Part 3

Taking a cant hook from one of the men, he leaped down upon the creaking and surging logs and carefully walked down to where Walter lay. With a strong pry on the log that pinned his rival fast, he parted the logs, then took hold of the prostrate man and lifted him to his feet. But his leg was injured so badly that Walter could not walk. Dropping his cant hook, Jack picked Walter up and staggered with his heavy load toward the bank. The men reached down and took Walter by the arms and were lifting him to safety when the great jam started. They saved Walter, but Jack was moving on with the logs!

Rhoda saw his danger and ran a few rods further down the stream, threw herself on the ground and reached far down to give Jack her hands. In his desperation he lay hold of them with a firm grasp and Rhoda braced herself for a mighty pull. But she was now too far over the bank to gain her poise again, and, with a scream that sounded above the roar of the water, she pitched down upon the head of her jilted lover, and together they went over the falls. He was holding her in his arms when they went over, and then the terrible jam of logs dashed down upon them, while the horrified men on the bank looked helplessly into each other’s eyes and groaned with mental pain.

In the village graveyard there are two stones standing side by side, where an old woodsman, now bent with age, visits every spring and places a bunch of flowers between the two. It is Walter Jackson. When he goes away the curious people go to the spot and read the card attached to the flowers: “Jack and Rhoda—They died for me. Even the gods could do no greater thing.”

THE HOMESICK BOY

“Way down upon de Suanee river, Far, far away. Dah’s whar my heart am turning ebber, Dah’s whar de ole folks stay.”

Foster surely knew what it was to be homesick when he wrote those lines. He knew the heart-aches of a homesick boy. What difference whether the homesick boy is white or black? The heart-aches are just the same; the longings just as sad, the memories just as sweet, the absent parents just as sacred, the absent brothers and sisters just as dear. That song makes the greatest appeal to human hearts for sympathy of any song ever sung—sympathy for the black or white boy obliged to go away from home and leave those he loves best on earth.

In my mind’s eye I see Foster’s little black boy who is sold into slavery and driven far away from the banks of the Suanee river to the cotton fields of the Southwest. Perhaps not one soul in all the world, besides his mother and little brothers, ever gave the poor slave boy a single thought after he was driven out of sight of the old cabin home. Other boys going away from home—white boys of those days, had all the world before them; but the poor slave boy had only his chains and his broken heart.

I see him lying in his hard bed of straw at night, with the storms howling around the cabin and the fading fire sending out only a few feeble rays of light—I see the homesick lad lying with his face buried in his hands and threading the old paths that lead up to his mother’s cabin through his mind. He sees the dear old river and the wild fowls resting on the bosom of the water. He sees his dear old mother sleeping in the old familiar bed where he lay when a baby. He sees his younger brother sleeping on the bed of straw near the hearth, his black face turned up for the moon beams to write lines of tenderness and love on each well remembered cheek. Outside the humble door the shaggy watchdog watches over the family that owns nothing but their wrongs.

And, with my mind on that homesick boy, I hear him sobbing, while the coarse sleeve of his soiled shirt absorbs the bitter tears that are known only to the great God who has commanded every one to love his neighbor as himself. In his ears the hum of the bees is still heard, and the music of his father’s banjo comes back on the wings of memory, like the odor of funeral-smelling flowers coming back from the grave of his buried hopes. The darkie boy at his saddest best.

The homesick boy of Foster’s song is not the bad nigger, full of nigger gin and hatred and evil intentions. The slave boy in whom you see only centuries of wrongs and oppressions is the picture in Foster’s immortal song.

Oh, the world would be better if every one had experienced a season of homesick longings, and cried themselves to sleep with the image of absent loved ones painted on their mind with the brush of tenderness. Better if all had wrongs to remember, and oppressions to leave scars on their souls that would make them feel kinship towards all the unfortunate who must suffer and bear their burdens alone.

It is a well known sociological fact that those who suffer hardships and privations have more tender feelings for the poor and unfortunate, than those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and never intermingled with the people of the lower world. Of course, there are exceptions, but they are few. When you find a wealthy person who feels charitable and kind towards all the world, that person has suffered heart-aches, too. He wants the sympathy of those who have suffered like he has. There is a fraternal feeling in his heart for the unfortunate, planted there by his own heart-aches and watered with his own tears. A man who has never known a heart-ache, never gives a single thought to the homesick boy who longed for his Suanee river home.

FRIENDS WHO PASS IN THE DARK

Of late I have found a very good and sincere friend who has, since then been an actual inspiration to me. For many years we knew of each other’s existence, but we did not move in the same orbit, one might say, so we never met to touch and smile as we passed each other in the busy pursuits of life. We seemed to pass each other in the dark, and so far apart that our binnacle lights could only be dimly seen away off in the gloom of the night.

And all the time we were dreaming the same dreams, cultivating the same love, nourishing the same hope, fanning the same laudable ambition, admiring the same poems, worshipping the same God of Nature. And we continued to pass in the dark. I had my struggles and deferred hopes and pinching poverty and unsatisfied desires, mellowed and made smooth, however, with the love of friends and companions who lived with me in the broad daylight of recognition and mental appreciation; and he had his friends and hopes and dreams and slights and heart-affecting episodes and burning ambition and love of humanity—and thus we continued to pass and repass in the dark.

Dimly and intermittingly the thought began to develop and dangle before our mental eyes that some day the lights would grow brighter in our binnacles, the shadows become less opaque and the distance diminish when passing by. The thought waves we were setting in motion as we moved around in our orbits, came together and intermingled and blended in mutual harmony, and moved us together in our wake, drawing us closer together, even when passing in the dark. And our binnacle lights grew brighter and finally dispelled the darkness so much that we no longer passed unrecognized, but too far apart to hail each other on the social sea.

What strange and subtle influence was it that planted the seeds of a mutual desire in each heart, that some day in passing, we could call across the narrow sea and hear the sound of each other’s voice? Was it caused by the thought waves that came over the mysterious dream sea and beat softly on the sides of our spiritual ship? Mutual confessions afterwards revealed the fact that our final meeting was not by accident, but through the individual, independent, unknown designs of each other. We felt the approach of each other’s frail boat while still in the dark distance, and realized that we were soon to meet and touch, with a hand-shake and a heart-ache that would never cease nor diminish until we have accomplished something to light the darkness where other poor mariners on the stormy sea of life pass each other, with no binnacle lights shining out over the troubled water, and no friendly call coming out of the darkness to those in distress.

No man can do successful work alone. We need the help and the moral support and the sincere appreciation of all those whom we know to be in sympathy with souls who are still pulling against the stream and through the darkness of obscurity and neglect. Every one of us have friends who pass us in the dark—friends that we could sincerely love and respect, and who could aid us and cheer us as we pull against the streams of life with the sad realization that sooner or later, we shall all be washed away.

Let us get closer together. Let us flash the binnacle light of love and God speed and good cheer as we pass in the dark. Too often we turn down the light at the approach of an unknown ship, and use our utmost endeavors to pass unseen and unknown. Is it because our mutual thoughts are out of tune?

And would it be thus if we were all mutually working for the uplifting of humanity? Would it be thus if we were all willing to throw out a line to the human boats drifting, without a rudder, down the rapids of poverty and want?

We are all ultimately going out on the unknown sea—why not sail closer together on the sea of life? Soon we will drift so far apart that absolute darkness will hide us from the living world; so, while we live let us avoid passing friends without calling to them over the water.

VOICE OF THE STONE

Passing through a country graveyard one day last summer, and reading the sad stories engraved on the many head stones, I was attracted by the silent voice of one particular stone, erected over the grave of a six-year-old boy: “How Many Hopes Lie Buried Here!” Was it an exclamation, or an interrogation? How many hopes? Only the fathers and mothers can truly tell who have buried hopes in similar graves.

These bereaved parents had pictured their baby boy as a man, going out into the world to accomplish great things and fill their declining years with pleasure and delight.

Often they had pictured their boy in his manly beauty, able to defend himself from the enemies that always cross the path of the successful, and attempt to retard their progress. They had pictured him on the stage of life swaying men with the power of his logic and his persuasive voice. Men were cheering at the bare mention of his name, for he had taught the people to love him and believe in him.

They saw him holding high positions in the social and political world, and always going higher, always gaining more and more, always accomplishing greater things—ah, perhaps holding the highest office in the land—President of the United States!

Or they may have been more modest in their hopes. They may have seen their boy, grown to sturdy manhood, following the plow and reaping the golden grain; and, instead of going out into the world to win glory and fame, they may have pictured him contented in the old home, sitting with them in the evening under the vine clad porch and discussing the modest hopes of the village people.

Great hopes are not always dreams of future glory and fame. The modest life and unostentatious efforts of the humble worker bring greater joys to some hearts than all the glories of political success. So the hopes that are buried with a favorite child are as many and as varied as the flowers of the hills and meadows.

But, whatever the hopes, the heart-aches are ever as deep and pathetic, and the tears as bitter with regret.

HOW MANY HOPES LIE BURIED HERE

How many hopes lie buried here With our darling, we loved so dear! When his dear life ended, The shadows blended With the darkness so cold and drear. And the sad refrain, Again and again, Tells of a mother’s tears and pain, Year after year, year after year.

How many hopes? Ah, God alone Knows how many lie under this stone! Of the mind well directed, Of the man they expected— Death ended all, the spirit has flown. And that sad refrain, Again and again, Tells of a father’s great heart pain, Always yearning for the boy that is gone.

How many hopes? The breezes sigh, Softly whispering while passing by: Fondest hopes of a mother’s breast, Hopes that pleased the father best, Reaching from earth to the sun-lit sky. Now the sad refrain, Again and again, Tells of the father’s and mother’s pain— A great heartache that will never die.

Ask the mother how many tears To wash that memory from the years? Ask the gloomy father why Comes that half-unconscious sigh? As the sound of a lov’d voice disappears. Ah, that sad refrain, Again and again. Tells the story of grief and pain, Which the mellow-hearted reader hears.

INGRATITUDE

Ingratitude is the crime of weak, inferior intellects. The man who will eagerly accept favors of another, and not feel grateful towards the donor afterwards, displays the coarse inferiority of the brute. The savages and barbarians are noted for their spirit of gratitude. They never forget a kindness. The genuine superlative ingrate is generally the spectacular white man. The man in whom vanity and self-interest predominates all the finer feelings of the soul.

Very often he is a self-sainted molder of public opinion, standing high in the church and political circles, with an inordinate appetite for public position where he can be observed by the passing world. He is the self-stuffed hypocrite who pretends to love humanity—for the profit it will bring him.

I have in my mind a parasitical vampire in human form who had a friend moving in political circles where railroad passes where supposed to be gifts of friendship. This was before the anti-free pass law came into effect. The parasite begged his friend to secure a pass for him, and it was secured and given to him, midst a shower of profound thanks and pledges of eternal gratefulness. The pass was used to a gluttonous extent, and renewed at its expiration, and again accepted with many obsequious bows and renewed pledges of everlasting friendship.

A few years ago the friend died, and his relatives expected words of kindly remembrance from the parasite. Even the dead man’s enemies spoke kindly of him after death had silenced his tongue and put the eternal chill upon his warm heart. It is one feature of our higher civilization to always speak well of the dead—to overlook the dead man’s faults and remember only his good qualities. To spurn the dead body of one’s fellow man is considered cowardly, dastardly and inhuman. But when a supposed friend turns on the body of one whom he made a victim of his hypocrisy and deceit while living, and stings the dead with the venom of a treacherous viper, the world looks on and blushes for very shame.

This was the case with the parasite I have referred to. No sooner had the breath left the body of the man who had so often befriended him, than he began circulating stories that told how corrupt his dead friend had always been during life.

Did the public applaud the ungrateful parasite? Did he gain favor from even the dead man’s most bitter enemies? Far from it! Those who remembered how the fawning sycophant had groveled at the feet of the dead man for the favors so lavishly bestowed while life lasted, had only feelings of contempt for the cowardly traducer of a dead friend’s character.

The world said: “If the dead man was as bad and corrupt as this false friend paints him, why did he wait until after death has sealed his tongue with the lock of eternal silence? Why did he court the dead man’s society as long as there was a favor within reach? Was it not his sacred duty to reform the corrupt man, instead of sharing gluttonously all the good things with him, with the greed of a vampire sucking the life’s blood from a sleeping child?”

The story he now tells of his dead friend is but the flapping wings of the vampire fanning his new victims to sleep while he sucks favors from the veins of their unsuspecting generosity. Once a parasite, always a parasite, and the attempt to build a character out of abuse heaped upon the memory of a dead friend, is but wasted energy. The public is a pretty good judge of humanity, and the human vampire can not paint his wings and pass for a dove, no odds how saint-like he may “coo” to the other birds of prey.

Another case of ingratitude came to me just the other day: One man asked another for a loan of $200. It was taking great risks to loan the fellow anything, but the friend took chances and loaned him half as much as he asked for. Now the fellow hasn’t a single kind word to speak of the generous lender. This is not only injuring the man who so kindly befriended him, but the abuse may sour the lender against humanity in general, as some day some other honest but unfortunate man may be turned away empty handed, on account of the wound made by the ingratitude of the human parasite.

Those who are not thankful for small favors, are absolutely barren of gratitude, and deserve no favors at all. And where there is no gratitude there are no generous impulses, no spirit of charity, no love for humanity, either dead or alive. And the world is full of them. I have only referred to two cases—two of the most common cases—every reader knows of a dozen other cases. Ingratitude is the white man’s great sin against humanity.

ORPHAN EVA

Sitting at the window one cold frosty morning I saw little Eva Yarnell passing the house with a bundle of clothes under each arm. Eva is a girl of twelve years, and an orphan. Her mother died when she was but six years old. I’ve always been interested in the child because she had been shifted from pillar to post, as the saying goes, one relative keeping the little girl as long as their means lasted, when she would be moved on to another aunt or uncle or cousin or grandmother. Her relatives were all poor, and it seemed as though Providence was forcing little Eva to share all the poverty and want of her relatives.

She has at times been a schoolmate of my boy, so when he came into the room I asked him where little Eva was moving to.

“Oh, she’s all right now, papa!” the boy exclaimed. “She’s going to live with Bingman’s, just above town, on a farm. She’s such a good worker, and I believe Mrs. Bingman will appreciate Eva and make it pleasant for her. The poor child is just about naked, and I’m sure Mrs. Bingman will dress her better than she was ever dressed in her life.”

I caught my boy’s hopeful feeling and inwardly rejoiced over little Eva’s good fortune. But after sitting for a time thinking about the life of orphan Eva, it struck me forcibly about the child’s recommendation. “She’s such a good worker,” my boy said. Working her way through life “at the age of twelve.” “What an age! What a stern life for a girl of twelve! God help you, child, and send you a kind mistress!” I said aloud, as I turned to my desk with a queer sad feeling tugging at my heart.

Lately I had written a sketch describing the heart-aches of Foster’s colored boy, of whom he sang in the tender words of “The Old Folks at Home,”—the far off home on the Suanee river; and I had cried over the boy I had pictured in my mind, because I, too, have suffered with heart-aches and loneliness and soul hunger. But here was a little homeless girl who could never more dream of a mother back in the old home. There was no one at home to wish her back again, not even a home. There was no one waiting with heart-aches to see her, unless there are heart-aches beyond the grave.

I opened the door to catch a last glimpse of the little orphan and saw her bravely trudging up the wet street, occasionally shifting the bundles from one arm to the other, for one of the bundles was much larger than the other—so large that it cramped her chubby arm while holding it close to her body.

“Such a good worker!” The words persisted in coming back to me, leaving a sadness at my heart that could not be shaken off. How long has she been a good worker? When did she first learn how to work? Such an age for such a grand reputation!

I thought of the drones all over the country who never win such a reputation, though they live on the fat of the land, and feel as far above little Eva Yarnell as the gods are supposed to feel above a toad. In whom, I wonder, do the gods feel the most interest—in Eva Yarnell, or in the fat and sleek drones who sit in upholstered chairs and try to mold the opinions of the world.

I do not know—I can not believe that this world is ruled by the hand of love, no odds whether that hand is divine or not. Law is stern, severe and unrelenting; the one side padded with the down of mercy, but the reverse side rough with cruel thorns and painful projections. And the reverse side seems always turned towards the weak and the helpless—towards the motherless orphan I had in my mind—little Eva Yarnell.

“Such a worker!” Such an age! God send her kind mistress and a sheltering home!

LOVING THE WORLD

There is a difference between loving the world for the world’s wealth’s sake, and loving the world for the sake of humanity. There is often this difference between the patriotism of men. Some patriots love the surface of the world where they are located far more than they love the people who share it with them. Some patriots love the wealthy of their neighboring countries, while they are totally indifferent towards the toiling poor of that same country. In America the people who love humanity for humanity’s sake, give their sympathies to the plundered and outraged peasantry of Russia, while those who love the world for wealth’s sake give their sympathies to Emperor Nicholas and the parasitical royalty of that unhappy country.