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Software Architecture and Decision-Making
Software Architecture and Decision-Making
Leveraging Leadership, Technology, and Product Management to Build Great Products
Srinath Perera
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ISBN-13: 978-0-13-824973-1
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Solution 1: One Microservice Updating the Database
Solution 2: Two Microservices Updating the Database
Decision 2: Securing Microservices
Decision 3: Coordinating Microservices
Decision 4: Avoiding Dependency Hell
Backward Compatibility
Forward Compatibility
Dependency Graphs
Loosely Coupled, Repository-Based Teams as an Alternative to Microservices
Leadership Considerations
Summary
11 Server Architectures
Writing a Service
Understanding Best Practices for Writing a Service
Understanding Advanced Techniques
Using Alternative I/O and Thread Models
Understanding Coordination Overhead
Efficiently Saving Local State
Choosing a Transport System
Handling Latency
Separating Reads and Writes
Using Locks (and Signaling) in Applications
Using Queues and Pools
Handling Service Calls
Using These Techniques in Practice
CPU-Bound Applications (CPU >> Memory and No I/O)
Memory-Bound Applications (CPU + Bound Memory and No I/O)
Balanced Applications (CPU + Memory + I/O)
I/O-Bound Applications (I/O + Memory > CPU)
Other Application Categorizations
Leadership Considerations
Summary
12 Building Stable Systems
Why Do Systems Fail, and What Can We Do About Them?
How to Handle Known Errors
Handling Unexpected Load
Handling Resource Failures
Handling Dependencies
Handling Human Changes
Common Bugs
Resource Leaks
Deadlocks and Slow Operations
How to Handle Unknown Errors
Observability
Bugs and Testing
Graceful Degradation
Leadership Considerations
Summary
13 Building and Evolving the Systems
Getting Your Hands Dirty
Get the Basics Right
Understand the Design Process
Make Decisions and Absorb Risks
Demand Excellence
Communicating the Design
Evolving the System: How to Learn from Your Users and Improve the System
Leadership Considerations
Summary
Index
About the Author
I started my architecting journey as an Apache open-source developer and have continued that for 20 years. I learned a lot by watching and later participating in architecture discussions in developer lists for those open-source projects, which is a great place for an aspiring architect to start.
I have played a major role in the architecture of Apache Axis2, Apache Airavata, WSO2 CEP (Siddhi), and WSO2 Choreo. I have designed two SOAP engines and worked closely with four. I was (and continue to be) a committer (a developer who can commit to a code base) for Apache Axis, Axis2, Apache Geronimo, and Apache Airavata.
I joined WSO2 in 2009. WSO2 products are used by many Fortune 500 companies such as airlines, banks, governments, and so on. At WSO2, I played an architecture review role for 10+ projects and 100+ releases. I reviewed hundreds of customer-solution architectures and deployments and sat in on thousands of architecture reviews.
At WSO2, when we faced a problem that could not be resolved by the immediate team, we set up a war room, where a hand-picked team restlessly attacked the problem. I have been in many war rooms and have led several, which have made me painfully aware of mistakes made in the software architecture. I’ve had a front row seat to world-class technical leadership and have also built many systems and learned from mistakes.
Later switching to analytics and AI-related topics, I co-designed WSO2 Siddhi and envisioned and shaped the AI features in WSO2 Choreo. Throughout this time, I published 40+ peer-reviewed
research articles, which have been referenced by thousands of other research publications.
I hope you enjoy this book. Given the central role software plays in the world today, I will be content if this book helps make you a better software architect, knowing that I have contributed to better software that will be the lifeblood of the world for many years.
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1 Introduction to Software Leadership
When we are developing software systems, our goal is to build systems that meet quality standards and that provide the highest return on investment (ROI) in the long run or in a predefined time horizon. This, in turn, becomes the goal of software architecture, which is the blueprint for building software systems.
Here, ROI is not just about being economical. If spending more on the product results in more revenue, consider that a good ROI. On the other hand, shoddy design leads to numerous changes later, ultimately costing a lot more. Good software architecture balances both extremes and maximizes ROI.
Architectural design includes many things—for example, finding the right abstractions, deciding which features to include, determining the depth of each feature, setting quality of service (QOS) parameters, establishing the degree of flexibility, timing, and user experience.
Role of Judgment
As software architects, we learn about abstractions, architecture styles, and patterns. We study their pros and cons, which one to use in a given situation, and how to compose them with an awareness of pitfalls, negative examples, and use cases. However, many errors are made not because we do not understand these things. Most design
mistakes are caused by a lack of judgment, not by a lack of knowledge.
Here, judgmentrefers to the ability to make considered decisions or arrive at sensible conclusions optimizing for the most important outcome.
I have seen this outcome again and again in my 20 years of architecting systems. Here are the common mistakes I’ve found:
Trying to incorporate too many features required by the user’s journey
Making the design too flexible or too consistent, which impacts future changes
Limiting depth, which significantly affects user experience (UX)
Solving useless problems for the end user
Inadequately focusing on the user’s journey and experience
Missing delivery timetables
We make most of these mistakes because we do not know about the future, about the users who will use the system, and about how the system works at the edge of its capabilities. Here, I see the need for judgment. I see leadership challenges, not technical challenges!
Let’s explore what I mean by that.
To me, leadership is about managing uncertainty, bringing order to chaos, providing hope for a better future, and progressing toward that future. Consider the following:
This is not to say leaders must be omniscient and always know what the future will bring, but they should have a visionof the future; they should manage uncertainty in such a way that minimizes risk. Leaders should communicate their vision and its implementation to others and shepherd them toward that vision.
Let me repeat the same statement from an architect’s point of view. It is not to say software architects must be omniscient and always know how a system will be used and what it should have, but they should have a vision of the overall solution. They should manage uncertainty in such a way that minimizes risk. Leaders should communicate their vision and implementation to the team and guide them toward building the system and then operating it.
I am not saying that knowledge is not important for an architect. It is. However, judgment plays a key role too. Sadly, knowledge is commonplace, whereas judgment is not.
I have seen a lot of good books and articles about software architectural concepts: Bob Martin’s books, Gregor Hohpe’s books, and Martin Fowler’s blogs, to name a few. Yet, they focus mainly on knowledge and less on judgment.
I have also seen a lot of good books on leadership: TheHardThings AboutHardThingsby Ben Horowitz, TrillionDollarCoachby Eric Schmidt et al., TeamofTeams:NewRulesofEngagementfora ComplexWorldby Stanley McChrystal, GoodStrategy,BadStrategy by Richard Rumelt, and other books by Jocko Willink, to name a few. They discuss judgment but only at a general level, not at a technical level. There is a gap between good leadership and good software architectural judgment.
Goal of This Book
This book discusses the gap between the two—leadership and software architectural judgment. It describes software leadership and how we can use it to the best advantage when building our systems. As mentioned, my experience shows that many of our architectural mistakes come from the gap between knowledge and judgment.
This is not a book about how to manage your team, nor is it a book about engineering management or about HR and how to build the
team. It’s also not a book about strategy. Further, this book does not cover how to create a vision. You must have a vision—your own or one shared by your cofounders or executive board members. Although there is a lot written about vision, I am not sure it can be explained sufficiently.
This is a technical book, so it is a book about technical judgment. It explains principles and concepts I believe a senior architect must understand deeply and discusses how to employ those principles to manage uncertainty. This is a book about how technical leaders/architects should think and how to oversee their product by managing uncertainty.
For example, one thesis of this book is to thinkdeeplybut implementslowly. Another example is that leaders must define the scope, taking up the yoke of uncertainty without passing it down to coworkers. Questions and principles discussed in this book help us manage uncertainty and provide a framework for making decisions. Is this book useful if you are not in charge? I think it is. People follow whoever offers to handle uncertainty in order to progress. Good architects start to play the role years before they are given the title. The more knowledgeable you are, the better chance you’ll have if you do choose to lead. Take the initiative; help your leader and deliver. You will find you own more and more. Titles will follow.
If you believe someone plays that role better than you, by all means, follow, question, and learn from them! In this case, there is a lot you can do to help the leader, using what we discuss in the book. Your turn will follow.
This book draws examples from many role models who exemplify technical leadership. I name two specifically: Kelly Johnson, who designed aircraft like the U-2 and the Blackbird SR-71, and the Wright brothers, Orville and Wilbur, whom we all know. These leaders showed a kind of deep technical control that made systems that seemed to be impossible possible, while utilizing limited resources. Granted, there are many software leaders like Jeff Dean
of Google, whom I hold in the same esteem, but they are contemporaries, and their methods are not yet published as books. This fact forces me to choose the previously mentioned models for the book.
As we all know, the Wright brothers built the first powered airplane with sustained and controlled flight. They had no college education and owned and operated a bicycle shop. They competed against well-funded professionals and yet went on to win. Granted, there were many aircraft designs before the Wright brothers, but they were the first to get all the parameters of the design right. The Wright brothers showed great judgment by building a glider, learning how to control it, learning to tweak it, and then adding propellers and engines, which gradually evolved their gilder into an aircraft. Figuring out the right parameters is a lesson we all can use. The Wright brothers had an intuitive feel to the design, which they acquired over the years. They later achieved both fame and fortune.
Kelly Johnson was the aircraft designer for the Lockheed U-2, the SR-71 Blackbird, and 40 other aircrafts. The Blackbird is invisible to radar, can outrun missiles, and has never been shot down in 20+ years of service. It was the first production aircraft to exceed Mach 3 (three times the speed of sound). Kelly also built the first fighter capable of Mach 2 and the first fighter to exceed 400 mph. His U-2 craft reached and sustained altitudes of 70,000 feet.1 He could take an impossible goal, break it into doable tasks, demand excellence, and then make everything work. Kelly was known to finish projects early and under budget, returning money to the government. His boss reportedly said, “That damned Swede can actually see air,” referring to Kelly’s intuitive feel to the design.2
1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lockheed U-2
2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kelly Johnson (engineer)
The terms architectureand designare often used interchangeably, although design is a full detailed blueprint (e.g., class diagrams and sequence diagrams), whereas architecture is the high-level
conceptual view (e.g., component view and component-level sequence diagram). We focus on the high-level view; hence, I use the term architecturethroughout.
We can use the three layers of architecture of The Open Group Architecture Framework (TOGAF) to pinpoint topics we focus on in this book:
The business architecture layer sketches out the business operations and shows how various components work together to propel the business’s workings.
The information systems architecture layer splits into two parts: data and application architecture. Data architecture centers around categorizing different data types and highlighting their connections. On the other hand, application architecture identifies unique system parts, such as services, and clarifies their interaction within the system.
The technology architecture layer describes the specifically chosen technologies. They include elements like software standards, software packages used, hardware, networks, and the fine details of security.
The core focus of this book rests on the information system architecture. Nonetheless, we may discuss technology architecture if the choice of technology significantly impacts our discussion.
The connection between business architecture and information system architecture is more intricate. The design of the information system architecture heavily depends on various business considerations. These factors include not only the business architecture but also elements like project schedules, the skills of the team, and the challenges from competitors. Although these considerations are not usually included in the business architecture in frameworks like TOGAF, they do influence the implementation of the architecture and the strategic course of the organization. Together, these are referred to as the “business context.” A main challenge in system architecture is to keep this business context in
mind when making technology decisions. Ensuring this is a responsibility that falls to leadership. A key goal of the five questions we discuss in this book is to ensure we maintain this business context.
There are two prominent approaches to system architecture: Waterfall
Agile
The waterfallapproach is based on the premise that it’s feasible to identify the system’s requirements in full detail beforehand. Therefore, this approach suggests thorough planning followed by execution. An example of this approach can be seen in the TOGAF architecture design model (ADM), which demonstrates how to capture requirements accurately and develop them. In addition, groups like the Object Management Group (OMG) and International Organization for Standardization (ISO) offer standards supporting similar conceptual models.
On the other hand, iterative approaches, like agile, focus on quickly rolling out a version and collaborating with users to refine requirements and construct a system that can genuinely benefit the user.
When pitting these two approaches against each other, I lean toward agile. Efforts have been made to blend iterative features with models like ADM, but in practice, it’s often too complicated to maintain the rapid pace needed for iterative models (usually one- to two-week iterations). With large organizations and complex projects, more central planning could be justified, though, even after working with hundreds of enterprise companies, including Fortune 500 firms, I have yet to see such a project deliver exceptional results.
Many software processes, such as TOGAF ADM, standards, and reference architectures, are grounded in the waterfall model and aim to capture the requirements precisely. While valuable lessons can be learned from TOGAF, OMG, and ISO, they operate under the
assumption that requirements can be largely defined beforehand and will only undergo gradual changes. In contrast, I believe our experiences have proven otherwise. I endorse a more interactive or agile approach where requirements are kept simpler and informal, continuously improving in short iterations, while learning from users.
At a broader design level, I favor breaking the system into loosely connected subsystems (each potentially interacting with users and providing value), defining APIs between them, and then operating them independently with high-level oversight to connect the dots.
While architects may find utility in TOGAF and similar models, I hesitate to recommend them in this book. This is an opinion formed from my experiences.
The focus of this book is on agile approaches. So, before we dive into the book, it is useful to understand the typical roles in a software project. Product managers, with the help of business stakeholders, UX designers, and architects, decide what to build. Architects work with engineering managers and the team to build the product. The product manager then works with everyone to ensure the required quality (demanding excellence).
The scope of the architect’s role might change, based on where the work takes place. For example, in a startup, architects might handle product management, deciding the features to build, whereas in a large company, architects might be disconnected from the requirement specifications. However, in an era when we are moving away from the waterfall approach to the iterative, agile software development approach, responsibilities are being shared, and these roles are merging. For example, I believe architects should work hand in hand with product managers when deciding which features to include, when to include them, and when defining UX, demanding excellence from the team.
This book is segmented into four parts. Although the book focuses on judgment, knowledge is just as important. Parts II and III delve
into the topic of knowledge, while exploring how we can judge its use.
Part I: Introduction
In Part I, Chapter 2 discusses software architecture, uncertainty, and judgment. It identifies five questions and seven principles to help us handle uncertainty:
The five questions are
When is the best time to market?
What is the skill level of the team?
What is our system’s performance sensitivity?
When can we rewrite the system?
What are the hard problems?
The seven principles are Drive everything from the user’s journey.
Use an iterative thin slice strategy.
On each iteration, add the most value for the least effort to support more users.
Make decisions and absorb the risks.
Design deeply things that are hard to change but implement them slowly.
Eliminate the unknowns and learn from the evidence by working on hard problems early and in parallel.
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The small boy knelt at his mother’s bedside, his little face against hers. Softly he kissed the pale cheek. The boy’s heart had become a man’s. He tried by touch and look to speak his love, his sympathy, his admiration. His mother smiled at him as she soothed the baby, glad to be free from pain. But presently the shouts and disorder of the departing townspeople reached her ears. She stirred uneasily. Fear crept into her eyes. Passionately she strained her little one to her.
“How soon, little son, how soon?”
The lad, absorbed in his mother, had forgotten the Germans. With a start he realized the danger. His new-born manhood took command. His father was at the front. He must protect his mother and tiny sister. His mother was too ill to move, but they ought to get away. Who had a wagon? He hurried to the window, but already even the stragglers were far down the road. All but three of the horses had been sent to the front. Those three were now out of sight with their overloaded wagons. The boy stood stupefied and helpless. The woman on the bed stirred.
“My son,” she called. “My son!”
He went to her.
“You must leave me and go on.”
“I can’t, mother.”
The woman drew the boy down beside her. She knew the struggle to come. How could she make him understand that his life and the baby’s meant more to her than her own? Lovingly she stroked the soft cheek. It was a grave, determined little face with very steady eyes.
“Son, dear, think of little sister. The Germans won’t bother with babies. There isn’t any milk. Mother hasn’t any for her. You must take baby in your strong little arms and run—run with her right out of this land into Holland.”
But he could not be persuaded. The mother understood that love and a sense of duty held him. She gathered the baby in her arms
and tried to rise, but the overtaxed heart failed, and she fell back half-fainting. The boy brought water and bathed her head until the tired eyes opened.
“Little son, it will kill mother if you don’t go.”
The boy’s shoulders shook. He knelt by the bed. A sob broke from him. Then there came the faint, far-distant call of the bugle. Frantically the mother gathered up her baby and held it out to the boy.
“For mother’s sake, son, for mother.”
In a flash the boy understood. His mother had risked her life for the tiny sister. She wanted the baby saved more than anything else in the world. He dashed the tears from his eyes. He wound his arms about his mother in a long, passionate embrace.
“I’ll take her, mother; I’ll get her there safely.”
The bugle grew louder. Through the open window on the fardistant road could be seen a cloud of dust. There was not a moment to lose. Stooping, the boy caught up the red, squirming baby. Very tenderly he placed the little body against his breast and buttoned his coat over his burden.
The sound of marching feet could now be heard. Swiftly he ran to the door. As he reached the threshold he turned. His mother, her eyes shining with love and hope, was waving a last good-by. Down the stairs, out of the back door, and across the fields sped the child. Over grass and across streams flew the sure little feet. His heart tugged fiercely to go back, but that look in his mother’s face sustained him.
He knew the road to Holland. It was straight to the north; but he kept to the fields. He didn’t want the baby discovered. Mile after mile, through hour after hour, he pushed on, until twilight came. He found a little spring and drank thirstily. Then he moistened the baby’s mouth. The little creature was very good. Occasionally she uttered a feeble cry, but most of the time she slept. The boy was intensely weary. His feet ached. He sat down under a great tree and leaned against it. Was it right to keep a baby out all night? Ought he to go to
some farmhouse? If he did, would the people take baby away? His mother had said, “Run straight to Holland.” But Holland was twenty miles away. He opened his coat and looked at the tiny creature. She slept peacefully.
The night was very warm. He decided to remain where he was. It had grown dark. The trees and bushes loomed big. His heart beat quickly. He was glad of the warm, soft, live little creature in his arms. He had come on this journey for his mother, but suddenly his boy’s heart opened to the tiny, clinging thing at his breast. His little hand stroked the baby tenderly. Then he stooped, and softly his lips touched the red, wrinkled face. Presently his little body relaxed, and he slept. He had walked eight miles. Through the long night the deep sleep of exhaustion held him. He lay quite motionless, head and shoulders resting against the tree-trunk, and the new-born babe enveloped in the warmth of his body and arms slept also. The feeble cry of the child woke him. The sun was coming over the horizon and the air was alive with the twitter of birds.
At first he thought he was at home and had awakened to a long happy summer’s day Then the fretful little cries brought back memory with a rush. His new-born love flooded him. Tenderly he laid the little sister down. Stretching his stiff and aching body, he hurried for water. Very carefully he put a few drops in the little mouth and wet the baby’s lips with his little brown finger. This proved soothing and the cries ceased. The tug of the baby’s lips on his finger clutched his heart. The helpless little thing was hungry, and he too was desperately hungry. What should he do? His mother had spoken of milk. He must get milk. Again he gathered up his burden and buttoned his coat. From the rising ground on which he stood he could see a farmhouse with smoke issuing from its chimney. He hurried down to the friendly open door. A kind woman gave him food. She recognized him as a little refugee bound for Holland. He had difficulty in concealing the baby, but fortunately she did not cry. The woman saw that he carried something, but when he asked for milk she concluded he had a pet kitten. He accepted this explanation. Eagerly he took the coveted milk and started on.
But day-old babies do not know how to drink. When he dropped milk into the baby’s mouth she choked and sputtered. He had to be content with moistening her mouth and giving her a milk-soaked finger.
Refreshed by sleep and food, the boy set off briskly. Holland did not now seem so far off. If only his mother were safe! Had the Germans been good to her? These thoughts pursued and tormented him. As before, he kept off the beaten track, making his way through open meadows and patches of trees. But as the day advanced, the heat grew intense. His feet ached, his arms ached, and, worst of all, the baby cried fretfully.
At noon he came to a little brook sheltered by trees. He sat down on the bank and dangled his swollen feet in the cool, fresh stream. But his tiny sister still cried. Suddenly a thought came to him. Placing the baby on his knees, he undid the towel that enveloped her. There had been no time for clothes. Then he dipped a dirty pockethandkerchief in the brook and gently sponged the hot, restless little body. Very tenderly he washed the little arms and legs. That successfully accomplished, he turned the tiny creature and bathed the small back. Evidently this was the proper treatment, for the baby grew quiet. His heart swelled with pride. Reverently he wrapped the towel around the naked little one and, administering a few drops of milk, again went on.
All through that long, hot afternoon he toiled. His footsteps grew slower and slower; he covered diminishing distances. Frequently he stopped to rest, and now the baby had begun again to cry fitfully. At one time his strength failed. Then he placed the baby under a tree and rising on his knees uttered a prayer:
“O God, she’s such a little thing, help me to get her there.”
Like a benediction came the cool breeze of the sunset hour, bringing renewed strength.
In the afternoon of the following day a wagon stopped before a Belgian refugee-camp in Holland. Slowly and stiffly a small boy slid
to the ground. He had been picked up just over the border by a friendly farmer, and driven to camp. He was dirty, bedraggled and footsore. Very kindly the ladies’ committee received him. He was placed at the table and a bowl of hot soup was set before him. He ate awkwardly with his left hand. His right hand held something beneath his coat, which he never for a moment forgot. The women tried to get his story, but he remained strangely silent. His eyes wandered over the room and back to their faces. He seemed to be testing them. Not for an hour, not until there was a faint stirring in his coat, did he disclose his burden. Then, going to her whom he had chosen as most to be trusted, he opened his jacket. In a dirty towel lay a naked, miserably thin, three-days’-old baby.
Mutely holding out the forlorn object, the boy begged help. Bit by bit they got his story. Hurriedly a Belgian refugee mother was sent for. She was told what had happened, and she took the baby to her breast. Jealously the boy stood guard while his tiny sister had her first meal. But the spark of life was very low.
For two days the camp concentrated on the tiny creature. The boy never left his sister’s side. But her ordeal had been too great. It was only a feeble flicker of life at best, and during the third night the little flame went out. The boy was utterly crushed. He had now but one thought—to reach his mother. It was impossible to keep the news from him longer. He would have gone in search. Gently he was told of the skirmish that had destroyed the Belgian hamlet. There were no houses or people in the town that had once been his home.
“That is his story,” ended the friendly little Dutch woman.
“And his father?” I inquired.
“Killed at the front,” was the reply.
I rose to go, but could not get the boy out of my mind. What a world! What intolerable suffering! Was there no way out? Then the ever-recurring phrase of the French and Belgian soldiers came to me. When I had shuddered at ghastly wounds, at death, at
innumerable white crosses on a bloody battlefield, invariably, in dry, cynical, hopeless tones, the soldier would make the one comment,— “C’est la guerre; que voulez-vous?”—“It is war; what would you?”
DRAMATIC SELECTIONS
BROWN WOLF
B J L
The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally, “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’ the dog right here an’ now.”
Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach.
“Maybe Mr. Miller is right,” she said. “I’m afraid that he is. Wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of Brown. He made friends with him instantly, and you know that’s something he never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the way he barked. He was bursting with joy. Joy over what? Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”
Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness.
“I guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but Brown, and he must belong to Mr. Miller.”
“Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him?” she suggested. “We can buy him.”
Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness.
“I had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team of Alaska. Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high then anyway; but that wasn’t what made the fancy price. It was the team itself. Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve hundred for him. I didn’t sell ’m then an’ I ain’t a-sellin’ ’m now. Besides, I think a mighty
lot of that dog. I’ve ben lookin’ for ’m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he’d ben stole—not the value of him, but the— well, I liked ’m. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I seen ’m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It was too good to be true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ’m to bed, snug every night. His mother died, and I brought ’m up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He never knew any mother but me.”
Madge began to speak:
“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”
Skiff Miller looked puzzled.
“Have you thought about him?” she asked.
“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.
“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no choice. It had never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”
This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.
“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also,” she urged.
Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.
“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.
It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”
She nodded her head with positiveness. “I’m sure of it.”
Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.
“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”
The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.
“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I do like him.”
Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Finally he said:
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight in them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth an’ has got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him. Whatever he says goes. You people stay right here settin’ down; I’ll say ‘good-by’ and walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to come with me, let ’m come. I won’t call ’m to come an’ don’t you call ’m to come back.”
He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must play fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”
“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her assurances.
“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft. When their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an’ lie—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—I’m only discoursin’ about women in general.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.
“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied; “Brown ain’t decided yet. Now, you won’t mind if I go away slow. It’s no more’n fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred yards.”
Madge agreed and added, “And I promise you faithfully that we won’t do anything to influence him.”
“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said, in the ordinary tones of one departing.
At this change in his voice Wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore-paws on her hip and at the same time licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.
“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.
For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness and strove gently to make him pause.
Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man.
Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, making short, nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick, sharp whines and beginning to pant.
He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, his mouth opening and closing with jerky movements, each time opening wider. The jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and
more intense than the preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling.
But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide open mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.
A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose—an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curveting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore-paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.
This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as dead.
He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward; slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.
And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to reappear. He waited a long minute, quietly, silently without movement as though turned to stone—withal stone quick with
eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.
The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her husband.
A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun.
He broke into a trot and Madge’s lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.
Wolf’s trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made. Not once did he turn his head, his wolf’s brush standing out straight behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.—From “Love of Life,” copyrighted by The Macmillan Co., New York, and used by their kind permission.
THE SIGN OF THE CROSS
B W B
It was a festival day in Rome Nero had decreed it. In the Circus was to be given a performance the like of which had never before been witnessed. The whole city was excited by the rumors of the numbers of Christians doomed to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were to encounter.
The dungeon beneath the amphitheatre in which the Christians were imprisoned was a large, gloomy, stone vault, destitute of furniture of any kind.
Great was the contrast between the dark, damp cell and the sunlit arena, crowded with eager, gayly dressed patricians. In the dungeon were scores of men and women waiting for the signal to pass forth to a certain and cruel death; in the auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands upon thousands impatiently awaiting their coming forth, and gloating already in imagination upon the horrors they must undergo.
The roars of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even when the doors were closed; so could the equally merciless howls of the blood-thirsty populace. How they were to die had not been told the martyrs; only this they knew, that they were to die, and that every endeavor would be made to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and cruel as possible.
Among them were a few that trembled and felt sick with physical fear, but not one murmured. Their eyes were mentally fixed upon the Cross.
Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors were thrown open, and the arena beyond could be seen by the prisoners, flooded with golden sunshine.
“Now, then, march!”
For a moment there was a pause, but almost before it could be realized Mercia’s clear, sweet voice rang out the first words of their beloved hymn:
“Shepherd of souls that stumble by the way, Pilot of vessels storm-tossed in the night, Healer of wounds, for help to Thee we pray.”
Singing these words with uplifted eyes and undaunted hearts, those noble martyrs went calmly and resignedly through the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death to the everlasting peace that awaited them beyond.
Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon It was generally understood that Marcus Superbus, the handsome, wealthy young Prefect of Rome, was madly in love with this Christian girl, and the adventuress who hoped to entrap Marcus prevailed upon Nero to make Mercia’s punishment unique and horrible.
She sank upon her knees with her face pressed against the iron bars. Presently the door leading to the corridor was unbarred. Two officers entered, ushering in Marcus, who started on finding Mercia alone. Dismissing the guards, he closed the door and gazed with infinite tenderness upon the white figure at his feet—Mercia.
For a time Marcus could not speak; his heart felt like bursting with grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this loathsome dungeon she could still preserve her courage and could still pray for forgiveness for her persecutors.
“Mercia! Mercia!”
“What would you with me?”
“I came to save thee. I have knelt to Nero for thy pardon. He will grant it upon one condition—that thou dost renounce thy false worship—”
“It is not false! It is true and everlasting.”
“Everlasting? Nothing is everlasting! There is no after-life; the end is here. Men come and go; they drink their little cup of woe or happiness, and then sleep—the sleep that knows no awakening.”
“Art thou sure of that? Ask thyself, are there no inward monitors that silently teach thee there is a life to come?”
“All men have wishes for a life to come, if it could better this.”
“It will better this, if this life be well lived. Hast thou lived well?”
“No; thou hast taught me that I never knew the shame of sin until I knew thy purity. Ah! whence comes thy wondrous grace?”
“If I have any grace it comes from Him who died on Calvary’s cross that grace might come to all.”
“Thou dost believe this?”
“I do believe it.”
“But thou hast no proof.”
“Yes. The proof is here.”
“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each tells himself his is the true god. All are mistaken.”
“All are mistaken.”
“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou die for such a thing?”
“I will die for my Master gladly.”
“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt not die! I cannot let thee go! I love you so! I love you so!”
“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”
“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my wife!”
“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”
“Thou wilt love?”
“I will not deny Him who died for me!”
“Mercia, if thy God exists He made us both, the one for the other. Hearken! I am rich beyond all riches. I have power, skill, strength; with these the world would be my slave, my vassal. Nero is hated, loathed—is tottering on his throne. I have friends in plenty who would
help me—the throne of Cæsar might be mine—and thou shalt share it with me if thou wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that lovely head if thou wilt but live—only consent to live!”
“My crown is not of earth, Marcus; it awaits me there.”
“I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia! I have, to save thy precious life, argued and spoken against thy faith, thy God, but to speak truth to thee, I have been sorely troubled since I first saw thee. Strange yearnings of the spirit come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle with them, but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fears, strange thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this world?—a little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two vast eternities, that from which we have traveled, that towards which we go. Oh, but to know! How can I know, Mercia? Teach me how to know!”
“Look at the Cross, and pray, ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Give up all that thou hast, and follow Him!”
“Would He welcome even me?”
“Yea, even thee, Marcus.”
Now there sounded on their ears another call from the trumpets. The brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, followed this time by Tigellinus.
“Prefect, the hour has come. Cæsar would have this maid’s decision. Doth she renounce Christus and live, or cling to him and die?”
“Mercia, answer him!”
“I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus!”
“No, not ‘Farewell.’ Death cannot part us. I, too, am ready! My lingering doubts are dead; the light hath come! Return to Cæsar; tell him Christus hath triumphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian.”
His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had transfigured the features of Mercia. They were glorified by the presence of Him who had promised to them, even as He had
promised to the penitent thief dying on the Cross beside Him —“Verily, I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”
THE LITTLE FIR TREE
B H C A
Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed and shiny, which stood in a forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad and tall and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees, and built their nests there, he used to call up to them, “Come down, come down, rest in my branches!” But they always said, “Oh, no, no, you are too little.”
And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees and murmured to them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up and called —“Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said, “Oh, no, you are too little, you are too little.” And in the winter the white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree close down in the cover of the others would call up, “Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap too! I want to play too!” But the snow always said—“Oh, no, no, no, you are too little, you are too little.”
The worst of all was when men came with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut the big trees and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and carried away, the others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship and go far away over the ocean and see many wonderful things, or you might be a part of a fine house in a great city and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life but he was always too little; the men passed him by. But, by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came with a sledge and horses and after they had cut here and there, they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree and looked all about. “There are none little enough,” they said. Oh! how the Little Fir Tree
pricked up his needles. “Here is one,” said one of the men; “it is just little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree. The little Fir Tree was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down. And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering so contentedly whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine house in the city. But when they came to the town he was taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life. People kept coming to look at the trees and take them away, but always when they saw the Little Fir Tree, they shook their heads and said, “It is too little, too little!” Until finally two children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree, they cried out, “We’ll take this one; it is just little enough!” They took him out of his tub and carried him away between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house since he was going away with children. He kept wondering while they took him in through some big doors and set him up in another tub on the table in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away and came back again with a big basket carried between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often wished the birds and wind and snow to do; he felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his branches, and when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look, he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains!
There were strings of fluffy white stuff drooping around him. His twigs held little gold nuts and pink rosy balls and silver stars. He had little pink and white candles in his arms, but last and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful white floating doll angel over his head! The Little Fir Tree could not breathe for joy and wonder. What was it that he was now? Why was this glory for him? After a time every one went away and left him. It grew dusk and the Little Fir Tree began to hear strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more
and more shadowy All at once the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty ladies were with them. They came to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the pink and white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall and in at another door. The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheel chairs and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know he was in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more, his breath was quickly taken away by the shout those little white children gave. “Oh, Oh! M—M—” they cried. “How pretty!” “How beautiful!” “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” He knew they must mean him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood straight as a mast and quivered in every needle for joy. Presently one weak little voice called out, “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever saw!” And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of a tree in the world.
A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK
B J W T
The two were amazingly, even absurdly alike, as they faced each other across the library table. The very scowl that lay heavy on the girl’s forehead was an obvious inheritance from the parental scowl opposite.
“I’m a self-made man, Paula—plain Western goods. It’s too late to teach me fancy values. I don’t go a hang on anything but facts. Some folks can put a paper frill around a mutton chop and call it lamb, but that ain’t my way. I see things as they are.”
“Well, I’m the daughter of a self-made man, and of a New England school-teacher too; if you can beat that combination for seeing things, as they are—”
“It’s your notion that you see this young feller as he is?”
“I do. And he has got just the things that you and I haven’t and need.”
“He has, eh? You might mention one or two.”
“Ancestry.”
“Oh, pshaw!”
“Well, then, a sense of humor.”
“A—what?” If she had said a “top-knot,” he could not have looked more amazedly disgusted.
“A sense of humor. And he’s got common sense too. He’s poor and alone in the world and not awfully practical, but I tell you, father, there’s stuff in him that we hustlers have got to get into our families sooner or later, if we’re going to the top. And—I—am.”
“H’m. On sixty dollars a month?”
“If necessary. Oh, I don’t pretend that Ralph has done much in business yet. Few men have, at nineteen.”
“At nineteen I had been at work seven years, and had been raised six times, both in salary and position. This young feller tells me he has been at work three years, and has been raised once—in salary only.”
“And that once was since he became interested in me; there is one thing you have got to take into account, father—that Ralph with me will have a very different career from Ralph without me.”
“But, Paula, is that just your notion of a husband?”
“Ralph is just my notion of a husband.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to thank me for it.”
