and only handed down to him when it had grown too tight and short for them. "Dance, Fadrique," his father repeated, beginning to lose patience at his delay. Don Diego-whose own garb, of a kind adapted both to country wear and to traveling, was presumably quite correct enough without change-had not donned a formal coat, like his son. His attire consisted of a complete suit of dressed deerskin, with long boots and spurs; and in his hand he carried the huntingwhip with which he was wont to keep in order both his spirited horse and a pack of dogs that followed him. «Dance, Fadrique!" cried Don Diego, repeating his order for the third time. His voice had an agitated tone, due to anger and surprise. Don Diego held so exalted an idea of the paternal authority, and of his own in particular, that he marveled at the species of taciturn rebellion at which he was assisting. «Let him alone, I beg, Señor de Mendoza,» interposed the noble widow. «The child is tired out with his journey, and does not feel like dancing." "He has got to dance, and at once." "No, no, never mind," protested she who strummed the guitar. Probably we shall have the pleasure of seeing him some other time." "He shall dance, and on the instant, I say. Dance, I tell you, Fadrique." "I won't dance in a coat of ceremony like this," the youth at last responded. Aqui fué Troya [Here stood Troy]. Don Diego ignored the presence of the ladies, and all other restraining motives. The reply had been to him like a match applied to a powder maga zine. "Rebel, disobedient son," he shouted in a rage, "I'll send you away to the Torribios! [A severe reform-school founded by a certain Father Torribio.] Dance, or I will flog you." And he began flogging young Don Fadrique with his riding-whip. The girl who had the guitar stopped her music for an instant in surprise; but Don Diego gave her such an angry and terrible look that she feared he might make her play by hard knocks, just as he was trying to make his son dance, and so she kept on without further pause. When Don Fadrique had received eight or ten sound lashes, he all at once began to perform the dance, the very best he knew how. At first the tears ran down his cheeks; but presently, upon the reflection that it was his own father that was beating him, and the whole scene striking his fancy in a comic light,-seeing his case, for instance, as if it were that of another person, he began to laugh heartily. To dance, in a coat of ceremony, to the accompaniment of a volley of whip-lashes, what could be funnier? In spite of the physical pain he was suffering, he laughed gayly, and danced with the enthusiasm of a veritable inspiration. The ladies applauded the strange performance with all their might. "Good! good!" now cried Don Diego. "By all the devils! have I hurt you, my son?" "Not at all, father. It is clear I needed a double accompaniment to make me dance to-day.” "Well, try and forget it, my boy. Why did you want to be so obstinate? What reasonable ground for refusing could you have had, when your new coat fits you as if it were simply painted on, and when you consider that the classic and highbred bolero is a dance entirely suited to any gentleman? I am a little quick-tempered, I admit; but I hope these ladies will par don me." And with this ended the episode of the bolero. D HENRY VAN DYKE (1852-) BY MARY LELAND HUNT R. HENRY VAN DYKE, preacher, lecturer, diplomat, is also a writer of many graceful and accomplished books. Of Dutch. descent on his father's side, he was born in 1852 at Germantown, Pennsylvania, and was educated at Princeton College, Princeton Theological Seminary, and the University of Berlin. His first pastorate was at Newport, but his name is most closely associated with the Brick Presbyterian Church in New York, where his sermons attracted large congregations for seventeen years. In 1900 he became a professor of English literature at Princeton University. From 1908 to 1909 he was American lecturer at the University of Paris. In 1913 he was appointed American Minister to the Netherlands and Luxembourg, a post which he held until February, 1917. Dr. Van Dyke's versatile pen has not only been employed upon many professional and quasi-professional subjects, religion, ethics, patriotism, travel in the Holy Land, but it has also produced a large number of short stories and desultory essays and a considerable volume of verse. Even this category is not complete, for it takes no account of the widely read (Christ-Child in Art: A Study of Interpretation,> or of The Poetry of Tennyson) (1889), an enthusiastic appreciation. that has remained very popular in America. Dr. Van Dyke's best known story is (The Other Wise Man, which doubtless owes something of its popularity to its biblical and seasonal connections. His stories are collected under the titles (The Ruling Passion,) (The Blue Flower,› and The Unknown Quantity.) In the first of these collections Canadian French characters figure largely and attractively and there is a good dog story. Because of its out-of-doors atmosphere (The Ruling Passion) shares in the charm of that portion of Dr. Van Dyke's work that most entitles him to a place among men of letters, his essays upon picturesque places and his favorite sport of angling. These are gathered together in Little Rivers: A Book of Essays in Profitable Idleness) (1895); (Fisherman's Luck and Some Other Uncertain Things) (1899), and (Days Off, and Other Digressions) (1907). Whether the scene is the wilds of Canada, some nook of the Alleghanies, the more sophisticated haunts of Long Island, or some hidden leafy retreat not too far from examination papers and Princeton, the author makes us share his delight in fishing, tramping, and landscape, and his joy in the song of birds and the bloom of flowers. These pleasant subjects are clothed in an admirable style, graceful, polished, touched with humor, lightly adorned with literary allusion, and drifting easily into narrative. While these essays form the most distinctive part of Dr. Van Dyke's contribution to literature, his collected Poems) (1911) and a small volume entitled The Grand Canyon and Other Poems) (1914) offer a body of readable and refined verse. Perhaps the most vigorous of the poems are those that concern nature or patriotism or bring a tribute to the dead, as in the fine sonnet on Richard Watson Gilder. From 'Little Rivers. LITTLE RIVERS Copyright 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons RIVER is the most human and companionable of all inanimate A things. is as full of good-fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones, loud or low; and of many subjects, grave or gay. Under favorable circumstances it will even make a shift to sing; not in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and set down in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague, refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that goes "Over the hills and far away." For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the animal kingdom that is comparable to a river. I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favor of some other objects of natural affection. For example, a fair apology has been offered by those ambitious persons who have fallen in love with the sea. But after all, that is a formless and disquieting passion. It lacks solid comfort and mutual confidence. The sea is too big for loving, and too uncertain. It will not fit into our thoughts. It has no personality, because it has so many. It is a salt abstraction. You might as well think of loving a glittering generality like "the American woman." One would be more to the purpose. Mountains are more satisfying because they are more individual. It is possible to feel a very strong attachment for a certain range whose outline has grown familiar to our eyes; or a clear peak that has looked down, day after day, upon our joys 15239 and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm aspect. We come back from our travels, and the sight of such a well-known mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged. But it is a one-sided affection. The mountain is voiceless and imperturb able; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes makes us the more lonely. Trees seem to come closer to our life. They are often rooted in our richest feelings; and our sweetest memories, like birds, build nests in their branches. I remember, the last time I saw James Russell Lowell (only a few weeks before his musical voice. was hushed), he walked out with me into the quiet garden at Elmwood to say good-by. There was a great horse-chestnut tree beside the house, towering above the gable, and covered with blossoms from base to summit,-a pyramid of green supporting a thousand smaller pyramids of white. The poet looked up at it with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand upon the trunk. "I planted the nut," said he, "from which this tree grew. And my father was with me, and showed me how to plant it." Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship; and when I recline with my friend Tityrus beneath the shade of his favorite oak, I consent to his devotions. But when I invite him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet turn not to a tree, but to the bank of a river; for there the musings of solitude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water. It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and peace of living. Like David's hart, I pant for the water-brooks; and would follow the advice of Seneca, who says, "Where a spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and offer sacrifices." The personality of a river is not to be found in its water, nor in its bed, nor in its shore. Either of these elements, by itself, would be nothing. Confine the fluid contents of the noblest stream in a walled channel of stone, and it ceases to be a stream: it becomes what Charles Lamb calls "a mockery of a river-a liquid artifice a wretched conduit." But take away the water |