strokes of the bird, and all its efforts to penetrate the case are in vain.

cast-off garment of its mother. These it
tied together with a thread of its own silk,
forming a band, or girdle, which it put
around its own body, uniting the ends.
This ring was the start and foundation of 5
the sack in which it was to incase itself.
The band was placed well forward, so that
the insect could reach its edge by bending
its head up and down and around in all
directions. Then it proceeded to widen o It was the result of a mechanical and a

the girdle by attaching particles of down
to its edges. As the garment grew toward
its head, the weaver crept forward in it,
thus causing it to cover more and more of
its body till in a few hours it covered all 15
of it, and the sack was complete, a very
simple process, and, it would seem, the
only possible one. The head, with the
flexible neck that allowed it to swing
through the circle, was the loom that did 20
the weaving, the thread issuing from the
spinneret on the lip. Did the silk issue
from the other end of the body, as we are
likely to think it does, the feat would be
impossible. I suppose a woman might 25

knit herself into her sweater in the same way by holding the ball of yarn in her bosom and turning the web around and pulling it down instead of turning her body all but her arms. Here she would 30 be balked. To understand how a grub weaves itself a close-fitting garment, closed at both ends, from its own hair, or by what sleight of hand it attaches its cocoon to the end of a branch, I suppose 35 one would need to witness the process.

In October, these preparations and

transformations in the insect world are
taking place all about us, and we regard
them not. The caterpillars are getting 40
ready for a sleep out of which they
awaken in the spring totally different crea-
tures. They tuck themselves away under
stones or into crevices, they hang them-
selves on bushes, they roll themselves up 45
in dry leaves, and brave the cold of win-
ter in tough garments, woolly or silky,
of their own weaving. Some of them, as
certain of the large moths, do what seems
like an impossible stunt: they shut them- 50
selves up inside a tough case, or recep-
tacie, and attach it by a long strong bit
of home-made tape to the end of a bush,
so that it swings freely in the wind. I
have seen the downy woodpecker trying 55
to break into one of these sealed-up, liv-
ing tombs without avail. Its free, pend-

nt position allows it to yield to the

How the big, clumsy worm, without help or hands, wove itself into this birdproof case, and hung itself up at the end of a limb, would be a problem worth solving. Of course it had its material all within its own body, so is not encumbered with outside tools or refractory matter.

vital process combined. The creature knew how to use the means which nature had given it for the purpose. Some of the caterpillars weave the chrysalis-case out of the hairs and wool that make their summer coats, others out of silk developed from within.

On October mornings I have had great pleasure in turning over the stones by the roadside and in lifting up those on the tops of the stone walls and noting the insect life preparing its winter quarters under them. The caterpillars and spiders are busy. One could gather enough of the white fine silk from spider tents and cocoons to make a rope big enough to hang himself with. The jumping spider may be found in his closely woven tent. Look at his head through a pocket-glass, and he looks like a miniature woodchuck. His smooth, dark-gray, hairy pate and his two bead-like eyes are very like; but his broad, blunt nose is unlike. It seems studded with a row of five or six jewels; but these jewels are eyes. What extra bounty nature seems to have bestowed upon some of these humble creatures! We find our one pair of eyes precious; think what three or four pairs would be if they added to our powers of vision proportionately! But probably the manyeyed spiders and the flies, with their compound eyes. see less than we do. This multitude of eyes seems only an awkward device of Nature's to make up for the movable eye like our own.

In some of the spiders' cocoons under the stones on the top of the walls you will find masses of small pink eggs, expected to survive the winter, I suppose, and hatch out in the spring. The under side of a stone on the top of a stone wall seems like a very cold cradle and nursery, but the caterpillars in their shrouds survive here, and may not the spiders' eggs?

In October you will find the caterpillars in all stages of making ready for winter. They first cover a small space on the stone

seemed to be in the midst of a little thicket of vertical, shining silken threads. It was like some enchantment. A little later the thicket, or veil, had developed 5 into a thin cradle in which lay the chrysalis and the cast-off skin of the worm. This caterpillar had been disturbed a good deal and made to waste some of its precious silk, so that its cocoon was finally a thin, poor one. 'Life under a stone' forms a chapter in nature's infinite book of secrecy which most persons skip, but which is well worth perusal.

upon which they rest with a very fine
silken web; it looks like a delicate silver
wash. This is the foundation of the com-
ing cocoon, but I could never catch any of
them in the act of weaving their cocoons.
I brought one to the house and kept it
under observation for several days, but it
was always passive whenever I glimpsed
it through the crack between the stones.
The nights were frosty and the days chilly, 10
but sometime during the twenty-four
hours the creature's loom was at work.
One morning a thin veil of delicate silver
threads, through which I could dimly see
the worm, united the two stones. It

It 15

The Century Magazine, June, 1918.

EDWARD EGGLESTON (1837-1902)

Of the new western school of writers of which Mark Twain and Bret Harte were pioneers, Edward Eggleston was the third member both in order of time and in importance. He was the first to introduce prominently the middle border states into literature. Indiana, at the time of his birth in 1837 was new and raw, and the "Hoosiers," like the early Missouri "Pikes," were in the more remote districts exceedingly crude and grotesque. The father of Eggleston, a Virginian, a graduate of William and Mary, an early pioneer who had settled as a lawyer in Vevay, was a brilliant man, and, though he died when his son was but nine years of age, undoubtedly was the force that turned the boy ultimately toward literature. When he was thirteen Eggleston went to live with his grandfather in the then crude regions of Decatur County where he first saw many of the picturesque types that later he was to use in his books. Later, after he had chosen the ministry for his profession and had been given a four-weeks' circuit in the Ohio River bottoms, he saw much more. His health breaking down, he was transferred to Minnesota, held pastorates in St. Paul and other places, settled at length in Chicago as the editor of the Little Corporal, a paper later merged in St. Nicholas, and finally was called to Brooklyn as a pastor, resigning after five years to devote himself wholly to literature.

Eggleston first attracted attention with his story first published in the staid columns of Hearth and Home, The Hoosier Schoolmaster, 1871, a Dickens-like tale laid in the crude regions of early Indiana. Its humor, its strange types, and its undoubted moral atmosphere, gave it a circle of readers wider even than that which had greeted the first stories of Harte. He followed it with others even better: notably The End of the World, 1871, which treated of the Millerite delusion of the mid century, The Circuit Rider, 1874, and The Graysons, 1888, which had as one of its characters Abraham Lincoln. Undoubtedly there is much of crudeness in this early work, but parts of it are exceedingly valuable. The End of the World and The Circuit Rider are realistic studies, by one to the manner born, of an era in our national life that has vanished forever.' The influence of Eggleston in turning the period toward localized fiction dealing with unusual types, was undoubtedly considerable.

LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE1

The people who had seats in the courtroom were, for the most part, too wise in their generation to vacate them during the noon recess. Jake Hogan clambered down from his uncomfortable windowroost for a little while, and Bob McCord took a plunge into the grateful fresh air, but both got back in time to secure their 10 old points of observation. The lawyers came back early, and long before the judge returned, the ruddy-faced Magill was seated behind his little desk, facing the crowd and pretending to write. He 15 was ill at ease; the heart of the man had gone out to Tom. He never for a moment doubted that Tom killed Lockwood, but then a sneak like Lockwood 'richly desarved it,' in Magill's estimation. 20

1 Copyright by the Century Company, 1888.

Judge Watkins's austere face assumed a yet more severe expression; for though pity never interfered with justice in his nature, it often rendered the old man un5 happy, and therefore more than usually irascible.

There was a painful pause after the judge had taken his seat and ordered the prisoner brought in. It was like a wait before a funeral service, but rendered ten times more distressing by the element of suspense. The judge's quill pen could be heard scratching on the paper as he noted points for his charge to the jury. To Hiram Mason the whole trial was unendurable. The law had the aspect of a relentless boa-constrictor, slowly winding itself about Tom, while all these spectators, with merely a curious interest in the horrible, watched the process. The deadly creature had now to make but one more coil, and then, in its cruel and de

liberate fashion, it would proceed to tighten its twists until the poor boy should be done to death. Barbara and the mother were entwined by this fate as well, while Hiram had not a little finger of help for them. He watched Lincoln as he took his seat in moody silence. Why had the lawyer not done anything to help Tom? Any other lawyer with a desperate case would have had a stack of law-books in front of him, as a sort of dam against the flood. But Lincoln had neither law-books nor so much as a scrap of paper.

apparently embarrassed. He had deteriorated in appearance lately. His patentleather shoes were bright as ever, his trousers were trimly held down by straps, 5 his hair was well kept in place by bear's oil or what was sold for bear's oil, but there was a nervousness in his expression and carriage that gave him the air of a man who had been drinking to excess. Tom 10 looked at him with defiance, but Dave was standing at the right of the judge, while the prisoner's dock was on the left, and the witness did not regard Tom at all, but told his story with clearness. Something of the bold assurance which he displayed at the inquest was lacking. His coarse face twitched and quivered, and this appeared to annoy him; he sought to hide it by an affectation of nonchalance, as he rested his weight now on one foot and now on the other.

The prosecuting attorney, with a taste for climaxes, reserved his chief witness 15 to the last. Even now he was not ready to call Sovine. He would add one more stone to the pyramid of presumptive proof before he capped it all with certainty. Markham was therefore put up to identify 20 the old pistol which he had found in Tom's room. Lincoln again waived cross-examination. Blackman felt certain that he himself could have done better. He mentally constructed the questions that should 25 have been put to the deputy sheriff. Was the pistol hot when you found it? Did it smell of powder? Did the family make any objection to your search? - Even if the judge had ruled out such questions the 30 jury would have heard the questions, and a question often has weight in spite of rulings from the bench. The prosecuting attorney began to feel sure of his own case; he had come to his last witness and 35 his great stroke.

'Call David Sovine,' he said, wiping his brow and looking relieved.

'David Sovine! David Sovine! David Sovine!' cried the sheriff in due and an- 40 cient form, though David sat almost within whispering distance of him.

The witness stood up.

'Howld up your roight hand,' said the clerk.

Then when Dave's right hand was up Magill rattled off the form of the oath in the most approved and clerkly style, only adding to its effect by the mild brogue of his pronunciation.

'Do sol'm swear 't yull tell th' truth, th' 'ole truth, en nuthin' b' th' truth, s' yilpye God,' said the clerk, without once pausing for breath.

'Do you know the prisoner?' asked the prosecutor, with a motion of his head toward the dock.

Yes, well enough;' but in saying this Dave did not look toward Tom, but out of the window.

'You've played cards with him, haven't you?'

George Lockwood. He hollered up the stove-pipe for Tom to come down an' take a game or two with me.'

'What did you win that night from Tom?'

'Thirteen dollars, an' his hat an' coat an' boots, an' his han'ke'chi'f an' knife.' 'Who, if anybody, lent him the money 45 to get back his things which you had won?'

Sovine ducked his head and dropped his 55 hand, and the solemnity was over.

Dave, who was evidently not accustomed to stand before such a crowd, was

5

seemed excited and nervous, and who visibly paled a little as his eyes sought to escape from the lawyer's gaze.

'You said you were with Lockwood just before the shooting?' the counsel asked.

ing in the way of questions from the law-
yer, substantially as he had told it at the
coroner's inquest. He related his part-
ing from Lockwood, Tom's appearance on
the scene, Tom's threatening speech, Lock-
wood's entreaty that Tom would not shoot
him, and then Tom's shooting. In mak-
ing these statements Dave looked at the
stairway in the corner of the courtroom
with an air of entire indifference, and he 10 he was shot?'
even made one or two efforts to yawn, as
though the case was a rather dull affair
to him.

'How far away from Grayson and Lockwood were you when the shooting 15 took place?' asked the prosecutor.

Twenty foot or more.'

'What did Tom shoot with?' A pistol.'

'Yes.' Dave was all alert and answered promptly.

Were you not pretty close to him when

'No, I was n't,' said Dave, his suspicions excited by this mode of attack. It appeared that the lawyer, for some reason, wanted to make him confess to having been nearer to the scene and perhaps implicated, and he therefore resolved to fight off.

'Are you sure you were as much as ten feet away?'

'I was more than twenty,' said Dave, huskily.

By the time Tom came up you'd far away? Be careful

'Tom run off as fast as his feet could carry him, an' I went up towards George, 35 got how who'd fell over. He was dead ag'inst I now.' could get there. Then purty soon the 'I've told you twiste. More than crowd come a-runnin' up to see what the twenty feet.' fracas was.'

After bringing out some further details 40 Allen turned to his opponent with an air of confidence and said:

'You can have the witness, Mr. Lincoln.'

There was a brief pause, during which 45 the jurymen changed their positions on the hard seats, making a little rustle as they took their right legs from off their left and hung their left legs over their right knees, or vice versa. In making 50 these changes they looked inquiringly at one another, and it was clear that their minds were so well made up that even a judge's charge in favor of the prisoner, if such a thing had been conceivable, would 55 have gone for nothing. Lincoln at length rose slowly from his chair, and stood awhile in silence, regarding Sovine, who

'You might have been mistaken about its being Tom then?'

'No, I was n't.'

'Did you know it was Tom before he fired?'

Tubby shore, I did.'

What time of night was it?'

Long towards 10, I sh'd think.'

It might have been II?'

'No, 't wus n't later 'n about 10.' This was said doggedly.

'Nor before 9?'

'No, 't wus nigh onto 10, I said.' And the witness showed some irritation, and spoke louder than before.

'How far away were you from the pulpit and meeting place?'

''Twixt a half a mile an' a mile.'
'Not over a mile?'

'No, skiercely a mile.'