The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1903-10-23

| cause liars were put in the fire and
| burned up. Her brother told her that
| the day she promised to let him play
with her best doll in his own way, and
| then snatched her away and ran to
Christine with her. She was a liar;
| she shivered as she thought of the lake
of fire. But he was digging Miss
Homer's eyes out of her head-her
beautiful eyes-to see why they didn't
shut faster God would burn her up;
but it wasn't fair when other people
made you tell lies; perhaps God did
| something to them, too. But He
wouldn't do anything to Christine; she
was always good. That was why the
tiger loved her, and the man, and the
ape; they hated bad people-oh, did
| they know she was liar? She shrank
further down under the bedclothes.
Christine said they wouldn't hurt her
if she kept still; but Christine didn't
| know about 1t. 1t would not mind
Christine; 1t would not mind anybody;
and 1t was the tigers friend, too!
| She dared not open her eyes, but she
| knew that in the dark 1t was bending
| down, and that the tiger had crawled
| to the edge of the bed to lick It's hand.
| The ape peered out of the closet grin
| ming a welcome to 1t, and the man in
| the mask stood just behind. They
were all It's friends, and 1t hated her.
But it was so dark; perhaps they could
not see her-though she knew in the
| depths of her covering little soul that
they did. Perhaps she could spring
out of bed on the other side, and reach
| the hall door before 1t or the tiger
| could catch her. But the closet! she
| would have to pass that. She felt the
apes skinny fingers, and the mans
| sword at her throat. 1t bent closer
| over the bed; did 1t know what she
had been about to do?
Time dragged by. The door-bell
| rang, and company came in. Laughter
| fioated up the stairs, and 1t grinned
| hideously at the thought of the COM
pany in the nursery. Once her mother
sang, and that comforted her. Ages
afterward her mother came upstairs.
The man and the ape drew back into
the depths of the closet; the tiger
crawled to the exact middle of the
space under the bed and curled its
tail up carefully; 1t passed noiselessly
| to the other side of the room, and hid
in the shadows as the door opened,
and her mother-her dearest mother
| came in and bent down to kiss her
cheek. She dared not stir, but she
knew that 1t was gone. Her mother
touched her forehead gently. ''The
child is in perspiration," she said to
herself; ''but there doesn't seem to be
too much cover; Christine is so care
full. How fast asleep she isl" and with
another kiss she went through into
her own room, leaving the connecting
door open. When she put out her light
1t slipped back, but the door was open,
and 1t did not dare to come very close
to the bed. The tiger had gone to
sleep, and the ape and the man knew
her mother was there; they were afraid
-oho!' The little body relaxed, the
tide of sleep she drifted beyond It's
reach
This happened many nights, through
| many years. At first 1t never dared to
come in the daytime; but at dusk she
knew the stealthy football was coming
steadily to meet her, and that in the
dark 1t would stand by her bed, with
its horrible, unseen leer. She had, as
she grew older, tried the effect of leav-
ing her gas burning; but in the lone
illness and silence of the night 1t was
all-powerful, and could shroud itself
in darkness and light alike. Every
night her mother came to give her a
last goodnight kiss, but the child
never told her that she was awake;
she was afraid to speak of 1t at night,
and in the daytime she was ashamed.
She no longer believed in the tiger
or the ape, though she looked for them
under the bed and in the closet every
night to make sure, and took off her
slippers in the middle of the room
to leap into the bed from distance,
feeling cold, sharp claws on her ankles
as she did so, and tucking the covers
about her with feverish haste. The
man was no longer in the closet, and
had lost his mask and his sword. He
carried knife now, and came with 1t.
The two crept up the stairs together
night after night. Sometimes they
paused at her mothers door, or her
brothers, instead of her own, and she
would spring out of bed to call them
before it should be too late. But she
was ashamed to give false alarm,
so she always lit the gas in the hall
first, shaking with cold, her teeth chat
tering; and always, as she turned with
wide eyes to face them, they were gone.
She would rush to the head of the
stairs after them, but they could not
be seen, though the stairs creaked, one
by one, under their invisible tread.
She could never understand why the
sound did not rouse the world Some
times, in frenzy of terror to which
anything was better than uncertainty,
she fled after them, barefooted and
silent. 1t mattered little at such times
that the man might turn in the dark
ness and plunge his knife into her
heart, if only she could seize 1t by the
throat and turn it to the light and look
once full in it's face. To do that meant