IN Germany, before the days of the American occupation at Panama, there lived with her mother a beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl named Hulda Schneider. The Schneiders were very poor, but they had held their own, for they had been fighters. But of what use are fighters there nowadays, except as bodyguards to the Kaiser’s numerous off-spring? Hulda had tastes inherent in such people, and, having no means of gratifying them, she chafed in her environment. “I’ll tell you what to do,” said a sophisticated girl friend, who had lived for a time at Hoboken, N. J. “Put an ad in a New York City newspaper, saying that you are young and pretty and just dying to make some good American happy.”

“Shall I get a millionaire, do you think?” asked the innocent Hulda.

“You may,” said her adviser. “If you don’t, you may get a Jew, and that’s almost the same thing.”

“But I don’t want a Jew,” said Hulda. “I want an American who is rich, young and handsome.”

Accordingly, an advertisement was sent to a New York Sunday paper announcing that a good-looking girl in Germany was pining to marry a rich American. Meanwhile, blue-eyed, golden-haired Hulda settled down to await a reply.

Now we must go back about seven hundred years, to the time when the Danes invaded Ireland. There was one Dane in particular, named Vickenstadt, who married a descendant of Brian Boru. It so happened that a descendant of this Dane and the great Brian read Hulda’s advertisement and decided to answer it. He was an ambitious man, of temperate habits and aesthetic tastes. He studied hard, for he was wont to say, “If there’s one thing in the world that I like better than another, it is intelligence.” He was a draftsman by profession, but he called himself “architect of the Canal Zone.” To use his own words, he was “well fixed,” and what he most desired was a golden-haired, blue-eyed, slender young girl to share his fortune and his ancient name. As a matter of fact, his name had undergone some radical changes during the intervening years, and was now written Brian McVickins. His associates called him “Mickey” Vickens for short, and by this cognomen he was generally known. He was an American citizen, but first saw the light of day in a little town in County Clare fifty years before the incidents in this story occurred.

‘Tis a far cry from Hulda’s home town on the Rhine to Ancon, C. Z., but the finger of fate is ever pointing this way and that, else “Mickey” Vickins would never have seen her advertisement on that unlucky Sunday morning. “Be jabers,” said he, “here’s the last thing I want now. I’ll answer this ad this very day, or my name is not Brian Boru Vickingstadt. If the others object to me Irish accint, divil a bit the difference ’ill this one know, and by the toime she gets to know the ropes she’ll be so attached to me that she’ll hate to leave me. The German wimmin do be that way. I’ll write under me right and proper name, an’ shure they’ll know I’m Danish anyway.” So he sat down and wrote that he was of Danish descent, an architect, an American, well fixed financially, and thirty-four years of age.

“I’d better tell her what sort of a complected man I am whilst I’m about it,” so he wrote, “dark-complected, with blue eyes an’ fair skin.” “Me hair is turnin’ fast,” said he to himself, as he gazed at his reflection in the looking-glass, “but,” he added, “if she objects, a bit of dye will fix that all right.” He told her that it would be six months before he would be able to procure “married quarters,” and he advised her to go to school where English was being taught so that she might be able to converse with him should she decide to accept him as her future husband. “An’ bedad! I haven’t been with the Jews in Chicago for nothing,” said the scheming wooer, “an’ me plan ought to be to ask her to give me the address of the schoolmaster, an’ I’ll send the old blaguard the money in checks. Thin I’ll have a hold upon the creature in case she has some young lads to meet her. Shure a man can never be after thinkin’ what a young heifer might be havin’ in her mind.” At length the letter was finished and was duly dispatched to the waiting Hulda. There was a clipping enclosed which read that Brian Boru Vickingstadt had lectured to a large audience on the Panama Canal at Hoboken, N. J. There was a postscript added, to the effect that the writer wished to communicate with the mother of the fair Hulda. That he had persuasive powers may be inferred from the fact that Hulda’s mother answered the letter as soon as it was received. The schoolmaster wrote that Hulda could begin her studies at once, and that great pains would be taken to fit her to become the wife of so prominent a person as the “architect of the Canal Zone.” There was a picture of the girl included.

“I like the man already,” said Hulda’s mother. “He is too old,” said Hulda. “Just think, thirty-four, while I am only twenty.” “It is the right age, just,” said the mother. “The husband should have the age already when the wife is that young and foolish like you are.” Hulda, however, had sent her picture and a long letter to another applicant. He wrote that he was a farmer, and lived near Montclair, N. J.; that he had one thousand dollars saved, was twenty-six years old, sober, and a church member.

After some weeks the schoolmaster received twenty-five dollars from the “architect of the Canal Zone” for Hulda’s instruction, and Hulda’s mother received a sum of money, all of which was duly acknowledged in the most legal manner on legal-looking paper. Now the Vickingstadt exulted in having won the prize. He took the girl’s picture and visited the places where “the boys” were in the habit of assembling. “What do ye think of that for a colleen?” asked he of one and all. “By Jove, she is a perfect Juno,” said one. “Say! she’s all right; a good-looker, and some style,” spoke up another. “Where did you pick it up?” queried a third. “That picture does not belong to none of your relatives,” another boldly asserted, “she’s too refined-lookin’.” “Divil a bit,” acknowledged the “architect;” she’s the gurrl I’m goin’ to marry whin I go on me vacation in September. Shure, that’s why I come across the Isthmus. I’m gittin’ a house here to bring me bride to.” “How could an old mug like you get a good-looker like that to marry you? ‘Mickey Vickins’ is a romancer,” declared one of the highbrows. “That must be the picture of some young lady in whose family he worked when he first came from Ireland,” spoke up another highbrow. And so the matter furnished food for discussion for some time. The “architect” was now living at Cristobal, where he had an extensive acquaintance among “the boys.” He knew every one of the dry-dock gang by name, and to each one in turn he showed the picture of the fair Hulda. The members of the dry-dock gang became greatly interested in the Vickingstadt’s wooing, and discussed the affair among themselves in the following manner: “‘Mickey Vickins’ is goin’ to be married, all right.” “Shure thing; got his name in for married quarters! An’ say, she shure is a peach.” “Yes, he’ll bring some old biddy down with him from New York. No one else would marry an old mutt like him.” “He stole that picture from one of them penpushers that he used to room with over at Ancon,” etc., etc.

Meanwhile the “architect” winked foxily and tucked away the letters from Hulda’s mother and the schoolmaster with his choicest treasures, which consisted of his discharge from the United States Army and his correspondence school diploma. Unknown to her mother, Hulda received money from two other men, which she acknowledged in the following manner:

“I received your letter and its contents. I long to see you. I know I shall love you, and I hope to make you a good wife. Good night, sweetheart.”

She had a dream of her landing at New York that was very rosy. She decided to have her three lovers meet her at the dock; she could then pick out the one she liked best, and say “Guten nacht” to the others. She did not know, poor girl, with what she would have to contend on arriving in the “land of the free and home of the brave.” Neither did two of the applicants for her hand. The Vickingstadt knew, however, from past experience, and he said to himself: “I’m goin’ about it in the right way, for many’s the young heifer from the ould dart I’ve helped to get out of the pin on Ellis Island.”