Part 15

Then comes Mark Twain’s early stories—not for instruction alone, but for amusement. His most humorous book is the most instructive, as well. “Huckelberry Finn,” to my idea of humor, is the most humorous book I ever read, providing one sees the pathetic and human qualities. The characters of the story are not trying to make sport or act ridiculous—they are serious all the time. It is this feature that brings out the humor. “Huckelberry Finn” looks upon the subject of human slavery with the eyes and soul of a southern boy fifty years before the great rebellion and the emancipation of the negro slaves. It was part of his religion to believe in the institution of human slavery, and he had to make up his mind to go to hell for the sin of it, before he dared assist a black slave to escape to a free state.

Never did any book give me as deep insight into human character as did this one. A man can be trained to harmonize almost any outrage against his weaker neighbor, if he can find a single verse of Scripture to uphold his actions.

Of our more modern writers, I can get more thought food from Elbert Hubbard, and this is what a reader wants. The writer who can make you think thoughts of your own, is the one who draws out the truth and the faith that is in you. Some can amuse and instruct without making you think along new lines. Unless you do some original thinking, after reading a book or a story, or a poem, you have not gained anything of lasting effect. The thoughts that do you the most good are the thoughts you can claim as your own. We are all looking at the world and into the mysteries of life from different view points. Others can tell us of a peep hole that brings to view many unknown things, but we must do the peeping ourselves. We must see things with our own mental eyes before we can size them up and grasp them and call them our own.

However, it all depends on the trend of one’s mind. The books that gave me the most instruction and entertainment might have no value at all in the judgment of another. Each individual must read until he discovers the trend of his mind, and then read books that satisfy. Even the much abused ten cent novel whetted my taste for higher literature. Occasionally one would make me think.

FORGOTTEN GRAVES

During the seven years I lived in my present home, I have sat on the front porch and looked across the Susquehanna river to a bluff just beyond the P. & E. Railroad. White tombstones, looming up above the weeds, like the great white teeth of Death, indicated that human bodies had been laid there to rest, while the struggle with others continued for a little while longer. Mrs. Haiden often spoke of going over to visit the spot. To her an old graveyard appeals with stronger force than the most beautiful garden of flowers. Three years ago, when we visited Washington, the wise old faces of the Senators and Representatives of the people did not appeal to her. Neither did the political stench of the Capitol. Arlington cemetery and the Egyptian mummies in the National Museum took her fancy. They were flowers handed down to us from a former generation, as they say in the Declaration of Independence.

Well, Mrs. Haiden’s curiosity to visit the old Quiggle cemetery overcame my laziness, and one fine Sunday we persuaded Professor Stevenson to accompany us, and we crossed the river at the ferry and walked through the fields to the place of interest. The cemetery is quite an old burial ground for this neighborhood. We could not determine how old, because the first graves made there were marked only with mountain sand stones, and only a few of them bore an inscription.

One of the graves was marked with a granite monument and surrounded with an iron fence, and inside the enclosure was an iron bench, just as though some loved one left behind would often come there and sit in the solitude and commune with the dead man under the sod. It was a beautiful and tender suggestion, and if the dead could really send back a message to the waiting ones, how much of death’s mystery could be cleared away. But aching hearts and the longings of yearning souls have failed to bring back even a whispered message from the land beyond the shadow line. The dead cannot talk to us any more than the living can talk to the dead. The wires are all down between the living and the dead—all down and out of use, and when we sit at the graves of our loved ones, all we can do is to recall the past; if time is a circle, then heaven lies in the past, as well as in the future, and the needle of our mental compass always points into the great beyond, no difference where we look.

On one mountain stone we found the figures 1803, and the name, Andrew K. Rinder. He had been buried one hundred and seven years—before the war of 1812 was fought between our country and Great Britain. The roar of the cannons could not disturb his rest. The big trains on the “Pennsy” go thundering by only two hundred feet away, but Rinder does not hear them. He never saw a steam locomotive nor a railroad track. These modern inventions have crowded in upon his resting place, but he is done with the world—he does not care. He lived his little life and lies in his little grave on this lonely little hill. Perhaps we will be as thoroughly forgotten in a century from now as Andrew K. Rinder. It has been over a hundred years since that name was set up in printed letters—perhaps it will never appear again. Did some mysterious force lead me there to resurrect that long forgotten name? Who can say? Life is a plan and a purpose; we move as the wheels in a clock, urged by a power to which we are attached by unseen hands.

On our return, we ran across a private burial ground we had known nothing about. Here lie the two generations of Stech’s. John Stech was buried in 1815. His sons and daughters lie sleeping at his side. The sons never married, and the name of Stech died out of the neighborhood. Not a man bearing that good old German name is known in this county. The valuable farm has fallen into the hands of strangers, and the private burial place is overgrown with briars and trees, and the top of the marker fallen to the ground. Nobody cares. These two bachelor brothers should have married and left some one to carry their name and to care for their graves.

I do not advocate Rooseveltian families—the age for large families has passed away—but I do believe every sane man should have a life behind in place of the one he takes away when he steps out. These forgotten and neglected graves in the Stech burial ground show that the Stechs neglected their duty during life. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” is true in all phases of earthly existence.

In less than a century ninety-nine per cent of the world’s dead are forgotten on earth. We, too, will be forgotten. Is there a record kept elsewhere? Are there more durable tablets than these rough mountain stones and granite?

IN THE OPEN DOOR

While out driving during the summer days of last season, I passed a little whitewashed cottage many times while returning in the evening, and noticed that on clear sunset days, an old woman stood in the open door and looked out toward the sunset, where the light lay like golden sheets upon the distant hilltops. When I spoke to her and bade her “good evening,” she lowered her eyes for a moment and returned my salute, and then raised them to study the sun set beauties. At last I stopped one September evening and remarked: “You seem to take great pleasure in the glories of a Pennsylvania sunset, grandmother. Were you ever an artist or painter?”

“Bless your heart, no. I’ve always been a plain housekeeper. My husband used to make and repair shoes in that little shop across the road, and I married him to keep house and cook his meals. I love the sunset for the sake of old memories. It was a bright sunset evening when Albert and I drove up the road to the gate yonder, and the farmer’s son came and took the horse and buggy home. We walked down this gravel path hand in hand and passed in through this door. We had been married only two hours, and we came here to begin our married life.

“The cottage was new then, for Albert built it for our home when we first became engaged. Previous to that he had lived in the shop. He came here a journeyman shoemaker, but the journeyman business had changed to the village shoe shop. He bought the little shop from the shoemaker who was removing to Ohio. And there he worked for two years and prospered. He was an orphan boy and had no relatives he knew of. Had been brought up in a foundling, which they called a “poor house,” in those days. Albert and I met at the country dances, for he could play the fiddle lovely. Nowadays they call it a violin, but Albert was only a fiddler on a fiddle.

“Sixty-two years ago and better, we walked down this gravel path hand in hand, and we were chums for over forty years. The old shop is falling into decay and the door does not close tight any more, but the cottage has been repaired since Albert died. But I don’t think of his death on these bright sunset evenings. I only remember and think of our wedding day, and of the other bright, sunny evenings when he and the children sat on this bench after working hours, and I sat in the door with my knitting.

“You only see a poor, old, lonely woman standing in the open door of her humble home, but I see the happiest little family circle in all the world—a proud father and three healthy, laughing children. Albert would always come out here on a summer evening to smoke his pipe, and the children would bring toys to be mended by his dear, loving hands.”

She wiped a tear from her dim old eyes, and continued: “We were so very happy while the children lived; but one winter diphtheria broke out in the village and swept all our darling loved ones from our grasp. Poor Albert was heartbroken for several years, and every Sunday we would walk over to the little graveyard in yonder hill and talk of the children as though the cemetery were a school and we had come to visit the children and bring them flowers.

“But I do not see this sad picture as I stand in the open door and look to the sunset sky. I only see the wedding party for a moment, and then Albert and the children sitting on the porch. Sometimes I talk to them while the sun is setting, and when the shadows fall, they bring back the faces of those I love. It is then that I can hear Albert’s voice as he sings the children to sleep out here on the porch, and sometimes I go out to bring the sleeping baby in and lay it on the bed, as I used to do sixty years ago.

“And I am not disappointed when I awake from my delusion, for I know that over yonder, beyond the sunset, Albert is singing to the children, and it is the echo of his voice that comes to me through the open door. You only see a poor, old, gray-haired woman standing here alone in the open door, but I am surrounded with dreams and visions and memories which no others can behold.”

THE JUDGE’S TEARS

One of the nice things people tell of Judge Mayer, who served the counties of Clinton, Cameron and Elk as president judge for almost forty years, is of the deep sympathy he showed when Attorney Henry Harvey fell dead in the court room. Harvey had been a law student in the judge’s office, and he felt a fatherly interest in the young man. He was proud of his achievements and successes at the bar, and was pleased when the local Republicans spoke of Harvey as a candidate for the high office of Governor of the great State of Pennsylvania. The judge much regretted the conditions that robbed his pupil of the high honor, but still looked ahead and hoped the honor might still hover near and select Mr. Harvey later on.

The judge knew what disappointment tasted like, for, being a Democrat in a Republican state, is what barred him from the Supreme bench. But he deemed the honor, at the expense of his honest political convictions, to be hollow and empty.

But one unfortunate day the man for whom he had seen such a brilliant future was fatally stricken in court. Harvey was addressing the jury in an important case, and was even more brilliant than usual, when suddenly he threw up his arms and staggered backward into the arms of R. C. Quiggle, calling to a physician sitting near him: “Doctor, I am sick.”

These were the last words uttered by the man of whom such a brilliant future had been predicted. When all was over, and the dead attorney lay cold in front of the jury, the venerable judge broke down and wept like a tender-hearted woman.

People who had come to look upon Charles A. Mayer as a stern and relentless judge, never dreamed of such a display of affection and sympathy. The judge had revealed his humane and tender side to the people, and they admired the new man far above the old one. After adjourning court, he stood with a bunch of attorneys and court officials discussing the tragical end of his friend, and out on the streets the people were discussing the affair, and to each new man who joined the crowds of startled citizens, some one would say: “The judge wept like a child when Harvey died.”

The writer of these lines was attending a relative’s funeral on that day, and when a man came to the funeral who had been in court when the tragical death occurred, and was telling a bunch of men standing outside the home and waiting for the services to begin, he did not forget to add: “Judge Mayer cried like a loving father when he saw that his friend was dead.”

And all over the country the news of Attorney Harvey’s death was whispered in awed tones, and always in connection with the death of Harvey was told the story of the judge’s tears.

It gave the people a peep into the real man behind the legal mask, and they admired the real man far above the legal sternness which the profession forced upon the judge. A man always gains in power and admiration when he shows evidence of a sympathetic heart. Abraham Lincoln’s tears of sympathy stand out as liquid diamonds upon his official record, never to be washed away while his beloved name remains on the pages of American history. The world may malign him and wrongly accuse him of many things, but those tears of sympathy are out of reach of human hands or slanderous tongues, and the crown of his earthly glory will always sparkle in the light of his illustrious name as indelible stars, forever polished by the love the American people retain for the man.

So, too, do the judge’s tears stand out above all his other good qualities, and command respect and admiration from his bitterest enemies. They can never be forgotten. Though he is dead and in his grave, the tears shed by loving friends will be forgotten by the world, while yet his own tears of sympathy remain like drops of dew to keep his memory fresh and green in the hearts of all those who know of the tender and sympathetic side of the judge.

THE DOG’S KISS

It was a bleak morning in April, the country roads being muddy and heavy and discouraging, and as the young man trudged along, his mind wandered back to the day he started as a tramp. His parents had become suddenly wealthy, through an oil strike on their mountain farm. They immediately moved to the city and purchased a fine home. The boy was sent to college. He was then eighteen years old. On the second year term Walter was progressing in his studies rapidly, and the teachers were proud of their bright pupil. They told him so. Their words of praise came back in memory whispers as he trudged along, footsore, sick, weary and hungry.

It was a bitter recollection to recall the day when the news was brought to him of his father’s and mother’s death. They had been killed in a railroad wreck. After the funeral it was discovered that good fortune had given Aaron Burfield the big head, and he started to gamble in stocks. He knew as much about it as a cow knows about Latin. He was a lamb to be easily fleeced. All the fortune had been lost and the big house was mortgaged. Walter was a beggar when twenty years of age.

He realized that he had no rich relatives or friends to help him. His foolish father had deserted all his old friends and many poor relatives the hour he found himself wealthy. Walter’s pride barred him from going back to these deserted friends and relatives. He went back to school, but the news of his change of fortune reached the ears of the young aristocratic friends with whom he had associated, and they cut him short. His tuition was paid in full, but he could not remain at school and be the outcast and beggar. News reached him that the big house was sold, and did not satisfy the creditors. He had nothing left but his clothes and a gold watch.

Now he regretted, as he walked along, that he had not remained at school and graduated. The sting of becoming an outcast was painful. Had he to do it all over again, he might do just as he had done—jumped a freight train one night with ten dollars in his pocket and left the college town forever. This was two years ago. He had harvested in the Dakotas, worked on the lakes, tried packing-house drudgery and tried his hand at work on a farm. He was now too sick and discouraged to beat his way by rail. He had lost his old-time courage, and felt like a whipped child. He must give up the careless, worthless life he was leading, and secure a permanent job.

He came to a large farm-house and went around to the back door to ask for a bite of breakfast. A tired woman told him to go away. He asked permission to sit on the porch step and rest. The old farm dog came up and licked his hand. His heart leaped in a glad response to even the friendship of a dog. He put one arm around the dog’s neck and unconsciously spoke aloud:

“Do you know how heart-sick and friendless I am, old doggie?”

“Do you like dogs?”

It was a girl’s voice. Walter Burfield looked up and saw it was a pretty red-cheeked girl addressing him. My, but she looked pretty and wholesome. A sinner standing outside of heaven and looking in through the open gate and beholding an angel would feel as Walter felt on beholding that pretty country girl.

“Do you like dogs,” she asked again, for the tramp sat dumb before her. His eyes dropped. He had reached that point in the life of a vagabond where the frank, honest eyes of some one in whom hope burns brightly, makes the hopeless soul recoil and seek to hide away from questioning eyes.

“I just feel like hugging the old dog,” he said, “because he offered to be my friend, and I am so hungry for friendship. I would like to secure a position, and find a home and settle down in the ways of peace once more. I am without a friend in all the wide world. The touch of the dog’s tongue on my hand is the first friendly touch I have felt for two years. The woman inside allowed me to sit down and rest here, but she refused me a bite to eat. I guess the old dog knows how hungry and friendless and despondent I am, so he came up and gave me the kiss of loving friendship.”

“Wait,” said the girl, “I’ll bring you something to eat, poor man.”

She sat and talked to him while he ate. She had never found any one so interesting, and he had never seen any one so beautiful. He could touch her heart as never any one had touched it before. He knew so much of life and was so discouraged and hopeless with it all. His talk opened up a new world to her. Her life had been so tame and commonplace, and she had longed for news from the outside world. He did not look like a tramp, though he was ragged and dirty and unshaven. The girl went to her father and persuaded him to give the poor tramp a job.

Walter Burfield stayed. He worked hard and faithfully. He resolved to give up roaming forever and try to make a man of himself, though obliged to begin down at the bottom. The old dog followed him through the fields day after day, as though he felt that it was his influence that had called Walter back to a life of usefulness. And Walter well knew that it was old Hector’s warm kiss on his hand that brought out the heart talk that morning with Adaline Blair.

Two years afterward, as he sat under a shade tree while resting his team of horses, he hugged the old dog and said to him:

“Dear old Hector, that first kiss of yours opened the door to a brand new world for me. God, but I must have been sick and lonely on that morning I sat resting on the porch, and you and Adaline found me and took me into your affections. Your kisses are still warm and affectionate, old doggie, but I felt a warmer one last night on my lips. Do you know that your little mistress has promised to be my wife? She says she was drawn toward me when she saw me hugging her dog. It was your loving kiss, old Hector, that has brought all this new love and hope and sunlight into my life. She would never have caught me hugging you, were it not for your friendly kiss.”

LOVE LETTERS