# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 25/Number 4/Love!

from The Red Book Magazine, 1915 Aug, pp. 691–699. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
LOVE!
A story of the days that were and never more can be.
By George Allan England
ILLUSTRATED BY B. CORY KILVERT
JUST as you fired up your pipe, the other night—the old calabash that holds a pint of shag and smokes so cool—and settled yourself far back in the Morris with the last issue of the Transcript, a timid little knocking sounded at the door.
In slippers and smoking-jacket, hair tousled, beard a-bristle, you opened. There on the porch stood a Boy—quite a small Boy, indeed; a rather spruced up and uncomfortable Boy; obviously a Boy with a mission. Richard Kent, in fact, who lives on Cedar Street.
“Hello, Dick! What is it?”
Business of hanging head, sidelong glance, swaying, digging toe against sill.
“Anything I can do for you?”
“Margaret home?”
“Hmph?”
“Margaret?”
“Oh, you want Margy? No. She's gone to the movies. Come up again, Dick.”
From behind his back, Richard produced a paper bag. Shyly he tendered it.
“For Margy?”
Accelerated side-swaying and toe-digging. Then, all at once he turned and fled. The little shirt-waisted figure wavered away across the yard. Gloom swallowed it.
“Hmmm!” you grunted, closing the door. “What now?”
Once more comfortably back in your chair, you investigated the inwardness of the bag.
“Candy, eh?”
Candy, indeed—violent, aggressive candy, chromatic and with mottoes blazoned o'er. Diamonds, stars, hearts with soluble pink messages: “May I C U Home?” “O, U R Sweet,” and “Ever Thine!”
“Heavens!” you murmured. “I didn't know they were still selling that same old junk! Why, I haven't seen any for—”
And all at once you realized something. A veil, as it were, lifted from before your eyes.
“Why, Margy's eight, to-morrow,” you whispered. “How the deuce did that little rat know it was her birthday?”
Through your heart a queer sensation stole; and in your ears echoed something—vague, far, intangible—something that once had been so vital and so real—something that had been dead for more than thirty years...
NOW the veil, lifting still further, showed you a village, a street, a house all but forever lost in the drifting mists and vapors of oblivion. Scarcely had you found time to get your bearings there beside the kicked-out old picket-fence, fish out your jack-knife and set to work finishing her initials, “B. M.,” left there half-completed more than three decades before—when all at once, behold! she came!
Round the corner, her little feet rustling the autumn leaves along the sun-warmed sidewalk, straw hat dangling by its 'lastic, pigtail tied with a ribbon no bluer than her eyes, lo! the Fair and Merciless One!
You were minded, suddenly, to flee; to crawl through the gapped fence, and, making overland via the Deadwood Dick Trail across Morrison's kitchen-garden, to risk encounter with their bull-pup and seek refuge in far places.
But alas, 'twas now too late. You had been seen of Her; caught, moreover, in the flagrant crime of carving Her initials—certain scandal, if bruited abroad. And still further, you realized that you were wearing vividly patched pants, temporarily donned while Ma dried out the other pair, in which you had that morning tried to cross the Creek on a slippery log to escape a Raging Wolf-pack. The log had been very slippery! Now, to turn and crawl through the fence, you understood, would inevitably present exposures fatal to Romance.
So, nothing for it but to brazen things out, stand your ground and face the damozel. It was, indeed, categorically imperative that you face Her! Wherefore with aggressive indifference and a swagger of the thin shoulders, you waited, subconsciously glad that at any rate you had on your purple necktie with the red polka-dots.
Onward She came, the fair, dappled by sunlight and leafshade from the half-stripped Gothic elms that so graciously arched the highway. Your heart began pounding; your face flushed, then paled; your bare toe dug the earth. But your nerve held true. Astutely you backed up against the tell-tale initials, and covered them—and the flamboyant patches—and felt that you were saved!
She was now very near. Now you could see the September breeze waving the little tendrils of flax that had escaped the pigtail; now you could behold the smile upon Her lips, the pearly row between—a row gapped like the picket-fence, by the loss of certain milk-teeth. Now She was imminent (oh heart, lie still!).
“Hello, Buck!”
“Hello, Betty!”
And that was all! Onward She passed along the fence, across the road and round the next corner, homeward—onward, with never a backward glance, nor any sign of inner stirrings. Yet for a moment, verily you had glimpsed Paradise enow!
YES, verily. But soon came bitter, bitter after-thoughts. Soon came somber and oppressive reflections, woefully keen, to banish your beatitude.
For in that all-too-friendly smile, that casual word, that wholly unconcerned demeanor, you had with shocking certitude read Her heart-free indifference.
You definitely decided, then and there, never to smile again.
No mantling cheek or drooping eye had coyly bidden Love to soar to the empyrean on white and rushing wings of Hope. No slightest sign of maiden trepidation had thrilled back to your rapt soul. Obviously, Betty didn't care a penny. To Her, you stood but one of many, undistinguished and unloved.
And for a space the boy-heart sank and sickened with the same numb, crushing anguish which the heart of youth and later still of manhood was destined too cruelly to know.
Forgotten, now, the raggedly-hewn initials on the fence. Forgotten even the violent patches and the dotted tie. Forgotten all, save woe.
“Huh!” you muttered, gazing blankly at the corner round which She had vanished. ”Wha'd she take that whistle for, after school, yesterday, if—?”
A sense of the grasping heartlessness of womankind vaguely dawned. Despite the sunshine and the breeze and the fact that the circus was coming next week, grief deepened.
You definitely decided, there and then, never to smile again. No sir, cross y'r heart an' hope to die, Never! Once you had read a story like that. Somebody's best girl had got carried off by the banditti, and “he never smiled again.” Pretty good idea. Very impressive. It seemed easy, too. You could imagine the effect it would have, when noticed. And it wouldn't hurt so much as starving to death, which was said to be very disagreeable.
Of course you wouldn't announce it, or anything. Just do it; and after a while, people would be sure to notice it, and talk. You'd go right on just the same, playing with the fellers and everything, only you wouldn't smile. No matter what happened, never a single smile! You'd wear a drawn, haggard expression, and pine. There would be ways to let the news percolate to Her that She was the cause of it all, and She would inevitably soften. Yes, it was certainly worth trying.
Sort of a little glimmer of hope peeped out from behind the clouds. After all, there was Hope. The fact remained that She had accepted the whistle, and—two days before that—a little basket carved with a nicked, cast-iron blade out of a cherry stone many degrees harder than adamant, whatever adamant was. If these, why not other garlands? And if enough such, might not the love-light sometime shine?
Garlands, yes—but what kind? Art? No good. You had already drawn several pictures for Her, all smudgy and highly colored with your penny crayons; and you remembered only with too awful a heart-sickness how you had found them, torn and sodden, in the gutter on Ashford Street. No, Betty possessed no soul for Art. Of course you could whistle (and also spit) through your teeth; but you doubted the worth of either accomplishment as a heart-winner.
Love-notes? Too dangerous. Betty would be sure to show them as a positive, binding secret—Honest Injun, never tell!—to Flossy and Blanche and Helen and—oh, everybody. And then the Ultimate Horror would befall. You would be branded with contumely.
“Nah! Betty! Betty! Stuck on Betty!” the kids would jeer; and you would find your name and Hers (oh, too precious name to desecrate!) chalked up together on walls, with hearts round them. You would see
Buck Loves Betty
[Illustration of two hearts transfixed]
scrawled on the blackboard, at recess, and have to rub it off, midst gibes. Horrors! You quailed at thought of the public scandal, even more frightful than that of cutting Her initials and getting caught at it.
Poetry, with no name signed? No. Once before, long long ago—maybe six or eight weeks before, when you had nursed a vain passion for Blanche—you had tried the Muse, and failed. Even yet, though you had aged terribly under the shock, you couldn't think about that without a shudder. You still remembered how They, the Grown-ups, had found these offerings of a flaming heart; you could recall the awful night when They, downstairs, had read them out loud, with ghoulish shrieks of merriment, while you had stood shivering and weeping at the stairhead above, in your canton-flannel nighty.
No, never again! Too unspeakably frightful the risk. And beside, a soul unmoved by art and music would never melt for literature. Besides, you had already used up all your rhymes—dove, love; cruel, gruel; sweet, feet; heart, smart; kiss, bliss—and couldn't seem to think of any more.
WHAT, then, remained? Obviously, if none of the softer blandishments could avail, you must do something very wicked, bold and heroic.
“Sure!” you muttered, now lounging off down the street toward the Burnt Hotel, where the Black Rangers met and where you might meet some brother-desperadoes. (You didn't go home, because there you knew They would make you weed the flower-beds, rake the yard, pick up apples or go down to the store for a yeast-cake.) “Sure thing! It's gotta be somethin' desprit! It's just gotta be desprit!”
But what? If you could only steal some candy for Her, now, and hand it to her with an avowal of your crime, that, you thought, might awaken her. The trouble was, Betty didn't need candy, in the first place and was sick of it; in the second, her father kept the store, and complications might result. What was candy to a girl who could go in, any old time, and help herself even to the almond-bars? Besides, her father was rather an awful man, with a bulbous nose, a wen and a dreadfully big fist. No...
Of course, you might learn to smoke. That was always reputed a good way to make head in a girl's affections and admiration. Naturally, you mustn't do it in an aggressive or show-offish manner. But if you could casually happen to let yourself be seen, by accident, smoking with relish—cinch! A practised flick of the ash, with the little finger, was a sure winner; and if you could blow the smoke through your nose, why, everything was all over but the announcement! As a heart-smasher it almost equaled being Captain of the Allston Tigers and swaggering about in a home-made uniform of gray and crimson—a position, by the way, that frequently changed hands, whether through trial by combat or the purchase of a new bat.
The big boys smoked, some of them. Why couldn't you? Bub Cook smoked, and so did Tom Ashley, and Leatherbee, and lots of 'em. And you knew where there was lots of dried corn-silk, in Morrison's barn—another lair of the Rangers. Brother Paul smoked, too, in spite of the fact that he told you smoking would draw the blood out of your lungs, and breathed through a handkerchief to prove it. The brown stain, he said, was dried blood. This was very awful, but interesting. You might even die of it, a martyr to love.
You remembered what Teacher had said about smoking, also the composition she had made you write, in which you had virtuously declared: “Cigerts are bad on the hearp and livver they stump your growt, I wil not smoke.” Nevertheless, to win Betty's love—? Yes, you might go so far as to venture cubebs, or even “real ones,” or if absolutely necessary, a pipe stuffed with dried leaves. Pipes always made one very sick. Awful sick! So much the better. Martyrdom! And yet—?
Yes, there might be other ways, just as effective and less painful. Suppose you could be just terribly brave, some way? Be a great Indian-killer! That would be almost sure to win Her! But how? You knew all the Indians were in the West, and on ten cents a week for chores you would have to save several weeks to get there; and then, too, a revolver and scalping-knife would cost something; and maybe after you got there, the Indians might object, or something. And—well, no.
Hunting? Good idea to be a grand hunter! How could She resist you then? But how become a hunter? The only woods anywhere around were Babcock's Woods, and nothing lurked there any more ferocious than hornpouts, squirrels and skunks. Pouts—no. No effect whatever. Squirrels, no better. “Gee! I wish they was wildcats there!” you murmured. “I wonder if my air-rifle, with a double load of BB, would kill one?” You doubted it. Even a “Dauntless” air-rifle, “given for five new subscribers and fifty cents for postage and packing,” you feared, might not bring down a wildcat, if thoroughly aroused.
Well then, a skunk? Possibly you might slay one with a knife, in hand-to-paw combat; but after all you had vague, uneasy doubts. Maybe Ma wouldn't welcome you, subsequently. And you mistrusted the romantic effect of flinging the quivering carcass (it must be a carcass, and it must quiver!)—of flinging it, I say, at the feet of your Beloved. She might like it, and then again, she might not. No telling. Girls were such funny things.
“Jimminy!” you exclaimed. “Seems like they wasn't anything a feller c'd do!”
On a pinch, of course, you might become a pirate. That was pretty nearly sure to make a hit. You could run away and be one, and then come back with bags of gold and buy—oh, everything—and show a long row of notches on the handle of your dirk. Pirates sailed in ships, and there were really ships not very far off, so there was certainly a chance. True, the ships were coal-barges in the Charles River, at Cottage Farms, lying at black wharves, and they didn't look very “long, low and rakish,” but they might do.
The little detail of seizing one, and shipping a crew of desperadoes, and getting past the bridges to the Harbor, and then out to sea, might be troublesome; but still, for Love's sake you would venture it. Joe Breck would help you. Joe had once agreed to be “a banditti,” with you, and had sworn to come when summoned—sworn it in undying secrecy—sworn it on a drop of blood saved from a casual nosebleed. He had also volunteered to contribute a bread-knife and all the money in his crockery pig, upward of twenty-eight cents. So you perceived possibilities.
But, on the other hand, you had read that pirates, when caught, were hanged in chains. You thought it must be very painful to be hanged in chains. After all, was there no better—and safer—way to kindle the love-light?
“Huh!” your murmured pensively. “It's awful hard to be desprit and wicked, aint it?”
“OOooooOOOOoooo-eeee! Oooooo-eee-EEEEeeeeoooo!”
Somewhere, far ahead, you heard the yodel of the Black Rangers.
“Oooooo-eeee-ooooo-eee!” burst out your answering hail.
Then, spirits suddenly reviving, light o' ladies' eyes as suddenly forgotten, you broke into a run. And three minutes later, having coalesced with Hammy, Merrill, Fred and Roscoe, you were scouting along the perilous outposts of Malvern Street, intent on raiding the robber-cave of the Secret Avengers, “across the tracks.”
Thus for some hours at least you had surcease from woe, sweet solace from the pangs of unrequited love.
THE circus, next week, gave you your inspiration. I shall not set forth, here, anything of what that circus really meant to you, of what unimaginable glory haloed it or what endless vistas of splendor opened out therefrom. For this, a book were all too short. One thing only I tell—that when you saw Signor Leonardo Convolutini, the World's King of Contortionists & Marvel of the Ages, you knew at last the answer to your riddle; you understood at length the road to Betty's heart!
Spangled, the Signor was, and slim and lithe; and he could involve himself in astonishing knots, tuck in the loose ends and grin at you from unexpected places. He could lay his head and shoulder on the padded mat and run around himself. He could—but there, words fail. One astonishing exhibition in particular fascinated you—the way he could put his head between his legs, gather himself in both arms, become a perfect globe and roll swiftly hither and yon. Oh, a feat of wonderment and joy!
“By jimminy, I can do that too, and will!” you vowed that night, when, tucked in safely, you reviewed all the glories and wonders of that perfect day. “I will—and I'll show Betty Saunders whether she'd better love me or not!”
Whereafter, you dreamed marvelous dreams of thus performing before Her, clad in spangles; and so you kicked out and caught cold and had the snuffles. They said it was too much popcorn and lemonade and excitement. You knew better. You knew it was Inspiration dawning in your soul—but how expect mere grown-ups to understand?
You chose the loft, partly filled with hay, for your rehearsals. Dim-lit, cool, secluded from Their prying, mocking eyes (darn it! why did They always laugh so much at everything?), it offered infinite possibilities. Also, the hay guaranteed you against bodily pains and penalties, while learning the spherical-rolling trick. Though a martyr in spirit, you hated to be hurt, really and truly hurt.
Before your lashed feet you really managed to get your head.
Right away you found it wasn't a bit as easy as it looked to coax your head down between your legs, wrap yourself in your arms and roll round. Somehow, you wouldn't stay put. First one leg would break loose and stick out, and then one arm, and then your head; and then you would all come apart at once and sprawl.
“Gee! I never thought it was so awful hard! Gonta do it, anyhow. Gonta, even if I hafta tie myself!”
Tie yourself? Why not? Great idea! Quietly you sneaked down the steep, twisty barn stairs and out into the back yard. Then—quite sure that nobody was looking—you quickly borrowed a length of clothes-line. Back again in the loft with your loot, you considered.
“Huh! How'm I gonta do it, after all?” Then you saw a way. “I'll just tie my feet, first, and then put my head through 'em, and it'll hafta stay!” Whereupon you set to work.
Even so it proved. Between your lashed feet—by dint of severe strainings which sundered a few buttons—you really managed to get your head. “Huh! Who'd of thought it was so blame crampy? He did it easy enough, the Sig-nor did! Awful hard to breathe, aint it? Never mind—I gotta learn to roll, anyhow.”
With Spartan indifference to the real pain now making itself felt, you rolled. Over and over you managed to tumble, jerkily, on the dusty, hay-strewn floor. Everything grew dizzy and black; the windows shifted their positions and you lost all bearings; a choking dust arose. Two more buttons gave up the struggle for existence and got a divorce from their waistband. Also the cords on your ankles began to cut in awfully, and your neck certainly felt as if it was sprained for life, but still you kept at it.
“Guess if he did it half an hour, I c'n do it ten minutes!”
But now the pain had become unendurable. You simply couldn't stand it another second. Gee! it hurt worse'n the dentist!
“Had enough, maybe, for one lesson. Try it again, this after'.”
And you essayed to untangle.
Unfortunately you couldn't. No, nothing doing in the untangling line, nothing whatever. You had managed to thrust your head into a loop of cords and legs that you just couldn't pull it out of. And the more you pulled, hauled, wrenched, the tighter you drew your bonds, the worse that terrible pain got, the harder it was to breathe. “Ooooh! I'm awfully dizzy! Mmmmm! Don't that rope cut, though?” Panting, you rested a moment.
Then you fought again, for freedom. Over and over you rolled, a few times more, hoping to loosen the combination. No result, save to tighten it still harder.
“Gee-roosalem! Wha—what'm I gonna do now?”
Holler, of course. Call Brother Paul. Call Ma!
Never! No, not while life endured! Guess not! Imagine it, will you? Imagine the news round town: “Buck, he tried t' do circus-stunts an' tied hisself in a hard knot an' couldn't git out, an' his ma had to cut him loose!' Conceive the effect on Betty, will you? Holler for help? No sirree sir!
Half-crazed now with panic and anguish, yet still game, you rolled some more.
“Oooooo! Gee!”
In the weltering confusion of mind and body, you had completely lost your bearings. Now, all at once, the awful chasm of the stairway yawned before you!
“Help! Help!”
Too late! Over you went, and down—then—Bump!—Bump!—Ow!—Thud-thud-thud!—Oooooo!—Bang! Bang!—CRASH!”
Paul, out in the yard, heard terrible sounds of destruction. Into the barn he ran just in time to see a spherical object swiftly ricochet from a stair, make a couple of yelling gyrations, reduce half a dozen storm-windows to wreckage and bring up against the wall behind them.
The rest was just a howl. Ma ran; Sister Florence ran; everybody ran. They extracted you from the window-frames, got scissors, cut you loose and straightened you out in sections. Then they carried you into the house, and Paul scooted for Dr. Tibbetts.
“He's killed—I know he is, Ma!”
“Oh, lookit! All blood!”
“Booohooo! Oooo-oooo-hoooo! Oh, Mamma! Mamma! Don't lemme die!”
The doctor, after all, said it was mostly bruises and scare. Of course, he did a little hemstitching here and there, but nothing to speak of. “All he needs is a few days in bed—and no more circus, mind!”
Then he turned away, his shoulders heaving strangely.
WHEN you got out again, after a few days, oh joy! Paul had raked up the whole yard! Secretly you confessed to yourself that after all it paid to suffer.
You feared nothing save Betty's mockery. But here too Fortune favored. For during your convalescence, Harry Bubb had swallowed a dime, Underwood's dog had killed Barber's cat, and Walter Timmins had thrown a fit in school and really frothed; so that, after all, you passed unnoticed. You were already Ancient History, and with deep gratitude remained so. Thank Heaven!
Yet, on consideration, you had to admit yourself as far as ever from the goal. Once more you pondered. Then, so suddenly that you hadn't time even to recognize its coming, Heroism was thrust upon you.
A Friday afternoon it was, a muddy, sloppy, drizzly day. Out flocked the school, out and away, homebound. You lingered by the gate to see Her pass.
And this time, as She came, books in one hand, umbrella in the other; lo! Bud Billings, coarse and loud, seized her by the beloved arm and cried:
“Hey, Bet, lemme in under y'r bumbershoot, will yuh?”
“You go 'way now, Bud, and lemme be!”
“Wont neither! I'm gonta walk home with you!”
“I guess not! You stop, now, Bud!”
Mocking, he essayed to snatch the umbrella. With Her books She struck at him. The books slipped. Language Lessons, First Steps in Numbers, and Appleton's Geography—all sprawled wide and draggled in the gutter.
“Oh, oh!” And Betty stooped to gather up the wreckage.
“Take 'em!”' sneered Bud. With bitter malice he pushed her; and your Betty, your far-worshiped idol, your queen, wallowed on hands and knees on the puddly walk, 'midst sodden leaves and mud.
Even before her woeful wail had spent its first crescendo, you sprang. Never before had you fought. Always meek in presence of one of the Big Boys, you had shunned combat. But now—!
Bud, still laughing, felt a swift jolt on the neck, a vicious, stinging jab. Whirling amazed, for a moment he retreated, but for only one. Then, with a snarl, he went for you.
“Fight! Fight!” rang out, loud and shrill, the joyful wolf (cub) pack cry, as all came running and the circle wove itself about you. “Fight! Fight!” And there in that jostling ring, stamping the mud, slipping, panting, blazing white with passion, you flailed at Bud with ineffective blows.
How big he seemed—how terribly strong! On your head and shoulders rained his wallops, dazing, winged with pain. Did he feel yours?
“Ow!”
“Hey, no fair kickin', there!”
“No bitin'! Don't you dast t' throw that rock!”
“Leggo my hair!”
“You will push Bet in the mud, huh?”
“Fight! Fight!”
How did it happen? How, and what? You never really knew. Something swift and terrible collided with your face; and then, blinded, dazed, dumb-mad, you stormed the foe with a whirlwind of fists.
At the school-house door, Teacher!
“You boys, stop that now, or—!”
The circle broke and ran. And—and where was Bud?
You thought you were licked, but—?
“Cry-baby! Cry-baby! Nah-nah-nah!” you heard voices chanting. But you weren't crying! So then—? Was it possible?
Now Teacher was hurrying down the steps. Dimly, by reason of one bunged eye and absolute dizziness, you perceived a knot of the fellers drifting down the street, in mockery; and from its midst rose wails—and ever you heard “Cry-baby! Cry-baby!”
And then you understood!
“Gee!” you murmured. “Licked him and never knew it!”
Teacher was close at hand, Turning, you also ran.
Shaky-kneed, fevered, with a thudding heart, a funny-tasting mouth and the awfullest all-gone feeling in your stomach, you spider-legged it away—away—escaped all congratulations and all pursuit, and never stopped till you had reacehd the seclusion of Brook Lane, not far from the house so richly blessed by Betty's condescending to dwell there.
“Ooooh! Blood!”
A drop, falling on your tremulous hand, stung you to a consciousness.of awful, maybe irreparable, damage.
You felt your nose. Blood! How long did it take, you wondered dimly, to bleed to death? And if They found you stark and lifeless in the lane near Betty's house, what would She—”
“Oh, Buck!”
Yes, it was—it was Her voice!
“My sakes, Buck! You? Oh—bleedin'?”
“Naw! That's nothin'!”
“But you are! My gracious, your lip's all blood!”
Unmindful now of books, she dropped them into the wet grass. With a kerchief dipped in a puddle of coffee-colored hue, She ministered unto your wounds.
On your tongue you felt a salty taste. Blood! You spat.
Something small and ivory-white gleamed on the ground.
Stooping, you picked it up with a bruised hand, and thrilled with pride unspeakable.
“Oh my, Buck! A tooth!”
“Yep, that's her, sure!” you managed to make answer, displaying the trophy in your palm. Inwardly, even then, you realized it was that loose tooth that had been hanging by just the teentiest little shred of gum—the one Paul had been teasing you to let him pull with a string.
“Heavens, Buck! That big bully knocked out one of your teeth! Oh, didn't it hurt somethin' awful?”
“Well, you know what it's like, havin' a tooth out!”
“And you—you did it for—me?”
“There, there. That's nothin'! Why—for you, Bet, I'd—I'd lose a dozen teeth like that! Here, want it?”
Lip quivering, she accepted the love-token, the priceless trophy of war.
“Oh, Buck—I never knew you—cared so much! Say, you can—if you want to.”
Illustration: “Fight! Fight!” And you flailed at Bud with ineffective blows.
“Huh?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Mean it?”
“Course I do!”
Quickly your glance shot up and down the lane. Not a soul!
And then you turned, and took it! That, and another, and the one She gave!
Unseen, a belated robin was calling, throatily calling, on some leaf-strewn lawn. Far to westward, lifting clouds disclosed a streak of glory and of gold.
And in your heart the bird-song echoed; and in your soul the light dawned pure and fair.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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