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That evening he packed a leathern bag full of bread and meat, and
early the next morning he set out on his journey to the dreadful
wilds. It was a long, weary, and doleful journey, especially after he
had gone beyond the habitations of men, but the Minor Canon kept on
bravely, and never faltered. The way was longer than he had expected,
and his provisions soon grew so scanty that he was obliged to eat but
a little every day, but he kept up his courage, and pressed on, and,
after many days of toilsome travel, he reached the dreadful wilds.

When the Griffin found that the Minor Canon had left the town he
seemed sorry, but showed no disposition to go and look for him. After
a few days had passed, he became much annoyed, and asked some of the
people where the Minor Canon had gone. But, although the citizens had
been anxious that the young clergyman should go to the dreadful wilds,
thinking that the Griffin would immediately follow him, they were now
afraid to mention the Minor Canon's destination, for the monster
seemed angry already, and, if he should suspect their trick, he would
doubtless become very much enraged. So every one said he did not know,
and the Griffin wandered about disconsolate. One morning he looked
into the Minor Canon's schoolhouse, which was always empty now, and
thought that it was a shame that every thing should suffer on account
of the young man's absence.

"It does not matter so much about the church," he said, "for nobody
went there; but it is a pity about the school. I think I will teach it
myself until he returns."

It was the hour for opening the school, and the Griffin went inside
and pulled the rope which rang the schoolbell. Some of the children
who heard the bell ran in to see what was the matter, supposing it to
be a joke of one of their companions; but when they saw the Griffin
they stood astonished, and scared.

"Go tell the other scholars," said the monster, "that school is about
to open, and that if they are not all here in ten minutes, I shall
come after them." In seven minutes every scholar was in place.

Never was seen such an orderly school. Not a boy or girl moved, or
uttered a whisper. The Griffin climbed into the master's seat, his
wide wings spread on each side of him, because he could not lean back
in his chair while they stuck out behind, and his great tail coiled
around, in front of the desk, the barbed end sticking up, ready to tap
any boy or girl who might misbehave. The Griffin now addressed the
scholars, telling them that he intended to teach them while their
master was away. In speaking he endeavored to imitate, as far as
possible, the mild and gentle tones of the Minor Canon, but it must be
admitted that in this he was not very successful. He had paid a good
deal of attention to the studies of the school, and he determined not
to attempt to teach them anything new, but to review them in what they
had been studying; so he called up the various classes, and questioned
them upon their previous lessons. The children racked their brains to
remember what they had learned. They were so afraid of the Griffin's
displeasure that they recited as they had never recited before. One of
the boys far down in his class answered so well that the Griffin was
astonished.

"I should think you would be at the head," said he. "I am sure you
have never been in the habit of reciting so well. Why is this?"

"Because I did not choose to take the trouble," said the boy,
trembling in his boots. He felt obliged to speak the truth, for all
the children thought that the great eyes of the Griffin could see
right through them, and that he would know when they told a falsehood.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said the Griffin. "Go down to
the very tail of the class, and if you are not at the head in two
days, I shall know the reason why."

The next afternoon the boy was number one.

It was astonishing how much these children now learned of what they
had been studying. It was as if they had been educated over again. The
Griffin used no severity toward them, but there was a look about him
which made them unwilling to go to bed until they were sure they knew
their lessons for the next day.

The Griffin now thought that he ought to visit the sick and the poor;
and he began to go about the town for this purpose. The effect upon
the sick was miraculous. All, except those who were very ill indeed,
jumped from their beds when they heard he was coming, and declared
themselves quite well. To those who could not get up, he gave herbs
and roots, which none of them had ever before thought of as medicines,
but which the Griffin had seen used in various parts of the world; and
most of them recovered. But, for all that, they afterward said that no
matter what happened to them, they hoped that they should never again
have such a doctor coming to their bedsides, feeling their pulses and
looking at their tongues.

As for the poor, they seemed to have utterly disappeared. All those
who had depended upon charity for their daily bread were now at work
in some way or other; many of them offering to do odd jobs for their
neighbors just for the sake of their meals,--a thing which before had
been seldom heard of in the town. The Griffin could find no one who
needed his assistance.

The summer had now passed, and the autumnal equinox was rapidly
approaching. The citizens were in a state of great alarm and anxiety.
The Griffin showed no signs of going away, but seemed to have settled
himself permanently among them. In a short time, the day for his
semi-annual meal would arrive, and then what would happen? The monster
would certainly be very hungry, and would devour all their children.

Now they greatly regretted and lamented that they had sent away the
Minor Canon; he was the only one on whom they could have depended in
this trouble, for he could talk freely with the Griffin, and so find
out what could be done. But it would not do to be inactive. Some step
must be taken immediately. A meeting of the citizens was called, and
two old men were appointed to go and talk to the Griffin. They were
instructed to offer to prepare a splendid dinner for him on equinox
day,--one which would entirely satisfy his hunger. They would offer
him the fattest mutton, the most tender beef, fish, and game of
various sorts, and any thing of the kind that he might fancy. If none
of these suited, they were to mention that there was an orphan asylum
in the next town.

"Any thing would be better," said the citizens, "than to have our dear
children devoured."

The old men went to the Griffin, but their propositions were not
received with favor.

"From what I have seen of the people of this town," said the monster,
"I do not think I could relish any thing which was prepared by them.
They appear to be all cowards, and, therefore, mean and selfish. As
for eating one of them, old or young, I could not think of it for a
moment. In fact, there was only one creature in the whole place for
whom I could have had any appetite, and that is the Minor Canon, who
has gone away. He was brave, and good, and honest, and I think I
should have relished him."

"Ah!" said one of the old men very politely, "in that case I wish we
had not sent him to the dreadful wilds!"

"What!" cried the Griffin. "What do you mean? Explain instantly what
you are talking about!"

The old man, terribly frightened at what he had said, was obliged to
tell how the Minor Canon had been sent away by the people, in the hope
that the Griffin might be induced to follow him.

When the monster heard this, he became furiously angry. He dashed away
from the old men and, spreading his wings, flew backward and forward
over the town. He was so much excited that his tail became red-hot,
and glowed like a meteor against the evening sky. When at last he
settled down in the little field where he usually rested, and thrust
his tail into the brook, the steam arose like a cloud, and the water
of the stream ran hot through the town. The citizens were greatly
frightened, and bitterly blamed the old man for telling about the
Minor Canon.

"It is plain," they said, "that the Griffin intended at last to go and
look for him, and we should have been saved. Now who can tell what
misery you have brought upon us."

The Griffin did not remain long in the little field. As soon as his
tail was cool he flew to the town-hall and rang the bell. The citizens
knew that they were expected to come there, and although they were
afraid to go, they were still more afraid to stay away; and they
crowded into the hall. The Griffin was on the platform at one end,
flapping his wings and walking up and down, and the end of his tail
was still so warm that it slightly scorched the boards as he dragged
it after him.

When everybody who was able to come was there the Griffin stood still
and addressed the meeting.

"I have had a contemptible opinion of you," he said, "ever since I
discovered what cowards you are, but I had no idea that you were so
ungrateful, selfish, and cruel as I now find you to be. Here was your
Minor Canon, who labored day and night for your good, and thought of
nothing else but how he might benefit you and make you happy; and as
soon as you imagine yourselves threatened with a danger,--for well I
know you are dreadfully afraid of me,--you send him off, caring not
whether he returns or perishes, hoping thereby to save yourselves.
Now, I had conceived a great liking for that young man, and had
intended, in a day or two, to go and look him up. But I have changed
my mind about him. I shall go and find him, but I shall send him back
here to live among you, and I intend that he shall enjoy the reward of
his labor and his sacrifices. Go, some of you, to the officers of the
church, who so cowardly ran away when I first came here, and tell them
never to return to this town under penalty of death. And if, when your
Minor Canon comes back to you, you do not bow yourselves before him,
put him in the highest place among you, and serve and honor him all
his life, beware of my terrible vengeance! There were only two good
things in this town: the Minor Canon and the stone image of myself
over your church-door. One of these you have sent away, and the other
I shall carry away myself."

With these words he dismissed the meeting, and it was time, for the
end of his tail had become so hot that there was danger of its setting
fire to the building.

The next morning, the Griffin came to the church, and tearing the
stone image of himself from its fastenings over the great door, he
grasped it with his powerful fore-legs and flew up into the air. Then,
after hovering over the town for a moment, he gave his tail an angry
shake and took up his flight to the dreadful wilds. When he reached
this desolate region, he set the stone Griffin upon a ledge of a rock
which rose in front of the dismal cave he called his home. There the
image occupied a position somewhat similar to that it had had over the
church-door; and the Griffin, panting with the exertion of carrying
such an enormous load to so great a distance, lay down upon the
ground, and regarded it with much satisfaction. When he felt somewhat
rested he went to look for the Minor Canon. He found the young man,
weak and half-starved, lying under the shadow of a rock. After picking
him up and carrying him to his cave, the Griffin flew away to a
distant marsh, where he procured some roots and herbs which he well
knew were strengthening and beneficial to man, though he had never
tasted them himself. After eating these the Minor Canon was greatly
revived, and sat up and listened while the Griffin told him what had
happened in the town.

"Do you know," said the monster, when he had finished, "that I have
had, and still have, a great liking for you?"

"I am very glad to hear it," said the Minor Canon, with his usual
politeness.

"I am not at all sure that you would be," said the Griffin, "if you
thoroughly understood the state of the case, but we will not consider
that now. If some things were different, other things would be
otherwise. I have been so enraged by discovering the manner in which
you have been treated that I have determined that you shall at last
enjoy the rewards and honors to which you are entitled. Lie down and
have a good sleep, and then I will take you back to the town."

As he heard these words, a look of trouble came over the young man's
face.

"You need not give yourself any anxiety," said the Griffin, "about my
return to the town. I shall not remain there. Now that I have that
admirable likeness of myself in front of my cave, where I can sit at
my leisure, and gaze upon its noble features and magnificent
proportions, I have no wish to see that abode of cowardly and selfish
people."

The Minor Canon, relieved from his fears, lay back, and dropped into a
doze; and when he was sound asleep the Griffin took him up, and
carried him back to the town. He arrived just before daybreak, and
putting the young man gently on the grass in the little field where he
himself used to rest, the monster, without having been seen by any of
the people, flew back to his home.

When the Minor Canon made his appearance in the morning among the
citizens, the enthusiasm and cordiality with which he was received
were truly wonderful. He was taken to a house which had been occupied
by one of the vanished high officers of the place, and every one was
anxious to do all that could be done for his health and comfort. The
people crowded into the church when he held services, so that the
three old women who used to be his week-day congregation could not get
to the best seats, which they had always been in the habit of taking;
and the parents of the bad children determined to reform them at home,
in order that he might be spared the trouble of keeping up his former
school. The Minor Canon was appointed to the highest office of the old
church, and before he died, he became a bishop.

During the first years after his return from the dreadful wilds, the
people of the town looked up to him as a man to whom they were bound
to do honor and reverence; but they often, also, looked up to the sky
to see if there were any signs of the Griffin coming back. However, in
the course of time, they learned to honor and reverence their former
Minor Canon without the fear of being punished if they did not do so.

But they need never have been afraid of the Griffin. The autumnal
equinox day came round, and the monster ate nothing. If he could not
have the Minor Canon, he did not care for any thing. So, lying down,
with his eyes fixed upon the great stone griffin, he gradually
declined, and died. It was a good thing for some people of the town
that they did not know this.

If you should ever visit the old town, you would still see the little
griffins on the sides of the church; but the great stone griffin that
was over the door is gone.


NOTE: [1] Written in 1887. This story is used by permission of and
special arrangement with _Charles Scribner's Sons_, publishers.


BIOGRAPHY

Frank Richard Stockton, one of America's foremost story-tellers and
humorists, was born in Philadelphia in 1834. His father was a
Presbyterian minister who devoutly wished that his son might study
medicine. This wish was shattered early, for the son showed symptoms
of being a writer while yet in the Central High School of
Philadelphia. In competition with many of his schoolmates for a prize
offered for the best story, young Stockton won easily.

After finishing his high school course, he adopted the profession of
wood-engraver. Although he earned his living for several years by
carving wood, he never lost his desire to write, and practised, at
every spare moment, his favorite avocation. It was this careful and
patient training during his apprenticeship that finally made him the
expert story-teller that he is. It is very interesting to any one who
cares for the acquirement of an excellent style to note how all the
authors contained in this text have had to work with almost a
superhuman force to reach the heights of successful short-story
writing.

His first important publication, _Kate_, appeared in the _Southern
Literary Messenger_ in 1859. He then joined the staff of the
_Philadelphia Morning Post_, where he did regular newspaper work and
contributed to the _Riverside Magazine_ and _Hearth and Home_. In 1872
his _Stephen Skarridge's Christmas_ appeared in _Scribner's Monthly_.
Dr. J.G. Holland, editor of _Scribner's_, was so impressed with the
story that he made Mr. Stockton an assistant editor and persuaded him
to move to New York. In 1873 he joined the staff of the _St. Nicholas
Magazine_. His publication of the _Rudder Grange_ series in
_Scribner's_ _Monthly_ in 1878 made him famous. In 1882 he resigned
all editorial work and spent his entire time in literary composition.

Mr. Stockton possessed a frail body and very little physical
endurance. In spite of this physical handicap he was very vivacious
and gay. He was a genial and companionable man, loved by all who knew
him. He was very modest, even to the point of shyness, exceptionally
sincere, and quaintly humorous. He established homes in New Jersey and
West Virginia, where he spent the greater part of his time from 1882
until his death in 1902.


BIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES

_Famous Authors_ (107-122), B.F. Harkness.

_American Authors_ (59-73), F.W. Halsey.

"Character Sketch," _Book-Buyer_, 24:355-357.

"Home at Claymont," _Current Literature_, 30:221.

"Sketch," _Outlook_, 70: 1000-1001,

"Stockton and his Work," _Atlantic Monthly_, 87:136-138.


CRITICISMS

The writings of Frank R. Stockton are excellent representatives of the
man himself. How closely allied writer and writings are is very well
stated by Hamilton W. Mabie in the _Book-Buyer_ for June, 1902, "His
talk had much of the quality of his writing; it was full of quaint
conceits, whimsicalities, impossible suggestions offered with perfect
gravity. He was always perfectly natural; he never attempted to live
up to his part; in talk, at least, he never forced the note. His
attitude toward himself was slightly tinged with humor, and he knew
how to foil easily and pleasantly too great a pressure of praise."

His tales are extravagantly impossible but extremely realistic in
effect, filled with humorous situations and singular plots, and
peopled with eccentric characters that afford amusement on every page.
His most successful writing is done when he explains contrivances upon
which his story depends. He is an original and inventive expert
juggler who moves with careless ease to the most effective ends. His
characters are little more than pieces of mechanism that act when he
pulls the string. They have little emotion and even in their
love-making they show their emotion mostly for the sake of the
reader's amusement. His negro characters are exceptions to his general
treatment and are true to life. He inveigles the reader into believing
the most extravagant incidents by having a reliable witness narrate
them.

Stockton never stoops to the burlesque, cynic, or vulgar phases of
life to secure amusement. He is grotesque and droll in his manner, and
above all always restrained. His literary life is full of sprites and
gnomes that frolic before young children and once before mature
people. _The Griffin and the Minor Canon_ is a beautiful fairy story
lifted from childhood's thought and diction into a mature realm. His
humor is plain and simple, cool and keenly calculating. A friendly
critic has said of one of his stories, "With a gentle, ceaseless
murmur of amusement, and a flickering twinkle of smiles, the story
moves steadily on in the calm triumph of its assured and unassailable
absurdity, to its logical and indisputable impossibility." This
observation is very largely true of all his stories.


GENERAL REFERENCES

_Frank R. Stockton_, A.T.Q. Couch.

"Stockton's Method of Working," _Current Literature_, 32:495.

"Criticism," _Atheneum_, 1:532.

"Estimate," _Harper's Weekly_, 46:555.

COLLATERAL READINGS

_The Beeman of Orn, and Other Fanciful Tales_, Frank R. Stockton.

_The Lady or the Tiger_, Frank R. Stockton.

_Rudder Grange_, Frank R. Stockton.

_A Tale of Negative Gravity_, Frank R. Stockton.

_The Remarkable Wreck of the Thomas Hyde_, Frank R. Stockton.

_His Wife's Deceased Sister_, Frank R. Stockton.

_Legend of Sleepy Hollow_, Washington Irving.

_Monsieur du Miroir_, Nathaniel Hawthorne.

_At the End of the Passage_, Rudyard Kipling.

_The Vacant Lot_, Mary Wilkins Freeman.

_The Princess Pourquoi_, Margaret Sherwood.

_What Was It? A Mystery_, Fitz-James O'Brien.

_Wandering Willie's Tale_, Walter Scott.



THE PIECE OF STRING[1]

_By Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)_


On all the roads about Goderville the peasants and their wives were
coming toward the town, for it was market day. The men walked at an
easy gait, the whole body thrown forward with every movement of their
long, crooked legs, misshapen by hard work, by the bearing down on the
plough which at the same time causes the left shoulder to rise and the
figure to slant; by the mowing of the grain, which makes one hold his
knees apart in order to obtain a firm footing; by all the slow and
laborious tasks of the fields. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as
if varnished, adorned at the neck and wrists with a bit of white
stitchwork, puffed out about their bony chests like balloons on the
point of taking flight, from which protrude a head, two arms, and two
feet.

Some of them led a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And their
wives, walking behind the beast, lashed it with a branch still covered
with leaves, to hasten its pace. They carried on their arms great
baskets, from which heads of chickens or of ducks were thrust forth.
And they walked with a shorter and quicker step than their men, their
stiff, lean figures wrapped in scanty shawls pinned over their flat
breasts, their heads enveloped in a white linen cloth close to the
hair, with a cap over all.

Then a _char-a-bancs[2]_ passed, drawn by a jerky-paced nag, with two
men seated side by side shaking like jelly, and a woman behind, who
clung to the side of the vehicle to lessen the rough jolting.

On the square at Goderville there was a crowd, a medley of men and
beasts. The horns of the cattle, the high hats, with a long, hairy
nap, of the wealthy peasants, and the head dresses of the peasant
women, appeared on the surface of the throng. And the sharp, shrill,
high-pitched voices formed an incessant, uncivilized uproar, over
which soared at times a roar of laughter from the powerful chest of a
sturdy yokel, or the prolonged bellow of a cow fastened to the wall of
a house.

There was an all-pervading smell of the stable, of milk, of the
dunghill, of hay, and of perspiration--that acrid, disgusting odor of
man and beast peculiar to country people.

Master Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville, and
was walking toward the square, when he saw a bit of string on the
ground. Master Hauchecorne, economical like every true Norman, thought
that it was well to pick up everything that might be of use; and he
stooped painfully, for he suffered with rheumatism. He took the piece
of slender cord from the ground, and was about to roll it up
carefully, when he saw Master Malandain, the harness-maker, standing
in his doorway and looking at him. They had formerly had trouble on
the subject of a halter, and had remained at odds, being both inclined
to bear malice. Master Hauchecorne felt a sort of shame at being seen
thus by his enemy, fumbling in the mud for a bit of string. He
hurriedly concealed his treasure in his blouse, then in his breeches
pocket; then he pretended to look on the ground for something else,
which he did not find; and finally he went on toward the market, his
head thrust forward, bent double by his pains.

He lost himself at once in the slow-moving, shouting crowd, kept in a
state of excitement by the interminable bargaining. The peasants felt
of the cows, went away, returned, sorely perplexed, always afraid of
being cheated, never daring to make up their minds, watching the
vendor's eye, striving incessantly to detect the tricks of the man and
the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, took out
their fowls, which lay on the ground, their legs tied together, with
frightened eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to offers, adhered to their prices, short of speech and
impassive of face; or else, suddenly deciding to accept the lower
price offered, they would call out to the customer as he walked slowly
away:--

"All right, Mast' Anthime. You can have it."

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the
Angelus[3] struck midday those who lived too far away to go home
betook themselves to the various inns.

At Jourdain's the common room was full of customers, as the great yard
was full of vehicles of every sort--carts, cabriolets,[4]
_char-a-bancs_, tilburys,[5] unnamable carriages, shapeless, patched,
with, their shafts reaching heavenward like arms, or with their noses
in the ground and their tails in the air.

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