Part 2

I was made to feel very sad when I heard of the sudden bereavement. Little eyes of helpless children looked out of the night shadows and made my sleep a nightmare. I looked down a long dark vista leading out into future years, and I saw barefooted and ragged children plodding hopelessly along, bearing burdens that should be carried by full grown men and women. I saw cruel winter lurking only a few weeks off, generating chill blasts of wind to pinch little brown legs and chapped hands, and I wondered what the people would do about it.

While I was wondering what was to be done, my wife and her near neighbor were already solving the problem. Old chests and boxes were ransacked for cast-off clothing—for clothes the children had outgrown, but which were almost as good as new. Neighbors were set to work ransacking chests and boxes and bureau drawers, and many little dresses and pantaloons that brought back tender memories were dug up and cast into the common fund of collected goods.

To this collection was added a few dollars’ worth of new goods, and thread, and the work of reconstruction began. The work was done in my home, while I worked in an adjoining room, and I never heard a more cheerful and happy set of women. Their hearts, their charity, their mother love were all in the work, and these are the tender forces that give inspiration to men and women who believe in the religion of humanity.

In my mind’s eye I could see those orphan children feasting their eyes on the warm flannel petticoats, the bright gingham dresses, the soft underwear and little aprons. I felt that it was good to be near this working gang in the great cause of living humanity, and I seemed to share the inspiration that gave such happiness to the ladies.

The minister’s wife came out and joined the workers, but suggested that they open each sewing session with prayer; to which a majority objected, saying they only had limited time to spare, and they believed the children would be clothed much sooner if the sewing continued uninterrupted.

These good women worked all day cheerfully, and reconstructed a big pile of children’s clothes, and when the meeting was about to break up the minister’s wife suggested that they kneel and return thanks.

“God will accept my weariness of body and contentment of soul,” replied the busiest woman in the bunch. “Prayer is a private business between two—between God and the worshipper; and between these two there are no secrets,” she continued. “Public prayer is the work we do in public, and for the people—for God’s creatures. We have been praying, tenderly and seriously all afternoon, while many who could have joined us in the good work, but refused, will be offering up worded prayers tonight and thanking their God—for what? for escaping real work? for the squandering of a few hours that might have been spent with religious profit in this work of charity? So long as I believe in the religion of humanity, just so long will I believe that a work for the bettering of humanity goes ahead of worded prayer.”

“You may be right, Mary,” replied the minister’s wife. “If all women prayed as cheerfully and willingly with their hands, as you have done this afternoon, humanity would be the better for it. Perhaps, after all, the uplifting of the human race is the greatest work we can perform. Perhaps the bringing of joy and happiness to hearts that have been filled with hopelessness and gloom, is the dearest work we can do for God. I am not a bigot, Mary; only I believe in both work and prayer.”

For a long time after the women left I sat and pondered. The little hungry eyes of the shivering orphans looked out of the gloaming, and I knew what their decision would be. Their hearts would go out to the workers. When the warm skirts and petticoats and little trousers shut out the winter’s blast, the work of the workers would be appreciated.

JOE BAILEY’S RIDE

People who enjoy all the great improvements of the age have not the least idea of the inconvenience and the hardships people endured previous to the discoveries of the telegraph and the telephone. As an illustration of the conditions prevailing previous to the above discoveries, I will relate the story of Joe Bailey’s dangerous trip down the river on an ice floe, and his brother’s exciting ride on horse back from Jersey Shore, Pa., to Northumberland, a distance of fifty miles, to alarm the people and bring them to the rescue of his brother Joe.

The Baileys owned the island just southeast of Jersey Shore, which is still in the hands of the descendants of the Bailey family—Mrs. John S. Tomb, and Mrs. Carrothers. I do not know whether McGinnis, the historian of the West Branch Valley, mentioned this famous ride or not. I got the story from Captain William H. Crawford, who died several years ago at the age of seventy-seven years, and who was a boy at the time Joe Bailey went adrift on the ice floe. Crawford then lived with his father, Hon. George Crawford, two miles west of Jersey Shore.

It was in the spring, when a sudden rise in the river threatened to take the ice out of the streams. The Baileys had a small flat boat in the river which they plied between the island and Jersey Shore. It was still in the river when the early spring freshet came, and was in danger of being carried away with the heavy floe of ice. To save the flat, Joe Bailey and another man took a team of oxen and went to haul the flat out of the stream. While Joe was on the flat fastening a chain to a ring the ice suddenly broke up and crowded down upon the place, tearing the boat from the landing and sending the young man adrift on the ice.

His brother on the Jersey Shore side of the river stood horrified for a moment, and then fully realizing the importance of imminent action, borrowed a fast running horse and set out for Williamsport on a dead run. It was a race for life. Night was setting in and the weather turned suddenly bitter cold.

With horse and rider panting for breath, young Bailey reached Williamsport and alarmed the town. Many rushed to the bridge, but none were prepared to render service to the man going adrift on the ice. They could hear him shouting for assistance, but the flood bore him down upon them before they could secure a rope to drop down for Bailey to lay hold of and be lifted to the bridge.

Knowing that rescue was impossible, one thoughtful man removed his overcoat and dropped it down into the rushing boat, and received the freezing man’s grateful thanks.

Nothing daunted, young Bailey secured a fresh horse and struck out for Muncy, where another bridge spanned the Susquehanna river.

Again young Bailey reached the long bridge too late to secure help. Joe passed under the bridge before the men could lower a rope. But the undaunted brother would not give Joe up to the horrible death that awaited him somewhere down the roaring, rushing, grinding gorge. No human aid could reach him until he came to the bridge at Northumberland, so the brother secured a third horse and dashed away to the rescue again. No other ride through darkness and danger equalled that ride, except the ride of Paul Revere. And poor Joe’s awful ride in the rushing ice gorge could not be surpassed for danger and loneliness by any of the dangerous rides noted by historians and sung of by the poets.

During the ice floe in the West Branch of the Susquehanna river the current is extremely rapid and the brother dashing away on horseback knew full well that no time must be lost if he reached the Northumberland bridge in time to save Joe. This was the last chance. No other bridge could be reached on horseback in time for a rescue. There was no railroad then, no telegraph line, and the most rapid means of communication was by horseback.

Can you blame young Bailey then for urging the horse to the utmost speed? When the animal slowed up young Bailey laid on the lash and urged it to even faster speed. He and the horse could alone rescue the frantic man adrift on the ice floe. All those who knew of Joe Bailey’s peril were left far behind. The people of Northumberland would know nothing until young Bailey arrived. On and on he dashed, arriving at the town exhausted and sore from his long, hard ride.

The town was alarmed, and a score of boatmen and old river men rushed to the bridge, but not forgetting long ropes with nooses prepared at the end. Thank God he had not passed yet! They could hear him calling for help far up the stream. When near the bridge they called to him to be ready and slip the nose of the rope under his arms. Quick! Joe Bailey is safely tied in the loop! Up with the poor fellow! Safe! Thank God! The two brothers clasp each other in their strong arms, the one softly whispering: “Joe! Oh, Joe!”

THE OTHER MAN’S BABY

It’s a very easy matter to give away the other man’s baby, but not so easy when it comes to parting with our own. Organized charity does a whole lot for the unfortunate, but often does it in the wrong way. The mothers who are active in organized charity are too ready to separate parents from their children, never thinking for a moment what a loss it is to both parents and children to be thus separated. The only excuse for separating parents from charity children, is the economy. It is cheaper. Charity using painful economy to a painful extent.

I believe it is better, where it is possible, to allow parents the society of their children, and children the society of their parents, even if charity is asked to step in and keep the wolf from the door. It’s better for the parents, I’m sure. If anything will make a man or woman better, the society of their own children must surely come first in the elevating influence.

In my own individual case I can notice the self-improvement since I have a child to look up to me with trusting eyes and feel the tight clasp of his little hand. “A child shall lead them.” The man who wrote this line had the love and power of a child’s influence in his mind. We are all benefitted and made kindlier and more loving in the society of children—and especially our own children.

Only a few weeks ago an old school-mate of mine lost his wife, leaving him with a family of seven small children, including a baby girl of only ten months. The charitable mothers of the neighborhood took an interest in the poor man’s affairs, and began to collect clothing for the little motherless orphans and fit them out for school. They all thought the bereaved man could get a housekeeper much easier if the baby were out of the way, and they began to look around to secure a good home for her. They all agreed on that point—it was to be a good home for the baby, with kind people.

I was present when the committee of charitable women met at the poor man’s house to inform him that they had found a home for Baby Ruth. I shall never forget the look of pain that flashed into his eyes at the mention of finding a home for his baby. He was too full for words, but he picked the baby up from where she was playing at his feet with a yarn ball and string, and as he pressed her to the bosom of his coarse blouse I saw the tears overflow from his grief stricken eyes and run unrestrained down his rough cheeks.

After a few moments of silence he mastered his feelings and thanked the ladies for taking an interest in his children, but hugged the baby again and said: “But little Ruth is my baby! She was Mary’s baby! The last kisses and caresses of my poor dead wife were given to our baby—her baby. How can I put her away so soon after Mary’s death? She’s so small and dependent—must I begin the separation of my family away down at the bottom—away down with the weakest and smallest—with the baby—the one dearest to the mother who is now dead?”

The spokeswoman of the crowd told him how it would be best for the baby, and for him, to find it a good home, with kind people, who would care for it “and give it all the comforts of life.”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, “I know you mean it all for the best, and I could agree with you if—if it were some other father’s baby we were discussing, and not my baby—Mary’s baby—the last of our family to feel the loving caress of her embrace.

“Is it a crime that I am poor and wifeless, and my children are orphans? Can I cease to love my children because I am poor and they are motherless? They have been a great comfort and pleasure to me. I love their prattling voices; the sound of the little toy cart, as baby drags it across the floor, is sweeter music than the tones of the pipe organ down in the fashionable church.

“Shut your eyes to the squalor and rags you see here, and let your minds go back to your own homes, and recall the sound of the little tin wagon, loaded with tin soldiers and rag dolls, your own children used to pull through the house; and picture yourself standing at the gate after parting with your favorite child. Picture the scene, as the strange person carries your baby away, with her child face turned appealingly towards you, and you make no effort to bring her back to your arms and your heart.

“Would you, my good and kind women, who mean only good towards me and my children—would you call this a picture of civilization—a scene amongst enlightened people, or would you dream of it forever afterward as a picture of hell?”

THE PATHOS OF HUMOR

The average reader of newspapers and magazines imagines that humorous writers are always funny, and always saying funny things. Nothing could be farther from the real facts. The humorous side of humanity while wading through every day events, likewise sees the pathetic side. The pathos of life makes the shade and shadow of life’s picture, while the funny features make the humorous pictures—the cartoons and exaggerations.

I know a little story connected with the work of a humorous writer, so full of pathos that one can but wonder how he could write of the humorous side of life while sitting in the very presence of death.

During the days of his severest struggles for recognition (and bread) his wife’s aged father was taken ill, and the doctor said it was only a matter of a few weeks or days with the kind old man, and then his struggles on the earth would be over. And through all the nursing and watching the young author was obliged to grind out his “stuff” for the publishers who kept the wolf from his door.

One night the faithful daughter could endure the strain and loss of sleep no longer, and was obliged to go to bed, leaving only her author husband to watch at the bedside of the dying father, and to grind out his sketch for the next issue of the paper.

It was hard to forget the man who was passing over the dark stream and concentrate his mind on some ridiculous phase of life, but this he must do, for he needed yet a humorous anecdote to round out the line of argument he was introducing—that men are more truthful than their dreams. He was attempting to prove that men, while in the act of dreaming a lie, would tell the truth, if subject to speaking out loud in their sleep.

But humorous ideas were slow about coming, and he leaned over, with his face buried deep in his hands, and tried to think. All of a sudden he recalled an incident of real life, that would serve to complete his story, but before he could take up his pencil the sick man brightened up and remarked:

“Pretty hard to write scenes from the funny side of life, while waiting on some one to die!”

“’Tis that, father,” replied the young man tenderly; “but I just now recall an incident from the life of old Jim McGrabber that will finish the sketch.”

“Poor fellow!” softly exclaimed the dying man. “I pity you, my boy. It is more than most men are obliged to do. But don’t mind me. Even if I pass away while you are working, I will know that you are only doing your duty. Besides, my boy, it softens death to me to feel that others can forget it while it hovers so near. And in encouraging you to go on with your work, I hope to leave the impression behind that dying men can remain interested in the triumphs and achievements of life, even though they are old and feeble and their heart liable to stop forever without a moment’s warning. Go on with your work, and I will try to sleep.”

And then, after giving the old man a cool sip of water, and fixing his pillow more comfortable, he sat down and wrote the anecdote that was to complete his sketch.

“Timothy McGrabber always kept a private jug in his cellar, but was only allowed two jiggers of whiskey a day. If detected in taking a third or fourth drink, by his good old wife, she proceeded at once to pull his gray hair vigorously until he would promise to do so no more.

“One Sunday morning in mid-summer the good old wife went to church very early, leaving Tim to follow when ready to do so. This was Tim’s opportunity, so instead of two jiggers from the beloved jug, he took four—four big ones, and then followed the old lady to the church, singing softly and gleefully to himself as he walked cheerfully along.

“Arrived at church he sat down near the open window, and his system cleared of waste material and a painful conscience, he soon dropped off to sleep. A young kitten climbed in the window, took an exploring expedition out along the back of the seat, climbed up Tim’s passive arm and began to smell his whiskers. Scenting nothing dangerous, the kitty jumped to the top of his bald head and sat down to observe the house.

“A wasp flew by, and kitty attempted to catch it, lost her equilibrium and was falling backwards when she grabbed at Tim’s straggling locks of hair with both front feet and began to climb back to her lofty perch again; then the congregation was startled by Tim’s loud expostulations:

“‘Hey, Nora! that’s anuff! Pon me sowl oi only tuck four little nips from th’ joog, and bedad yee’r pulling all th’ hair out av me head! And how the divil did yee’s foind it out, anyhow, because oi wint down cellar in th’ dark and drank wid me oyes shut!’”

The author smiled at the bit of humor, and turned to the bed with a sigh of relief—only to discover that the old man had died while he wrote.

THE PINE CREEK TRAGEDY

Love in a lumber camp is as full of romance as love in a king’s court; for wherever love sets up her throne the world must bow down and recognize the Queen of Hearts. Jack Cleveland had been Rhoda Carson’s accepted lover ever since she came to be cook’s assistant in the big camp run by Reuben Harris, and this was her second winter in the camp. They expected to get married when they went back to civilization in the spring.

In January Walter Jackson, of Maine, came to work on the job, and Rhoda was fairly hypnotized by his manly beauty and robust health. Before the first week was out Jack saw how things were going, but still hoped Rhoda would get over her infatuation and come back to her old love. But Rhoda quarreled with Jack deliberately and after due meditation. She even insinuated that she would be happier if he left the job.

Poor Jack was awfully broken up over the affair, and would have gone away with his broken heart, but he was foreman and couldn’t leave his employer until after the drive was out of the creek. For two months previous to the spring flood Rhoda did not speak to Jack, but spent a great many Sundays playing checkers with Walter in the big dining room, and her merry laughter went straight to poor Jack’s heart. He had given her up, but his love for her was greater than ever before.

The day the flood came, and they were starting the big jams of logs far up the creek, Rhoda stood on the high bank near the camp to watch the logs sluice through the narrow channel; for at this point the creek cut through a rise of ground, with banks of red clay on both sides rising as much as twelve feet above the water. It was very exciting to watch the great logs dart through this narrow channel and pitch over the falls 200 feet further down the stream.

While she watched, a great mass of logs came sweeping down the stream and jammed at the head of the narrow channel. Other logs piled up against the jam. Then the men came and boldly walked out on the tumbled jam and tried to pry it loose with their cant hooks. All at once the great jam started, and the men ran back over the logs to a low place in the bank and came ashore. No, not all the men came ashore, for Walter Jackson made a mis-step and fell with one leg pinned between two logs.

It was lucky for Walter that the jam stopped before reaching the falls, for he was unable to extricate himself, and would surely have gone over and lost his life. Even now he must have assistance before the jam started again, which was sure to occur, for the water was rising so fast behind the logs that it must surely break loose in a few minutes. The danger was so great that none of the men would venture on the jam again, and Walter was given up by those who stood helplessly on the bank and waited for the end.

At this moment Jack Cleveland came upon the scene and saw his rival lying helplessly out on the logs. Did a gleam of triumph flash through his heart? No one will ever know, for Rhoda came up to him and shouted in his ear: “Can you save him, Jack?” Ah, did he catch a gleam of the old time love in her blue eyes? And was it this that urged him on?