--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Anderson, Nephi collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 7 published: 1915-05 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Nephi Anderson, "Unbidden Guests: Prize Story," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 7 (May 1915): 572–579.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1807unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1807unse start_page: 572 end_page: 579 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-05) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1807unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Unbidden Guests: Prize Story Unbidden Guests* The Improvement Era Prize Story, February Contest BY NEPHI ANDERSON The clock in the City Hall tower struck two in the morning as the motor car stopped and the man and the woman alighted. Pausing a moment to pay the driver his fee, the two walked wearily up the stone steps to the porch. The night was still and dark. The breeze from the north hills was chilly, and the electric light from the street hardly penetrated the shrubbery about the house. "Hurry, Phil," said the woman, "I'm so tired." "I can't find the key," he replied, as he searched his pockets. "Where in the world — The woman leaned languidly against the porch rail as she watched the man in his vain hunt. "I haven't it," he said. "We'll have to ring up Sarah." "You forget that this particular night Sarah is not at home." "Then we'll have to wake father." "No ; don't do that yet. You know he hasn't been well lately." "Then tell me what to do." There was a pause. "Is there no other way to get in?" "Trust Sarah to have everything burglar proof." — "Well, ring the bell, then but it's a shame." The bell within rang clearly. They waited in sibnce, for usually it took some time for the father to reach the front door but tonight there was no answering movement within. The button was pressed again, yet the silence of the night reigned within as well as without. "Well, what is the matter?" cried the woman. We can't camp here all night, Phil." "I agree with you — I'll go around to the back door." — "I'm shivering I'm afraid," she moaned. "My dear, there's nothing to be afraid of. We'll get in somehow." The man's reassuring whistle sounded from the rear. Then itsuddenly stopped there was a sound of opening doors, and a ; switching on of lights then the front door opened. ; "Come in, Mary. The back door was open," said he. *This story won the $25 prize for February, in the Improvement Era six-months' contest ending June, 1915. ! She stepped in and slowly took off her wraps. The party that night must have been unusually debilitating; the woman was dead tired. "Why didn't your father answer the bell?" she asked. "Is he in his room?" "I'll see." They both went quietly into a bedroom leading from the hall to the left, but the bed was still as Sarah the girl, had left it that day. In connection with the bedroom was the father's library where he sat to read and write. The door was ajar, and the young man, pushing it wide open, looked in. The father was lying heav- ily on the table, his head resting on one hand as if he were asleep. In the other hand was a pen, and at his elbow lay a neatly piled number of sheets of paper. "Father has been at his writing, until he has fallen asleep," said the young man. He went up to the prostrate form, and tak- ing hold of his father's shoulder, shook him gently: "Wake up, father, and get to bed." But there was no response. The body was rigid. . — "What what is it, Phil?" whispered the young woman, as she came up. They looked into his face, gently turned it aside, and then realized the truth. For him there would be no more long waits for his children to come home. The little, beautiful, old man lay there, with a smile on his lips, as if he were asleep — but he was dead The funeral was most fashionable, most up-to-date, and as such, it cost a deal of money. Flowever, the dead man left plenty of that, so, the laying away of his little body to sleep in the dust until the resurrection day, brought no financial hardship on any one. All his wealth passed to his only son and his wife, known to society as "splendid entertainers." Always, Phil and Mary had had much of the father's money, but now they had it all. After the funeral was over and the last friends had departed from the big house, the reality of their loss came to them more keenly than ever. During the seven years of their married life, these two had had one long "easy time" of it, thanks to the old man's money but they loved him dearly, despite all their careless ; ways, and their hearts were very tender now. One of the missions of death, it seems, is to soften hearts that are becoming calloused. "Phil," asked Mary one evening about a week after the funeral, "what was that writing your father was busy with during his last days ?" "He kept a journal all his life, but it seems that he was writing something special lately. I gathered up the sheets and placed — them in his desk. Shall we see what they are? we're not going out tonight, are we?" : — "No; there is the Mcjenkins card party, but Sadie said we — would be excused, of course and I'm glad of it." The two went into the father's library, the apartment that he had called his room. Mary seated herself comfortably while Phil fetched his father's papers. "There is a lot of writing here," he explained, "which deals with the common events of his life but here within a few days ; of his death, he seems to have written a story of some kind looks like it." And this is what Phil read — "Monday- Most of this which I want now to tell you, my son, happened in what your mother and I used to call the 'Sage-brush' period of our lives That seems a long time ago, but I remember it as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Those were the days of our small beginning, and although they were days of poverty and struggle, I know now that they were years of real happiness. "Sage-brush! yes, the whole Flat where now stands a town, was one mass of gray sage. We moved out the year before the canal was completed, and we lived that first winter in a one-roomed log granary. I cut a window in the south wall, and nailed sheet- ing across the rafters for a ceiling and when I white-washed the ; log walls, I gave the ceiling a coat, too. We made it quite cosy, your mother and I, and as we were contented with our love and our prospects, what more could be asked? "I worked most of the time clearing the land of sage-brush — and I tell you, the sage-brush was big and beautiful yes, I mean that. The thick trunks of the brush not only indicated fertile soil, . but they made splendid fire-wood for our stove. I built quite a comfortable shelter for our cow and span of horses out of the thickest growth of brush I could find. Oh, yes; there was sage- brush within and without, sage-brush greeted the eye and the nose, and sometimes we had a taste of the leaves in our food. "We were truly happy, mother and I. We had no company to speak of —our nearest neighbor being a mile away. During the long, cold evenings, your mother sat with her sewing (we had no machine, of course), and I read. What do you suppose we read? — The Book of Mormon yes, and Dickens. With the snow piling up towards the window without, what cared we, for we lived with Alma and Moroni, and with David Copperfield and Little Nell. Your mother was an adept at needle work and I, ; in the pauses of the reading, was good at stuffing sage-brush into the stove. "Wednesday — began my I little story night before last. I can't write much at a time, for I soon get tired. In looking over what I have written, I observe that there is considerable sage- — brush in it but I wouldn't have you understand that our lives were wrapped up wholly in that. There were other good things out — there on the Flat, among them, not the least, the good, hard work in subduing the soil, and bringing a living out of it. We slept well, we had good appetites. We experienced the joy of living as only two young people such as we were can. "The spring following that first winter on the Flat, there came to us our supreme joy you were born. Yes, my boy, your com- ing had been looked for so long that we did not dare regret it, even though our home was cramped and crude. I could have wished for more comfort for the mother, of course, but the idea of purposely postponing your coming never entered our minds. We never spoke of waiting until we could afford it or until we had enjoyed some years of care-free pleasure, or anything like that. I suppose we were two real, old-fashioned people. But I remember yet the morning you were born. As I went out in the early dawn, after the doctor said all was well and the little mother was sleep- ing, I noticed that on the yet uncleared land the grass was soft and green between the brush. 'The gray sage stands in a bed of green,' I mused, and that line has never left me. Everything was lovely that morning. * * * Your mother bore her trials with sweetest resignation and courage. God bless her sacred memory. — How you did grow that summer I can't write more tonight, as ! I see it is after midnight. I hope you are having a good time at — your party, but I am tired. I must close now. — "Thursday) Last night I felt chilly, so Sarah built me a fire in the grate. That felt so comfortable that I fell asleep before I could get to bed. I suppose what happened then was a dream. I thought I was in some far-off country. I had been there before, on some mission, it seemed, but the details were not clear. There was, however, a wonderful sense of security and peace, and I re- member the smell of roses. You know how I like roses. Then, in the midst of my dream, out of the indistinctness, I heard clearly the voice of a child. 'Grandpa,' it said, 'grandpa, I want to come to you. Why am I not sent for, grandpa, I want to come.' I looked about, but I could not see anyone, though I felt the pres- ence of the child. I was dumb with amazement, I suppose, for I said nothing. Then again I heard a soft pleading voice, T would sit with you, grandpa, I would sleep with you, I would stay with you day and night. I would be your company. Tell them to let me come.' Myheart burned, and I attempted to answer, but in my efforts, I awoke. "Friday*— have been thinking about my dream. I * * * * Your coming to us, Phil, thirty-five years ago, completed our hap- piness. Your mother would name you Philip, for, said she, 'Is he not the 'son and heir?' He is to perpetuate your name and race.' You see, your mother descended from high-born English stock, and she came naturally by such notions. She would have been quite 'a lady' had she remained in England. I may not have looked at the matter in quite the same way as your mother did, but it was a wonderful satisfaction that I had a son. I myself am an only son, even as you have proved to be and so much depends ; on an only son. "When you were two years old, you had a severe illness. We thought we should lose you then, but the Lord blessed our efforts, and we pulled you through. The next winter we rented a com- fortable house in town, chiefly for your sake, and then — but I have — no need to write about your childhood days that is written else- where in my journal. We did all that we could for you, your mother and I. Had your mother remained with us longer, per- haps things might have been different. I have not always been wise with that which the Lord has intrusted to me, but my mis- takes have been of the head, as they say. Shall I say it now not — in anger, my son — but my greatest disappointment has been that I have not had grand-children to climb upon my knee — but there, forgive me —good night. Sunday — 9 It is now. :30 I felt so much better today that I went to meeting this evening. We had a good meeting. I came home, as usual, to a cold and empty house. Even Sarah had other company and did not come home. I can't write any more tonight. — "Monday It is now afternoon, but I must begin my writing early today, I have so much to record, and I do not feel strong. — The glamor of my vision for surely I have had a vision is still — upon me. * * * Let me tell it to you. I was sitting in my room thinking of what I had heard in meeting. The window was open, for the evening was warm. And as I sat there in the still- ness, there came to me the premonition that the child of the other evening was coming to me again. I remained perfectly quiet, praying in my heart that I might be worthy of such a visit. Pres- ently, from the direction of the window, I heard the voice, and I turned. There stood the prettiest, plump-cheeked, blue-eyed little girl I had ever seen. " 'Grandpa,' she said, softly in the sweetest of tones, 'are you all alone?' "I stretched out my hand to the child and answered, 'Yes, I am alone.' " 'You are nearly always alone, aren't you ? Well, we have come to keep you company — for a little while.' " 'Thank you,' I said. " 'Can you see me?' she asked. " 'Yes, I can see you — and I am glad you have come.' " 'Wait — there is some one else.' With that she stepped to the window, and presently there appeared a little boy. He was — younger than the girl a beautiful curly-headed fellow, with big, round, questioning eyes. He* had Mary's face. The little girl — ' : took him by the hand, and together they came softly and a little shyly to where I was sitting by the table. The girl spoke " 'This is my brother-to-be. I think his name will be Philip, but T don't call him that yet, for you see' "She stopped as if she was a little confused in her ideas, not knowing how to proceed with her explanation. They now stood close by my chair, and I laid a hand on each head. ' 'And what is your name?' I asked the girl. — " 'I I can't tell you that,' she hesitated. 'But I hope it will be Alicia, for that was my grand-mama's name, wasn't it?' — " 'It was and how do you know?' " 'Why, I know her. — It was she who "The little boy pulled at her sleeve and looked strangely into her face as if he was reminding her of something. Presently, the little fellow, overcoming his timidity, climbed upon my knee. He felt of my face and ran his fingers through my hair. He did not speak, but dimples came into his cheeks when he smiled up into my face. My whole being thrilled with delight. " Ts there room for me?' asked the girl. " 'Yes, indeed,' I said as I lifted her to the other knee. One arm slipped around my neck, and she pressed her soft cheek to mine. ' T love you, grandpa,' she said, and the little boy also gave an assenting pressure with his chubby fist. "For pure joy I could not speak, sitting there with those two children so close to me, feeling their hands, hearing them, seeing the innocent love-light in their eyes. They nestled closely to me, as if they trusted me implicitly. For a time they too, seemed sat- isfied without further speech. "Presently, a distant door seemed to open and close. In- stantly, the children slid from my knees and were about to run away as if they were frightened. " 'Children,' I cried, reaching for them, 'stay, where are you going?' ' — 'We don't want them our papa-to-be and mama-to-be to see us,' whispered the girl. 'We're not welcome yet, you know.' " 'They're not coming.' I looked at the clock— it was only 1 1 :30. 'They'll not be here for a long time. Come, stay with me. I welcome you, and this is my room — my house,' I pleaded. "They came back. The little girl kissed my cheek. The bov played with my watch chain. " 'We should like to stay here always,' explained the girl, 'but we can't until we are sent for. Tell them to send for us, grandpa.' " 'Yes, T will, T certainly will.' " 'Tell them not to wait until it is too late. There are children —oh, ever so many, I have been told, who are compelled to wait, ' ' ' and wait for their papas-to-be and their mamas-to-be until at last, — — some other arrangements have to be made and then, you know, there are a lot of unhappy people.' '" A lot?' I asked. " 'Yes the grandpas and grandma's, and the papas-to-be and ; — mamas-to-be and most of all, the children. You see, we wouldn't — like not to have you for a grandpa, and so "But there again the little thing seemed to come to the end of her reasoning. She looked a little bewildered at the train of thought which had been started in her little brain. All this time the boy had been looking around the room, until his eyes rested on the bronze horse on the mantle. I saw what had taken his attention, so I slipped the children from my knees, got the horse and placed it on the floor by the boy. He patted it gleefully, and I am sure he tried to make some horse noises. The little girl now looked about the room as if she also wanted something to play with but grandpa's room was woefully deficient in children's ; playthings. " 'Had I known you were coming,' I said to her, 'I would have bought you a doll.' " 'Oh —!' and she clapped her hands. " 'I'll have one for your next visit; not only a doll, but a bed for it to go to sleep in, and' a carriage to take it out in, and — " 'But maybe there won't be a next visit — — I'm afraid there won't be, grandpa, because " 'Because what, " 'I don't know —mysurely there were tears ' little girl?' in her eyes now. The little boy saw them, and he left his plaything. Taking the girl's hand, he led her towards the window. " 'You're not going?' I exclaimed. "The two stood still as if listening to some distant call. A peculiar expression came into their faces which I did not under- stand. I pleaded with them not to leave their grandpa he was — so lonesome without them — oh, so lonesome — but they seemed not to hear me, or even to be aware of my presence. Visitors from another world they were, and of that world and only by permis- ; sion had they been to visit me. I knew very well they could not stay, and yet their going seemed to pull my heart from me. Had Alicia sent them to me? Why had they not come to you, my son Philip, and you, my daughter Mary ? Then they could have stayed. * * * My pen drags. managed to say, 'promise me to come again. " 'Little girl,' I Come and sit on my knee again, and I shall surely give you all the playthings you want.' I started towards them as if to catch and detain them. The little girl smiled at me as much as to say, how foolish for an old man like me to try to catch them. She took my : hand and led me back to my chair. Then, coming back again to my plane of consciousness, as it were, she said " 'Grandpa, if we can't come to you, maybe you can come to us.' " 'But you are coming, my children — you are coming!' " 'Oh, yes, in time — of course — but it is so long to wait — and we want to be with you and so, we'll come for you, maybe.' ; "Then the little boy beckoned for his sister, and she let go my hand and joined him. She smiled at me all the time, and the boy's dimpled face was the last I saw, like a dissolving picture. Then they were gone. I thought I heard them in the distance as if they were shouting farewells to me, but I suppose that was only in my imagination. * * * "The room is quiet, and I am alone in it. I am so tired now. — — "Wednesday Last night she, the little girl she said she — — would come for me O, little sweetheart, there you are yes, I'll r*r^i"y*i (* ** '<* "r H* — — **» *r* i Phil stopped his reading, for that was the end of the writing, and the last few sentences were hardly discernible. He laid the last sheet carefully on the pile of manuscript, and looked at the pale face of his wife. For a time there was silence. The man noticed the bronze horse on the mantle, and half expected to see dolls and dolls' clothing strewed about the floor. Then he arose and shook himself as if to get out from under a burden. He paced the floor, then dropped with a moan back into his chair. The wife came to him. "Phil," she breathed, "Phil !" "Yes, Mary, come here." She sank into his arms. — "What what have we done?" he asked. "Nothing, I hope," she faltered, "but what we can — with God's help — make right." "Oh, T hope so, Mary, I hope so." The Money Grubber Like bird of the air, flying hither and yon, Hurries he, scurries he, till life is gone; And when comes the end, pray what has he done? Never yet learned how to live. For the smile of a god, now cold, now benign, He sees through the years and in every clime; Knows not if blue or if grey is the sky, Heeds not the blossoms that at his feet lie. And when on the brink of Death's River he stands, Where is the touch of Love's gentle hands To gladden the journey and help him across? Counted with what he appraised but as loss. Grace Ingles Frost