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HE was pretty enough to strike the eyes
of a painter; and Glenn Walters was a
painter ,though the hard times had
forced him to relinquish the brush for
the pencil of the illustrator.
Quite lately, however, he had had a streak
of good luck that inspired him to hope for
higher things. His picture, “An Indian Girl”
—a dusky daughter of the forest taking a
siesta in a hammock of red-blossomed vines—
had found a buyer. With the purchase money
he determined to give himself a treat —a three
weeks’ holiday on Shelter Island. To this re
sort he was bound, on board the steamboat
“Irma,” when his eye was caught by the fas
cinating bit of feminity in question.
He had found a shady nook on the forward
deck, where, comfortably ensconced, he was
taking in the view of the Sound, alive with
water craft, and dotted with islands, when a
child’s voice close to him exclaimed in de
light :
“I see te pitty water, way down!”
He turned his head at the sound of the lisp
ing tones, and saw a tot about four years old
perched upon a camp chair, and leaning peril
ously far over the rail to look at the water
below.
As he looked, the treacherous chair slipped,
the baby lost her balance, and over the railing
she would have gone had he not grabbed her
white skirt in time to save her.
A little shriek sounded behind him; a young
woman darted to his side and caught the lit
tle creature from his arms, kissing and scold
ing her in the same breath.
“Why did you run away, you naughty girl?
You came near being drowned —down in that
deep water. What would papa and mamma
have done?”
“Man catch me; man pull me back,” said
missy, coolly.
“Yes; but if the man had not been there!
How can I thank you, sir?” she said, turning
her flushed, agitated face upon the artist.
“I shall feel more than compensated if the
little lady will give me a kiss,” he answered.
“Go and thank the gentleman, Amy.”
She put the child down, and Glenn took
the pretty tot on his knee. She put up her
rose-bud mouth, and he kissel her and was
kissed back with charming frankness.
“Him got a nice mouf, Minny. Him mouf
don’t tickle like papa’s,” gravely announced
Miss Amy—a piece of information that made
Glenn’s face turn red. He was sensitive on
the subject of his moustache. In spite of his
twenty-six years, he has not been able to culti
vate a very hirsute upper lip.
Amy’s mamma —for such she must be, Glenn
decided —laughed, and blushingly begged that
he would excuse the little girl’s candor, add
ing:
“She has not arrived at the knowledge that
1 speech is made to conceal thought,’ as Talley
rand said —or was it Machiavelli?”
He replied that he could not recall which of
the cynical diplomats had made the remark.
This opened the way to a little further talk.
Amy would not leave the knee of her new
friend. She was investigating his watch-pocket
and taking a feminine interest in an antique
cameo ring attached to his chain. Her mamma
seated herself near by, and the three sat there
talking pleasantly—for Miss Amy joined in
with her prattle —until the sun’s rays slanted
long across the blue-green waters. Glenn found
his new acquaintances were going, like him
self, to Shelter Island, only their bourne was
BROUGHT ABOUT BY “QUEEN BESS”
By MARY EDWARDS BRYAN
The Golden Age for June 19, 1913
a fashionable hotel instead of a quiet cottage.
They had already been staying there a week
or two, it appeared, and had only taken the
trip to New York to have something done for
one of Miss Amy’s blue eyes, which a grain
of sand had inflamed. Amy’s papa had remain
ed at the island.
“Him cornin’ to meet us when the boat stop,
and you will see how nice him is,” said Amy.
At last the little girl’s lids began to fall to
gether, and her curly head to droop against
Glenn’s breast. She protested she was not
sleepy, but she submitted to being led away
to bed after bidding her rescuing hero a pretty
good-night.
Left alone, Walters smoked a cigar, musing
upon the good fortune of the man who could
call this charming pair his own. What a com
fortable thing to have such a sweet little woman
pour the tea for one at one’s own table in a
cozy up-town flat or modest suburban cottage!
To have her fix his necktie with those soft little
fingers before he went out in the morning, and
stand on tiptoe with her rosy lips put up for—
Here a sharp sting on Glenn’s cheek roused
him from his musing. He gave the mosquito
a vicious slap, tossed his cigar overboard, and
went to his room, and to bed, to dream that
he was slipping a ring on the finger of a lit
tle white hand as like as possible the one
he had seen smoothing the disheveled curls
of Miss Amy.
He was awakened at an early hour the fol
lowing morning by the shrill blasts of the steam
boat whistle. Springing from his berth, he
saw that the “Irma” was approaching Shel
ter Island. There was the big hotel, with
its long piazzas, and on the pier, in the rosy
light of the newly risen sun, was a little group
of men in waiting.
Glenn dressed quickly and ran down to the
lower deck as the boat touched the pier. His
last night’s acquaintances were there before
him —the lady, fresh as a rose, holding the lit
tle girl’s hand. As soon as she saw him, Miss
Amy cried out:
“Look! tat’s him; tat’s my papa; wif de
straw hat on, an’ te dog by him. Ain’t him
nice?”
“Very nice indeed,” Glenn was obliged to ac
knowledge, as he eyed the well-formed, good
looking young fellow in gray flannel whom he
had been envying last night.
The gang-plank was run out, and Glenn had
the pleasure of assisting the young woman and
her charge across it, and receiving a smile
and a farewell bow in return. Amy jumped
into her papa’s arms and was duly hugged
and kissed; then her handsome father turned
and kissed Amy’s “Mimmy,” but “not half as
warmly as I would have done, had I been in
his shoes,” thought the young artist as he
turned and walked along the beach in the di
rection of Happy Cottage, at which he was to
lodge.
The cottage was three miles from the hotel.
In the days that followed, Glenn covered the
distance every morning or afternoon on his
wheel. Whenever he passed in front of the long
piazzas and ornamental grounds of the hotel
he glanced among the groups of promenaders
and lounged in the hope of seeing his fellow
travelers of the “Irma,” but a week went
by and he had had only a glimpse of little
Amy playing on the sand; not a sight of Amy’s
lovely mamma.
One day, when passing the hotel, he was
joined by another wheelman, who proved to be
a friend of his college days—Arthur Mindon—
staying at the hotel in attendance on a rich
rheumatic aunt. The two young men went
fishing, with poor luck, lunched together at
the cottage, and afterward lay under the pine
trees, smoking and exchanging experiences un
til nearly sundown, when Glenn was persuaded
to go with his friend to the hotel to see a
Juvenille Waxworks Exhibition, at which chil
dren were to represent historical, romantic, and
humorous characters, and to be shown off by
the “very prettiest young woman at the inn.”
The exhibition was out-of-doors at the back
of the hotel, in a grove of trees that were hung
with Chinese lanterns. The stage was deco
rated with brilliant foliage and flowering plants
in pots and tubs. The foot-lights shone over
a large and varied collection of diminutive
wax figures—Louis XIV. and Mr. Pickwick, Na
poleon Bonaparte in military boots, George
Washington in a queue and knee buckles, Mar
tha Washington in her inauguration frock of
yellow brocade, Mary Queen of Scots in a
black velvet robe and pointed head-dress, and
Pocahontas in beads, feathers, and moccasins,
with many others.
The prettiest and tiniest figure, however, was
Queen Elizabeth. The costume was imposing—*
antique ruff, long, flowing crimson train over
which cream petticoat, pearl girdle and high
heeled shoes.
Queen Bess had never owned such a charm
ing face as that which bloomed under the tow
er of high-piled golden hair. In that piquant
little face Glenn recognized his small friend of
the steam-boat, in spite of the dignity that
held her dimples in check.
She acted her part admirably, as did most
of the wax figures, keeping their countenances
and preserving a lifeless passivity while they
were brought to the front, each in turn, by
pages and attendants, until they were wound
up at the back with a ludicrous rattle of “in
ternal works,” whereupon they would become
animated and perform various gestures and
actions that afforded Madame Jarley room to
comment on their accomplishments and charac
ters.
Madame Jarley, the show woman, in her
gray wig, poke bonnet, and spectacles, was
the gem of the entertainment. She freshened
up a much-jvorn form of amusement by her
bright, pertinent sayings and original com
ments.
All went went until near the close of the
exhibition. The wax figures had all been wound
up and were performing their various roles
with enthusiasm. Queen Elizabeth and Beau
Brummel were dancing a minuet, when, com
ing too near the foot-lights, the little queen’s
pearl-embroidered petticoat—wall paper dotted
with white paint—caught fire and blazed up.
Screams and confusion ensued. Glenn Wal
ters was standing close to the stage. He leaped
upon it, and catching the child as she was
running off, extinguished the flames with his
hands and his coat skirts before they had
harmed. When he looked up he found him
self and the little girl the center of an ex
cited crowd, among whom was Amy’s father
and a pretty, blue-eyed little woman, who
caught the child to her breast and began to
sob.
“Don’t cry, mamma; I ain’t hurt one bit,”
protested Miss Amy. “Te man put me out.
Mimmy” (looking around) “he’s te same man
’at caught me on te boat.”
Glenn followed the direction of her eyes, and
(Continued on page 14.)
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