And St. Peter said: 'I'm sorry, little girl, but heaven's full. There isn't any room for you.'

"So I went away, and then I went down to hell, and knocked at the door. A man came to open the door-and he was a very nice-looking man. 'Well,' he said, 'little girl, what are you coming here for?'

"And I said, 'I died, and I went up to heaven, and St. Peter said he couldn't let me in, and all that sort of thing, so I came here.'

"And the man was very nice. He said: 'Well, we'll find room for you, little girl. We've got a good many people here, but we'll find some place for you.' So I went in, and it seemed to be quite a pleasant place, and there were a good many people there. It didn't seem to be a very uncomfortable place. And the man took me to a room where there was a lounge against the wall, and he said, 'You can sit there on the lounge for a little while, but you can't stay very long, because we're saving this lounge for your grandmother.""

Well, there was nothing to be said. It was her dream. They couldn't punish her. They just had to let it go-but I've never believed it was a dream.

Maria Louise Pool

The Last Straw

RANDY RANKIN always sits straight. She never lolls. As she sat there, in the most uncomfortable chair in the tent, she was a great contrast to us, who came to the shore with intent to do nothing but lounge, and who appeared to be accomplishing our intentions. I am sure there are some people who are never comfortable save when they are uncomfortable. As I reclined on our couch and looked at Mrs. Rankin, I could but wonder if Mr. Rankin also always wanted to sit straight; if he did not, I thought I had a clue as to why he should now live by himself in that old schoolhouse, while she should dwell in the Two-mile. This woman is considerably above the average native on these shores. It was interesting to have her spend part of a day with us, but I could not put from me the feeling that she might be somewhat overwhelming as a constant companion. I noticed one peculiarity about her speech: she would frequently speak correctly for several consecutive sentences, and then would lapse with apparent hopelessness into a tangle of subjects and predicates. I decided that she knew how to use the simple laws of grammar, but that the cus tom and example of years were generally more powerful than any other consideration.

At our request she had taken off her "things," which were a black-fringed silk shawl and a sunbonnet. A pair of large drab cotton gloves had also been removed, and were pulled into each other in the form of a ball and placed in the sun

bonnet. Her dress was black alpaca, which was so shiny as to look new; of course it was not wrinkled, for alpaca cannot wrinkle. Although the cloth looked so new, I felt that this appearance was deceptive, for I was sure that not within thirty years at the very least could any dressmaker have been persuaded to cut a "bodice" like that. Perhaps I may as well state here that later I was informed by Mrs. Marlow that the dress was new, had never been worn before, and was cut and made by Mrs. Rankin herself. It was of that fashion once known as "the fan waist." Those who have seen this style will know what I mean, and to those who have not I can give no description which would be sufficiently graphic. It was cut down in the neck, so that a slight hint of the collar-bone could be seen, and round this neck was "fulled on" a strip of that Hamburg edging which is brought round in packs by Jew pedlers. She wore a white apron with three tucks at the bottom, and finished off with more edging.

Now, if you think Randy Rankin, in spite of her face and dress, was one for whom you could feel anything like pity or condescension, you are entirely mistaken. There was a grimness, a decision, and a strength about her, a shrewdness and sense, that made it impossible not to have a sort of respect for her. If she chose to dress as she did when she was young, you could only be amused; the conviction that she would not care if you went into convulsions of laughter at her made the convulsions impossible.

She was in the habit of relating some of the infelicities of her married life with the matter-of-fact calmness with which any of the fishermen here might tell of a poor haul at certain seasons. A poor haul was unfortunate, but it was a subject which could be fully discussed without any delicacy.

I have said that my walking across the floor of the tent with

slippers whose heels clacked at every step excited in our caller reminiscences of her married life.

"It ain't no secret why Mr. Rankin and me can't live together," she said as she slowly drank her lemonade. "I never did believe in mysteries, and when folks want to know the trouble I'm always willin' to tell 'em. Mr. Rankin was so easy goin' 't I guess he could 'a' put up with me, or anybody, till the jedgment-day, but my nerves can't bear everything. There were two things that decided me." Mrs. Rankin here spoke with extraordinary decision. "One was them down-to-theheel slippers. I d'know where he fished 'em up from; under the eaves somewhere, I expect. 'T any rate, he come into the kitchen one morning with them on. He wa'n't very well that day, 'n' he stayed in the house, and kep' walkin' up and down, clack, clack, clack, clack, across that oilcloth, until I felt that I should fly. I c'n bear some things well enough, but some things I can't; and Mr. Rankin, one way 'n' 'nother, had got to be awful tryin'. My teeth were on edge most of the time. I said to him, 'Hadn't you better put on them list slippers o' yourn?' I went and got 'em, and put 'em down in front of him. He didn't say he wouldn't put 'em on; that wa'n't his way; but all the same, he didn't do it, but kept on them things, and kept walkin' and clackin' all that day. He wa'n't well for a week, and the whole of that mortal time he wore them slippers, with heels that had busted off the uppers jest far enough to let 'em down good with every step. I s'pose you know there's always a last straw. I concluded that I had about reached that straw, and I told Mr. Rankin so. He laughed, and said he guessed not; he guessed things would go on with us about as usual. Will you believe it, all the rest of the time I lived with him, about six months, he would never wear any other slippers but them! I had given the matter the most earnest thought of