"The art of declamation," says Colton, "has been sinking in value from the moment that speakers were foolish enough to publish and readers wise enough to read."

All speakers are not foolish enough to publish; all readers are not wise enough to read. Besides, there is still a distinct art of oratory which has not lost its hold on the ears of men.

The orator weeps and he thunders. His audience by turns laments and clamors. But the orator, on the inner side of his spirit, is more calm. The practice of his wiles has dulled the edge of his feelings.

It may be, therefore, that the orator's art is not honest. Yet who knows that the painter himself really admires the landscape which, in his picture, gathers so much fame for him? The interests of the nation are now to be husbanded in this First Congressional district.

The silvery voice of the gifted orator is to reclaim the wandering or lagging voter.

The man who has lost faith in the power of the ballot is to be revived with the stimulus of human speech. It can be done. It is done in every campaign.

Lockwin is doing it each afternoon and night. Bravely he meets the cry of "Money and machine." One would think he needed no better text.

But his secret text is Davy. Davy, whose life has been intrusted to Dr. Floddin, the friend of the poor, the healer who healed the eyes of the peddling huckster's son's sister, the eyes of the housekeeper's relatives, and the eyes of Davy himself.

The orator's speech may be impa.s.sioned, but he is thinking of Davy.

The orator may be infusing the n.o.blest of patriotism in his hearers'

hearts, but often he hardly knows what he is saying.

At a telling point he stops to think of Davy.

The hearer confesses that the question is unanswered.

Is Davy safe? Of course. "Then, my fellow-citizens, behold the superb rank of America among nations!" [Cheers.]

Is Dr. Tarpion to be gone another week, and is the cook right when she says Davy must eat? "Can we not, my friends and neighbors, lend our humble aid in restoring these magnificent inst.i.tutions of liberty to their former splendor?" [Cries of "Hear!" "Hear!" "Down in front!"]

"The winning candidate," says the majority press, "is making a prodigious effort. It is confidentially explained that he was wounded by the charges of desertion or lukewarmness, which were circulated during the week of the primaries."

Dr. Floddin is therefore to take care of Davy. Dr. Floddin's horse is sick. It is a poor nag at best--a fifty-cents-a-call steed. The doctor meantime has a horse from the livery.

Davy is to continue the emetic treatment. He sits on the floor in the parlor and turns his orguinette. "Back to Our Mountains" is his favorite air. He has twenty-eight tunes, and he plays Verdi's piece twenty-eight times as often as any of the others.

"Oh, Davy, you'll kill us!" laments the housekeeper, for the little orguinette is stridulent and loud.

"He'll kill himself," says the cook. "He's not strong enough to grind that hand-organ. He eats nothing at all, at all."

"Papa isn't here any more, but I take my medicine," the child says.

The drug is weakening his stomach.

"It is the only way," says Dr. Floddin, "to relieve his lungs."

"Are you sure he is safe?" asks Esther. "Are you sure it was asthma?"

"Oh, yes. Did you not see the white foam? That is asthma."

"You do not come often enough, doctor. I know Mr. Lockwin would be angry if he knew."

"My horse will be well to-morrow and I can call twice. But the child has pa.s.sed the crisis. You must soon give him air. Let him play a while in the back yard. His lungs must be accustomed to the cold of winter."

"I presume Mr. Lockwin will take us south in December."

"Yes, I guess he'd better."

But Esther does not let Davy go out. The rattle is still in the little chest.

Lockwin is home at one o'clock in the morning. He visits Davy's bed.

How beautiful is the sleeping child! "My G.o.d! if he had died!"

Lockwin is up and away at seven o'clock in the morning. "Be careful of the boy, Esther," he says. "What does the doctor seem to think?"

"He gives the same medicine," says Esther, "but Davy played his orguinette for over an hour yesterday."

"He did! Good! Esther, that lifts me up. I wish I could have heard him!"

"David, I fear that you are overtasking yourself. Do be careful!

please be careful!"

Tears come in the fine eyes of the wife. Lockwin's back is turned.

"Good! Good!" he is saying. "So Davy played! I'll warrant it was 'Back to Our Mountains!'"

"Yes," says the wife.

"Good! Good! That's right. By-bye, Esther."

And the man goes out to victory whistling the lament of the crooning witch, "Back to Our Mountains! Back to Our Mountains!"

"Why should Davy be so fond of that?" thinks the whistler.

But this week of campaign cannot stretch out forever. It must end, just as Lockwin feels that another speech had killed him. It must end with Lockwin's nerves agog, so that when a book falls over on the shelves he starts like a deer at a shot.

It is Monday night, and there will be no speeches by the candidates.

Esther has prepared to celebrate the evening by a gathering of a half-dozen intimate friends to hear an eminent violinist, whose performances are the delight of Chicago. The violinist is doubly eminent because he has a wife who is devoted to her husband's renown.

Lockwin sits on a sofa with his pet nestled at the side. What a sense of rest is this! How near heaven is this! He looks down on his little boy and has but one wish--that he might be across the room to behold the picture. Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes!

Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to strike those heavy opening chords of that "Faust" fantasie?

"Will they play 'Back to Our Mountains?'" whispers the child.

"Keep still, Davy," the man says, himself silenced by a great rendition.

"The doctor's horse is sick," whispers Davy, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes, I know," says the man. "Bravo, professor, bravo! You are a great artist."

"But the doctor's both horses is sick," insists Davy.