The old house, and other stories
Date: 2024-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: The old house, and other stories

Author: Blanche Sellers Ortmann

Release date: November 7, 2024 [eBook #74695]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago: Rand McNally Press

Credits: Charlene Taylor, David E. Brown, Sue Clark, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD HOUSE, AND OTHER STORIES ***

THE OLD HOUSE
AND OTHER STORIES

The Old House
And Other Stories
by
Blanche Sellers Ortmann

Published
By the Author
CHICAGO — MDCCCCX

Copyright, 1910,
By Blanche Sellers Ortmann

These stories were written for little Rosanne, with the hope that they may turn her thoughts to the soul in nature, and teach her to love the simplicities in life by keeping her in step with its great scheme, and to recognize and answer the good in all. For through nature and its works the soul of man will reach God.

“Tante Blanche.”

THE STORIES

Page
The Old House | 11
The Boxwood Flats | 21
Bar-Gee | 31
The Soul of a Violin | 43
The Story of the Goldfish | 51

THE OLD HOUSE

THE OLD HOUSE

FOR a hundred years the old House has been weathering the mountain storms or basking in the lovely Virginia sunshine, proud of the fact that its red bricks were made on the place, from the red clay which lies so plentiful all about it, coloring the hilltops and making the roads look like red ribbons tying the mountains to the valleys. The blinds, great green eyelids, reflect the life of the inmates, in the morning spreading wide in a spirit of up-and-about-ness, during the afternoon nap time drowsily shutting in the cool rooms, at sundown opening again for the afternoon tea and visiting hour. The whole House, with its air of quiet dignity and breeding, seems to say: “Why rush or hurry? There is time for all.”

Bless its old heart, if we could count years as it can, we too might be peaceful and restful. But our lives are so short, we come and go so fast, no wonder at times the old House seems looking down on us with sadness; for surely the graveyard in the meadow near by tells the story of man’s short existence. The happy, merry people whose voices once made the walls of the old House ring rest there under the myrtle and boxwood, watched over by the nightingale and whip-poor-will. The old headstones, moss and ivy covered, lean down toward their dead lovingly, as though wishing to get nearer to them.

But what must the old House think, now that it has telephones on each floor, and flaring gas where soft candlelight used to flicker, making exaggerated shadows on the low ceilings. And horror of horrors, a rushing, snorting whirlwind of an automobile rushes up to the old horse block! Ghosts of horsemen can fairly be seen riding hurriedly in every direction, indignant at such intrusion, while the red brick walk, with its border of boxwood, scorns the noisy intruder with its brass lamps all a-shining, and tells of the days when the stately coach with its load of pretty maids and matrons all a-flutter passed by on its weekly trip to town. Now with this new, swiftly-moving, malodorous machine, the trip is made daily, and who can say if the maids be pretty or not, so much like animated sacks of wool do they look in their cloaks, hoods, and goggles.

It is in the evening, when the crescent moon hangs low, that the old House talks to the oaks, living over the days when it held its first young couple, rejoicing with them at the stork’s coming, caring for the little ones as they toddle about the great white-pillared porches, which shade them from too much sun, watching them grow into manhood and womanhood, and finally sending the sons to war with pride and high hope, though deploring the cruel and unnecessary strife between brothers that should have been settled without bloodshed. Because of the spirit of dissension still harbored in the hearts of our people, for many years the South has been crippled and disheartened and North and South have been divided. Time alone can heal these differences and make us one again.

This the old House foresaw, and it opened wide its portals to welcome a Northern family. Being all-wise, it knew that all men are brothers and that between them, God’s finest handiwork, there should be no dissension. This should be left for the dwellers of the under-worlds, that are not so high on the ladder of life as is man.

Never does the old House hold its head quite so high as when the pink-coated horsemen gather with their hounds and thoroughbreds for a cross-country run. Returning to the hunt breakfast, they are greeted with the hospitable groaning of the table laden with the weight of its goodies—great Virginia hams, freshly roasted and melting under the knife; the Brunswick stew, for which the housewife has been preparing many days, sending negroes to hunt squirrels and to select the special corn and tomatoes that go to the making of the world’s best breakfast dish; and from the kitchen at the end of the gallery, steaming hot beaten biscuits to be eaten with gold-sweet butter. The mint juleps are drunk beside crackling fires, and “sport” and “good cheer” are the watchwords. The old House looks down approvingly on the happy company, for it has come into its own, sheltering in these later days kind, cheery people that respect its past glories and love its present homelike spirit, for to them its every stick and stone spell Home.

We drink your health, dear old House. May the future hold as much for you as the past. May you continue to sleep peacefully under the oaks, dreaming happy dreams, and understanding life as only one of your great age can.

THE BOXWOOD FLATS

THE BOXWOOD FLATS

I LOOK up from my book and the cool corner of the veranda, conscious of a very busy, noisy life in the great boxwood trees at either side of the brick walk. For many bird families live among the comfortable, shady branches; and I am reminded of a tenement house in the East End, as all the bird families are large and the making of their living is uppermost in their little heads.

The robins have the top flat, the thrushes the first floor up, and the noisy catbirds the ground floor. If by any chance Father Robin enters the Thrush apartment, there is a dreadful fuss. The families in the other flats all take a hand in reproving the gentleman for his carelessness, and it takes many minutes ere all is peaceful and quiet again.

The green opening or door of the robin flat is large and much worn, for the husky baby robins eat their weight in worms each day, and keep their loving parents more than busy coming and going with their bills full of goodies. The catbird has time to sit on his doorstep and sing to his little wife in modest gown of Quaker gray, encouraging her to stay on her nest. He himself darts off only to return with a titbit in the shape of a fat fly for her enjoyment. The thrush family are very well behaved, minding their own business, but always keeping a jealous eye upon Minnie, my Scotch terrier. Whenever she walks across the lawn in the direction of the flats, they dart down in front of her nose with a cry half of fear and half of play. They always fly away from the nest, flopping on the ground as if hurt, to attract the dog’s attention, and leading her by stratagem to the farther end of the garden. Then, with a tantalizing chirp, they fly back to their nest.

When the shadows grow long, the proud parents take the little ones out for a lesson in flying. How patient they are with the clumsy fluff-balls that cling to the lower branches and squeal, fearing to let go and trust the half-grown wings. The parents, in a near-by tree, coax and shame them into trying, until they drop off one limb and flop feebly to the next. This is the hour my dog is locked up, for otherwise great would be the tragedy, the little fluff-balls are so very helpless.

I am certain the mother and father birds know I take this precaution, for they repay me in song, and become exceedingly tame, allowing me to peep into their nests without fear, and answering my call as would a trained canary. Often they fly down near my head and accompany me on my walk through the garden. Their little beady eyes notice my every motion, and they show off by bullying and chasing the hedge sparrows we meet in our walk, seeming to say: “Get out of our way, you disrespectful birds. Don’t you see the Mistress out for a walk?” The poor little hedge sparrows hurry and scurry to the nearest tree, cocking their tiny heads to one side, as if saying: “Why all this excitement? She’s not so much!”

The Japanese mimosa tree is in blossom and so is the trumpet vine, both of which attract the humming bird in his coat of many colors. His beautiful wings, with their rapid motion, glisten in the sunlight like miniature rainbows. When you are favored with a peep into his nest, you think it a strange place to keep quinine pills, for the resemblance between these and the little eggs is very striking, both having the same shape, size, and color. I dislike to think of this lovely dream-like bird as one of the most bloodthirsty of the feathered tribe, but a fight between two humming birds always means death to one, for their long bills are as sharp as darning needles, and they are expert fencers.

Idling in my easy chair, I listen to the love-making of a pair of doves that live high up in the tree at the end of the veranda. They never seem to tire of love or the telling of it. They are so busy making love that they have not had time to build a substantial nest, and after each storm I look with fear at their loosely put together home. Love, it is said, makes the world go round, and it must likewise be love that keeps the doves’ nest in the tree, for there seems to be nothing else that is doing so.

The early evening is the swallows’ play time. They dart and chase one another around the house top, fairly shrieking with delight. And when the moon rises, the plaintive call of the whip-poor-will comes up from the glen. He is a solitary fellow, never coming near the house, although I feel he serves with the nightingale as a night watchman.

I find myself growing sleepy, and as I glance over to the Boxwood Flats, it is apparent that for hours the occupants have been asleep, dreaming of the early worm and of the happy sunshine that to-morrow holds for them.

Good night, my friends. May there be another day for us to meet and enjoy ourselves. We are all a part of the great scheme, each a cog in the wheel of Destiny. Man is prying into the secrets of your lives and habits, endeavoring to solve the mystery of your migratory flight. Where did you obtain the knowledge of the compass which enables you, after a journey of hundreds of miles, to find the very tree that last year held your nest? And where do you keep the speed that makes it possible for you to travel a mile a minute? Can it be you have found an air current that encircles the globe, carrying you to any part of the earth you desire to reach? Thus far you have guarded well your secret from the naturalists.

Mayhap, my Boxwood Flatters, you will confide in me, if I promise not to raise your rent.

BAR-GEE

BAR-GEE

I AM only a horse but if men could understand all the joy of being a thoroughbred with a record of 1:21, they would not say so pityingly that horses have almost human intelligence, for in possessing horse sense we have a gift that is just as great.

The first years of my colthood were spent under a trainer’s eye. As the months passed, he developed in my growing limbs the speed that was my birthright. Coming as I do from a long line of aristocrats, my name was entered early for the Great American Derby. When that day came, my heart was so full of the spirit of the race, I surprised myself as well as my trainers. Then followed three years of a hard professional career, all that time being spent on the flat and on the steeplechase track. I traveled from city to city, making and breaking records, until my health failed, and I was sold to a kindly gentleman who rode me in the city parks. It was humiliating at times to have to run with the ordinary park hacks one meets on the bridle paths; but for my master’s sake, for my master was always good to me, I would hold back and try to make it “sporty” coming in at the finish.

One day my feet fairly danced with joy, for again I was to be trained for a real race to be held at one of the country clubs. My trainer and I would go to the parks early, before the police were on duty, for they didn’t seem to know the difference between a sporty run and a flighty-headed runaway. My legs were bandaged to keep them in condition under the extraordinary work and strain, and as I looked back over my flanks, they seemed daily to grow in muscle and shapeliness with the vigorous exercise. Each muscle and nerve quivered, anxious to show what it was capable of doing.

At last the long looked for day came. The grand stand was full of people, and as my master patted my neck and smoothed down my slender legs, picking up each hoof to look into it for trouble, he whispered into my ear, “Good luck, Bar-Gee, old boy! Go in and win, and show them what a good horse can do.”

I found it hard to keep all four feet on the ground at once, my heart was so light and happy, and I fear I gave some little trouble at the post, the old plugs were so slow in coming up. My racing blood urged me to be off. Every drop of it was dancing and crying for the sport. At last the starting wire flew up, and we were off. I stretched myself very close to the ground, making no false moves, and the earth danced away under my flying feet. My jockey clung to the snaffle and never used the whip. I could hear the other horses coming after me, breathing and snorting, their jockeys all using whips and spurs. By this time I had but one thought—to keep in the lead and to win, win, win! As we turned the half-mile post my jockey put his whip on me. This angered me, for I was only waiting to come a little nearer the field so the finish would be more brilliant before my master. I knew he had sugar in his pocket. We pulled into the home stretch, and my hoofs fairly sang on the turf. The people in the grand stand jumped to their feet and cheered as I came under the wire just twenty feet ahead of second. It took me a quarter of a mile beyond that to stop, for once my instinct for racing was aroused, the blood of my ancestors asserted itself, and I hated knowing it was all over.

Wreaths of flowers were hung around my neck, and I was walked up and down in front of the judges and the grand stand. I wanted so to get to my master and talk it all over with him, with my nose in his loving hand. I was so glad I had won the big silver cup I even allowed his women folk to talk baby talk to me, which is, of course, foolish—and besides, I hadn’t forgotten the sugar.

During that autumn I was shipped down to my master’s estate in Virginia, where the horses are all trained for fox hunting and not for speed. I enjoyed a few runs, but the hunters do not know what this sport is; their game evidently is not to see how fast they can go or how high they can jump, but how close they can keep to the dogs without stepping on them. It always makes me angry to be held in, so I do not make good as a hunter. Moreover, I have developed a cough, which makes it hard for me to breathe, and being infectious, compels me to spend my days alone in an open field.

I frequently have friendly chats over the fence with the other horses, but it is unsafe to have us together. I must confess my heart is sad when my master rides by on his big hunter. I hate that horse, and if my heels could reach him, he would not put on such airs and lord it over me. Of course I am not jealous, for I know my master loves me, and I often hear him giving orders for my comfort; but I am never taken out now. My cough is growing worse, and I feel I am getting old.

One night there was great excitement because a drunken negro had stolen me and sold me for twelve dollars. Think of the indignity! My blue-blooded ancestors must have turned in their graves or stood on their hind legs with indignation if they knew it. I was taken many miles away and shut up in a lot surrounded by a five-rail fence. When I was left alone, I jumped the fence and started for home. The going was hard, as I was impatient to get home again, and my cough had made me feeble. I wanted so to stop and rest by the cool roadside where the grass looked fresh and green, but I did not dare, for I knew I should be missed. At last I saw the Blue Ridge Farm stables. How good they looked to me! I had just strength enough to whinny to my friends in the paddock as I trotted into the stable, tired, but happy and contented.

Now I am living on the best of the land, and as I rest under the big chestnut tree in the paddock, my thoughts run back to the days when my jockey slept in my stall to keep me safe from foul play. I see myself, blanketed, ready to appear before the judges, and impatiently waiting while my jockey is weighing in. The grand stand is gay with music and flags. The light saddle is tossed across my back. A race is before me. Ah! those were the happiest moments of my life.

The races are all run now—all but one, and that will be the run over to the Happy Hunting Ground. I hope when the last wire flies up, I shall be brave and full of hope, and go in as a thoroughbred should.

THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN

THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN

STRADIVARIUS was at work in his dingy workshop, putting his very heart into the violin he was making. The wood had come from the North and was well seasoned. It seemed to throb and pulsate with life under his hands, reflecting and answering every sound that floated in through the open window. When the violin was finished, Stradivarius placed the instrument in its oil bath as tenderly as a young mother bathes her new-born babe. The red-brown varnish spread on smoothly, filling every pore of the wood without stiffening the vibrations that were to sound through the world for centuries, and under loving fingers tell in a volume of tone the heart story of each successive owner of the violin.

Here I have been for years, hanging in my green bag from a rusty nail in the attic, forgotten and neglected by man, my only friends and companions the fairies that come and dance in the moonlight on the attic floor. It was they who told me of the happy bride that awaited her bridegroom’s coming in the quiet old house beneath me. One day I was taken out into the sunshine and told I was to play at her wedding. I put my best into the tones that greeted the bride when she entered the church, and I think tears of happiness fell as she passed along the dim, cool aisle to meet her lover.

The old church chimed out its wedding bells, and my sides nearly burst with joy sending back the merry sounds. That night I had much to tell the fairies, for again I was in my green bag on my rusty nail in the peaceful, musty attic.

Again, after many years, I have been awakened. A sad-faced old lady took me out of my bag and put me into the hands of a youth, saying: “This, my son, is the violin that was played at my wedding.” I breathed a sigh of gratitude, for his touch was a caress, and I saw the soul of my old master looking through his eyes. And joy of joys, when he pulled his bow across my strings, I sent up a prayer of thankfulness that we were together again. My dear, dear master that created me and made me laugh when he was merry, and cry when he was sad! All the long years of waiting were forgotten as the youth tucked me under his arm and descended the creaky old stairs. Never again shall I be neglected, but shall live in light and sunshine, vibrating happiness in this world, and foretelling the wonders and beauties of the world to come, where there are no green bags, no rusty nails or long, tiresome intervals of waiting for my master’s hand to play upon my finger board and make my sounding posts dance with joy.

My master’s soul told me of his journeys to other planets, and of his longing to return to earth to fulfill all his dreams and do the good he had left undone, and how with my help he now hoped to reach the heart of man. Together we would inspire the youth to play the songs of love and happiness, and the plaintive song of sorrow that would show the way to the higher life, to the soul, to God.

Thus we journey together on the crest of melody’s wave, reaching the highest as well as the most lowly, for where is the soul dumb to the language of music, and not the better for the understanding of it? We have borrowed the youth’s hand and heart to express a message from another world, bringing hope to the hopeless, love to the lonely, and peace and quiet to the restless.

THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH

THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH

MANY thousand years ago two goldfish lived in the fountain of an Indian princess. The marble court was a mass of color with its great pots of marigolds bathed in sunshine. Lord and Lady Goldfish had everything they could wish for. Their carved alabaster basin-home was known far and wide in birdland, for nowhere could one get such a gloriously cool bath in the early dawn as in the courtyard with its pavement of many-colored marbles. But, with all this, His Lordship had discontent and envy in his heart. He envied the birds their flight through the air. He envied the Princess her green jade bracelets, that reflected the sun, the sky, and the water, and so spent his hours in a state of unrest. But his little wife lived her life happily content, performing all her duties and fulfilling her destiny as ordained, and at the end passing on to a higher stage, working that out, then passing on to higher and still higher stages, until at last she became a human soul in the form of a happy little child.

One day the child was taken very ill, and this brought sadness to many hearts. Her illness was long and painful and made her too weak for play, so for hours she lay watching a pretty goldfish swimming in his bowl. During the long, dreary days and nights His Lordship (for it was none other) told her of his presence, and repented of his discontent and envy, for it kept him always in the same stage. He never improved or advanced, but each reincarnation came back to learn the same lesson.

One long night, as the little child lay wakeful, full of pain and suffering, she remembered him. Away back in her mind she saw the Indian garden and the slender, dusky Princess in her dainty robes and tinkling silver anklets, the happy birds, the marigolds, and the china-blue sky. Her heart was filled with pity for His Lordship, and during the still of the night her beautiful white soul imparted to him a knowledge of the folly of his ways, and pointed out the path of progress to happiness. When morning came, it brought peace to the pain-racked body, for the soul had flown to a higher and better world. And as the morning sun flooded the room with its golden light, a kindly ray fell on His Lordship floating on the surface of the water, his pretty tail and fins all limp. He too had passed on, making his first upward advance in the long chain of lives toward the perfect soul that was awaiting him.

Five hundred copies of this little book have been privately printed for BLANCHE SELLERS ORTMANN and a few of her friends in the month of November, Nineteen hundred ten

PRINTED
AT THE
RAND
McNALLY
PRESS
CHICAGO

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Table of Contents

- THE OLD HOUSE AND OTHER STORIES
- THE STORIES
- THE OLD HOUSE
- THE BOXWOOD FLATS
- BAR-GEE
- THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN
- THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE