I spent time in recording studios, learned how the music business operates, rode in limos with the Doobie Brothers , got lots of records for free, and got paid for all of it. In , his first book, Playing in the Band: an Oral and Visual Portrait of the Grateful Dead co-authored with Peter Simon about his long-time favorites, the Grateful Dead , was published to critical acclaim. Nicholas Meriweather noted that "Playing in the Band introduced thousands of fans to the deeper history of the band and scene, at a time when good books on the band were a rarity" . Four of Mr. He soon found himself producing pieces for the station, which led to his being offered the opportunity to host "The Grateful Dead Hour.
Gans is credited by many for encouraging Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh to emerge from retirement. Lesh played several shows with David Gans and the Broken Angels in late and early Gans assembled interesting combinations of musicians for Lesh to jam with in a series of benefits for Lesh's Unbroken Chain Foundation, culminating with a sold-out show at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco on January 31, Shortly after that event, Lesh began assembling ensembles of his own and touring as Phil Lesh and Friends. Gans describes his career in musical journalism as "getting 'sidetracked' " from his first love: actually making music.
In the mids, with the death of Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead's subsequent extended hiatus, Gans decided to set journalism on the back-burner and focus on music again. In he released a duet album of himself playing with Berkeley singer-songwriter Eric Rawlins, Home By Morning , backing it up by performing around the Bay Area.
This was followed the next year by a topical single, "Monica Lewinsky," that got a lot of airplay and publicity and enabled Gans to expand his touring base. After more than twenty years of performing in the San Francisco Bay Area as a solo singer-songwriter and with various bands The Reptiles, Crazy Fingers, David Gans and the Broken Angels , Gans began touring nationally, which he continues to do today. He has appeared in concert all over the country, from Seattle to Atlanta, Burlington to Phoenix.
In , Gans became one of the first independent musicians to release a DVD. Live at the Powerhouse documents a stirring outdoor afternoon performance at a northern California brewpub, featuring some of his best material and demonstrating his work multi-tracking himself live, using a Boss RC Loop Station. Gans' most recent musical endeavor is the Sycamore Slough String Band, an acoustic band playing the music of the Grateful Dead. The band is currently performing live throughout Northern California  and touring the East Coast.
The Dead Vault's own Cosmic Charlie recently said about Sycamore Slough's performance of "Loser", "There's some phenomenal vocal harmonies here, and Gans sounds great on the lead vocal. There's some really great melodic guitar work by Gans here too! And would he be at the dance after all? Time had never seemed so long to Ursula. She could not rest or sleep. It was midnight before she heard the patter of a handful of gravel on her window-panes. In a trice she was leaning out. Below in the darkness stood Kenneth MacNair.
Your father is in bed. I've waited two hours down the road for his light to  go out, and an extra half-hour to put him to sleep. The horses are there. Slip down and out, Ursula. We'll make Charlottetown by dawn yet. I'm locked in. But do you go out behind the new barn and bring the ladder you will find there.
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Oh, of course she shouldn't have said anything of the sort, Felicity. But you see people had no etiquette departments in those days. And when the red sunlight of a fair October dawn was shining over the gray sea The Fair Lady sailed out of Charlottetown harbour. On her deck stood Kenneth and Ursula MacNair, and in her hand, as a most precious treasure, the bride carried a ball of gray homespun yarn.
Nobody goes and dies in it, that's one good thing. Great was the excitement in the houses of King as Christmas drew nigh. The air was simply charged with secrets. Everybody was very penurious for weeks beforehand and hoards were counted scrutinizingly every day. Mysterious pieces of handiwork were smuggled in and out of sight, and whispered consultations were held, about which nobody thought of being jealous, as might have happened at any other time.
Felicity was in her element, for she and her mother were deep in preparations for the day. Cecily and the Story Girl were excluded from these doings with indifference on Aunt Janet's part and what seemed ostentatious complacency on Felicity's. Cecily took this to heart and complained to me about it. When I wanted to stone the raisins for the mince-meat she said, no, she would  do it herself, because Christmas mince-meat was very particular—as if I couldn't stone raisins right!
The airs Felicity puts on about her cooking just make me sick," concluded Cecily wrathfully. All parcels that came in the mail from distant friends were taken charge of by Aunts Janet and Olivia, not to be opened until the great day of the feast itself. How slowly the last week passed! But even watched pots will boil in the fulness of time, and finally Christmas day came, gray and dour and frost-bitten without, but full of revelry and rose-red mirth within. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia and the Story Girl came over early for the day; and Peter came too, with his shining, morning face, to be hailed with joy, for we had been afraid that Peter would not be able to spend Christmas with us.
His mother had wanted him home with her. And ma always cries on holidays because she says they make her think of father. Of course she can't help it, but it ain't cheerful. Aunt Jane wouldn't have cried. But I guess I'll have to spend Christmas at home. At the last moment, however, a cousin of Mrs. Craig's in Charlottetown invited her for Christmas, and Peter, being given his choice of going or staying, joyfully elected to stay.
So we were all together, except Sara Ray, who had been invited but whose mother wouldn't let her come. Ray makes her read it as a punishment," protested Cecily. Ray makes her read seven chapters in the Bible. I wouldn't think that would make her very fond of it. And I'll not be able to talk the party over with Sara afterwards—and that's half the fun gone. We had an exciting time opening our presents. Some of us had more than others, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably that we were not unduly neglected in the matter.
The contents of the box which the Story Girl's father had sent her from Paris made our eyes stick out. It was full of beautiful things, among them another red silk dress—not the bright, flame-hued tint of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson, with the most distracting flounces and bows and ruffles; and with it were little red satin slippers with gold buckles, and heels that made Aunt Janet hold up her hands in horror.
Felicity remarked scornfully that she would have thought the Story Girl would get tired wearing red so much, and even Cecily commented apart to me that she thought when you got so many things all at once you didn't appreciate them as much as when you only got a few. When I'm dressed in red I always feel ever so much cleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts just crowd into my brain one after the other. Oh, you  darling dress—you dear, sheeny, red-rosy, glistening, silky thing!
She was a good soul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her ample bosom. But I fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard that the daughter of a roving adventurer—as she considered him—like Blair Stanley should disport herself in silk dresses, while her own daughters must go clad in gingham and muslin—for those were the days when a feminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom more than one.
The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man—a little, shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves. But I'll try. I'd ten times rather have this than a new book. It's one of his own, don't you see—one that he has read a hundred times and loved and made a friend of. A new book, just out of a shop, wouldn't  be the same thing at all.
It wouldn't mean anything. I consider it a great compliment that he has given me this book. I'm prouder of it than of anything else I've got. I wouldn't give anybody a Christmas present that wasn't new, and I wouldn't thank anybody who gave me one. Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him a present—and, moreover, one that she had made herself.
It was a bookmark of perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow worsted goblet worked on it, and below, in green letters, the solemn warning, "Touch Not The Cup. But Peter was perfectly satisfied, so nobody cast any blight on his happiness by carping criticism. Later on Felicity told me she had worked the bookmark for him because his father used to drink before he ran away. Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half an hour after it was tied on him. We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus, and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us afraid on that one day of the year.
And in the evening—oh, rapture and delight! It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had mellowed until it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird, dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple earth, the dark fir woods, the valley rims, the sere meadows.
Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long wintry slumber was coming upon her. At first, when the invitations to the party had come, Aunt Janet had said we could not go; but Uncle Alec interceded in our favour, perhaps influenced thereto by Cecily's wistful eyes. If Uncle Alec had a favourite among his children it was Cecily, and he had grown even more indulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw him looking at her intently, and, following his eyes and thought, I had, somehow, seen that Cecily was paler and thinner than she had been in the summer,  and that her soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little face in moments of repose there was a certain languor and weariness that made it very sweet and pathetic.
And I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he did not like to see the child getting so much the look of her Aunt Felicity. Don't be foolish, Alec. But after that Cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got only milk; and Aunt Janet was very particular to see that she had her rubbers on whenever she went out. On this merry Christmas evening, however, no fears or dim foreshadowings of any coming event clouded our hearts or faces.
Cecily looked brighter and prettier than I had ever seen her, with her softly shining eyes and the nut brown gloss of her hair. Felicity was too beautiful for words; and even the Story Girl, between excitement and the crimson silk array, blossomed out with a charm and allurement more potent than any regular loveliness—and this in spite of the fact that Aunt Olivia had tabooed the red satin slippers and mercilessly decreed that stout shoes should be worn.
You'd break their spirits, too, if you wore the slippers. Don't do it, Sara. Leave them one wee loophole of enjoyment. But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us. And we enjoyed the walk home afterwards, through dim, enshadowed fields where silvery star-beams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a red moon climbed up the black horizon's rim.
A brook went with us part of the way, singing to us through the dark—a gay, irresponsible vagabond of valley and wilderness. Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter's cup must surely have brimmed over that Christmas night. When we left the Marr house, he  had boldly said to Felicity, "May I see you home? The primness of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's hoot of derision.
As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire to ask the Story Girl if I might see her home; but I could not screw my courage to the sticking point. How I envied Peter his easy, insouciant manner! I could not emulate him, so Dan and Felix and Cecily and the Story Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling a little closer together as we went through James Frewen's woods—for there are strange harps in a fir grove, and who shall say what fingers sweep them?
Mighty and sonorous was the music above our heads as the winds of the night stirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit sky. It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road. I'd frighten myself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who saw the angels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth, and he loved music with all his heart, and he longed to be able to express the melody that was in his soul.
But he could not; he had a harp and he often tried to play on it; but his clumsy fingers only made such discord that his companions laughed at him and mocked him, and called him a madman because he would not give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself, with his arms about his harp, looking up into the sky, while they gathered around their fire and told tales to wile away their long night vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the thoughts that came out of the great silence were far sweeter than their mirth; and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left his lips as a prayer, that some day he might be able to express those thoughts in music to the tired, weary, forgetful world.
On the first Christmas night he was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It was chill and dark, and all, except him, were glad to gather around the fire. He sat, as usual, by himself, with his harp on his knee and a great longing in his heart. And there came a marvellous light in the sky and over the hills, as if the darkness of the night had suddenly blossomed into a wonderful  meadow of flowery flame; and all the shepherds saw the angels and heard them sing. And as they sang, the harp that the young shepherd held began to play softly by itself, and as he listened to it he realized that it was playing the same music that the angels sang and that all his secret longings and aspirations and strivings were expressed in it.
From that night, whenever he took the harp in his hands, it played the same music; and he wandered all over the world carrying it; wherever the sound of its music was heard hate and discord fled away and peace and good-will reigned. No one who heard it could think an evil thought; no one could feel hopeless or despairing or bitter or angry. When a man had once heard that music it entered into his soul and heart and life and became a part of him for ever.
Years went by; the shepherd grew old and bent and feeble; but still he roamed over land and sea, that his harp might carry the message of the Christmas night and the angel song to all mankind. At last his strength failed him and he fell by the wayside in the darkness; but his harp played as his spirit passed; and it seemed to him that a Shining One stood by him, with wonderful starry eyes, and said to him, 'Lo, the music thy harp has played for so many years has been but the echo of the love and sympathy and purity and beauty in thine own soul; and  if at any time in the wanderings thou hadst opened the door of that soul to evil or envy or selfishness thy harp would have ceased to play.
Now thy life is ended; but what thou hast given to mankind has no end; and as long as the world lasts, so long will the heavenly music of the Christmas harp ring in the ears of men. We left the fir woods as the tale was ended, and on the opposite hill was home. A dim light in the kitchen window betokened that Aunt Janet had no idea of going to bed until all her young fry were safely housed for the night. I guess she'll be cross. It's nearly twelve. It's the first we've all spent together. Do you suppose we'll ever spend another together? Cecily tossed her head and disdained reply.
There are really some remarks a self-respecting young lady must ignore. If we did not have a white Christmas we had a white New Year. Midway between the two came a heavy snowfall. It was winter in our orchard of old delights then,—so truly winter that it was hard to believe summer had ever dwelt in it, or that spring would ever return to it. There were no birds to sing the music of the moon; and the path where the apple blossoms had fallen were heaped with less fragrant drifts.
But it was a place of wonder on a moonlight night, when the snowy arcades shone like avenues of ivory and crystal, and the bare trees cast fairy-like traceries upon them. Over Uncle Stephen's Walk, where the snow had fallen smoothly, a spell of white magic had been woven. Taintless and wonderful it seemed, like a street of pearl in the new Jerusalem. On New Year's Eve we were all together in Uncle Alec's kitchen, which was tacitly given over to our revels during the winter evenings. The Story Girl and Peter were there, of course,  and Sara Ray's mother had allowed her to come up on condition that she should be home by eight sharp.
Cecily was glad to see her, but the boys never hailed her arrival with over-much delight, because, since the dark began to come down early, Aunt Janet always made one of us walk down home with her. We hated this, because Sara Ray was always so maddeningly self-conscious of having an escort. We knew perfectly well that next day in school she would tell her chums as a "dead" secret that "So-and-So King saw her home" from the hill farm the night before. Now, seeing a young lady home from choice, and being sent home with her by your aunt or mother are two entirely different things, and we thought Sara Ray ought to have sense enough to know it.
Outside there was a vivid rose of sunset behind the cold hills of fir, and the long reaches of snowy fields glowed fairily pink in the western light. The drifts along the edges of the meadows and down the lane looked as if a series of breaking waves had, by the lifting of a magician's wand, been suddenly transformed into marble, even to their toppling curls of foam.
Slowly the splendour died, giving place to the mystic beauty of a winter twilight when the moon is rising. The hollow sky was a cup of blue. The stars came out over the white glens and the earth  was covered with a kingly carpet for the feet of the young year to press. There's something very solemn about the idea of a New Year, isn't there? Just think of three hundred and sixty-five whole days, with not a thing happened in them yet. To Felix, just then, life was flat, stale and unprofitable because it was his turn to go home with Sara Ray. The whole family sits up until midnight, and then, just as the clock is striking twelve, the father opens the door and welcomes the New Year in.
Isn't it a pretty custom? I call it mean. Peter shrank into the background abashed, no doubt believing that he had broken some Family Guide precept all to pieces. That will make them seem more solemn and binding. That will show us what progress we are making, as well as make us ashamed if we have too many crosses.
But she joined our circle around the table, though she sat for a long time with a blank sheet before her. And, recalling with shame certain unpleasant differences of opinion I had lately had with Felicity, I wrote down in my best hand,. There are people in this family you've just got to quarrel with if you want to live.
But I've thought of one—I won't do things to spite people. Felicity—who really was in an unbearable mood that night—laughed disagreeably; but Cecily gave her a fierce nudge, which probably restrained her from speaking. The Story Girl coloured and nodded. Sara was rather fond of a big word, but did not always get hold of the right one. I rather suspected that in the above instance she really meant uninteresting.
I'd never be able to do those compound multiplica  tion sums the teacher gives us to do at home every night if I didn't get Judy Pineau to help me. Judy isn't a good reader and she can't spell at all , but you can't stick her in arithmetic as far as she went herself. I feel sure," concluded poor Sara, in a hopeless tone, "that I'll never be able to understand compound multiplication. I hate arithmetic, but I am passionately fond of geography. Bailey preached. He was so long-winded, I got awful tired, and, anyway, he was talking about things I couldn't understand, so I played tit-tat-x with one of the Markdale boys.
It was the day I was sitting up in the gallery. Davidson of Markdale," said the Story Girl. Davidson had rheumatism; and finally Mr. Davidson fell and broke his leg. But still Mrs. Davidson smiled. If I say to you that Emmy MacPhail is going to get a new fur collar this winter, that is harmless gossip, but if I say I don't see how Emmy MacPhail can afford a new fur collar when her father can't pay my father for the oats he got from him, that would be mean gossip.
If I were you, Sara, I'd put mean gossip. Marwood said last Sunday we should always try to think beautiful thoughts and then our lives would be very beautiful. So I shall resolve to think a beautiful thought every morning before breakfast. But Felicity shot a furious glance at him. Marwood meant that all our thoughts ought to be beautiful," said the Story Girl. Dear knows where we'll all be this night next year. Peter, it's your turn. Ma hadn't time, being as father had run away; ma had to wash at night same as in day-time. Cecily had nudged her, so she had probably remembered the Story Girl's threat that she would never tell another story if she was ever twitted with the pudding she had made from sawdust.
But we all knew what Felicity had started to say and the Story Girl dealt her a most uncousinly glance. Is it my turn again? Well, I'll resolve not  to worry because my hair is not curly. But, oh, I'll never be able to help wishing it was. I'm not going to make any more. Four's enough. She had the last word on the subject, for it was time for Sara Ray to go, and our circle broke up.
Sara and Felix departed and we watched them down the lane in the moonlight—Sara walking demurely in one runner track, and Felix stalking grimly along in the other. I fear the romantic beauty of that silver shining night was entirely thrown away on my misanthropic brother. And it was, as I remember it, a most exquisite night—a white poem, a frosty, starry lyric of light. It was one of those nights on which one might fall asleep and dream happy dreams of  gardens of mirth and song, feeling all the while through one's sleep the soft splendour and radiance of the white moon-world outside, as one hears soft, faraway music sounding through the thoughts and words that are born of it.
As a matter of fact, however, Cecily dreamed that night that she saw three full moons in the sky, and wakened up crying with the horror of it. The first number of Our Magazine was ready on New Year's Day, and we read it that evening in the kitchen. All our staff had worked nobly and we were enormously proud of the result, although Dan still continued to scoff at a paper that wasn't printed. The Story Girl and I read it turnabout while the others, except Felix, ate apples. It opened with a short. With this number Our Magazine makes its first bow to the public.
All the editors have done their best and the various departments are full of valuable information and amusement. The tastefully designed cover is by a famous artist, Mr. Blair Stanley, who sent it to us all the way from Europe at the request of his daughter. Peter Craig, our enterprising literary editor, contributes a touching love story. Peter, aside, in  a gratified pig's whisper: "I never was called 'Mr.
Miss Cecily King contributes a thrilling article of adventure. The various departments are ably edited, and we feel that we have reason to be proud of Our Magazine. But we shall not rest on our oars. We trust that each succeeding issue will be better than the one that went before. We are well aware of many defects, but it is easier to see them than to remedy them.
Any suggestion that would tend to the improvement of Our Magazine will be thankfully received, but we trust that no criticism will be made that will hurt anyone's feelings. Let us all work together in harmony, and strive to make Our Magazine an influence for good and a source of innocent pleasure, and let us always remember the words of the poet. Shakespeare's full name was William Shakespeare.
He did not always spell it the same way. He lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and wrote a great many plays. His plays are written in dialogue form. Some people think they were not written by Shakespeare but by another man of the same name. I have read some of them because our school teacher says everybody ought to read them, but I did not care much for them. There are some things in them I cannot understand. I like the stories of Valeria H. Montague in the Family Guide ever so much better. They are more exciting and truer to life. Romeo and Juliet was one of the plays I read.
It was very sad. Juliet dies and I don't like stories where people die. I like it better when they all get married especially to dukes and earls. Shakespeare himself was married to Anne Hatheway. They are both dead now. They have been dead a good while. He was a very famous man. Peter, modestly: "I don't know much about Shakespeare myself but I've got a book of his plays that belonged to my Aunt Jane, and I guess I'll have to tackle him as soon as I finish with the Bible. This is a true story. It happened in Markdale to an uncle of my mothers. He wanted to marry Miss Jemima Parr.
Felicity says Jemima is not a romantic name for a heroin of a story but I cant help it in this case because it is a true story and her name realy was Jemima. My mothers uncle was named Thomas Taylor. He was poor at that time and so the father of Miss Jemima Parr did not want him for a soninlaw and told him he was not to come near the house or he would set the dog on him. Miss Jemima Parr was very pretty and my mothers uncle Thomas was just crazy about her and she wanted him too.
She cried almost every night after her father forbid him to come to the house except the nights she had to sleep or she would have died. And she was so frightened he might try to come for all and get tore up by the dog and it was a bull-dog too that would never let go. But mothers uncle Thomas was too cute for that. He waited till one day there was preaching in the Markdale church in the middle of the week because it was sacrament time and Miss Jemima Parr and her family all went because her father was an elder.
My mothers uncle Thomas went too and set in the pew just behind Miss Jemima Parrs family. I dont know what he said so I cant right it but Miss Jemima Parr blushed that is turned red and nodded her head. Perhaps some people may think that my mothers uncle Thomas shouldent of wispered at prayer time in church but you must remember that Miss Jemima Parrs father had thretened to set the dog on him and that was hard lines when he was a respektable young man though not rich. Well when they were singing the last sam my mothers uncle Thomas got up and went out very quitely and as soon as church was out Miss Jemima Parr walked out too real quick.
Her family never suspekted anything and they hung round talking to folks and shaking hands while Miss Jemima Parr and my mothers uncle Thomas were eloping outside. And what do you suppose they eloped in. Why in Miss Jemima Parrs fathers slay. And when he went out they were gone and his slay was gone also his horse. Of course my mothers uncle Thomas didn't steal the horse. He just borroed it and sent it home the next day. But before Miss Jemima Parrs father could get another rig to follow them they were so far away he couldent catch them before they got married.
And they lived happy  together forever afterwards. Mothers uncle Thomas lived to be a very old man. He died very suddent. He felt quite well when he went to sleep and when he woke up he was dead. The editor says we must all write up our most exciting adventure for Our Magazine. My most exciting adventure happened a year ago last November. I was nearly frightened to death. Dan says he wouldn't of been scared and Felicity says she would of known what it was but it's easy to talk.
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It happened the night I went down to see Kitty Marr. I thought when I went that Aunt Olivia was visiting there and I could come home with her. But she wasn't there and I had to come home alone. Kitty came a piece of the way but she wouldn't come any further than Uncle James Frewen's gate. She said it was because it was so windy she was afraid she would get the tooth-ache and not because she was frightened of the ghost of the dog that haunted the bridge in Uncle James' hollow.
I did wish she hadn't said anything about the dog because I mightn't of thought about it if she hadn't. I had to go on alone thinking of it. I'd heard the story often but I'd never  believed in it. They said the dog used to appear at one end of the bridge and walk across it with people and vanish when he got to the other end. He never tried to bite anyone but one wouldn't want to meet the ghost of a dog even if one didn't believe in him. I knew there was no such thing as ghosts and I kept saying a paraphrase over to myself and the Golden Text of the next Sunday School lesson but oh, how my heart beat when I got near the hollow!
It was so dark. You could just see things dim-like but you couldn't see what they were. When I got to the bridge I walked along sideways with my back to the railing so I couldn't think the dog was behind me. And then just in the middle of the bridge I met something. It was right before me and it was big and black, just about the size of a Newfoundland dog, and I thought I could see a white nose.
And it kept jumping about from one side of the bridge to the other. Oh, I hope none of my readers will ever be so frightened as I was then. I was too frightened to run back because I was afraid it would chase me and I couldn't get past it, it moved so quick, and then it just made one spring right on me and I felt its claws and I screamed and fell down. It rolled off to one side and laid there quite quiet but I didn't dare move and I don't know what would have become of me if  Amos Cowan hadn't come along that very minute with a lantern.
And there was me sitting in the middle of the bridge and that awful thing beside me. And what do you think it was but a big umbrella with a white handle? Amos said it was his umbrella and it had blown away from him and he had to go back and get the lantern to look for it. I felt like asking him what on earth he was going about with an umbrella open when it wasent raining. But the Cowans do such queer things.
You remember the time Jerry Cowan sold us God's picture. Amos took me right home and I was thankful for I don't know what would have become of me if he hadn't come along. I couldn't sleep all night and I never want to have any more adventures like that one.
Dan King felt somewhat indisposed the day after Christmas—probably as the result of too much mince pie. Dan, indignantly: —"I wasn't. I only et one piece! But the rest of us think all he saw was the white calf with the red tail. Peter, muttering sulkily: —"It's a queer calf that would walk up on end and wring its hands. Miss Cecily King spent the night of Dec. They talked most of the night about new knitted lace patterns and their beaus and were very sleepy in school next day.
Cecily, sharply: —"We never mentioned such things! Patrick Grayfur, Esq. The King family expect their Aunt Eliza to visit them in January. She is really our great-aunt. We have never seen her but we are told she is very deaf and does not like children. So Aunt Janet says we must make ourselves scarce when she comes. Miss Cecily King has undertaken to fill with names a square of the missionary quilt which the Mission Band is making. You pay five cents to have your name embroidered in a corner, ten cents to have it in the centre, and a quarter if you want it left off altogether.
Cecily, indignantly: —"That isn't the way at all. Address, "Patient Sufferer, care of Our Magazine. Felix, sourly :—"Sara Ray never got that up. He'd better stick to his own department. Alexander King killed all her geese the twentieth of December. We all helped pick them. We had one Christmas Day and will have one every fortnight the rest of the winter. The bread was sour last week because mother wouldn't take my advice. I told her it was too warm for it in the corner behind the stove. Miss Felicity King invented a new recete for date cookies recently, which everybody said were excelent.
I am not going to publish it though, because I don't want other people to find it out. If it was Dan who sent this question in I'd advise him to stop wiping his pen on his shirt sleeves and then he wouldn't have so many stains. F-l-x:—Yes, you should offer your arm to a lady when seeing her home, but don't keep her standing too long at the gate while you say good night. S-r-a:—No, it isn't polite to cry all the time. As to whether you should ask a young man in, it all depends on whether he went home with you of his own accord or was sent by some elderly relative. F-l-t-y:—It does not break any rule of etiquette if you keep a button off your best young man's coat for a keepsake.
But don't take more than one or his mother might miss them. Knitted mufflers are much more stylish than crocheted ones this winter. It is nice to have one the same colour as your cap. Red mittens with a black diamond pattern on the back are much run after. Em Frewen's grandma knits hers for her. She can knit the double diamond pattern and Em puts on such airs about it, but I think the single diamond is in better taste. The new winter hats at Markdale are very pretty.
It is so exciting to pick a hat. Boys can't have that fun. Their hats are so much alike. There was an old local preacher in New Brunswick one time whose name was Samuel Clask. He used to preach and pray and visit the sick just like a regular minister. One day he was visiting a neighbour who was dying and he prayed the Lord to have mercy on him because he was very poor and had worked so hard all his life that he hadn't much time to attend to religion. Clask finished up with, "just take a look at his hands. Dan, aggrieved :—"Well, I'd never heard of porpoises and it sounded like something that grew.
But you needn't have gone and put it in the paper. Felix :—"It isn't any worse than the things you put in about me that I never asked at all. Cecily, soothingly :—"Oh, well, boys, it's all in fun, and I think Our Magazine is perfectly elegant. Felicity, failing to see the Story Girl and Beverley exchanging winks behind her back :—"It certainly is, though some people were so opposed to starting it.
What harmless, happy fooling it all was! How we laughed as we read and listened and devoured apples! Blow high, blow low, no wind can ever quench the ruddy glow of that faraway winter night in our memories. And though Our Magazine never made much of a stir in the world, or was the means of hatching any genius, it continued to be capital fun for us throughout the year.
It was a diamond winter day in February—clear, cold, hard, brilliant. The sharp blue sky shone, the white fields and hills glittered, the fringe of icicles around the eaves of Uncle Alec's house sparkled. Keen was the frost and crisp the snow over our world; and we young fry of the King households were all agog to enjoy life—for was it not Saturday, and were we not left all alone to keep house?
Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia had had their last big "kill" of market poultry the day before; and early in the morning all our grown-ups set forth to Charlottetown, to be gone the whole day. They left us many charges as usual, some of which we remembered and some of which we forgot; but with Felicity in command none of us dared stray far out of line.
The Story Girl and Peter came over, of course, and we all agreed that we would haste and get the work done in the forenoon, that we might have an afternoon of uninterrupted  enjoyment. A taffy-pull after dinner and then a jolly hour of coasting on the hill field before supper were on our programme. But disappointment was our portion. We did manage to get the taffy made but before we could sample the result satisfactorily, and just as the girls were finishing with the washing of the dishes, Felicity glanced out of the window and exclaimed in tones of dismay,.
We all looked out to see a tall, gray-haired lady approaching the house, looking about her with the slightly puzzled air of a stranger. We had been expecting Great-aunt Eliza's advent for some weeks, for she was visiting relatives in Markdale. We knew she was liable to pounce down on us any time, being one of those delightful folk who like to "surprise" people, but we had never thought of her coming that particular day.
It must be confessed that we did not look forward to her visit with any pleasure. None of us had ever seen her, but we knew she was very deaf, and had very decided opinions as to the way in which children should behave. She's deaf as a post and we'll have to split our throats to make her hear at all. I've a notion to skin out. She has buried three husbands. We must be kind to her and do the best we can to make her visit pleasant.
Cecily, set those pots in the pantry quick—hide those boots, Felix—shut the cupboard door, Peter—Sara, straighten up the lounge. She's awfully particular and ma says her house is always as neat as wax. To do Felicity justice, while she issued orders to the rest of us, she was flying busily about herself, and it was amazing how much was accomplished in the way of putting the kitchen in perfect order during the two minutes in which Great-aunt Eliza was crossing the yard. A slightly bewildered look appeared on Aunt Eliza's face.
Felicity perceived she had not spoken loudly enough. We've been looking for you for ever so long. You must stay over Sunday. I want to get acquainted with my—my nephews and nieces," said Aunt Eliza, with a rather pleasant glance around our group. If I could have associated the thought of such a thing with my preconception  of Great-aunt Eliza I could have sworn there was a twinkle in her eye. But of course it was impossible. Felicity shouted our names and Great-aunt Eliza shook hands all round.
She performed the duty grimly and I concluded I must have been mistaken about the twinkle. She was certainly very tall and dignified and imposing—altogether a great-aunt to be respected. Felicity and Cecily took her to the spare room and then left her in the sitting-room while they returned to the kitchen, to discuss the matter in family conclave. There ought to be a law against anyone being as deaf as that. I expect it was burying so many husbands turned  her hair white. But Aunt Eliza doesn't look just as I expected she would either. But how are we to entertain her, that's the question.
It gives her indigestion. What will we do? The latter, however, took it in all good faith. It says it's adding insult to injury to do it. But you run over home for a loaf of stale bread, Sara, and it's a good idea about the rusks. I'll make a panful. She's a fearful old gossip.
I'll make the rusks myself. She hates cats, so we mustn't let Paddy be seen. And she's a Methodist, so mind nobody says anything against Methodists to her. She looks so much friendlier than I expected. Of course she'll choose the five-cent section. She's an estimable old lady, but very economical. You better go in and show her the photographs in the album. Dan, you do it. Cecily or the Story Girl can do it.
We've left her alone too long now. She'll think we have no manners. Accordingly we all filed in rather reluctantly. Great-aunt Eliza was toasting her toes—clad, as we noted, in very smart and shapely shoes—at the stove and looking quite at her ease. Cecily, determined to do her duty even in the face of such fearful odds as Great-aunt Eliza's deafness, dragged a ponderous, plush-covered album from its corner and proceeded to display and explain the family photographs.
She did her brave best but she could not shout like Felicity, and half the  time, as she confided to me later on, she felt that Great-aunt Eliza did not hear one word she said, because she didn't seem to take in who the people were, though, just like all deaf folks, she wouldn't let on. Great-aunt Eliza certainly didn't talk much; she looked at the photographs in silence, but she smiled now and then. That smile bothered me. It was so twinkly and so very un-great-aunt-Elizaish. But I felt indignant with her. I thought she might have shown a little more appreciation of Cecily's gallant efforts to entertain.
It was very dull for the rest of us. The Story Girl sat rather sulkily in her corner; she was angry because Felicity would not let her make the rusks, and also, perhaps, a little vexed because she could not charm Great-aunt Eliza with her golden voice and story-telling gift. Felix and I looked at each other and wished ourselves out in the hill field, careering gloriously adown its gleaming crust. But presently a little amusement came our way.
Dan, who was sitting behind Great-aunt Eliza, and consequently out of her view, began making comments on Cecily's explanation of this one and that one among the photographs. In vain Cecily implored him to stop. It was too good fun to give up. For the next half-hour the dialogue ran after this fashion, while Peter and  Felix and I, and even the Story Girl, suffered agonies trying to smother our bursts of laughter—for Great-aunt Eliza could see if she couldn't hear:.
Cecily, shouting :—"That is Mr. Joseph Elliott of Markdale, a second cousin of mother's. Dan :—"Don't brag of it, Sis. He's the man who was asked if somebody else said something in sincerity and old Joe said 'No, he said it in my cellar. Cecily :—"This isn't anybody in our family. It's little Xavy Gautier who used to be hired with Uncle Roger. Dan :—"Uncle Roger sent him to fix a gate one day and scolded him because he didn't do it right, and Xavy was mad as hops and said 'How you 'spect me to fix dat gate?
I never learned jogerfy. Dan :—"He's been married four times. Don't you think that's often enough, dear great-aunty? Cecily :—" Dan!! This is a nephew of Mr. Ambrose Marr's.
THE GOLDEN ROAD
He lives out west and teaches school. Dan :—"Yes, and Uncle Roger says he doesn't know enough not to sleep in a field with the gate open. Dan :—"When she resigned the trustees had a meeting to see if they'd ask her to stay and raise her supplement. Old Highland Sandy was alive then and he got up and said, 'If she for go let her for went. Perhaps she for marry.
Cecily, with the air of a martyr :—"This is Mr. Layton, who used to travel around selling Bibles and hymn books and Talmage's sermons. Dan :—"He was so thin Uncle Roger used to say he always mistook him for a crack in the atmosphere. One time he stayed here all night and went to prayer meeting and Mr. Marwood asked him to lead in prayer. It had been raining 'most every day for three weeks, and it was just in haymaking time, and everybody thought the hay was going to be ruined, and old Layton got up and prayed that God would send gentle showers on the growing crops, and I heard Uncle Roger whisper to a fellow behind me, 'If somebody don't choke him off we won't get the hay made this summer.
Cecily, in exasperation :—" Dan, shame on you for telling such irreverent stories. This is Mrs. Alexander Scott of Markdale. She has been very sick for a long time. Dan :—"Uncle Roger says all that keeps her  alive is that she's scared her husband will marry again. Dan :—"He's the man who told mother once that he always made his own iodine out of strong tea and baking soda.
Dan :—"Great temperance man! He never tasted rum in his life. He took the measles when he was forty-five and was crazy as a loon with them, and the doctor ordered them to give him a dose of brandy. When he swallowed it he looked up and says, solemn as an owl, 'Give it to me oftener and more at a time. Cecily, imploringly :—" Dan, do stop. You make me so nervous I don't know what I'm doing.
This is Mr. Lemuel Goodridge. He is a minister.
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Dan :—"You ought to see his mouth. Uncle Roger says the drawing string has fell out of it. It just hangs loose—so fashion. Dan, whose own mouth was far from being beautiful, here gave an imitation of the Rev. Lemuel's, to the utter undoing of Peter, Felix, and myself.
Our wild guffaws of laughter penetrated even Great-aunt Eliza's deafness, and she  glanced up with a startled face. What we would have done I do not know had not Felicity at that moment appeared in the doorway with panic-stricken eyes and exclaimed,. Cecily, glad of even a temporary respite, fled to the kitchen and we heard her demanding what was the matter. Some of you left a soup plate with molasses in it on the pantry table and Pat got into it and what do you think? He went into the spare room and walked all over Aunt Eliza's things on the bed.
You can see his tracks plain as plain. What in the world can we do? She'll be simply furious. I looked apprehensively at Great-aunt Eliza; but she was gazing intently at a picture of Aunt Janet's sister's twins, a most stolid, uninteresting pair; but evidently Great-aunt Eliza found them amusing for she was smiling widely over them. The coat and hat are both cloth, and molasses isn't like grease. The Story Girl here flew out to defend her pet, and we four boys sat on, miserably conscious of Great-aunt Eliza, who never said a word to us, despite her previously expressed desire to become acquainted with us.
She kept on looking at the photographs and seemed quite oblivious of our presence. Presently the girls returned, having, as transpired later, been so successful in removing the traces of Paddy's mischief that it was not deemed necessary to worry Great-aunt Eliza with any account of it.
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Felicity announced tea and, while Cecily conveyed Great-aunt Eliza out to the dining-room, lingered behind to consult with us for a moment. He went to the house of a very deaf old lady and when they sat down to the table she asked him to say grace. Uncle Roger had never done such a thing in his life and he turned as red as a beet and looked down and muttered, 'E-r-r, please excuse me—I—I'm not accustomed to doing that. She thought Uncle Roger was saying grace all the time. She was asked accordingly and said grace without any hesitation, after which she proceeded to eat heartily of the excellent supper Felicity had provided.
The rusks were especially good and Great-aunt Eliza ate three of them and praised them. Apart from that she said little and during the first part of the meal we sat in embarrassed silence. Towards the last, however, our tongues were loosened, and the Story Girl told us a tragic tale of old Charlottetown and a governor's wife who had died of a broken heart in the early days of the colony. The Governor's wife who lives there now is a relation of our own. She is a second cousin of father's but we've never seen her.
Her name was Agnes Clark. And mind you, when father was a young man he was dead in love with her and so was she with him. And I've heard ma teasing father about it, too. Of course, it was before father got acquainted with mother. She got over being in love with him.
I guess she was pretty fickle. Aunt Olivia said father felt awful about it for awhile, but he got over it when he met ma. Ma was twice as good-looking as Agnes Clark. Agnes was a sight for freckles, so Aunt Olivia says. But she and father remained real good friends. Just think, if she had married him we would have been the children of the Governor's wife. I saw him at the Markdale picnic two years ago. He's  very fat and bald and red-faced, but I've seen far worse looking men.
But her voice had the effect of making us uncomfortable. There was a queer, uncertain little sound in it. Was Great-aunt Eliza laughing at us? We looked at her sharply but her face was very solemn. Only her eyes had a suspicious appearance. Somehow, we did not talk much more the rest of the meal. When it was over Great-aunt Eliza said she was very sorry but she must really go. Felicity politely urged her to stay, but was much relieved when Great-aunt Eliza adhered to her intention of going.
When Felicity took her to the spare room Cecily slipped upstairs and presently came back with a little parcel in her hand. Don't you do such a thing," said Felicity contemptuously. So I'd like to give her the rose-leaves—and I'm going to, too, Miss Felicity.