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Matt Wiley and Joshua F. Wiley

Advanced R Statistical Programming

and Data Models
Analysis, Machine Learning, and Visualization
Matt Wiley
Columbia City, IN, USA

Joshua F. Wiley
Columbia City, IN, USA

Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the

author in this book is available to readers on GitHub via the book’s
product page, located at www.​apress.​com/​9781484228715 . For more
detailed information, please visit http://​www.​apress.​com/​source-code
.

ISBN 978-1-4842-2871-5 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-2872-2

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-2872-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019932986

© Matt Wiley and Joshua F. Wiley 2019

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the

Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned,
specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations,
recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other
physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar
methodology now known or hereafter developed.

Trademarked names, logos, and images may appear in this book. Rather
than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked
name, logo, or image we use the names, logos, and images only in an
editorial fashion and to the benefit of the trademark owner, with no
intention of infringement of the trademark. The use in this publication
of trade names, trademarks, service marks, and similar terms, even if
they are not identified as such, is not to be taken as an expression of
opinion as to whether or not they are subject to proprietary rights.

While the advice and information in this book are believed to be true
and accurate at the date of publication, neither the authors nor the
editors nor the publisher can accept any legal responsibility for any
errors or omissions that may be made. The publisher makes no
warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained
herein.

Distributed to the book trade worldwide by Springer Science+Business

Media New York, 233 Spring Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10013.
Phone 1-800-SPRINGER, fax (201) 348-4505, e-mail orders-
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LLC is a California LLC and the sole member (owner) is Springer
Science + Business Media Finance Inc (SSBM Finance Inc). SSBM
Finance Inc is a Delaware corporation.
Introduction
This book shows how to conduct data analysis using the popular R
language. Our goal is to provide a practical resource for conducting
advanced statistical analyses using R . As this is an advanced book, the
reader is assumed to have some background in using R , including
familiarity with general data management and the use of functions.
Because the book is primarily practical, we do not provide in-depth
theoretical or conceptual introductions to the various statistical models
discussed. However, to aid understanding and their appropriate
application, we do provide some conceptual background on each
analytic technique discussed.

Conventions
Bold lowercase letters are used to refer to a vector, for example, x . Bold
uppercase letters are used to refer to a matrix, for example, X .
Generally, the Latin alphabet is used for data and the Greek alphabet is
used for parameters. Mathematical functions are indicated with
parentheses, for example, f (·).
In the text, reference to R code or function will be in monospaced
font like this. R function names have parentheses included to
help indicate it is a function, such as mean() to indicate the mean
function in R .

Package Setup
Throughout the book, we will make use of many different R packages
that make tasks easier or provide more robust or sophisticated
graphing and analysis options.
Although not required for readers, we make use of the
checkpoint package to help ensure the book is reproducible [23]. If
you do not care about reproducibility and are happy to take your
chances that our code that worked with one version of R and packages
also works with whatever versions you have, then you can just skip
reading this section. If you want reproducibility, but do not care why or
how it works, then just create R scripts for the code for each chapter,
save them, and then run the checkpoint package at the beginning. If
you care and want to know why and how it all works, read on the next
few paragraphs.
Details on Reproducibility
The many additional packages available for R are one of its greatest
strengths. However, they also create some challenges. For example, as a
reader, suppose that on your computer, you have R v3.4.3 installed
and as part of that in January you had installed the ggplot2 package
for graphs. By default, you will have whatever version of ggplot2 was
available in January when you installed it. Now in one chapter, we tell
you that you need both the ggplot2 and cowplot packages. Because
you already had ggplot2 installed, you do not need to install it again.
However, suppose that you did not have the cowplot package
installed. So, whenever you happen to be reading that chapter, you
attempt to install the cowplot package, let’s say it’s in April. You will
now by default get the latest version of cowplot available for that
version of R as of April.
Now imagine a second reader comes along and also had R v3.4.3
but had neither the ggplot2 nor the cowplot package installed. They
also read the chapter in April, but they install both packages in April, so
they get the latest version of both packages available in April for R
v3.4.3 .
Even though both you and the other reader had the same version of
R installed, you will end up with different package versions from each
other, and likely different versions yet from whatever versions we used
to write the book.
The end result is that different people, even with the same version
of R, very likely are using different versions of different packages. This
can pose a major challenge for reproducibility. If you are reading a
book, it can be a frustration because code does not seem to work as we
said it would. If you are using code in production or for scientific
research or decision-making, nonreproducibility can pose an even
bigger challenge.
 The solution to standardize versions across people and ensure
results are fully reproducible is to control not only the version of R but
also the version of all packages. This requires a different approach to
package installation and management than the default system, which
uses the latest package versions from CRAN. The checkpoint
package is designed to solve this challenge. It does require some extra
steps and processes to use, and at first may seem a nuisance, but the
payoff is that you can be guaranteed that you are not only using the
same version of R but also the same version of all packages.
To understand how the checkpoint package works, we need a bit
more background regarding how R ’s libraries and package system
work.
Mainstream R packages are distributed through CRAN. Package
authors can submit new versions of their packages to CRAN, and CRAN
updates nightly. For some operating systems, CRAN just stores the
package source code, such as for Linux machines. For others, such as
Windows operating systems, CRAN builds precompiled package
binaries and hosts those. CRAN keeps old source code but generally not
old binary packages for long. On a local machine, when
install.packages is run, R goes online to a repository, by default
CRAN, finds the package name, downloads it, and installs it into a local
library . The local library is basically just a directory on your own
machine. R has a default location it likes to use as its local library, and
by default when you install packages, they are added to the default
library. Once a package is installed, when it is loaded or opened using
library(), R goes to its default library, finds a package with the
same name, and opens it.
The checkpoint package works by creating a new library on the
local machine, for a particular version of R for a particular date. Then it
scans all the R script files in R ’s current working directory—you can
identify this using the getwd() function—and identifies any calls to
the library() or require() functions. Then it goes and checks
whether those packages are installed in the local library. If they are not,
it goes to a snapshot of CRAN taken by another server setup to support
the checkpoint package. That way, checkpoint can install the
version of the package available from a specific date. In that way, the
checkpoint package can ensure that you have the same specific
version of R and specific version of all packages that we used when
writing the book. Or if you are trying to re-run some analysis from a
year ago, you can get the same version of those packages on a new
computer.
Assuming that you have the following code in an R script, you can
use the checkpoint package to read the R script and find the call to
library(data.table), and it will install the data.table
package, which is a great package for data management [29]. If you do
not want checkpoint to look in the current working directory, you
can specify the project path, as we do to the book in this example. You
can also change where checkpoint sets its library to another folder
location, instead of the default location, which we also do. We
accomplish both of these using variables set as part of our R project,
book_directory and checkpoint_directory . If you are using
checkpoint on your own machine, set those variables to the relevant
directories, for example, as book_directory <-
"path/to/your/directory" . Note that whatever folder you
choose, R will need read and write privileges for that folder.

library(checkpoint)
checkpoint("2018-09-28", R. version = "3.5.1",
project = book_directory,
checkpointLocation = checkpoint_directory,
scanForPackages = FALSE,
scan.rnw.with.knitr = TRUE, use.knitr = TRUE)

library(data.table)

options(
width = 70,
stringsAsFactors = FALSE,
digits = 2)

Data Setup
One of the datasets we will use throughout this book is a longitudinal
study, the Americans’ Changing Lives (ACL) [45]. This is publicly
available data and can be downloaded by going to
http://doi.org/10.3886/ICPSR04690.v7 .
The Americans’ Changing Lives (ACL) is a longitudinal study with
five waves of data, shown in Table I-1 .

Table I-1 ACL Study Collection Waves

Wave Year
W1 1986
W2 1989
W3 1994
W4 2002
W5 2011

All we need is the data file in R format, which should be called

04690-0001-Data.rda . You may also find it helpful to download
the PDF documentation of the dataset for more details about the study.
After you have downloaded the data, you should extract the zip folder.
After setting up our R session and necessary libraries, we load the
data. You will need to adjust the path to wherever you saved the data
file after extracting it from the zip folder. Because it is a RDA file,
loading it loads an R object into the workspace. Next we convert to a
data table, select just the variables we are going to use for this book,
and change the variable names to be a bit more intuitive. The suffix
(e.g., “W1”) indicates which wave the variable comes from. Finally, we
convert some variables to factor class and then save the dataset using
the saveRDS() function with compression. This will allow us to read
our cleaned dataset back into R in later chapters with ease and to
assign it to any object name we wish, rather than being stuck with the
object name in the RDA file.

load ("../ICPSR_04690/DS0001/04690-0001-
Data.rda")
ls ()
 ## [1]
"book_directory" "checkpoint_directory"
## [3]
"da04690.0001" "render_apress"

acl <- as.data.table(da04690.0001)

acl <- acl[, .(
V2, V1801, V2101, V2064,
V3007, V2623, V2636, V2640,
V2000,
V2200, V2201, V2202,
V2613, V2614, V2616,
V2618, V2681,
V7007, V6623, V6636, V6640,
V6201, V6202,
V6613, V6614, V6616,
V6618, V6681
)]

setnames(acl, names(acl), c(
"ID", "Sex", "RaceEthnicity", "SESCategory",
"Employment_W1", "BMI_W1", "Smoke_W1",
"PhysActCat_W1",
"AGE_W1",
"SWL_W1", "InformalSI_W1", "FormalSI_W1",
"SelfEsteem_W1", "Mastery_W1",
"SelfEfficacy_W1",
"CESD11_W1", "NChronic12_W1",
"Employment_W2", "BMI_W2", "Smoke_W2",
"PhysActCat_W2",
"InformalSI_W2", "FormalSI_W2",
"SelfEsteem_W2", "Mastery_W2",
"SelfEfficacy_W2",
"CESD11_W2", "NChronic12_W2"
))

acl[, ID := factor(ID)]
 acl[, SESCategory := factor(SESCategory)]
acl[, SWL_W1 := SWL_W1 * -1]

saveRDS(acl, "advancedr_acl_data.RDS", compress

= "xz")
Acknowledgments
To our dear family, who may not always understand everything we
write, yet are nevertheless content to place our books on fireside
mantels and coffee tables.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Univariate Data Visualization
1.​1 Distribution
Visualizing the Observed Distribution
Stacked Dot Plots and Histograms
Density Plots
Comparing the Observed Distribution with Expected
Distributions
Q-Q Plots
Density Plots
Fitting More Distributions
1.​2 Anomalous Values
1.​3 Summary
Chapter 2:​Multivariate Data Visualization
2.​1 Distribution
2.​2 Anomalous Values
2.​3 Relations Between Variables
Assessing Homogeneity of Variance
2.​4 Summary
Chapter 3:​GLM 1
3.​1 Conceptual Background
3.​2 Categorical Predictors and Dummy Coding
Two-Level Categorical Predictors
Three- or More Level Categorical Predictors
3.​3 Interactions and Moderated Effects
3.​4 Formula Interface
 3.​5 Analysis of Variance
Conceptual Background
ANOVA in R
3.​6 Linear Regression
Conceptual Background
Linear Regression in R
High-Performance Linear Regression
3.​7 Controlling for Confounds
3.​8 Case Study:​Multiple Linear Regression with Interactions
3.​9 Summary
Chapter 4:​GLM 2
4.​1 Conceptual Background
Logistic Regression
Count Regression
4.2 R Examples
Binary Logistic Regression
Ordered Logistic Regression
Multinomial Logistic Regression
Poisson and Negative Binomial Regression
4.​3 Case Study:​Multinomial Logistic Regression
4.​4 Summary
Chapter 5:​GAMs
5.​1 Conceptual Overview
Smoothing Splines
5.2 GAMs in R
Gaussian Outcomes
 Binary Outcomes
Unordered Outcomes
Count Outcomes
5.​3 Summary
Chapter 6:​ML:​Introduction
6.​1 Training and Validation Data
6.​2 Resampling and Cross-Validation
6.​3 Bootstrapping
6.​4 Parallel Processing and Random Numbers
foreach
6.​5 Summary
Chapter 7:​ML:​Unsupervised
7.​1 Data Background and Exploratory Analysis
7.​2 kmeans
7.​3 Hierarchical Clusters
7.​4 Principal Component Analysis
7.​5 Non-linear Cluster Analysis
7.​6 Summary
Chapter 8:​ML:​Supervised
8.​1 Data Preparation
One Hot Encoding
Scale and Center
Transformations
Train vs.​Validation Data
Principal Component Analysis
8.​2 Supervised Learning Models
 Support Vector Machines
Classification and Regression Trees
Random Forests
Stochastic Gradient Boosting
Multilayer Perceptron
8.​3 Summary
Chapter 9:​Missing Data
9.​1 Conceptual Background
Multiple Imputation
9.2 R Examples
Multiple Imputation with Regression
Multiple Imputation with Parallel Processing
Multiple Imputation Using Random Forests
9.​3 Case Study:​Multiple Imputation with RFs
9.​4 Summary
Chapter 10:​GLMMs:​Introduction
10.​1 Multilevel Data
Reshaping Data
Daily Dataset
10.​2 Descriptive Statistics
Basic Descriptives
Intraclass Correlation Coefficient (ICC)
10.​3 Exploration and Assumptions
Distribution and Outliers
Time Trends
Autocorrelation
 Assumptions
10.​4 Summary
Chapter 11:​GLMMs:​Linear
11.​1 Theory
Generalized Linear Mixed Models
Mixed Effects vs.​Multilevel Model Terminology
Statistical Inference
Effect Sizes
Random Intercept Model
Visualizing Random Effects
Interpreting Random Intercept Models
Random Intercept and Slope Model
Intercepts and Slopes as Outcomes
11.2 R Examples
Linear Mixed Model with Random Intercept
Linear Mixed Model with Random Intercept and Slope
11.​3 Summary
Chapter 12:​GLMMs:​Advanced
12.​1 Conceptual Background
12.​2 Logistic GLMM
Random Intercept
Random Intercept and Slope
12.​3 Poisson and Negative Binomial GLMMs
Random Intercept
Random Intercept and Slope
12.​4 Summary
Chapter 13:​Modelling IIV
13.​1 Conceptual Background
Bayesian Inference
What Is IIV?​
Intra-individual Variability as a Predictor
Software Implementation:​VARIAN
13.​2 R Examples
IIV Predicting a Continuous Outcome
13.​3 Summary
Bibliography
Index
About the Authors and About the Technical
Reviewer

About the Authors

Matt Wiley
is a tenured, associate professor of
mathematics with awards in both
mathematics education and honors
student works. He earned degrees in
pure mathematics, computer science,
and business administration through the
University of California and Texas A&M
University Systems. He serves as director
of quality enhancement at Victoria
College, facilitating comprehensive
assessment programs, key performance
indicator dashboards and one-click
reports, and data consultation for
campus stakeholders. Outside academia, he is managing partner at
Elkhart Group LLC, a statistical consultancy. With experience in
programming R , SQL , C++ , Ruby , Fortran , and JavaScript , he
has always found ways to meld his passion for writing with his joy of
logical problem solving and data science. From the boardroom to the
classroom, Matt enjoys finding dynamic ways to partner with
interdisciplinary and diverse teams to make complex ideas and projects
understandable and solvable.

Joshua F. Wiley
is a lecturer in the Monash Institute of Cognitive and Clinical
Neurosciences and School of Psychological Sciences at Monash
University. He earned his PhD from the University of California, Los
Angeles, and completed his postdoctoral training in primary care and
prevention. His research uses advanced quantitative methods to
understand the dynamics between
psychosocial factors, sleep, and other
health behaviors in relation to
psychological and physical health. He
develops or codevelops a number of R
packages including varian , a package
to conduct Bayesian scale-location
structural equation models, and
MplusAutomation , a popular package
that links R to the commercial Mplus
software, and miscellaneous functions to
explore data or speed up analysis in
JWileymisc .

About the Technical Reviewer

Andrew Moskowitz
is an analytics and data science
professional in the entertainment
industry focused on understanding user
behavior, marketing attribution and
efficacy, and using advanced data science
concepts to address business problems.
He earned his PhD in quantitative
psychology at the University of
California, Los Angeles, where he
focused on hypothesis testing and mixed
effects models.
© Matt Wiley and Joshua F. Wiley 2019
Matt Wiley and Joshua F. Wiley, Advanced R Statistical Programming and Data Models
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-2872-2_1

1. Univariate Data Visualization

Matt Wiley1 and Joshua F. Wiley1

(1) Columbia City, IN, USA

Most statistical models discussed in the rest of the book make

assumptions about the data and the best model to use for them. As data
analysts, we often must specify the distribution that we assume the
data come from. Anomalous values, also called extreme values or
outliers, may also have undue influence on the results from many
statistical models. In this chapter, we examine visual and graphical
approaches to exploring the distributions and anomalous values for
one variable at a time (i.e., univariate). The goal of this chapter is not
specifically to create beautiful or publication quality graphs nor to
show results, but rather to use graphs to understand the distribution of
a variable and identify anomalous values. This chapter focuses on
univariate data visualization, and the next chapter will employ some of
the same concepts but applied to multivariate distributions and cover
how to assess the relations between variables.

library(checkpoint)
checkpoint("2018-09-28", R.version = "3.5.1",
project = book_directory,
checkpointLocation = checkpoint_directory,
scanForPackages = FALSE,
scan.rnw.with.knitr = TRUE, use.knitr = TRUE)

library(knitr)
library(ggplot2)
library(cowplot)
library(MASS)
library(JWileymisc)
library(data.table)

options(width = 70, digits = 2)

The ggplot2 package [109] creates elegant graphs, and the
cowplot package is an add-on that makes graphs cleaner [117]. The
MASS package provides functions to test how well different
distributions fit data [98]. The JWileymisc package is maintained by
one of this text’s authors and provides miscellaneous functions that
allow us to focus on the graphics in this chapter [114]. The
data.table package will be used a lot for data management [29].

1.1 Distribution
Visualizing the Observed Distribution
Many statistical models require that the distribution of a variable be
specified. Histograms use bars to graph a distribution and are probably
the most common graph used to visualize the distribution of a single
variable. Although relatively rare, stacked dot plots are another
approach and provide a precise way to visualize the distribution of data
that shows the individual data points. Finally, density plots are also
quite common and are graphed by using a line that shows the
approximate density or amount of data falling at any given value.

Stacked Dot Plots and Histograms

Dot plots work by plotting a dot for each observed data value, and if
two dots would fall on top of each other, they are stacked up [118].
Compared to histograms or density plots, dot plots are unique in that
they actually plot the raw individual data points, rather than
aggregating or summarizing them. This makes dot plots a nice place to
start looking at the distribution or spread of a variable, particularly if
you have a relatively small number of observations.
The granular approach, plotting individual data points, is also dot
plots limitation. With even moderately large datasets (e.g., several
hundred), it becomes impractical to plot individual values. With
thousands or millions of observations, dot plots are even less effective
at visualizing the overall distribution.
We can create a plot easily using ggplot2, and the results are
shown in Figure 1-1.

ggplot(mtcars, aes(mpg)) +
geom_dotplot()

## 'stat_bindot()' using 'bins = 30'. Pick

better value with 'binwidth'.

Figure 1-1 Stacked dot plot of miles per gallon from old cars

As a brief aside, much of the code for ggplot2 follows the format
shown in the following code snippet. In our case, we wanted a dot plot,
so the geometric object, or “geom”, is a dot plot (geom_dotplot() ).
Many excellent online tutorials and books exist to learn how to use the
ggplot2 package for graphs, so we will not provide a greater
introduction to ggplot2 here. In particular, Hadley Wickham, who
develops ggplot2, has a recently updated book on the package,
ggplot2: Elegant Graphics for Data Analysis [109], which is an excellent
guide. For those who prefer less conceptual background and more of a
cookbook, we recommend the R Graphics Cookbook by Winston Chang
[20].

ggplot(the-data, aes(variable-to-plot)) +
geom_type-of-graph()
 Unlike a dot plot that plots the raw data, a histogram is a bar graph
where the height of the bar is the count of the number of values falling
within the range specified by the width of the bar. You can vary the
width of bars to control how many nearby values are aggregated and
counted in one bar. Narrower bars aggregate fewer data points and
provide a more granular view. Wider bars aggregate more and provide
a broader view. A histogram showing the distribution of sepal lengths
of flowers from the famous iris dataset is shown in Figure 1-2.

ggplot(iris, aes(Sepal.Length)) +
geom_histogram()

## 'stat_bin()' using 'bins = 30'. Pick better

value with 'binwidth'.

Figure 1-2 Histogram of sepal length from the iris data

 If you know the shape of a distribution (e.g., a normal distribution),
you can examine whether the histogram for a variable looks like the
shape of a distribution you recognize. In the case of the sepal length
data, they appear approximately normally distributed, although they
are clearly not perfect.
If data do not appear to follow the distribution we hoped for (e.g.,
normal), it is common to apply a transformation to the raw data. Again,
histograms are a useful way to examine how the distribution looks after
transformation. Figure 1-3 shows a histogram of annual Canadian lynx
trappings. From the graph we can see the variable is positively skewed
(has a long right tail).

ggplot(data.table(lynx = as.vector(lynx)),
aes(lynx)) +
geom_histogram()

## 'stat_bin()' using 'bins = 30'. Pick better

value with 'binwidth'.
Figure 1-3 Histogram of annual Canadian lynx trappings
For positive skew, a square root or log transformation can help to
reduce positive skew and make variables closer to a normal
distribution, assuming that there are no negative values. This histogram
of lynx trappings after a natural log transformation is shown in Figure
1-4.

ggplot(data.table(lynx = as.vector(lynx)),
aes(log(lynx))) +
geom_histogram()

## 'stat_bin()' using 'bins = 30'. Pick better

value with 'binwidth'.
Figure 1-4 Histogram of annual Canadian lynx trappings after a natural log
transformation

Density Plots
Another common tool to visualize the observed distribution of data is
by plotting the empirical density. The code for ggplot2 is identical to
that for histograms except that geom_histogram() is replaced with
geom_density() . The code follows and the result is shown in Figure
1-5.

ggplot(iris, aes(Sepal.Length)) +
geom_density()
Figure 1-5 This is the density plot for our sepal lengths
Empirical density plots include some degree of smoothing, because
with continuous variables, there is never going to be many observations
at any specific value (e.g., it may be that no observation has a value of
3.286, even though there are values of 3.281 and 3.292). Empirical
density plots show the overall shape of the distribution by applying
some degree of smoothing. At times it can be helpful to adjust the
degree of smooth to see a coarser (closer to the raw data) or smoother
(closer to the “distribution”) graph. Smoothing is controlled in
ggplot2 using the adjust argument. The default, which we saw in
Figure 1-5, is adjust = 1. Values less than 1 are “noisier” or have less
smoothing, while values greater than 1 increase the smoothness. We
compare and contrast noisier in Figure 1-6 vs. very smooth in Figure 1-
7.

ggplot(iris, aes(Sepal.Length)) +
geom_density(adjust = .5)
 ggplot(iris, aes(Sepal.Length)) +
geom_density(adjust = 5)

Figure 1-6 A noisy density plot

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
trapped a beaver. He, too, was fond of meditation, and had great
delight in the society of Quito.
On his way home the young Indian met with Bunker, who said he
was going to visit some traps, but that he would follow his friend’s
trail the next day, and might perhaps overtake him before he
reached his village.
It was a beautiful autumn evening when Quito approached his
mountain home. Not the finest park of the greatest noble in our land
could compare with the magnificent scenery through which the
Indian walked, with his gun on his shoulder, and his yellow leathern
garments—fashioned and richly wrought by the fingers of Laughing-
eye—fluttering with innumerable fringes and other ornaments in the
gentle breeze. His dark eye glanced from side to side with that sharp
restless motion which is peculiar to red Indians and hunters of the
far west, whose lives are passed in the midst of danger from lurking
enemies and wild beasts, but the restless glance was the result of
caution, not of anxiety. Quito’s breast was as calm and unruffled as
the surface of the lakelet along whose margin he walked, and,
although he kept a sharp look-out, from the mere force of habit, he
thought no more of enemies at that time than did the little birds
which twittered in the bushes, unconscious and unmindful of the
hawk and eagle that soared high over head.
There were woods and valleys, through which flowed streams of
limpid water. Here and there were swamps, in which thousands of
water-fowl and frogs filled the air with melody, for the frogs of
America are a musical race, and a certain class of them actually
whistle in their felicity at certain periods of the year; their whistle,
however, is only one intermittent note. Elsewhere undulating plains,
or prairies, gave variety to the scene, and the whole was backed by
the lofty, rugged, and snow-clad peaks of the vast mountain range
which runs through the whole continent from north to south.
On reaching the summit of a hill, on which Quito had often halted
when returning from his frequent hunting expeditions, to gaze in
satisfaction at his village in the far distance, and think of Laughing-
eye, a shade of deep and unmistakeable anxiety crossed his grave
features, and instead of halting, as he was wont to do, he hastened
onwards at redoubled speed, for his eye missed the wreaths of
smoke that at other times had curled up above the trees, and one or
two of the wigwams which used to be visible from that point of view
were gone.
The terrible anxiety that filled Quito’s breast was in a short time
changed into fierce despair, when he suddenly turned round the
base of a cliff, behind which his village lay, and beheld his late home
a mass of blackened ruins. Little circles of grey ashes indicated
where the tents had been, and all over the ground were scattered
charred bones and masses of putrefying flesh, which told of ruthless
murder.
Savage nature is not like civilized. No sound or word escaped the
desolate Indian, who now knew that he was the last of his race, but
the heaving bosom, the clenched teeth, and compressed lips, the
fierce glittering eye, and the darkly frowning brows, told of a deadly
struggle of anguish and wrath within.
While Quito was still gazing at the dreadful scene, he observed
something move among the bushes near him and darted towards it.
It proved to be an old woman, who was blind and scarcely able to
make herself understood. She was evidently famishing from hunger,
so Quito’s first care was to give her a little of the dried meat which
formed his store of provisions. After she had devoured some of it,
and drunk greedily of the water which he fetched from a
neighbouring stream in a cup of birch bark, she told him that the
camp had been suddenly attacked, some days before, by a war-
party of enemies, who had slain all the men and old women, and
carried the young women away into captivity—among them
Laughing-eye.
As far as outward appearance went, Quito received the news with
calm indifference, but his subsequent actions told another tale. His
first step was to erect a sort of hut out of the broken fragments of
wigwams that lay around, into which he led the old woman, and
placed within her reach a large vessel of water with a small bark
cup. He then gave her all his provisions, sufficient for more than a
week’s consumption, and told her he would return to her as soon as
possible. The poor creature appeared grateful, and sought to detain
him, but this he would not permit Having learned from her the name
of the tribe that attacked the village, and that she had escaped in
the general mêlée by crawling into the bush, he asked which way
their enemies had gone. When she had related all she had to tell on
the subject, Quito left her, and divested himself of nearly every
article of unnecessary costume, placed a tomahawk and scalping-
knife in his girdle, slung a short bow and a quiver of arrows on his
back, and, throwing his gun on his shoulder, prepared to quit the
spot. Before leaving, he kneeled beside the old squaw and said in
her ear:—
“In a day or two Bunker will be here. Tell him I have gone to the
west by the Mustang Valley, and that he must follow my trail
quickly.”
The old woman promised to do this, and then Quito took his
leave.
For several days he followed up the trail of the retreating Indians
with the perseverance and unerring certainty of a bloodhound. He
took so little rest and went on with such unflagging energy that he
gradually drew near to them, a fact which became evident from the
heat that still remained in the ashes of their camp fires when he
came upon them.
At last he reached one of those mighty rivers which traverse the
great continent from west to east. Here he found that his enemies
had crossed, and he prepared to plunge in and swim over, though
the current was turbulent, deep, and broad. Tying his powder in a
piece of leather on the top of his head to keep it dry, he was about
to take the water when he espied an old Indian canoe, and
proceeded to examine before launching it. While thus engaged he
was arrested by one of the most astonishing sights that had ever
met his gaze.
 Rapidly and perceptibly the great river that rolled before him
began to diminish in volume. Accustomed as he was to all the
varying aspects of lake and stream in their conditions of flood and
drought, Quito had never seen anything at all resembling that which
now occurred before his eyes. His wonted reason and sagacity were
at fault; it was utterly unaccountable!
Naturally his untutored mind began to look upon the phenomenon
in a superstitious light. At first he was alarmed, and sat down to
gaze in silent wonder, while the water continued to sink in its bed,
began to flow sluggishly, then collected into pools, and finally ceased
to flow altogether, leaving the bed of the river quite dry in many
places. After a time it occurred to the Indian that this might be a
direct interposition on the part of the Manitou, to enable him to
cross on foot and pursue his enemies without delay. Full of this idea,
Quito rose, and, with feelings of deep awe, went down the bank of
the river and began to walk across its bed.
He had got about half way over when he was arrested by a
peculiar sound, something like distant thunder but more continuous;
he stopped, and listened intently. He was more perplexed than ever,
for no sound of the wilderness with which he was acquainted at all
resembled it; it seemed to come from the mountains, but a bend in
the river concealed the distance from his view.
The sound increased gradually in strength until it became a
continuous roar, louder than the fiercest gale that ever blew. Quito
stood erect and motionless with eyes and nostrils distended,
uncertain what to do, when suddenly a mighty flood of waters came
thundering round the bend of the river above him. On it came, with
deafening clamour, a wall of water full twenty feet high, tumbling
mighty trees and huge stones over its gleaming crest like playthings,
and licking them up again to hurl them on in mad fury!
Quito bounded across the dry bed of the river for his life, and
reached the opposite bank only a few seconds before the rushing
torrent swept by, leaving a very chaos on its surging breast.
 Fetching his breath quickly, the Indian turned and gazed long in
solemn silence at the magnificent scene. Then the thought of
Laughing-eye recurred to him. He turned at once and pursued his
way with redoubled speed.
Only a few miles above this spot he discovered the cause of the
phenomenon he had just witnessed. A land-slip, on an unusually
large scale, had occurred. It had been caused by the water
undermining the soil of a high bank. The half of a huge hill had
tumbled into the river and dammed it across, so that no water could
escape. Trees were heaped in wild confusion—some with their heads
in the earth and their roots in the air; piles of stones and rubbish
crushed the shattered limbs, and great fissures yawned everywhere
in the mass.
Ere long the searching water had cut through the obstruction,
and, bursting away in all the strength of its recovered freedom, had
produced the startling results which we have described.
Day after day Quito followed the trail of his enemies, and night
after night he lay down on the hard ground to snatch a couple of
hours’ repose before resuming the chase, regardless of fatigue or
cold, for hope steeled his muscles, and his heart was warmed by
love.
At last, one evening he came upon them. He saw their wigwams
on a little plain, which was free from shrubs and trees, although
surrounded by the latter. The smoke of their fires curled up in
straight columns, for the air was so still that the sound of the horses’
jaws munching their food could be distinctly heard at some distance
from the camp.
Quito lay down until the shades of night fell, and watched his
enemies. He saw them post sentries for the night; he noted the
silence that gradually stole over the scene as the savages lay down
to rest, and he saw the fires die down until the whole camp was
shrouded in darkness. During the hours that he watched there he lay
as still as a fallen tree—only his dark eyes moved about, restlessly.
 At last he rose and prepared for action. Leaving his quiver and
bow behind him, he took his gun and advanced—at first in a
crouching attitude. He might have been a shadow, so noiseless were
his motions. The edge of the forest gained, he sank into the long
grass of the prairie, like a phantom, and disappeared. Thenceforth
his progress was like to that of the serpent. Pushing his gun before
him he gradually worked his way forward until he had passed the
line of sentries and gained the midst of the camp. Here his
proceedings were cool and daring.
He first crawled among the horses, and made up his mind as to
which two of them were the best. Then he went to the chief’s tent,
and, gently raising the curtain of skin, looked in. His enemy was
there sound asleep. He could have stabbed him to the heart, as he
lay, with such deadly certainty, that he would have died without
being able to utter a cry, but Quito’s object was to rescue, not to
avenge. He observed that the chief lay alone in his tent. A grim
smile crossed the Indian’s face as he lowered the curtain and again
sank among the grass.
There was a large tent near to that of the chief, and Quito knew
that there were women in it, but whether or not his wife was there
he had not been able to ascertain from his distant view-point in the
woods.
Raising the edge of this tent, he found that it was full of
slumbering women, but it required a close inspection of their faces
in the dark to ascertain who they were—so close that his face almost
touched that of the first woman he looked at. His heart throbbed, for
he thought he recognised the features of Laughing-eye. Just then
the sleeper drew a long breath and sighed, and Quito knew that it
was his lost one. He also guessed that the others were the women
of his own tribe, but he knew that it would be impossible for him,
single-handed, to save them at that time. To save his wife would be
difficult enough, he thought.
Putting his face close to that of Laughing-eye, he heaved a long-
drawn sigh, and yawned pretty loudly, imitating a woman’s voice as
much as possible, and giving his wife a push. She half awoke, and,
turning round in a sleepy way, muttered a few unintelligible words.
Quito again drew a long breath, and muttered a sleepy remark.
Laughing-eye was startled. She raised her head to listen. This was
the moment of danger. If taken by surprise, she might utter a cry or
an exclamation which might awaken her companions, and the
rousing of the whole camp would be certain to follow, for Indians’
ears are very sharp. Quito felt the difficulty and danger of his
position, but there was only one course left open to him.
“Hist! Laughing-eye,” he whispered, close in his wife’s ear.
Next instant his left hand was on her mouth, and with his right he
pressed her down, as she made an effort to rise. The effort was
momentary, almost involuntary. Immediately she lay so still that
Quito knew she had recognised him, so he whispered a few more
words, and released her.
Nothing more was said. Speech was not necessary, for Indians’
wits are sharpened by experience. Quito glided, one might almost
say melted, away, and Laughing-eye followed him so quietly through
the same aperture that the blanket which she left behind appeared
merely to subside into a flat state. Quito did not stop to speak
outside. Gliding through the grass, serpent-like, in the direction of
the horses, he was followed by his wife, and after some minutes, for
they moved very slowly, they were clear of the group of tents. Not
far from them one of the sentinels stood leaning on his rifle, and
gazing into the far-off horizon, where a faint glimmer of light showed
that the moon was about to rise.
To pass this man was difficult, indeed, it would have been
impossible, had he not been a very young man, whose eyes were
rather heavy, and whose experience of Indian warfare was slight.
They succeeded, however, and Quito ceased to advance when he
came up to a splendid horse which stood picketted by a long line to
a peg driven into the ground, and with its fore feet “hobbled,” or tied
together. Without a word he cut the hobbles, and the line by which
the animal was fastened, the end of which last he placed in
Laughing-eye’s hand. She had crept up alongside of her husband,
and remained perfectly quiet, while he glided away from her.
She might have remained perhaps two minutes in this state,
when, peeping upwards, she saw another horse moving towards her.
Instantly her husband was by her side, and she saw that the end of
a rope was in his hand.
“Go first,” whispered Quito in her ear, “fly towards the rising sun.”
The whisper was so soft that the very grasshoppers at their side
must have failed to hear it. In a moment both Indians stood up, and
Quito lifted his wife lightly on the horse whose larryat she held.
Such a proceeding could not, of course, pass unnoticed in an
Indian camp. Instantly a yell was given by a sentry. Just as Quito
vaulted on his steed’s back a couple of arrows whizzed past his ear,
and the young warrior whom they had first seen darted at his
horse’s head. A blow from the butt of Quito’s gun felled him, and in
another moment husband and wife were bounding away at full
stretch over the plain—the former giving utterance to a shout of
defiance, which the savages returned with yells of fury, accompanied
by a mixed shower of arrows and bullets.
Just as Quito was bounding over the crest of a mound the chief of
the Indians fired a shot at a venture. He took no aim, but the bullet
sped with fatal accuracy, and pierced the heart of Quito’s horse,
which fell heavily to the earth, sending its rider over its head. The
Indian fell with such violence that he lay for a moment or two
stunned. Seeing this, Laughing-eye at once reined up, and galloping
back leaped to the ground. Quito rose, and, staggering towards the
horse, made an effort to lift his wife on to its back. He failed, and
before another attempt could be made the unfortunate fugitives
were surrounded and recaptured.
Hopeless, indeed, was Quito’s case now. Death by slow torture
was certain to be his end, while Laughing-eye would be doomed to
slavery. Yet both husband and wife conducted themselves with quiet
dignity, and an assumption of stoical indifference.
But their case was not so hopeless as they supposed. Other eyes
besides those of their enemies witnessed what had passed.
Quito’s bosom friend, Bunker, on reaching the desolate village, and
learning from the old woman what had occurred, set off in pursuit of
his friend without delay, and travelled at his utmost speed. But the
man whom he followed was about equal to himself in physical
powers and endurance, so that he could not overtake him easily. On
the way he fell in with four trappers like himself, who readily
consented to join him. These all continued to advance together night
and day, with the exception of the brief time devoted to necessary
sleep, but they did not overtake Quito until he had reached the
camp of his enemies. They gained on him during the time he lay
watching the camp, and waiting for the hour of action. Arriving at
the spot where he had left his bow and arrows, not half an hour
after he had quitted it, they at once guessed that he was
reconnoitring the camp, and resolved to await the issue. While the
hunters were yet discussing the best method of procedure, the yell
of the sentry was heard.
“Down with you, lads,” cried Bunker, sinking into the grass, “they’ll
come this way.”
“No,” cried one of the others, “they’re off to the left—a man an’ a
squaw.”
“That’s them—Quito and Laughing-eye,” exclaimed Bunker, “an’ all
the reptiles after them. Now, boys, git hold o’ the horses—look
alive!”
The sturdy hunter set the example. Big though he was, he
bounded over the bushes like a deer, followed by his comrades.
While all the men of the camp were in hot pursuit of the fugitives
they ran up to the horses, and each secured one, which he
mounted, having previously cut the hobbles of all the rest and sent
them flying over the plain.
 A regular fight then ensued, in which the Indians were beaten and
their captives rescued. The remainder of the horses, too, were
secured, and, mounted on these, the whole party returned to their
village in the Mustang Valley.
Here the state of things was so desolate and mournful that it was
resolved all the Indians who remained should start with Quito and
his wife for the Mission Station in the south. This intention was
carried out the next day, and they parted with many expressions of
good-will from their friends the hunters, who returned to their wild
and lonesome occupations of shooting and trapping in the
mountains.
After a long journey the Indians reached the Mission Station,
where they remained three weeks under the instruction of the
missionary. At the end of that time they expressed their desire to
join themselves to the followers of Jesus Christ, and were baptized.
Then Quito begged that the missionary would unite him to his wife
after the manner of the Christians. Of course there could be no
objection to this request, so it was complied with—and thus Quito
and Laughing-eye were baptized and married on the same day.
 LOST AND FOUND.
A STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS.

By Edwin Hodder,
Author of “Memories of New Zealand Life;” “Junior Clerk;” “Tossed on the Waves,”
&c.

If a merry day is associated with painful memories, its charm is lost,

it is a day to be avoided, one would wish to let it pass unheeded;
any attempt to make it gay only increases the gloom, and if the
unpleasant remembrances are indulged, they come back on the day
which commemorates them with a living reality, making the mind
morbid and unhappy; and cherishing dead regrets is as vain and
wrong a thing as retaining the remains of a loved life, which should
be buried out of one’s sight.
Christmas day is not a sad and gloomy day to me now, but it was
once; and then such a party as this you are giving to-night, Mr.
Merry, would have been of all things in the world the one that I
could not have endured, for it would have recalled so many sad
circumstances to my mind, that, with all the fun and gaiety of you
youngsters, I could not have thrown off the shroud of regrets which
such a scene as this would have cast around me. But those days are
past, and now Christmas day is one of the happiest of the year; and
how all this came to pass I am going to tell you.
When I was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I was at Dr. Spanker’s
school, in Berkshire, and if anybody ever had a life like a long
summer day, without a cloud or a cold nipping wind, that life was
mine in those days. The boys were the heartiest, jolliest fellows that
ever threw a quoit or kicked a ball; we knew every orchard, every
bathing place, every level piece of land for racing or cricket, every
hill side for nutting, and hedge-row for blackberrying, within twelve
miles of the school. We were all hand-and-glove in every exploit, and
many a glorious scrape we got into. Poor Dr. Spanker, how it was he
did not go out of his mind we never could make out; but he was
such an easy-going, good-natured man, and so thoroughly
sympathised with young life, that he winked at many things which
other schoolmasters would have made a terrible fuss about, and
never punished anybody for their freaks unless those freaks
infringed upon some moral law. We loved the old Doctor as cordially
as if he had been our father, and in the whole school I don’t believe
there was one boy who would not rather have had his teeth knocked
down his throat than have wilfully said or done anything which
would have given the dear old gentleman pain.
The boys were not mere school acquaintances, but real friends;
and now, although years have passed away, the best friends I have
in the world are those who were my friends when I was a boy at
school. Andrew Morris was one of my great chums, and never did
two boys “hit it” more thoroughly than did we. In sport, in study,
and in more serious things, our thoughts, and desires, and
aspirations were as one.
It was in the winter of 18— that my story commences. Christmas
was at hand; the school had broken up for the holidays, and Andrew
Morris had been invited to spend the first fortnight with me at my
father’s house in Marantby. There were coaches in those days; and,
as we sat on the roof wrapped up to the chin with the snow falling
around us, we talked about our plans for the holidays, and
wondered what sort of a programme they had drawn up at home for
our amusement.
It was a cheery sight to see our house as it stood among the trees
in the snow, with columns of smoke rising from the chimneys, and
lights gleaming in the hall and from the windows. Long before the
coach drew up, our loud hallos had brought all the family to the
door; and then there was such a commotion as to who should get
the first kiss, and who should carry in the boxes. In the commotion,
my sister Nell ran up to Andrew Morris and gave him a good sound
kiss, and then uttered a little scream, as if she had mistaken him for
me. (O! Nelly, Nelly, sly little puss, that was not the first time you
had seen Andrew, and that was not the last kiss he ever had from
you.)
“Now for a surprise, John,” said Nelly, when we had taken off our
coats and beaten off some of the snow. My mother, and I, and
Andrew, and Cousin Mary, all crowded round, as Nelly, with her hand
on the dining-room door, said “Open Sesame!” And when the door
opened I confess I was surprised; such a sight burst upon me as I
had never seen in my home before. The carpets were up, and the
floors were chalked in the old-fashioned way, which has long since
gone out; the furniture was removed, and rout seats were all round
the room; the folding-doors had been taken down, so as to throw
two rooms into one; the walls were decorated with banners and
beautiful devices in evergreen; and, there was no mistake about it,
that this year we were going to have a regular Christmas party.
“We have sent invitations to everybody,” said Nelly, “and to-
morrow night, that is Christmas Eve, we shall have such a party as
Marantby never saw before.”
Andrew Morris and I were enthusiastic in our admiration of the
arrangements, and promised to give all the assistance we could to
complete any plans that might yet remain for the evening’s
entertainment. But, as soon as my father’s back was turned, I
whispered to Nell, “However did you manage to get father’s consent
to all this? He has always made such terrible objections, even to
having a few friends, for fear he should be thought extravagant, that
I cannot make out how he should have agreed to this.”
“Oh, mamma will tell you all about it by-and-bye. Come along and
have supper, for, after your long ride, you must be half-starved.”
So, after supper, when the others had gone to bed, I got my
mother into a cosy chat, and asked her all about it.
 “Well, my dear John,” she said, “I’m rather anxious about your
father. As you know, he is far from being a poor man, but he has, for
the last two or three years, had a strange notion that his money will
take to itself wings and fly away, and a terrible dread of poverty, and
ultimately the workhouse or starvation, is always haunting him.
There is not the slightest foundation for this fancy, which arises from
some mental disorder; and, at times, he is perfectly aware that it is
but a fancy, and has had the very best medical advice; but, at other
times, the impression comes upon him so vividly that his life is
perfectly wretched. So we are having this party for two or three
reasons; one is to try and enliven him with a change of scene;
another, to show him that he will not be ruined by the expense. We
must all do what we can to make him enter into the spirit of the
amusement; for, although he has given his free consent to all the
arrangements, his manner has been very strange at intervals to-day,
and I can see that something oppresses him. Do your best then, my
boy, to cheer him up, and let us pray God to give him better health
to enjoy the mercies with which He has surrounded us.”
I shared in my mother’s anxiety; but on the next day my father
seemed so much better, and joined so very heartily in all we did,
that in the bustle and excitement of expectation I almost forgot the
conversation of the preceding evening. At last the carriages began to
arrive, and the merry-making commenced. Everybody was in high
spirits, for the weather was just the right sort for the season, with
the snow thick upon the ground, and the difficulties in the journey to
our house had made some fun for the guests, and put them in the
cue for more. My father was as merry as any of us, and warmly
welcomed each arrival; and when the music struck up for a set of
quadrilles, he accepted the challenge of my mother, and danced with
her. I could not help noticing, however, that when he was not
engaged in conversation, his countenance fell, and a look of pain
came on his pale face; but he recovered himself almost
instantaneously, and was at once himself again. Merrily flew the
hours, and never were charades played with greater spirit, or dances
whizzed through with more delight. It was nearly supper time, and I
went to find my father, who, on a plea of head-ache, had withdrawn
for a little while into the study. But he had left the study, and so,
fearing that he was really unwell, I went to his bedroom, but found
that he was not there. For a moment a horrible undefined dread
came over me; I trembled in every limb, and cold perspiration
dropped down my face. There was no reason for this; there were
twenty places where my father might be; it was not at all an unusual
thing for him to seclude himself when he felt unwell, but for all that
I could not divest myself of the strange feeling that came over me
that something wrong had happened. I ran hastily through all the
bedrooms, and then looked into every room down stairs, but he was
not there. Old Williams, the gardener, was in the hall, and I asked
him if he had seen my father? “Yes, Master John; he was here about
half-an-hour ago. He put on a stout pair of boots, and his top coat,
and said he should go into the stable to wish the horses and old
Carlo a merry Christmas.” I went at once to the stables and called to
him, but no answer came in reply. A lantern was in the loft, and,
lighting it, I walked round the place to see if I could trace whether,
by his footprints, he had been there. The snow marked his steps
distinctly, but they were turned from the stable towards the
paddock. Again that horrible dread, which had seized me in the
bedroom, returned, for I knew that at the bottom of the paddock ran
the river, swollen by the recent snows! Mechanically I followed the
footprints, which led directly to the river. I tried to call out, but a
suffocating feeling like night-mare rendered me speechless. I fell
down on my knees in the snow, and cried with my whole heart to
the merciful Father in heaven to avert the evil I so intensely
dreaded. Strength came to me with the necessity; my voice came
back to me, and I made the silent night ring with my father’s name.
But no answer came, and now I stood at the edge of the rushing
river, and the marks of the footprints had ceased! There was no time
to be lost; the snow, which before had been falling gently, now
began to descend in a storm, and every moment would serve to
obliterate the tracks of his steps, if there were any more that might
be found. With a cry to heaven to give me strength for all that
remained to be done, I flew back to the house. Nelly was the first to
meet me upon my return, and my face betrayed to her my anxiety.
“My darling Nell, be calm and strong. I fear something has happened
to father. Comfort mother while I and some of the friends are away.
Go first to Williams, and tell him to come here with all the lanterns
he can get, and then bid him saddle both the horses without delay.”
A brave little woman was my sister Nell! I can see her pale face, and
her white hands clenched together, as she stood beside me that
night in her pretty evening dress, and heard my hurried news. In
less than ten minutes I had a party of eight trusty men around me,
to whom I told my suspicions, and begged their help. Among them
was Captain Wray, an old friend of my father’s; he saw with a
military instinct the position, and at once took the command of the
expedition. “Let four follow each other through the paddock to the
river,” said he, “and then divide, two to the right, and two to the left.
John, Andrew Morris, Williams, and I, will go across the bridge, and
adopt the same plan on the other side of the river. Now let us be off,
and may God grant us success.”
A deep and earnest amen followed, and we started off.
I will not give you a history of that terrible time; in vain we
searched for footprints, in vain we dragged the river; messengers
were sent into every village round about, letters were sent to all the
principal posting stations along the high roads, information was
given to the London constabulary, rewards were offered for any clue
of the missing one; and every effort failed.
Had it not been for my good friend Andrew Morris, I do not know
how I should have gone through the fatigue and anxiety of those
days. He never seemed to tire; he was determined not to encourage
a feeling of despair; at one moment he was devising some fresh
scheme, and the next comforting my mother and Nelly with hope. At
last Andrew and I, when we found every endeavour in our
neighbourhood fruitless, determined to go up to London and seek
for him there. We journeyed from street to street, gazing earnestly
in the face of every passer by; we went from workhouse to
workhouse, from shipping place to shipping place; and at last, worn
out with fatigue, we returned to Marantby disappointed and
distressed.
Time wore away; Andrew Morris went home to engage in
business, and I returned no more to school, for the management of
my father’s affairs now devolved in a great measure upon me. The
spring time came, with its songs of birds and perfume of flowers;
the glad summer sunshine played upon the murmuring waters of
Marantby; the red leaves of autumn fell in gorgeous showers, and
the silver traceries of frost sparkled in the wintry nights, but still our
home was desolate; and so it came to pass that Christmas Day
became a day full of painful memories.
Six years passed, and time, the great physician for the wounded
heart, had taken the sting of our sorrow away. Our good Father in
heaven never allows a sorrow to come into this world unless He
sends a joy to counterbalance it; life would be a stunted and
deformed thing, if, when the night enveloped it, the bright sunshine
of morning did not as surely follow; and the law which regulates the
outer world has its counterpart in the inner, that “while the earth
remaineth, seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer
and winter, and day and night, shall not cease.” Well, Christmas Day
was coming round again, and we determined that we would spend it
in London, with Andrew Morris. It was a cosy little party we made on
Christmas Eve—I and my mother, and Captain Wray, Mr. and Mrs.
Morris, sen., and Andrew and Nelly, and the baby. Whose baby? Why
Nelly’s, to be sure, and never was there a prettier and prouder little
mother, or a handsomer and happier young husband, than Nelly and
Andrew Morris. There was no boisterous fun or merriment, but there
was a great deal of quiet enjoyment amongst us as we sat at the
table after dinner and played round games, or as Nelly and Andrew
sang duets, while baby crowed a chorus. There was an air of
homeliness, too, and comfort about the house, and that was
increased tenfold from the fact that the night was bitterly cold. The
wind roared along the streets, and every now and then the hail
came down in a perfect cataract. The evening slipped rapidly away,
and, as Martha came in at about ten o’clock to lay the cloth for
supper, a pause in the rattle of the conversation within, and a pause
in the rattle of hailstones without, enabled us to hear voices
somewhere along the street joined in very good harmony, singing a
Christmas carol. By-and-bye they came opposite our window, and
struck up that fine old carol—

“When Christ was born of Mary free,

In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,
Angels sang then with mirth and glee,
In Excelsis Gloria.”

Now I confess I never had a passion for street music, but this was
much beyond the average of merit. It was a part of my education to
love and venerate old customs, and it was a part of my creed always
at Christmas time to relieve, as far as lay in my power, those who
were excluded from the privileges which are enjoyed by those who
have been more highly favoured by a kind providence. So, putting
on my hat, I went to the door with a jug of foaming ale and a glass,
and Andrew followed me with a good many shining pieces of silver
in his hand, which he had collected in the room. As soon as I
opened the door, an old man, with a lantern in one hand and his hat
in the other, stood before us to receive the contribution. Just as
Andrew was putting the money into his hat the light flashed up into
his face. A spasm of joy and fear shot through me; I staggered back,
and should have fallen, had not Andrew held me. The old man was
my father! Wrinkled as the face was, white as the hair had grown,
bent as was that once graceful figure, I was absolutely certain that I
was not mistaken. In a moment my self-possession returned, and in
that moment I realized the meaning of the phrase, “quick as
thought.” For I remembered that I was only a boy when my father
went away, and he could not recognise me. I remembered that a
sudden shock of joy might deprive me of my mother, the very while
it restored to me my father. I understood that Andrew had
ascertained the meaning of my sudden emotion, for he had adroitly
screened me from the gaze of my father and the minstrels, and was
beginning to pour out the ale for them. I thought, too, that a sudden
revelation of myself to my father might be injurious to him; and not
knowing the state of his mind, it might be the most fatal thing to
surprise him. So at once my plans were made; and all this happened
in a moment! I whispered to Andrew, “Be spokesman, for my voice
may betray me. Invite them to supper at the ‘King’s Arms’ in an
hour, on condition that they will sing some carols. Say they shall be
well paid. Follow them till then, and don’t let your eyes be off my
father for an instant. I will gently prepare them indoors.”
“All right,” said Andrew, “but come inside with me first, while I get
my coat, and tell them I am going. I will not damage your plan.”
There was great surprise when Andrew called for his coat, and
said to his wife, “Nelly, my dear, I must leave you and our good
friends for a little while. I know you will pardon me, but I have just
seen an old friend who I knew in my school days, and he seems in
distress. I can’t ask him in here to-night, but I will see him into the
hotel at the end of the street; and, John, come for me in half-an-
hour to release me, if I am detained so long.”
Without waiting longer than to give Nelly a kiss he was off, and
the street door closed upon him. Then began an attack of questions
which puzzled my ingenuity to parry. There was something
remarkably strange in the event, and their curiosity was strongly
excited. There was not much time to lose, and the questions were
working me towards the subject. At last Nelly said, “Cannot you
guess, John, at all, who this stranger is, or what he wants with
Andrew.” And then I said, “I did not mean to tell you, or to awaken
sad memories, especially to-night, but I think the stranger will be
able to tell him something of the fate of father!”
I had said enough and seen enough to know that I might safely
carry out my plan. Affected as my mother was by the news, she was
perfectly calm. She did not weep, or dream of fainting, or going into
hysterics, but a holy joy lighted up her face, and her very smile was
a thanksgiving. Brave little Nell clasped her hands together (it was
just the attitude she used on that other Christmas Eve), and said,
“Thank God.” For a minute or two there was a dead silence in the
room, only broken by Captain Wray, who took snuff violently.
“John,” said my mother, at length, and her voice faltered just a
very little, “John, you know more than you have told; let me hear it
all. I am more than strong enough to bear it; I have waited for years
in preparation of this hour. Tell me, when did it happen, and where?”
I sat down between her and Nelly, and said, as calmly as I could,
“Now, my dearest mother, be brave and cheery, father is still alive. It
would not be well for you to see him for some time, but he is in
London, and well.”
The tears came at last; not a dry eye was in the room; but when I
left them to go with Captain Wray to the “King’s Arms” (for he could
not remain inactive), a voice had said to the storm of feeling,
“Peace, be still;” and there was a great calm.
My story is nearly ended. That night I made myself known to my
father, and the shock of feeling at seeing me and learning that my
mother and sister were alive and near him, instead of doing him
injury, effected a good that probably nothing else could have done.
His was a strange wild history, and it was only little by little, and that
extending over a long time, as the powers of mind and memory
gradually returned, that I learnt it. When he left his home it was
under the terrible delusion that nothing but the workhouse was
before him, and he could not bear to see the distress that would
come upon his family. He took ship to America, and on the voyage
his mind gave way. Arrived in that country, he was placed in proper
care by the authorities, but in all the wanderings of his mind he
never divulged his name or residence. Several times his reason
became temporarily restored, but then the thought of his deserted
wife and home was too terrible for him ever to think resolutely of
returning thither. Years passed in this way, and during his rational
periods he had to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. At last he
so far recovered that his determination to return to his native land,
and at least ascertain what had become of his family, was carried
into effect. Penniless when he arrived, and the season cold and
inclement, he had to endure severe hardships. Circumstances
brought him into the company of a band of carol singers, to whom
he engaged himself as money collector, and he had resolved to work
his way to Marantby as soon as he was able.
The best medical advice that could be had in London was obtained
for him, and, by the blessing of God, his health of body and mind
was restored. I will not attempt to describe the meeting with my
mother, for no eye saw it. The effect was not injurious, on the
contrary, from that day his old habits and spirits began to return,
and for many years his life was one of unmingled peace and
happiness.
And so it came to pass that Christmas Day ceased to be a day of
painful memories, for we could say, “He was dead and is alive again,
and was lost and is found.” Now his body rests beside that of my
mother in the little churchyard at Marantby, and their spirits are in
the bright world, where, perhaps, the angels are singing again this
night that beautiful song they sang years ago, “Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace and goodwill towards men.”
 CASTLE CONNOR.
By Mona B. Bickerstaffe,
Author of “Begin Well, End Well;” “Araki, the Damio,” &c.

Christmas was always a merry season at Castle Connor, and not less
merry than usual was the Christmas time of which I am going to tell
you. The house was as full as it could hold, and added to the usual
number of guests were three English cousins, who had come over to
pay their first visit to their Irish relatives. At the public school from
which they came, they were known as Max, Major, and Minor, and so
we shall name them here. Max (whose real name was Dick Lindsaye)
was in his seventeenth year, and only famous at K⸺ for being the
biggest dunce, the biggest bully, and the biggest boaster in the
school; for, while careful to avoid every kind of danger, he was prone
to forge Falstaffian tales of the dangers he had surmounted, when
no one was there to see him. Tom and Harold Cunliffe were his step-
brothers; the former was a soft-faced boy, about thirteen years of
age, with curly, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a countenance
beaming with good nature and good temper, but evidently a being
more capable of enjoying the dolce far niente than any state of life
in which he might be expected to be an active or energetic member
of society. Yes, a quiet, easy-going youth was Tom, very different
from the twelve-year-old Harry, a wiry, springy young fellow, who,
while living in great awe of his big brother, was always laying plots
for fun at his expense.
Major and Minor were great favourites wherever they went, while
no one could endure Max’s snobbish conceit and self-importance. To
have a speck of mud upon his highly polished boots, or a grain of
dust upon his ever-glossy clothes, was to spoil his pleasure for the
day, while his young brothers, unfortunately, went off to the
opposite extreme, and were only too regardless of their personal
appearance.
The family at Castle Connor consisted of the father, mother, two
daughters, and three sons. The latter were manly, warm-hearted
youths, quick-tempered and quick-witted, first rate horsemen,
masters of all field sports, but not very polished in their manners.
They had never been to any school, but were brought up at home,
under the care of a tutor, whom they managed just as they pleased,
and who found himself in too snug a berth at Castle Connor, to
venture to make it less agreeable by complaints that his pupils too
often preferred sporting to Latin. He (Mr. Moriarty) was at Christmas
time always absent, enjoying the holidays at his own home, so the
youths were then left entirely to their own devices, which generally
led them to play tricks of all kinds upon the rest of the household.
Directly they saw Max, they (as Major said) “twigged him at once,”
and came to the conclusion that he was fair game for fun. He soon
adopted a patronizing manner to Dennis Connor, most aggravating
to that high-spirited youth, who cast about in his very fertile mind as
to how he might, once for all, humble the self-conceit of his lofty
cousin; and finding that his father was to be away from home for a
day or two, he laid his plans accordingly. They were standing
together in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner, when he turned
abruptly to Max, and asked him if he had seen the dungeons of
Castle Connor?
“The dungeons! no. I never knew there were any.”
Mrs. Connor did not appear to know it either, for she looked up in
astonishment, but a look from her son silenced her.
“Don’t say anything now,” said Dennis, mysteriously; “I’ll tell you
all about it after dinner.”
After dinner, accordingly, Dennis took him aside, and told him that
he never mentioned the dungeons before his father or mother, for
“fact is,” said he, “they are a great source of annoyance and
discomfort to them, and all of us. Dark deeds have been done down
there, in the times of the fights between the O’Connors and the
Condons. Weird sounds come from them in the night time, especially
on certain nights, when one Con Condon, the headless, is said to
come to look for his head, which centuries ago was taken from him
by our ancestor, Modha O’Connor, who married a daughter of Oilioll
Olum,[3] King of Munster. Oilioll had carried off a beautiful lady,
Modweena Condon, but somehow she contrived to escape from the
place where he had locked her up, and seeing him sleeping, she in
revenge bit off his ear while he slept, whereon Oilioll, roused by the
pain, seized a spear, and thrust it through her with such force that
he flattened the point against a stone in the wall. Drawing forth the
spear, regardless of his victim’s agonies, he tried to straighten the
point with his teeth, but it had been poisoned, and from that
moment his teeth became jet black. I only tell you this in case you
should notice the dark colour of father’s teeth, for the blackness still
runs in the family; but, as I was saying, Modha O’Connor took the
Condon prisoner, brought him to his castle here, shut him up in the
dungeon, and coolly cut off his head. When the clan heard of it, they
assembled in great force, stormed the castle, broke into the
dungeons, and found the body of their chief, but nowhere could they
find his head. The body was buried with all funeral honours, when
the earth fell over it, wild unearthly voices sang the Dahtan Da mort,
Augustha Cadine; but the spirit of Con can never rest easy until the
head is found. The circumstance I have told you occurred in the
second century, so, of course, the head must now be a skull, but
though we have, generation after generation, sought for it, it has
never been found. Well, some time ago an old crone passed this way
(she was for all the world like a banshee), and, pointing up at the
house, she said she would come again soon after the arrival of a
certain youth, of whom it has been predicted that he alone can find
Con Condon’s head. They say she has been seen about the place to-
day. Have you seen her, Major?”
“Look!” said Minor. “Isn’t there something dark sitting under the
great arbutus tree? Yes; surely there is. Look, Max.”
 Max looked, and while he did so, the moon, breaking through a
cloud, lighted up the carriage drive in front of the house; while its
rays, falling upon an arbutus tree, distinctly revealed a dark figure
crouched beside it. It seemed to be a very old woman, sitting, Irish
fashion, with her chin resting on her knees, while she rocked herself
to and fro, and crooned out a wailing Irish keen. Her face (which
was very dark coloured) was turned towards the boys, and her large
features and long grey hair gave her a very uncanny appearance.
Seeing Dennis, she beckoned to him. “Come with me, Max,” said he;
“I’m awfully frightened.” “I’ll go, too,” said Harry. “And I.” “And I.” So
they all stepped through the open window, and were soon standing
round the old crone.

“Save ye,” said Dennis.

“Save you, kindly,” said she.
“Are you the grana?” asked Dennis.
“Yes, I’m grana, grana, of Carrigogunnel. I’m come from St.
Patrick’s purgatory, an’ there I left Con Condon the headless; an’
says he, ‘Grana,’ says he, ‘I’ve been here this tousandh year and
more, an’ I’m tired of it entirely; but I can’t git out,’ says he, ‘till I
find my head, which that thafe, Modha O’Connor, tuck from me.
Good grana,’ says he, ‘go to Castle Connor an’ find it for me; for it is
written,’ says he, ‘that there is wan there now that is Irish, an’
Scotch, an’ Sassenach, all in one, an’ ’tis he alone that can find me
head.’ This is the message of Con Condon the headless; an’ you,”
shrieked the hag, pointing her bony finger at Max, “you, whose
mother was a Connor, yer father a Scotchman, an’ yerself a
Sassenach, come with me an’ find Con Condon’s head!”
“Mercy,” said Max, aside, to Dennis; “what must I do; where must
I go? I daren’t go a step with that terrible old woman.”
“Terrible old woman!” screamed the hag. “Yes, I’m terrible; I’m
grana of Carrigogunnel, sister to the mighty Finn. Don’t cross me,
young man, or ’twill be worse for ye.”
“What must I do?” pleaded Max, in real agony, and trembling in
every limb. “Dennis, speak to her.”
Dennis spoke to the woman, and then turned to Max: “She insists
that you go with her to the dungeons, but says we may go, too, as
far as the door; so we shall be near you, and, perhaps, you won’t
see Con the headless; being a Sassenach may break the spell.”
“See him,” said Max; “I should think not, I don’t believe such
superstitions as you Irish do.”
“Oh, very well,” said Dennis; “that being the case we can go on
immediately.”
“Yes, come on,” said the hag, and she slowly rose from her
crouching posture, and, to Max’s great horror, stood before him,
nearly six feet five in height. “Come on,” she cried, “come on!” and
on she went with long strides, while Max, frightened out of his
seventeen senses, followed her, and the others came close behind.
Suddenly the hag stopped: “Dennis O’Connor,” said she, “you lade
the way until we come to the foot of the steps, thin the Sassenach
must go on wid me alone.”
 Well, on they went, round by the back door, through the kitchens
(where, strange to say, not a servant was to be seen), until they
came to the top of a flight of steep stone steps, to all appearances
cut out of the solid rock.
“Bring a light,” said the hag; “bring two lights.”
Indeed even two lights failed to throw much light on the subject,
only serving to show the horrors of the darkness before them, for
here and there in the wall were narrow passages or crevices, and
certain projections which cast deep shadows, and had a very fearful
effect. The light emitted from two small tallow candles did not much
improve the matter, for, though the shadows became less, the
crevices remained as dark and darker than ever.
“Oh, I can’t go on,” said Max, turning very white, and looking as if
he were going to faint.
“Here,” said the hag, drawing a flask from her bosom (very like a
railway flask, but perhaps they use them in St. Patrick’s purgatory),
“drink this,” said she; “’tis good an’ old, for ’tis it that sperrited Brien
Boru when he fought that mighty battle, when meself saw 3,000
Danes lying dead together.”
“Drink,” said Dennis; “I’ll take a pull at it, too; ’twill keep your
courage up, man.”
“Oh, ’tisn’t that I’m afraid,” said Max, but he drank at the flask,
and finding it good, tried it again, and the colour came to his face,
and down the stone steps he followed the grana, until they stood at
a heavy oaken door.
“The kay,” said the grana, and Dennis handed her an ancient
clumsy-looking key. She turned it in the lock, and pushed open the
door with such force that it went back with a tremendous crash,
causing a sudden gust of cold air that put out both the candles. But
they were not in the dark! No; for there was a faint and ghastly
light, just enough to show them that they were in a huge chamber
hewn out of the rock. Max’s face became livid. He looked at his
companions; their faces were livid too, and as for the grana, her
countenance was something unearthly.
Presently there was a sound like the clanking of a heavy chain,
and far away, somewhere in the depths of the vault, were alternately
heard heavy despairing groans and a wailing cry, like “My head! my
head!”
“That’s him,” said the grana. “Out, every mother’s son of ye, save
the Sassenach an’ me. Quick, or the spell will be broken;” and
seizing Max tight by the wrist, she pulled him on into the vault.
“Sassenach,” said she, “have ye iver read the Bratheim-hadth, the
book of sacred judgment? Ye havn’t, more’s the pity, for from that
book

‘The priest, the prince, the bard, the man of art,

An’ you, too, in this vault might larn yer part.’

Howsomiver, as yer ignorant of mystheries, ye must mind what I

tell ye, an’ the first white thing ye sees on the ground grab it up
quick, afore the evil wan hides it agin. Whisht—”
She might well say “whisht,” for nearer and nearer, from the
depths of the vault, came the clanking chain, and the hollow voice,
crying, “My head, my head! ullagone, ullagone!”
Max, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels,
allowed himself to be dragged on by the grana. The faint blue light
was becoming fainter and fainter; the wailing “ullagone” was
drawing nearer and nearer, when his foot stumbled against
something; he stooped to look at it—it was white; he took it up—it
was a skull! Max fainted.

When he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a vault

indeed, but neither skulls nor groans, nor ghastly blue lights shed
their weird influence round him, but a cheerful glow, as of many
candles, lighted up the place; and as he looked round he saw, not
headless Con, but more than one hogshead, for the vault was, in
fact, a spacious cellar, contrived with much care by Master Dennis
Connor’s grandfather, for the accommodation of those choice wines
from Burgundy and elsewhere, which he had “loved, not wisely, but
too well.”
Max sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him: “Where am I,”
said he; “and how did I come here?” Then, as memory returned, he
asked, anxiously, “Where is she?”
“She’s here!” and before him stood Grana of Carrigogunnel, who,
tearing off her long grey horsehair locks and the rest of her
costume, appeared in the proper character of his decidedly gaunt,
but not at all horrible, cousin Ned.
“Here I am, Max; I’ll wash off the walnut juice by-and-bye.”
“Serve you right if it won’t come off,” said his mother. “It was too
bad of you all to frighten this poor fellow nearly out of his life. It is
well for you your father is not at home.”
“’Tis so,” said the butler, who all the while had been privy to the
joke; “they a’most kilt him intirely with fright. Niver mind ’em in
there; ’twas only the skull of the ould white cow that ye tuck up! Ha,
ha, ha! he, he, he!” and in spite of all their pity for the victim, Mrs.
Connor and the girls could not help laughing at the absurdity of the
whole thing.
“You see, mother,” said Dennis (to whom Mrs. Connor was
administering a private lecture on practical jokes), “we’d never have
done it, only he was such an awfully conceited chap. We told him
some stories the other day, and he tossed up his nose and talked
about Irish ignorance and superstition. I knew he was a hollow sham
all the while; and you see, directly he heard the hag’s story he was
carried away by his fright, and never stopped to reason about
anything. He’ll never lord it over Major and Minor again, that’s one
comfort; the former has twice his sense, and Harry’s a plucky little
fellow, and will be sure, if he tries it, to give him a reminder about
Con Condon the headless, and the white cow’s skull.”

[3] Oilioll Olum was king of Munster in the second century. He

was a ferocious and powerful monarch. The story here told of him
is recorded in the ancient annals of Ireland.
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