I.W. Publications was an American company that started publishing in 1958, and stopped in 1963/64. The company was part of I.W. Enterprises, and named for the company’s owner, Israel Waldman. It was notable for publishing unauthorized reprints of other company’s properties, especially Quality Comics. The company later published comics under the ‘Super Comics’ name. There were five issues of Robin Hood all apparently published in 1958.
Neither of us are as young as we once were, but time seems to tell less on us than on some others, though I have never been quite the same since that dreadful year that Master was out West. He often strokes my face and says: "We're getting old, my boy, getting old, but it don't matter." Then I see a far away look in the kind, blue eyes—a look that I know so well—and I press my cheek against his, trying to comfort him. I know full well what he is thinking about, whether he mentions it right out or not.
Yes, I remember all about the tragedy that shaped both our lives, and how I have longed for intelligent speech that I might talk it all over with him.
He is sixty-two now and I only half as old, but while he is just as busy as ever, he will not permit me to undertake a single hardship.
Dr. Fred—his brother and partner—sometimes says: "Don't be a fool over that old horse, Dick! He is able to work as any of us." But the latter smiles and shakes his head: "Dandy has seen hard service enough and earned a peaceful old age."
Fred sneers. He says he has no patience with "Dick's nonsense;" but then he was in Europe when the tragedy[Pg 2] occurred, and besides I suppose it takes the romance and sentiment out of a man to have two wives, raise three bad boys and bury one willful daughter, to say nothing of the grandson he has on his hands now; and I might add further that he is a vastly different man from Dick anyway.
innifred Burton sat all alone in the pleasant sitting-room, curled up in
an easy-chair so large that her little figure was almost lost in its
great depths. The fire in the open grate burned brightly, sending out
little tongues of flame which made dancing shadows on the walls and
ceiling, and flashed ever and anon on the bright hair and face and dress
of the little girl sitting so quiet before it.
It was a dismal day near the close of January. Snow had been falling steadily all day, and the window-sill was already piled so high with it that by and by it would have to be brushed away in order to close the shutters. But Winnifred was so absorbed in the book she was reading that she knew nothing of all this. The book was a new edition of "The Giant Killer; or, The Battle That All Must Fight." She was just reading how the brave but tempted Fides lay in the dreadful Pit of Despair; of how he had fallen back, bruised and bleeding, time after time, in his endeavors to cut and climb his way out, before he found the little cord of love which was strong enough to draw him out with scarcely an effort of his own.
May 5, 1917.
I am not a psychometrist—at least not to any great extent. I cannot pick up a small object—say an old ring or coin—and straightway tell you its history, describing all the people and incidents with which it has been associated. Yet, occasionally, odd things are revealed to me through some strange ornament or piece of furniture.
The other day I went to see a friend, who was staying in a flat near Sloane Square, and I was much impressed by a chair that stood on the hearthrug near the fire. Now I am not a connoisseur of chairs; I cannot always ascribe dates to them. I can, of course, tell whether they are oak or mahogany, Chippendale or Sheraton, but that is about all. It was not, however, the make or the shape of this chair that attracted me, it was the impression I had that something very uncanny was seated on it. My friend, noticing that I looked at it very intently, said: “I will tell you something very interesting about that chair. It came from a haunted house in Red Lion Square. I bought it at a sale there, and several people who have sat in it since have had very curious experiences. I won’t tell you them till after you’ve tried it. Sit in it.”
“That wouldn’t be any good,” I answered; “you know I can’t psychometrise, especially to order. May I take it home with me for a few nights?”
Last year, I remember, you were a little reproachful because I sent "Tom Burnaby" to Jack at Harrow, and I made you a half promise that possibly at some future date you Taylorians should not be forgotten. I am better than my word. Here is a book—too late for your birthday, but in time for Christmas—which I hope will meet with your good favour.
It is now nearly ten years since, on one of the bridges in Osaka, I watched a battalion of the Imperial Guards marching to the China war. The Chinese had been driven across the Yalu and hustled through Manchuria; the Guards were to assist in carrying the war, if necessary, to the walls of Pekin. There was something in the bearing of those short, sturdy, alert little soldiers to arrest the attention and give food for thought. They had all the purposeful air of our own Gurkhas, with a look of keener intelligence, and a joyous eagerness that thrilled the observer.
In the China war the Japanese were for the first time measuring their strength. It was merely practice for the great struggle with the Colossus of the North which all knew to be inevitable, however long delayed. The humbling of China cost Japan little real effort, and we in this country hardly realized all that was at stake when European diplomacy robbed the victor of the fruits of victory. The part of Great Britain at that period was regarded, perhaps justly, by the Japanese as something less than that of the warm friend and well-wisher she was supposed to be. Yet, in common with other English visitors to their country, I never met with aught but perfect courtesy and smiling hospitality. The politeness and self-restraint of the people, and their extraordinary military promise, were among my strongest impressions of Japan. How completely they have been justified the history of the past ten years and of the present struggle has shown.
Yours very sincerely,
Jo Ann jerked the crude, hand-made chair off the oxcart and set it down in the shade of the thatched roof of the house.
“Your throne’s ready, Your Majesty,” she called over gaily to the pale, worn-looking Mrs. Blackwell whose daughter Florence was helping her off the burro.
“Whoever heard of a throne looking like that?” laughed the slender, hazel-eyed girl beside Jo Ann. “Wait a minute.” She spread a bright rainbow-hued Mexican blanket over the chair. “Now that looks more like a throne.”
Jo Ann nodded her dark curly bob. “You’re right, Peg—as usual.” She turned to Mrs. Blackwell. “I know you’re dead tired. That long automobile trip over the rough roads was bad enough, but the ride up the mountain on that poky donkey was worse yet.”
“Poky’s the word,” put in Florence, her blue eyes twinkling. “That burro, or donkey as you call it, is all Mexican—slow but sure.”
Just as she had finished speaking, the burro flapped his ears, threw back his head, and brayed such a knowing “heehaw” that the girls laughed merrily and even Mrs. Blackwell smiled broadly.
While staying in Switzerland and Italy as a consular officer, during a period of well on to twenty years, I kept a diary of my life. Without being a copy of the diary, this book is made up from its pages and from my own recollections of men, scenes, and events. It was during an interesting period, too. There were stirring times in Europe. Two great wars took place; one great empire was born; another became a republic; and the country of Victor Emmanuel changed from a lot of petty dukedoms to a free Italy. It seemed a great period everywhere, and everything of men and events jotted down at such a time would of necessity have its interest. This book is not a history--only some recollections and some letters.
Among the letters are some fifty from General Sherman, whose intimate friendship I enjoyed from the war times till the day of his death. They are printed with permission of those now interested, and they may be regarded as in a way supplementary to the series of more public letters of General Sherman printed by me in the North American Review during his lifetime. They possess the added interest that must attach to the intimate letters of friendship coming from a brilliant mind. Their publication can only help to lift the veil a little from a life that was as true and good in private as it was noble in public.
Going back to the office after a full day bent over a desk was no fun, but a job was a job, and Bob was thankful for even the small place he filled in the great machine of government.
The raw, beating rain swept into his face as he strode down the avenue. A cruising taxicab, hoping for a passenger, pulled along the curb, but Bob waved the vehicle away. Just then he had no extra funds to invest in taxi fare.
The avenue was deserted and Bob doubted if there would be many at work in the huge building where the archives division was sheltered.
At the end of a fifteen-minute walk Bob turned in at the entrance of a hulking gray structure. The night guard nodded as he recognized Bob and the clerk stepped through the doorway.
Bob paused in the warmth of the lobby and shook the water from his coat and hat. Fortunately he had worn rubbers so his feet were dry and he felt there was little chance of his catching cold.
The face of Dories Moore was as dismal as the day was bright. It was
Indian summer and the maple trees under which she was hurrying were
joyfully arrayed in red and gold, while crimson, yellow and purple
flowers nodded at her from the gardens that she passed with unseeing
eyes. She was almost blinded with tears; her scarlet tam was awry, as
though she had put it on hurriedly, and her sweater coat, of the same
cheerful hue, was unbuttoned and flapping as she fairly ran down the
village street. In her hand was a note which had been the cause of the
tears and the haste. On it were a few penciled words:
“Dori dear, we are leaving sooner than we expected. I’m sending this to you by little Johnnie-next-door. Do come right over and say good-bye to someone who loves you best of all.