Contents:

Page No 1

Page No 2

Page No 3

Page No 4

Evergreens...........................................................................................................................................................1

Jerome K. Jerome .....................................................................................................................................1

They look so dull and dowdy in the spring weather, when the snow drops and the crocuses are putting on

their dainty frocks of white and mauve and yellow, and the babybuds from every branch are peeping with

bright eyes out on the world, and stretching forth soft little leaves toward the coming gladness of their lives.

They stand apart, so cold and hard amid the stirring hope and joy that are throbbing all around them.

And in the deep full summertime, when all the rest of nature dons its richest garb of green, and the roses

clamber round the porch, and the grass waves waisthigh in the meadow, and the fields are gay with

flowersthey seem duller and dowdier than ever then, wearing their faded winter's dress, looking so dingy

In the mellow days of autumn, when the trees, like dames no longer young, seek to forget their aged looks

under gorgeous brighttoned robes of gold and brown and purple, and the grain is yellow in the fields, and

the ruddy fruit hangs clustering from the drooping boughs, and the wooded hills in their thousand hues

stretched like leafy rainbows above the valeah! surely they look their dullest and dowdiest then. The

gathered glory of the dying year is all around them. They seem so out of place among it, in their somber,

everlasting green, like poor relations at a rich man's feast. It is such a weatherbeaten old green dress. So

many summers' suns have blistered it, so many winters' rains have beat upon itsuch a shabby, mean, old

They do not look quite so bad when the weary winter weather is come, when the flowers are dead, and the

hedgerows are bare, and the trees stand out leafless against the gray sky, and the birds are all silent, and the

fields are brown, and the vine clings round the cottages with skinny, fleshless arms, and they alone of all

things are unchanged, they alone of all the forest are green, they alone of all the verdant host stand firm to

They are not very beautiful, only strong and stanch and steadfastthe same in all times, through all

seasonsever the same, ever green. The spring cannot brighten them, the summer cannot scorch them, the

There are evergreen men and women in the world, praise be to God! Not many of them, but a few. They are

not the showy folk; they are not the clever, attractive folk. (Nature is an oldfashioned shopkeeper; she never

puts her best goods in the window.) They are only the quiet, strong folk; they are stronger than the world,

stronger than life or death, stronger than Fate. The storms of life sweep over them, and the rains beat down

upon them, and the biting frosts creep round them; but the winds and the rains and the frosts pass away, and

they are still standing, green and straight. They love the sunshine of life in their undemonstrative wayits

pleasures, its joys. But calamity cannot bow them, sorrow and affliction bring not despair to their serene

faces, only a little tightening of the lips; the sun of our prosperity makes the green of their friendship no

Let us lay hold of such men and women; let us grapple them to us with hooks of steel; let us cling to them as

we would to rocks in a tossing sea. We do not think very much of them in the summertime of life. They do

not flatter us or gush over us. They do not always agree with us. They are not always the most delightful

society, by any means. They are not good talkers, norwhich would do just as well, perhaps betterdo they

make enraptured listeners. They have awkward manners, and very little tact. They do not shine to advantage

beside our society friends. They do not dress well; they look altogether somewhat dowdy and commonplace.

We almost hope they will not see us when we meet them just outside the club. They are not the sort of people

we want to ostentatiously greet in crowded places. It is not till the days of our need that we learn to love and

know them. It is not till the winter that the birds see the wisdom of building their nests in the evergreen trees.

And we, in our springtime folly of youth, pass them by with a sneer, the uninteresting, colorless evergreens,

and, like silly children with nothing but eyes in their heads, stretch out our hands and cry for the pretty

flowers. We will make our little garden of life such a charming, fairylike spot, the envy of every passerby!

There shall nothing grow in it but lilies and roses, and the cottage we will cover all over with

Virginiacreeper. And, oh, how sweet it will look, under the dancing summer sunlight, when the soft west

And, oh, how we shall stand and shiver there when the rain and the east wind come!

Oh, you foolish, foolish little maidens, with your dainty heads so full of unwisdom! how oftenoh! how

often, are you to be warned that it is not always the sweetest thing in lovers that is the best material to make a

goodwearing husband out of? "The lover sighing like a furnace" will not go on sighing like a furnace

forever. That furnace will go out. He will become the husband, "full of strange oathsjealous in honor,

sudden and quick in quarrel," and grow "into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon." How will he wear? There will

be no changing him if he does not suit, no sending him back to be altered, no having him let out a bit where

he is too tight and hurts you, no having him taken in where he is too loose, no laying him by when the cold

comes, to wrap yourself up in something warmer. As he is when you select him, so he will have to last you

Yes, he looks very pretty nowhandsome pattern, if the colors are fast and it does not fadefeels soft and

warm to the touch. How will he stand the world's rough weather? How will he stand life's wear and tear?

He looks so manly and brave. His hair curls so divinely. He dresses so well (I wonder if the tailor's bill is

paid?) He kisses your hand so gracefully. He calls you such pretty names. His arm feels so strong a round

Will he kiss your hand when it is wrinkled and old? Will he call you pretty names when the baby is crying in

the night, and you cannot keep it quietor, better still, will he sit up and take a turn with it? Will his arm be

strong around you in the days of trouble? Will his eyes shine above you full of tenderness when yours are

And you boys, you silly boys! what materials for a wife do you think you will get out of the emptyheaded

coquettes you are raving and tearing your hair about. Oh! yes, she is very handsome, and she dresses with

exquisite taste (the result of devoting the whole of her heart, mind and soul to the subject, and never allowing

her thoughts to be distracted from it by any other mundane or celestial object whatsoever); and she is very

agreeable and entertaining and fascinating; and she will go on looking handsome, and dressing exquisitely,

and being agreeable and entertaining and fascinating just as much after you have married her as

But _you_ will not get the benefit of it. Husbands will be charmed and fascinated by her in plenty, but _you_

will not be among them. You will run the show, you will pay all the expenses, do all the work. Your

performing lady will be most affable and enchanting to the crowd. They will stare at her, and admire her, and

talk to her, and flirt with her. And you will be able to feel that you are quite a benefactor to your fellowmen

and womento your fellowmen especiallyin providing such delightful amusement for them, free. But

You will not get the handsome looks. _You_ will get the jaded face, and the dull, lusterless eyes, and the

untidy hair with the dye showing on it. You will not get the exquisite dresses. _You_ will get dirty, shabby

frocks and slommicking dressinggowns, such as your cook would be ashamed to wear. _You_ will not get

the charm and fascination. _You_ will get the afterheadaches, the complainings and grumblings, the silence

and sulkiness, the weariness and lassitude and illtemper that comes as such a relief after working hard all

It is not the people who shine in society, but the people who brighten up the back parlor; not the people who

are charming when they are out, but the people who are charming when they are in, that are good to _live_

with. It is not the brilliant men and women, but the simple, strong, restful men and women, that make the best

traveling companions for the road of life. The men and women who will only laugh as they put up the

umbrella when the rain begins to fall, who will trudge along cheerfully through the mud and over the stony

placesthe comrades who will lay their firm hand on ours and strengthen us when the way is dark and we

are growing weakthe evergreen men and women, who, like the holly, are at their brightest and best when

It is a grand thing this stanchness. It is the difference between a dog and a sheepbetween a man and an

Women, as a rule, are stancher than men. There are women that you feel you could rely upon to the death.

But very few men indeed have this doglike virtue. Men, taking them generally, are more like cats. You may

live with them and call them yours for twenty years, but you can never feel _quite_ sure of them. You never

know exactly what they are thinking of. You never feel easy in your mind as to the result of the nextdoor

We have no school for the turningout of stanch men in this nineteenth century. In the old, earnest times, war

made men stanch and true to each other. We have learned up a good many glib phrases about the wickedness

of war, and we thank God that we live in these peaceful, trading times, wherein we canand dodevote the

whole of our thoughts and energies to robbing and cheating and swindling one anotherto "doing" our

friends, and overcoming our enemies by trickery and lieswherein, undisturbed by the wicked ways of

fightingmen, we can cultivate to better perfection the "smartness," the craft, and the cunning, and all the

other "businesslike" virtues on which we so pride ourselves, and which were so neglected and treated with

so little respect in the bad old age of violence, when men chose lions and eagles for their symbols rather than

There is a good deal to be said against war. I am not prepared to maintain that war did not bring with it

disadvantages, but there can be no doubt that, for the noblest work of Naturethe making of menit was a

splendid manufactory. It taught men courage. It trained them in promptness and determination, in strength of

brain and strength of hand. From its stern lessons they learned fortitude in suffering, coolness in danger,

cheerfulness under reverses. Chivalry, Reverence, and Loyalty are the beautiful children of ugly War. But,

It first taught men to be true to one another; to be true to their duty, true to their post; to be in all things

The martyrs that died at the stake; the explorers that fought with Nature and opened up the world for us; the

reformers (they had to do something more than talk in those days) who won for us our liberties; the men who

gave their lives to science and art, when science and art brought, not as now, fame and fortune, but shame and

penurythey sprang from the loins of the rugged men who had learned, on many a grim battlefield, to laugh

at pain and death, who had had it hammered into them, with many a hard blow, that the whole duty of a man

Do you remember the story of the old Viking who had been converted to Christianity, and who, just as they

were about, with much joy, to baptize him, paused and asked: "But whatif this, as you tell me, is the only

way to the true Valhallawhat has become of my comrades, my friends who are dead, who died in the old

The priests, confused, replied there could be no doubt those unfortunate folk had gone to a place they would

"Then," said the old warrior, stepping back, "I will not be baptized. I will go along with my own people."

He had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people. He would stand by them to the endof

eternity. Most assuredly, a very shocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up our

civilization and our culture to get back to the days when they made men like that.

The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is the bulldog; and he is fast dying outthe pity

of it! What a splendid old dog he is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his idea, of his

duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only himself that is concerned.

He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does not look it. The sweetness of his disposition

would not strike the casual observer at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of in the oftquoted

'E's all right when yer knows 'im. But yer've got to know 'im fust. The first time I ever met a bulldogto

speak to, that iswas many years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of mine

named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from some dissolving views we found the

family had gone to bed. They had left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and began

And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bulldog. A dog with a more thoughtfully

ferocious expressiona dog with, apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizing

sentimentsI have never seen. As George said, he looked more like some heathen idol than a happy English

He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us with a ghastly grin, and got between

We smiled at hima sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good dogpoor fellow!" and we asked him, in

tones implying that the question could admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap." We did not really

think so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it was unfavorable. But we did not express it.

We would not have hurt his feelings for the world. He was a visitor, our guest, so to speakand, as

wellbroughtup young men, we felt that the right thing to do was for us to prevent his gaining any hint that

we were not glad to see him, and to make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position.

I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more at his ease than even we were. He took

but little notice of our flattering remarks, but was much drawn toward George's legs. George used to be, I

remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see enough in them myself to excuse George's vanity;

indeed, they always struck me as lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they quite fascinated

that bulldog. He walked over and criticized them with the air of a longbaffled connoisseur who had at last

George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew them up on to the chair. On the dog's

displaying a desire to follow them, George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle,

nursing his knees. George's legs being lost to him, the dog appeared inclined to console himself with mine. I

Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety onelegged table, is a most trying

exercise, especially if you are not used to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to call

out for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young men, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic

eye of the comparative stranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.

We sat on in silence for about half an hour, the dog keeping a reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair,

and displaying elephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbing down.

At the end of the half hour we discussed the advisability of "chancing it," but decided not to. "We should

"Courage," he continuedGeorge had quite a gift for maxims"courage is the wisdom of manhood;

He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the room, would clearly prove us to be

We sat on for over an hour, by which time, having both grown careless of life and indifferent to the voice of

Wisdom, we did "chance it;" and throwing the tablecloth over our wouldbe murderer, charged for the door

The next morning we complained to our landlady of her carelessness in leaving wild beasts about the place,

Instead of the tender womanly sympathy we had expected, the old lady sat down in the easy chair and burst

"What! old Boozer," she exclaimed, "you was afraid of old Boozer! Why, bless you, he wouldn't hurt a

worm! He ain't got a tooth in his head, he ain't; we has to feed him with a spoon; and I'm sure the way the cat

chivies him about must be enough to make his life a burden to him. I expect he wanted you to nurse him; he's

And that was the brute that had kept us sitting on a table, with our boots off, for over an hour on a chilly

Another bulldog exhibition that occurs to me was one given by my uncle. He had had a bulldoga young

onegiven to him by a friend. It was a grand dog, so his friend had told him; all it wanted was trainingit

had not been properly trained. My uncle did not profess to know much about the training of bulldogs; but it

seemed a simple enough matter, so he thanked the man, and took his prize home at the end of a rope.

"Have we got to live in the house with _this?_" asked my aunt, indignantly, coming in to the room about an

hour after the dog's advent, followed by the quadruped himself, wearing an idiotically selfsatisfied air.

"That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid dog. His father was honorably mentioned

"Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the way to get honorably mentioned in this neighborhood,"

replied my aunt, with bitterness; "he's just finished killing poor Mrs. McSlanger's cat, if you want to know

"Hush it up?" retorted my aunt. "If you'd heard the row, you wouldn't sit there and talk like a fool. And if

you'll take my advice," added my aunt, "you'll set to work on this 'training,' or whatever it is, that has got to

My uncle was too busy to devote any time to the dog for the next day or so, and all that could be done was to

And a nice time we had with him! It was not that the animal was badhearted. He meant wellhe tried to do

his duty. What was wrong with him was that he was too hardworking. He wanted to do too much. He started

with an exaggerated and totally erroneous notion of his duties and responsibilities. His idea was that he had

been brought into the house for the purpose of preventing any living human soul from coming near it and of

preventing any person who might by chance have managed to slip in from ever again leaving it.

We endeavored to induce him to take a less exalted view of his position, but in vain. That was the conception

he had formed in his own mind concerning his earthly task, and that conception he insisted on living up to

He so effectually frightened away all the trades people, that they at last refused to enter the gate. All that they

would do was to bring their goods and drop them over the fence into the front garden, from where we had to

"I wish you'd run into the garden," my aunt would say to meI was stopping with them at the time"and

see if you can find any sugar; I think there's some under the big rosebush. If not, you'd better go to Jones'

And on the cook's inquiring what she should get ready for lunch, my aunt would say:

"Well, I'm sure, Jane, I hardly know. What have we? Are there any chops in the garden, or was it a bit of

On the second afternoon the plumbers came to do a little job to the kitchen boiler. The dog, being engaged at

the time in the front of the house, driving away the postman, did not notice their arrival. He was

brokenhearted at finding them there when he got downstairs, and evidently blamed himself most bitterly.

Still, there they were, all owing to his carelessness, and the only thing to be done now was to see that they did

There were three plumbers (it always takes three plumbers to do a job; the first man comes on ahead to tell

you that the second man will be there soon, the second man comes to say that he can't stop, and the third man

follows to ask if the first man has been there); and that faithful, dumb animal kept them pinned up in the

kitchenfancy wanting to keep plumbers in a house longer than is absolutely necessary!for five hours,

until my uncle came home; and the bill ran: "Self and two men engaged six hours, repairing boilertap, 18s.;

He took a dislike to the cook from the very first. We did not blame him for this. She was a disagreeable old

woman, and we did not think much of her ourselves. But when it came to keeping her out of the kitchen, so

that she could not do her work, and my aunt and uncle had to cook the dinner themselves, assisted by the

housemaida willingenough girl, but necessarily inexperiencedwe felt that the woman was being

My uncle, after this, decided that the dog's training must be no longer neglected. The man next door but one

always talked as if he knew a lot about sporting matters, and to him my uncle went for advice as to how to set

"Oh, yes," said the man, cheerfully, "very simple thing, training a bulldog. Wants patience, that's all."

"Oh, that will be all right," said my uncle; "it can't want much more than living in the same house with him

"Well, I'll tell you," said nextdoorbutone. "You take him up into a room where there's not much furniture,

"Then you place him on the floor in the middle of the room, and you go down on your knees in front of him,

"Which, from what I know of the dog, won't take long," observed my uncle thoughtfully.

"He will fly at your throat," continued the nextdoorbutone man, "and this is where you will have to be

careful. _As_ he springs toward you, and _before_ he gets hold of you, you must hit him a fair straight blow

"Quite sowell, the moment you have knocked him down, he will jump up and go for you again. You must

knock him down again; and you must keep on doing this, until the dog is thoroughly cowed and exhausted.

Once he is thoroughly cowed, the thing's donedog's as gentle as a lamb after that."

"Oh!" says my uncle, rising from his chair, "you think that a good way, do you?"

"Oh! I wasn't doubting it," said my uncle; "only it's just occurred to me that as you understand the knack of

these things, perhaps _you'd_ like to come in and try _your_ hand on the dog? We can give you a room quite

to yourselves; and I'll undertake that nobody comes near to interfere with you. And ifif," continued my

uncle, with that kindly thoughtfulness which ever distinguished his treatment of others, "_if_, by any chance,

you should miss hitting the dog at the proper critical moment, or, if _you_ should get cowed and exhausted

first, instead of the dogwhy, I shall only be too pleased to take the whole burden of the funeral expenses on

my own shoulders; and I hope you know me well enough to feel sure that the arrangements will be tasteful,

We next consulted the butcher, who agreed that the prizering method was absurd, especially when

recommended to a shortwinded, elderly family man, and who recommended, instead, plenty of outdoor

"Get a fairly long chain for him," said the butcher, "and take him out for a good stiff run every evening.

Never let him get away from you; make him mind you, and bring him home always thoroughly exhausted.

You stick to that for a month or two, regular, and you'll have him like a little child."

"Um!seems to me that I'm going to get more training over his job than anybody else," muttered my uncle,

as he thanked the man and left the shop; "but I suppose it's got to be done. Wish I'd never had the d dog

So, religiously, every evening, my uncle would fasten a long chain to that poor dog, and drag him away from

his happy home with the idea of exhausting him; and the dog would come back as fresh as paint, my uncle

My uncle said he should never have dreamed there could have been such stirring times in this prosaic

Oh, the wild, wild scamperings over the breezy commonthe dog trying to catch a swallow, and my uncle,

Oh, the merry frolics in the fields, when the dog wanted to kill a cow, and the cow wanted to kill the dog, and

And, oh, the pleasant chats with the old ladies when the dog wound the chain into a knot around their legs,

and upset them, and my uncle had to sit down in the road beside them, and untie them before they could get

But a crisis came at last. It was a Saturday afternoonuncle being exercised by dog in usual waynervous

children playing in road, see dog, scream, and runplayful young dog thinks it a game, jerks chain out of

uncle's grasp, and flies after themuncle flies after dog, calling it namesfond parent in front garden,

seeing beloved children chased by savage dog, followed by careless owner, flies after uncle, calling _him_

nameshouseholders come to doors and cry, "Shame!"also throw things at dogthings don't hit dog, hit

unclethings that don't hit uncle, hit fond parentthrough the village and up the hill, over the bridge and

round by the greengrand run, mile and a half without a break! Children sink exhausteddog gambols up

among themchildren go into fitsfond parent and uncle come up together, both breathless.

Fond parent accuses uncle of having set dog onuncle, indignant, reviles fond parentexasperated fond

parent attacks uncleuncle retaliates with umbrellafaithful dog comes to assistance of uncle, and inflicts

great injury on fond parentarrival of policedog attacks policeuncle and fond parent both taken into

custodyuncle fined five pounds and costs for keeping a ferocious dog at largeuncle fined five pounds

and costs for assault on fond parentuncle fined five pounds and cost for assault on police!

My uncle gave the dog away soon after that. He did not waste him. He gave him as a weddingpresent to a

But the saddest story I ever heard in connection with a bulldog, was one told by my aunt herself.

Now you can rely upon this story, because it is not one of mine, it is one of my aunt's, and she would scorn to

tell a lie. This is a story you could tell to the heathen, and feel that you were teaching them the truth and

doing them good. They give this story out at all the Sundayschools in our part of the country, and draw

It happened in the old crinoline days. My aunt, who was then living in a countrytown, had gone out

shopping one morning, and was standing in the High Street, talking to a lady friend, a Mrs. Gumworthy, the

doctor's wife. She (my aunt) had on a new crinoline that morning, in which, to use her own expression, she

rather fancied herself. It was a tremendously big one, as stiff as a wirefence; and it "set" beautifully.

They were standing in front of Jenkins', the draper's; and my aunt thinks that itthe crinolinemust have

got caught up in something, and an opening thus left between it and the ground. However this may be, certain

it is that an absurdly large and powerful bulldog, who was fooling round about there at the time, managed,

somehow or other, to squirm in under my aunt's crinoline, and effectually imprison himself beneath it.

Finding himself suddenly in a dark and gloomy chamber, the dog, naturally enough, got frightened, and made

frantic rushes to get out. But whichever way he charged; there was the crinoline in front of him. As he flew,

he, of course, carried it before him, and with the crinoline, of course, went my aunt.

But nobody knew the explanation. My aunt herself did not know what had happened. Nobody had seen the

dog creep inside the crinoline. All that the people did see was a staid and eminently respectable middleaged

lady suddenly, and without any apparent reason, throw her umbrella down in the road, fly up the High Street

at the rate of ten miles an hour, rush across it at the imminent risk of her life, dart down it again on the other

side, rush sideways, like an excited crab, into a grocer's shop, run three times round the shop, upsetting the

whole stockintrade, come out of the shop backward and knock down a postman, dash into the roadway and

spin round twice, hover for a moment, undecided, on the curb, and then away up the hill again, as if she had

only just started, all the while screaming out at the top of her voice for somebody to stop her!

Of course, everybody thought she was mad. The people flew before her like chaff before the wind. In less

than five seconds the High Street was a desert. The townsfolk scampered into their shops and houses and

barricaded the doors. Brave men dashed out and caught up little children and bore them to places of safety

amid cheers. Carts and carriages were abandoned, while the drivers climbed up lampposts!

What would have happened had the affair gone on much longerwhether my aunt would have been shot, or

the fireengine brought into requisition against herit is impossible, having regard to the terrified state of

the crowd, to say. Fortunately for her, she became exhausted. With one despairing shriek she gave way, and