Part 14
She took her books and went off, singing as happily as though she were the child of a millionaire father; and I sat and looked out of the east window to where the ice lay gorged along the banks of the river, and I tried to think about the ways of Providence. I knew of scores of children twice the age of little Bernice, who never took a single thought of tomorrow, who never expected to keep house until they grew to full womanhood and married a rich husband, who would employ servants and furnish everything the heart could desire. But this child of seven already had her life mapped out for her—a life of toil and care and hardships, and her only pay was to be with those she loved.
And down the road hurried the child, skipping hipperty-hop, her soul as happy as a blue-bird in May, her little red hood tilted to one side and a lock of escaped hair dancing in the wind. Unconsciously the tears welled into my eyes as I looked after her, and the words came again into my mouth: “Dear God, what an age to give up child-life for those she loves!”
THE MALE FLIRT
The fickle man was coming to have a last meeting with the girl whose heart he had broken—whose heart was still breaking. They had been engaged for two years, and he came out to the farm to visit her every time his business allowed him to visit the town near to the girl’s home. He had always lived in this particular country town, but had been traveling for an educational institution for several years. He had always written to Lizzie once a week while away, but of late he had often skipped a week, and now his letters were growing colder and more unfeeling. It had been rumored that he had another girl in town to whom he wrote almost daily, and with whom he had been seen riding on the day he promised to call on Lizzie and failed to appear.
It had been rumored that he was engaged to the other girl, but Lizzie could not believe the rumor. She knew there was something wrong, but hoped it would all be straightened out when he came. Again he disappointed the girl and failed to come. He wrote her a formal letter telling her that he had been detained in a distant town. But the following day a gossipping neighbor said she had seen him in town the previous night. She had gone into an ice cream parlor and saw him eating ice cream with the girl whom it had been said he was going to marry.
For several nights her sister Maggie, who roomed with Lizzie, heard her sobbing silently late in the night, sobbing as though her heart was breaking. Maggie longed to console her, but was it time yet to speak? Poor Lizzie still had hopes that the fickle lover would return and set everything straight.
Two weeks later the flirt made another appointment to call at eight o’clock. Maggie and her father retired, but Maggie did not undress. She wanted to know how serious the matter stood, for Lizzie was simply dying of a broken heart. If her sister broke down during the interview, Maggie fully intended to go down and take part in dismissing the false-hearted man.
At half-past eight there were sounds of horse steps and buggy wheels in the road. Maggie heard a sob and smothered cry downstairs. Had her poor sister broken down? But it was a firm step that walked to the door to let the caller in. They greeted each other coldly, and for a moment there was silence. Would Lizzie fail to defend herself? A moment longer and the injured girl began:
“Do I understand from your neglect of me that you wish our engagement broken?”
“Lizzie,” the man began coldly, “our engagement was all a mistake. I am not suited to make you an ideal husband. I am not good enough for you——”
The girl interrupted:
“If so, then how dare you marry another woman? Don’t try to defend yourself, sir. I know all. You tired of me because you met another girl who suited you better, and you neglected me to anger me and induce me to break the engagement. This I will never do. You must say the words yourself. I loved you truly and sincerely—I still love you. It is not a child’s love that will be forgotten in a few months or years. I am a woman and love as a woman. I will love you after all the sunlights have gone out of my life and my heart is dead within me. I can not help it. You taught me how to love, and I learned the lesson too well. Now you cast me off, but you can’t take the love out of my heart. I will still love the man I once thought you were. I will love you always. You take joy and sunshine from me and fill my life with shadows, but you can’t take back the love you planted in my soul.”
“Lizzie, for God’s sake hear me through! Our engagement was all a mistake——”
“Yes, a sad mistake—a cruel, wicked mistake,” she interrupted. “But I wish you no harm, no ill luck. God will punish you for your cruel work, I fear. I will even pray for you that you may be spared the punishment that goes to the man who ruins a woman’s life—who steals the sincerest sentiments of her soul and then throws them away, when he sees a new heart that can be won.”
Once again he attempted to explain, but she requested him to go and leave her alone, and he went. No one but himself will ever know the guilt and shame he felt at that hour as he slunk from the house. Maggie could hear her sister sobbing in the room below. She waited an hour and then went down quietly and led her up to bed. She helped to undress the drooping form and put her in the bed, and then got in herself and held the weeping girl in her arms during the night.
Oh, it was sad, sad, sad. Do these men flirts ever dream of the heartaches they bring to those who learn to love them and are then cast aside like broken toys? And think of the sadness this heart tragedy brought to the other members of Lizzie’s family. They watched her day after day, seeing the lines of despair grow deeper and deeper every week. And oh, how her sad, sweet face appealed to their love and sympathy. After the announcement of the fickle man’s wedding appeared in the local press, the sadness seemed to deepen for a few months, and then the poor girl slowly came out of the shadows. But any one who knew her could see that her poor heart was buried in the ashes of her early hopes, and that her never-dying love still sat sighing in the ashes.
MEMORIES OF THE OLD TRUNK
The other day while searching through an old trunk for a lost paper, I came across a little pasteboard box. Inside the box I found a photo of a three-year-old boy with Fontleroy curls, and in the same box I found those curls of beaten gold. I called to my wife, and together we examined the relics of a bygone day. This was the picture of our baby boy, and I recalled how, twelve years ago, we took him to the photographer and posed him for his picture; and from there we took him to the barber’s and had his curls cut off. He could not always remain our baby. We had postponed the sad day for several months, and when we brought him back home and his grandmother caught sight of the shorn boy, she took him in her arms and cried: “Oh, where is my baby? You have traded him off for a boy!”
Strange how these things affect us. Strange how these babies grow out of childhood and go exploring through boyhoodland. Our baby disappeared the moment his last curl was severed, and a boy took his place in our affection. Now that boy is passing from us. He is growing tall and stout, and his voice is changing. The moment we put long trousers on him and hide those sturdy legs he will be a young man. The boy will pass away as did the baby in curls, leaving a peculiar sadness at our hearts. That baby did not die, and yet he passed away from us as completely as though we had placed him in a little grave. And some day soon the boyish face will change to that of a man, and the boy will be gone forever.
I still recall the first evening we saw the boy sleeping on his bed, after shorn of his curls, and his mother said to me: “No one can tell how sadly I feel at this great change.” “I believe I do,” I replied; “and I will try to put down on paper some of the emotions passing through your heart. They are in mine too.”
And so I did try to write of her emotions, and the lines were still in the old trunk, tied up with the photo and
THE SEVERED CURLS
My baby boy was three years old, His curls were a joy to see; Their color was that of beaten gold, But of far more value to me. They hung in clusters about his head, And shaded his baby brow; Surrounding his dimpled cheeks so red— But they’re gone forever now!
The neighbors all laughed at me, and said: Don’t make him a Fontleroy; So I kissed the curls on the darling head Of my own dear baby boy. And told the barber to go ahead, In a voice made sad with tears; And none will know how my poor heart bled When I heard the swish of the shears.
I watched him through till the task was done, And gathered the severed curls. Then clasped to my heart my plundered son— Still more to me than worlds. But he was no longer my baby now; He seemed to have grown in years. I kissed his cheeks and plundered brow, And struggled with my tears.
And now in a little box I keep These treasures I loved so dear, And when the household is still in sleep, And the breath of slumber I hear, I take those curls from their little nest And live o’er the past again; And hug them close to my aching breast, To smother a strange, sad pain.
Yes, new curls may grow again, but oh, They never will be like these! For time is passing, and babies grow, And travel over seas; And mothers remain at home through years, While the early memories die, And I bathe those curls once more in tears, And go to bed with a sigh.
And on the day we found those curls, and read these lines aloud, we could look through the window and see our boy coming home from school. “In a little while,” I said, “the boy will disappear with the baby, and the man will grow out of the ashes. Oh, this is a strange world, and were it not for our memories, life would be short indeed! How sad, how sweet, how full of sentiment, how inspiring to live over the past.”
THE AUCTION BLOCK
The old negro was past seventy years, hostler at a country hotel. Some of the young men were drinking, and they persuaded “Uncle Andy” to sing us a song. He willingly sang several of his jolliest negro songs, and then wound up with Nellie Gray. When he came to that part which concluded the song, I saw tears stealing down his old wrinkled cheeks. I asked him to sing the chorus over again, and when he looked into my eyes and saw the sympathy I knew was welling up from my heart, he began again in that peculiar cadence which belongs to the negro race alone:
“Oh, my darling Nellie Gray, Up in heaven, there they say, That they’ll never take you from me any more; I’s a comin’, comin’, comin’, as the angels clear the way, Farewell to the old Kentucky shore!”
He covered his old eyes with his black hands and sobbed aloud at the conclusion of the song, but the noisy young men who had persuaded him to sing were lined up against the bar for another drink, and had forgotten all about Uncle Andy and his song. I laid my hand on his shoulder and said:
“It was an awful thing to happen in a so-called civilized country—to separate two loving souls and sell the woman into damnable slavery, by a race of men who pretended to worship God and love their neighbors as themselves. I have never suffered such a thing, and I cannot even imagine the feelings of the man who saw his beloved wife torn from his bosom and sold like a horse in the market.”
“You should thank God, sah, dat you-all nevah ’sperienced sich a great sorrow,” he said, looking toward me through his tears. “I has. When I was twenty I was married to Clarissa Beckon. Master died, and we all was sold on de block de nex’ year. I saw her taken away and I fainted dead off. She wor strongah than me. She walked away with her head up in defiance. De las’ words she spoke to me was like de song, dat up in heaven we all shud meet again, where dey cud nevah take her away any more.”
Ah, what a mockery to tell the poor, broken-hearted slaves that up in heaven their wrongs would all be righted. If the slave wife should be restored to her husband up in heaven, why did not those old brutalized slave-owners restore the broken-hearted wife to her husband on earth? How would they picture a just heaven, full of love and mercy and beauty, and then turn around and make a cruel hell out of this world? Ah, yes, and even asked God daily to shower his divine blessings upon this hell of their own making.
I went to bed thinking of the outrages and violent cruelties of the old slavery days, and fell asleep with the horrible picture of slavery in my mind. And sleeping I dreamed that God had reversed the conditions and changed the white men to colored slaves, and the old black slaves were now their masters. Even in that dream I said to myself that the proceedings were just and fair. If the black slave had been sold for the sake of profit long ago, it was fair that he should take advantage of the reversed order of things, and sell his old tormentors into slavery.
Suddenly the scene changed. I stood in a market place, a lad of fourteen. The auctioneer was selling a woman. Her back was toward me, but I could see that she was weeping. I caught the sound of her voice and it was familiar to my ears. I had heard that voice before. Could it be the one woman I had loved from birth—the woman whose first embrace was my first lesson in human love? In heart-broken tones I called to her, “Mother.”
She turned and raised her face to look over the crowd. “Great God!” I cried, “it is my own mother! And she is being sold into slavery!”
I rushed through the crowd toward the auction block, calling her name aloud as I went. Strong men tried to catch and hold me, but I wiggled from their grasp. I reached the block and caught hold of her dress, but she could not stoop down to pick me up and hug me to her heart, because her hands were tied behind her back. I could see her struggle in a mighty effort to break the cords that bound her. Sorrow gave her the strength of a giantess, and I saw the cords break and fall to the ground. The next moment she had clasped me to her breast and made an attempt to run away with me through the crowd. Blood hounds caught her by the throat and she fell to the ground.
I was torn from her bosom by the cruel hands of the man who had bought her, and when she reached her hands toward me the brutal man struck her loving hands with the butt-end of his whip. Then he raised the whip to strike me in the face, and as the blow descended I awoke. I was wet with perspiration, and tears of agony stood on my cheeks.
Think of this—less than fifty years ago such scenes were common—to other mothers and other sons.
THE OLD YARD MASTER
I was waiting on the ten o’clock train to leave the depot at Williamsport, Pa., when a vigorous old man came into the waiting room, accompanied by four children. It was an hour yet before train time, and I happened to be the only waiting passenger up to this time. I had come down from Lock Haven on the early morning train, and had two hours on my hands before the Reading train pulled out for Philadelphia. I had passed some of the time away talking to the vigorous scrub woman, who had mopped up the entire floor space of the station since daylight. She had gathered up her buckets and brooms and mops, and was leaving when the vigorous old man and the four children arrived.
He bade me good morning and then seated the children, but he did not sit down himself. He walked to the south window and looked out over the frozen river for several minutes, then turned to me and said: “The old river looks tame under her lid of ice, but some day she’ll get up and shove the lid off, and if the lid refuses to go, there will be a scene along here. I’ve seen her get her back up in my time and shove ice up on the tracks, right here in front of the station.”
“I wonder how deep the flood in 1889 was in the station,” I ventured. He put his finger on a spot a few inches up the window facing and said: “About here somewhere, I think. I was here at the time. You see, I was yard master here up to sixteen years ago. The boys went out on a strike, and I went out along and I never came back. I went into business and gave up railroading.”
“Do you never intend to railroad again?” I asked, by way of keeping up the conversation.
“Oh, no; the roads have no use for us old fellows any more. They want younger blood.”
“But you are not so old,” I said.
“Older than I look, sir. These are my grandchildren. We are off on a little trip together. You see, my youngest daughter is getting married today, and we are going along with the bridal party for a short distance. These grandchildren are very dear to me now since my own children are all married and gone off to build homes of their own.”
As the train drew near he took the children into the ladies waiting room, and other people came in and attracted my attention. Pretty soon a carriage drove up to the station. The horses were decorated with white ribbons and a few white bows on the carriage. Even the driver’s whip was decorated with a white bow. I knew by these signs that it was a wedding party. Two ladies and two gentlemen got out of the carriage, and I found myself guessing which couple were the bride and groom. They entered the ladies waiting room, and other young people appeared on the scene and began to throw rice and raise a great noise. They were having a great time, a jolly, happy time.
In a few minutes the old train master came back to me, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said: “They’re having their fun in there, as young people will. The bride in there is my youngest daughter, going off on her wedding trip.”
I could see that his voice was trembling and that his feelings were getting the better of him, but he walked to the window and looked out over the river and let the tears run quietly down his brave old face. He had escaped from the merry crowd to look out over the frozen river. What did he see? What was the fascination?
Intuitively I knew that the vision out there on the river was another wedding party of long years ago. I knew that the fair bride he saw out yonder was leaning on his own strong arm, and that they were going off on that journey this world and this life only gives but once to men and women—that journey which comes so near to making this world a heaven. Was that bride still alive? No, the tears in the old man’s eyes were silent witnesses to proclaim the sad news that she had gone on another journey—and gone alone.
The train pulled up and the crowd rushed out to get on board, and the old train master, with his untold story, drifted away from me, and I never saw him again.
BOOKS THAT MADE ME THINK
A reader writes me to learn what books did me the most good. This is hard to tell. As a boy we had but few books in our home, the Bible being the leading book, and a Lutheran catechism being the next in importance. My boyhood work was to watch cows. Our farm was small, and we raised patches of grain and hay, instead of whole fields. When we pastured one of these patches, I was obliged to keep them away from the patches of grain. It was during this time that I read the entire Bible, and tried in vain to grasp the meaning of many passages. The chapters devoted to love and charity and honesty, were within the grasp of any boy, but when it came to treating of sacrifices to please a God of love, I was getting in too deep to wade through, and was obliged to back out and sit down and contemplate the situation. I still hold the subject under deep contemplation.
The next book I can remember was “Great Expectations,” by Dickens. It filled my boyish mind with a love of literature. Since then I have read all of Dickens’ books, and he is my favorite author. In spite of his exaggerations and impossible characters, he is nearer in touch with all manner of humanity than any other author I have read. I think still that “David Copperfield” is the best book of fiction ever written, with “Little Dorrit” a close second.
I never liked Scott. There was too much war and fantastic thunder about him. His heroes were of the royalty, while Dickens found his among the common people—my kind of people—the people I love.
I read a few of Thackeray’s best stories and liked them, only they lacked the humor and the child sympathy I found in Dickens. He could never touch me in the tender spot as Dickens could.