OCT. 5 
637 j 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
fitorg SlisaUang, 
THE STORY OF THE TILES. 
Bbfobk a quaint old flre-plaoe 
Full fifty yearn »ko. 
Dear grandma and I, a child, 
With looks of KOld and snow, 
Looked, our two heads together,— 
She sitting in her chair 
And I erect beside her,— 
A comfortable pair. 
For while within the llre-light our eyes were lit with 
smiles. 
She told her little gTaudson the story of the tiles. 
Here was a knight in armor, | 
A brave old lord was he! 
He won full toilsome battles 
In many a far countree ; 
And here, his lulo, with ribbons 
Trimmed bravely, fond and trne, 
Beneat h Ids lady's casement, | 
Sang a troubadour in blue. 
Now with pure fact or fancy dear grandma time be¬ 
guiles. 
Now fairy lore she weaveth in her stories of the tiles. 
The Btork with leg uplifted : 
The windmill on the plain; 
The sun with rays of azure: 
The sheaf of ripened grain, 
Were, each a thetne for story, 
For song or comic verse, 
And merrily and often 
Did grandma theso rehearse! 
For quips and q uirks were grandma's, and cranks and 
wanton wiles. 
When onco she got a-t.e|l)ug her stories of the tiles. 
The fire-place stands unshaken; 
The milkmaid trips so gay, 
To meet the fat old beadle, 
Who always lookA her way; 
The frog who went a-wooing 
8tlll peeps out at the crane, 
Iiut grandma with her stories 
Will never oomo again. 
From that old F.ngllsh fire-place I’ve wandered many 
miles, 
But still my heart remembers the stories of the tiles. 
Like that old kuight in armor 
Bravo must, 1 be, she said, 
And courteous aa the singer 
To every wife and maid ; 
Industrious »nd cheerful 
As the milkmaid on the lea. 
And prnyerrul and religious 
As the beadle ought to be. 
Alas I such spotless record how many a fault defiles! 
I’ve proved a sorry hero for her stories of the tiles. 
But still when night is falling, 
Aud children’s voices call 
Across the pleasant, play-room 
Aud down the echoing hall, 
I find myself while waiting 
To catch them in my arms. 
Thinking the stories over 
With all their varied charms ; 
And then, when grouped around me, their lips are 
wreathed with smiles, 
I tell their great-grandmother's sweet Btorles of the 
tiles. [QoUUn Age. 
-» ♦ »- 
COMMUNISTS AND CAPITALISTS. 
A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
OCTAVE THANET. 
The Countess von Arno waa Mr. Selelgman’s 
confidential clerk. Not that M-smiled over 
any such paradox : the countess called herself 
simply Mrs. von Arno. 
M-Is a picturesque town on the Mississippi, 
devoted In general to the manufacture of agricul¬ 
tural Implements. The largest plow-factory la 
Selelgman’s: he does business all over the world. 
A clerk who wrote French, German and Italian 
fluently was a godsend. Thlg clerk, moreover, 
had an eminently concise and effective style, and 
displayed a business capacity which the old Ger¬ 
man admired Immensely. As much because of 
her usefulness aa the modest sum she waa able to 
Invest In the business, he offered her a small 
share la It four years after she first came to 
M—. She had oome to M— because Mrs. 
Greymer lived there. Therese Greymer had 
known the countess from her school-days. When 
Therese’s husband died she came back to her 
father's house, but spent her summers in Ger¬ 
many. Then old Mr. Dare died suddenly, leaving 
Therese with her little brother to be cared for, 
and only a few thousand dollars In the world. 
About this time the countess separated from her 
husband. “ So I am poor,” said she, *' bat It will 
go hard If I can’t, take care of you, Therese." 
Thus she became Mr. Selelgman’s clerk. M- 
forgave her oven her undoubted success In mak¬ 
ing money, on account ot Mrs. Greymer. It had 
watched Therese grow from a slim girl, with 
black braids hanging down her white neck as she 
Bat lri the “ minister’s pevv" of the old brick 
church, into a beautiful woman In a widow’s 
bonnet. Therese wont now every Sunday t,o the 
same church whore her father used to preach, 
The countess accompanied her moat decorously. 
The countess had a day-dream; the dreams 
which most women have had loug ago had been 
rudely broken for her, and the hopes which she 
cherished now had little romance about them. 
She knew her own powers and how necessary 
she was to Selelgtnan : some day she saw the 
firm becoming Kelelgman & Von Arno, the busi¬ 
ness widening, and the plows, with the yellow 
eagle on them, In every great city of Europe. 
“ Then,” said the countess to herself, staudtng 
ono March morning, four years after she had first 
come to M , by the little dining-room window 
—“ then we can perhaps persuade the workmen 
to buy stock In the coucern and have a few 
gleams of sense about profits and wages." 
She lifted one arm above her head and rested 
her cheek against it. She was of the goddess 
type, tali, fair-faced and stately, with thick, pale 
gold hair, and brown lashes lifted In level lines 
from steady, deep-gray eyes, 44 Pretty ” Beemed 
too small a word for such a woman yet “ beauti¬ 
ful ” conveys a hint of tenderness; and Mrs. von 
Arno's face—It might be because of those steady 
eyes—was rather a hard face, notwithstanding 
the aoft pink and white of her skin, and ete.n the 
dimples that dented her cheek when she smiled. 
Now she was smtllng. The air was heavy 
with the damp chill or early spring ; and as the 
countess absently surveyed a gravel-walk bor¬ 
dered by limp brown grasses and a line of trees 
dripping last night’s frost, through the fog, she 
saw a woman’s figure emerge from the shadows 
and come slowly up the walk. She was poorly 
dressed, and walked to the kitchen-door, where 
the countess could see her carefully wipe her 
feet berore rapping. 
“ Thatmust be Bailey’s wife," she thought; “ I 
saw her waiting for him yesterday when be 
came round to the shops for work. William, my 
friend, you are a nuisance." 
With this comment she went to the kitchen. 
Lattice, the mald-of-all-work, was frying cakes 
In solitude. “ Mrs. Greymer had taken Mrs. Bai¬ 
ley Into the library,” she told the countess with 
significant inflections. 
The latter went to the library. It was a tiny, 
red-frescoed room fitted up In black-walnut. 
There were plantain the bay-window: Mi's. Grey¬ 
mer stood among them, her soft gray wrapper 
falling In straight aud ample folds about her 
slender figure. Her face was turned toward the 
countess; a loosened lock of black hair brushed 
the blue vein on her cheek ; she held some lllles- 
Of-tho-valley in her hand, and the gold of her 
wedding-ring shoae against the dark green 
leaves. 
“She looks like one of Fra Angelico’s salnt.8,” 
thought the countess: ” the crimson lights are 
good, too." 
She Btood unnoticed In the doorway, leisurely 
admiring the picture. Mrs. Bailey sat In the 
wrltlng-chatr on her right. Once, probably, she 
had been a pretty woman, and she still had 
abundant, wavy brown hair and large dark-blue 
eyes with curling lashes; but she was too thin 
and faded and narrow-chested for any prettiness 
now. Her calico gown was unstarched, though 
scrupulously clean: she wore a thin blue-aud- 
whlte summer shawl, and her old straw bonnet 
was trimmed with a narrow blue ribbon pieced 
In two places. Her voice was slightly monoto¬ 
nous, but low-keyed; as she spoke her hands 
clasped and unclasped each other. The veins 
stood out and the knuckles were enlarged, but 
they were rather white than otherwise. 
She went on with her story : ” The children ere 
so good, Mrs. Greymer; but six of them, and me 
not over strong—makes It hard. We luiln’t had 
anything but corn meal In the house all this 
week, aud the second-hand woman says our 
things ain’t worth the carting. The children 
have got so shabby they hate to go to school, and 
the boys laugh at Willie ’cause bis hat’s his pa’s 
old one and ain’t got no brim, though 1 bound It 
with the best of the old braid, for I thought 
maybe they d think It was a cap. And the worst 
was this morning, when there was nothin’ hut 
Just mush : we bada’t even ’lasses, and the chil¬ 
dren cried. Oh, I didn’t go to tell yon all this: 
you know I alu’t a beggar. I’ve tried to live de¬ 
cent. Oh dear! oh dear!" She tried to wipe 
away the tears which were running down her 
thin cheeks with the tips of her thin fingers, but 
they came too fast. Mechanically, she put her 
hand In her pocket, only to take it out empty. 
Mrs. Greymer slipped her own dulnlj handker¬ 
chief, which the countess had embroidered, Into 
the other’s hand. “ You ought to have come to 
me berore, Martha," she said reproachfully— 
44 such an old friend as I am !” 
*• ’Tatn’t easy to have them as has known you 
when you lived like other folks see you without 
even a handkerchief to cry on," said M rs. Bailey. 
"If I’d known where to turn for a loaf or bread, 
I’d not ha’ come now ; but I can’t see my children 
starve. And I ain’t come to beg now. All we 
want Is honest work. William has been every¬ 
where since they sent hlrn away from Dorsey's 
just becuuso the men talked about striking, 
though they didn't strike. He’s been to all the 
machine shops, but they won't take him; 
they say he has too long a tougue lor them, 
though he’s as [sober and steady a man as 
lives, and there ain’t a better workman In 
M-, or D— either. William la willing to do 
anything : he tried to get work on the streets, 
but the struct commissioner said he’d more men 
he’d employed for years asking for work than he 
know what to do with. And l thought—I thought, 
Mrs. Greymer, If you would only speak to Mrs. 
vou Amo—" 
*' Good morning, Mrs. Bailey," said the count¬ 
ess, advancing. Hhe had a musical voice, clear 
aud full, with a vibrating quality like the notes 
of a violin—a very pleasaut voice to hear, yet It 
hardly seemed reassuring to the visitor. Uncon¬ 
sciously, she sat up atralghter la her chair, her 
nervous llugers plaiting the fringe of her shawl. 
“I heard you mention my name,” the countess 
continued: “ Is there anything you wish of 
me?" 
Therese came to Mrs Bailey’s assistance: “ ner 
husband Is out ot work: can’t you do something 
with Mr. Seletgmaa, Helen ? Bally Is a good work¬ 
man." 
‘•HeIs Indeed, ina'am," added Bailey’s wife 
eagerly, “ and as sober and faithful to his work; 
he never slights one bit.” 
*' 1 don’t doubt It.” said the countess gravely; 
41 but, Mrs Bally, If we wore to take your husband 
on, and the union were to order a strike, even 
though he were perfectly satisfied with his own 
wages, would'nt no strike himself, aud do all he 
could to make the others strike?” Mrs. Bailey 
was silent. 
44 A strike might cost us thousands of dollars. 
Naturally, we don’t want to risk one; so we have 
no union-men. If Bailey will leave the union he 
may go to hammering ploughshares for us to 
morrow, and earn with his skill, twenty dollars 
a week." 
Mrs. Bailey’s face worked. 44 Taln’t no use 
ma’am,"she said desperately: 41 he won’t go back 
on his principles. He says It’s the cause of Labor 
and he’ll stick to It till he dies. You can’t blame 
him, ma’am, for doing what he thinks Is right.” 
“ Perhaps not. But you see that It Is 1 mpossl- 
ble for us to employ your husband. Isn’t there 
something I can do ror you yourself, though ? 
Mrs. Greymer tells me you sew very neatly.” 
‘•Yes, I sew,” said Mrs. Bailey in a dull tone, 
"but I'd be obliged to you, ma’am, If you’d give 
me tbe work soon; I’ve a machine now, and I’ll 
likely not have it next week. There’s ten dollars 
due on It, and the agent says he’ll have to take 
It back. I've paid fifty dollars on It., but this 
month and last times was so hard I could’nt pay.” 
The countess put a teu-dollar bill In her hand. 
" Let me lend you this, then," she said, unheed¬ 
ing the bait shrinking of Mrs. Bailey’s face aud 
attitude; and then she avoided all thanks by an¬ 
swering Lattice's summons at the door, 
44 Poor little woman I” she Bald to Mrs. Grey¬ 
mer at breakfast—“shedld’nt half like to take 
It. She looked nearly starved too, though she 
ate so little breakfast. How did you manage to 
persuade her to take that bundle ?" 
44 She Is a very brave little woman, Helen. 1 
should like to tell you about her," said Mrs. Grey¬ 
mer. 
"Until a quarter of eight my time Is yours, 
and my sympathy, as usual, Is boundless." 
Mrs. Greymer smiled slightly, “ibave known 
her for a great many years." she said, disre¬ 
garding the countess’s last speech : ’• she went 
to school with me, in tact. She was such a pretty 
girl then! Somehow, she took a fancy to me, 
and used to help me with my Practical Arith¬ 
metic—" 
" So called because It Is written In the most 
unpractical and Incomprehensible style; yes, 
1 know It,” Interrupted the countess. 
“ Martha was much brighter than I at It, any¬ 
how, and used to do my examples. I remember 
1 cried when her people moved to Chicago and 
she left school. I did’nt see her for almost ten 
years; then l met her accidentally on Randolph 
street in Chicago. She knew me, and insisted 
on my going out with her to see her home. It 
was In the suburbs, and waa a very pretty, tidy 
little place, with a garden in front, where Mar¬ 
tha raised vegetables, and a little plot tor flow¬ 
ers. She was so proud ot It all and ot her two 
pretty babies, and showed me her chickens and 
her furniture and a picture of her husband. 
They had bought the house, and were to pay for 
It in six years, but William was getting high 
wages, and Bhe had no fears. Poor Martha 3" 
“Their Arcadia did’nt last?" 
“No. William got Interested in trades-union; 
there was a strike, and he was very prominent. 
He was out of work a long time, and Martha 
supported the family by taking in sewing and 
selling the vegetables. Then her third child was 
born, and she was alok for a long time arterward; 
she had been working too haul, poor thing I His 
old employers took William on with the rest of 
the men when the strike ended, but very soon 
found a pretext for discharging him; and In short 
they used up all their little savings, and the 
house weut. William thought he had been ill- 
used, and became more violent in his opinions." 
44 A Communist, ls’nt he?” 
" I believe so. Martha with her three children 
could’nt go out to work, but she is a model house¬ 
keeper, and she opened a little laundry with the 
money she got from the sale of some of their 
furniture. William got work, but lost It again, 
but Marina managed in a humble way to sup¬ 
port the family until William had an offer to 
come here; so they sold out the laundry to get 
money to move.” 
44 Very Idiotic of them,” 
44 After they came here they at first lived on 
Front street, which Is near the river, and 
Martha caught the chills and fever. William 
soon lost his place, and they moved across the 
river to D-.He became known as a speaker 
and things have been gotDg from bad to worse ; 
the children have come fast, and Martha has 
never really recovered from her fever; and they 
have had simply an awfully hard time. 1 have’nt 
seen Martua for three months, and have tried in 
vain to find out where she lived. Poor Martha 1 
she has never complained, but It has been a hard 
life ror her." 
•* Yes, a hard life,” repeated the countess, ris¬ 
ing aud putting on her jacket; “but It seems to 
me she has chiefly her own husband to thank 
for it- And six ohlldren I I have my opinion of 
Mr. William Bailey.” 
11 You are hardly Just to BaUey, Helen; he has 
sacrificed his own Interests to his principles. 
He Is aa honest—as honest as the Christian 
martyrs, though he is an Infidel." 
“ Helen, you and tne people like you laugh at 
Communism and the complaints of the laboring 
classes, but It’s like Samson, blind though he Is, 
the communist will one day, unless we do some¬ 
thing beside laugh, pull the pillars down on Ills 
head—and on ours.” 
"He wifi fry," said the countess; 44 If we are 
wise, we shall be ready and shoot him dead.” 
She kissed Mrs, Greymer smilingly, and went 
away, Her friend, watching her from the win¬ 
dow, saw her atop to pat a great dog on the head 
and give a little boy a nlkel piece. 
Ono Sunday afternoon, two weeks later, the 
two friends crossed the bridge to D-to visit 
the Baileys. When they reached the end of tho 
bridge tUey paused a moment to rest. 
Tbe countess drew a long breath; she had a 
keen feeling for beauty. " Yes, It Is a lovely 
place," she said. ** The hills are not Ulgh enough 
but Che river makes amends for everything, But 
what are those hideous shanties, Therese?” 
Are they not hideous?" said Mrs. Greymer. 
44 They are all pine, and It gets such an ugly dirt- 
black when It isn’t painted. The glass la broken 
out of the windows and the shingles have peeled 
off the roofs. When It rains the water drips 
through. In spring, when the river rises, It comes 
up to their very doors ; one spring It came In. 
It Is not a nice place to live in.” 
“Not exactly: still, I suppose people do live 
there,” 
44 Yes, the Baileys live there. You see, the rent 
Is low." 
The countess lifted her eyebrows and followed 
Mrs. Greymer without answering. Some sulky¬ 
looking men were smoking pipes on the door¬ 
steps, and a few women, whose only Sunday 
adorning seemed to have been plastering their 
hair down over their cheeks with a great deal of 
water, gossiped at the corner. Half-a-dozen chil¬ 
dren were playing on the river-bank. 
“They fall In every little while,” Therese ex¬ 
plained, “they are so small, and most of the 
mothers here go out washing. This Is the Bai¬ 
ley’s.” 
William Bailey answered the knock. He was a 
tall man, who carried his large frame with a kind 
of muscular ease. lie had a square, gray-whls- 
kered face with firm Jaws and mild light-blue 
eyes. The hair being worn away from his fore- 
head made It seem higher than It really was. He 
wore his working clothes and a pair of very old 
boots cut dowu into slippers. The only stocking 
he had was In his hand, and he appeared to have 
been dam lug It. Close behind him came his 
wife, holding the baby. The bright look or recog¬ 
nition on her face at the sight ot Mrs. Greymer 
faded when she perceived the countess. Rather 
stiffly she Invited them to enter. 
The room was small and most meanly fur¬ 
nished, but It was clean. The walls were dingy 
beyond the power of soap and water to change, 
but the floor had been scrubbed, and what glass 
there was In the windows had been washed. 
There were occasional holes In the celling and 
walls where the plaster had given way; one of 
one of these peered the pointed nose and gleam¬ 
ing eyes of a rat. Judging from sundry noises 
she heard, tho countess concluded there were 
many of these animals under the bouse, though 
what they found to live on was a puzzle; but 
they ate a little of the children now and then, 
and perhaps the hope of more sustained them, 
A pale little buy was lying on a mattress In the 
corner covered with a faded blue-and-whlte 
shawl. 
Therese had mysteriously managed to dispose 
of the basket she had brought before she went up 
to him and kissed him, saying, “ I am sorry to 3 ee 
WllUe is so sick.” 
“ Yes," said Bailey, smiling bitterly. “ The doc¬ 
tor says he needs dry air and exercise: It’s damp 
here." 
“ Tommy More has promised to lend us his cart, 
and Susie will take him on the island,” Mrs. Bai¬ 
ley said hastily; “it’s real country there.” 
“But you have to have a pass,” answered 
Bailey in a low tone. 
“Anyone can get a pass," said the countess, 
“but U you prefer I will ask the colonel to-day,, 
and he will send you one to-morrow.” 
For the first time Bailey looked the countess In 
the face: his brows contracted, he opened hla 
lips to speak. 
“Oh, papa,” cried the boy la a weak voice 
trembling with eagerness, “ the Island Is splen¬ 
did! Tommy's rather works there, and they’s 
cannon aud a foundry and a live eaglet” 
“ Yes, WUlle dear," said bts father as he laid hla 
brown hand gently on the boy's curls. He In¬ 
clined his head toward the countess. 44 I’ll t.hanir 
you," he said gravely. 
The countess picked up a pamphlet from the ta¬ 
ble, more to break the uncomfortable pause which 
followed than for any other reason. “ Do you 
like this?" she said, hardly reading the title. 
“ I believe it," said Bailey; 41 1 am a Communist 
myself.” He drew himself up to his full hlght aa 
he spoke; there was a certain suppressed de¬ 
fiance in his attitude and expression. 
44 Are you?” said the countess. “ Why ?” 
“Why?” cried Bailey. 44 Look at, me l I’m a 
strong man, and willing to do any kind of work. 
I’ve vrorked hard for sixteen years; I’ve been 
sober and steady and savl ug. Look what all that 
work and saving has brought me! This Is a nice 
place for a decent man and ms family to five In, 
ain’t it? Them walls ain’t clean? No, because 
scrubbing can't make ’em. The grime’s In the 
plaster; yes, and worse than grime—vermin and 
disease sech as 'taln't right for mo to mention 
even to ladles like you, but It’s rlgut enough for 
sech as us to live in. Yes, by G-! to die in I” 
He was a man who spoke habitually in a low 
voice, and It had not grown louder, but the veins 
on his forehead swelled and his eyes began to 
glow. 
“ It Is hard, truly,” said the countess. " Whose 
fault Is it?” 
"Whose fault?” Bailey repeated her words 
vehemently, yet with someth log of bewilderment. 
"Society’sfalilt* which grinds apoor man to pow¬ 
der, so aa to make a rich man rlcner. But the 
people won’t stand r.hta sort of thing for ever.” 
“ You would have a general division of property, 
tnen?” 
“Indirectly, yes. Power must be taken from 
bloated corporations and given to the people; the 
railroads must be taken by government; the ac¬ 
cumulation of capital over a limited amount 
must be forbidden; men must work for Humanity, 
aud not (or their selfish Interests." 
“ Do you know any men who are working so ?” 
44 1 know a few." 
“ Mostly workingmen?” 
"All workingmen." 
" Don't you think a general division of property 
would be ror their selfish interests?” 
■' 1 don’t call It selfish to ask for just a decent 
living." 
“ I fancy the chiefs of your party would demand 
a great deal more than a decent living. Mr. Bai¬ 
ley, the rights of property rest on just this fact In 
human nature: A man will work better for him¬ 
self than he will for somebody else. •'Anil you 
can’t get him to work unless he Is guaranteed the 
