Part 8

And he fell asleep while she watched. Was it strange that she now loved the man better than her own life? How weak and helpless he was; only the shadow of his former physical strength and beauty. And yet, as she looked upon his helplessness, and realized that his fortune was gone, and that he was now even poorer than herself, her heart and soul went out to him, and all missions in life narrowed down to a resolve to nurse him back to health and happiness.

When he recovered sufficiently to sit up, and noticed the changed look in her beautiful eyes, he one day asked: “Agnes, dear Agnes, is it possible that since my health and wealth are gone you can love me?” She dropped her head and remained silent. “Forgive me,” he said sadly, “I was foolishly mistaken in what I saw in your eyes. I was looking through my love. Nobody could love a wreck like me.”

She looked up with a world of love in her eyes and cried: “You were not mistaken, Harry! I do love you! and all the more because you need me now. I could not be a vine, but I can be your support and guide!”

THE SALOON IN OUR TOWN

I simply judge from what I’ve seen. When I moved to this backwoods village, six years ago, the hotel was the only industry in town—turning out “skates.” One of the daily patrons of the hotel bar was brother to a millionaire of Central Pennsylvania. I asked him one day if he didn’t envy his brother the great wealth he had piled up, but “Uncle Enoch” gave me a little dance on the flag stone in front of the post office and remarked: “Phil never had the good time in life that I am having. Besides this, he’s twenty years older than I am, which are good for at least five hundred jolly times. Without a sou or a picayune in my pockets, I’m as happy as a king, so long as I can work the crowd for a drink.”

Well, who can say how much “Uncle Enoch’s” light-hearted manner cheered the plodding people, who worked year in and year out for a bare existence? I have seen men laugh at his drunken pranks who hadn’t given birth to a pleasant smile for weeks.

But somewhere in the world a deserted wife ekes out her own living at slavish toil, because of Enoch’s love of the cup that cheers. And in his sober hours I have heard “Uncle Enoch” lament the loss of his companion, declaring that she was a good wife, and that the fault was all his own.

This country hotel made a splendid stopping place for the sporting lawyers and business men of the nearest city, and no questions were asked when several automobile loads of sports and loudly dressed females stopped and engaged the ball room for a dance. “Uncle Enoch” would join them and dance in a corner, while the set was going through the whirling waltz, and sometimes stop the dance while he sang “My Bonny Black Bess.”

Several other local characters patronized the bar and thought they were having a good time, but when seen next day in their homes, where poverty and squalor and ragged children predominated, one could easily see that their “good time” for one night cut a great gash into the bare comforts of life during the next two weeks. And the wife and children, who had no good time at all, were obliged to share in his regrets and poverty even longer than he; for he went out to work amongst the farmers, and was well fed, while the children and mother ate the scant supply of food in the neglected home.

The second year after my arrival in the village the new Methodist minister took sick and his wife ran over to my house to borrow some brandy. I had none, but said I would go down to the hotel and get my private bottle filled, and lend it to them. The landlord said he was out of brandy, but had some extra good whiskey for fifty cents a pint. Knowing the minister had severe cramps, I took the substitute and hurried home, leaving the bottle at the minister’s house, and telling his wife to use all the liquor she needed, and when the bottle was empty, I would have it refilled.

Next day the minister was up and around again, and his wife brought the flask home. It was almost full. The new minister was, no doubt, a good judge of whiskey, and preferred to take chances with death, rather than drink much of the vile stuff masquerading as whiskey.

After that time I was not very friendly to the hotel man. I had gone on his petition to the court for a license to sell whiskey and beer, and the stuff he sold me to save the minister’s life was neither. Afterwards a neighbor’s wife took sick and we doped her with the contents of that bottle, and she got well. Being no judge of liquor, she thought it was all right, and her faith cured her.

Towards fall business became slack, the stock of whiskey became so low in the jugs that there was spontaneous combustion, the insurance policy took fire, and the hotel, with all its contents, except the most valuable things which were stored in trunks and left near the door, were consumed by fire.

Since then the town has been dry; “Uncle Enoch” is satisfied with an occasional jag on hard cider, the wives and mothers look happier, the children are better clothed, and we buy our medicinal liquor at the city drug stores and pay five times more than it is worth.

My honest belief is, that the saloon could be easily dispensed with, if the government would place on sale sealed bottles of genuine rye whiskey for medicinal purposes, at a fair price. I do not believe in prohibition to the full letter of the law. Whiskey is a medicine, and we need it just as badly as we need any other poisonous drug. I am subject to chills, and whiskey is the best remedy I ever discovered for chills. The only bad effect is that the more whiskey I have in the house, the more frequent are my attacks of chills. I use more caution, too—I take a jigger occasionally to prevent the very first symptoms of a chill.

THE HOMESICK CHILD

It was in the cool of a summer evening that I saw the child leaning over the railing of the river bridge and looking through her tears toward the opposite side of the stream. I knew intuitively that the tears in her eyes were sad ones, because sorrowful tears seem to stand in pools and only gush out at intervals. Tears of joy well out as fast as generated, for the eyelids stiffen under the influence of gladness and eject the tears automatically. In sorrow the eyes seem to recede and the eye-lids grow flabby and helpless, and the tears stand in pools around the corners of the eyes, as though lacking the courage to gush out and part with the aching heart beneath.

“Are you sick, little girl?” I asked. She tried to answer, but the words would not come. She only sobbed, and the pool of tears gushed out under the new disturbance and ran down her pale cheeks. “Don’t talk, if you don’t care to, child, but if you are in trouble I may be able to assist you. Have you a home?”

“Oh yes, sir!” she burst out, as though the word “home” opened the door to her heart. “My home is far out over this river and beyond those hills you see in the west!”

“And why are you here?” I asked kindly.

“Oh, I’m out at service. I’m working in Sheriff Barker’s kitchen, helping the misses with her work. I’m earning my own living, besides giving some money to papa for the other children. There’s so many of us, you see.”

“How old are you?” I asked, not out of curiosity, but out of sympathy.

“Oh, I’m twelve years old! There are four younger than me, and three older. We all go out at ten years and rustle for ourselves.”

“Dear God, what an age! What trials for such little bodies! But what were you crying about when I first came here?” I asked.

“Oh, sir, I was so homesick! I often get that way through the day, and at evening I come out here to the bridge and look out toward the dear old home and cry to see the children, and it really makes me feel better. It takes that heavy feeling out of my heart and I can look away ahead and feel hopeful.”

“What is your father’s name?” I asked.

“Papa’s name is John Deer—I’m Jennie. Mamma calls me Jean, and the boys call me Jen. The Barkers call me Jane. I like to be called Jean, because that’s what mamma calls me. I love my mamma so well, so well! and my heart is aching to see Willie and Bessie and the others tonight!”

“Why, Jean, I know your father well, and I remember your mother. I worked in the lumber woods with your father in 1884. He would write letters to his sweetheart every Sunday, and every Wednesday he would always get one from his girl. How glad he would be after reading her letters. She was a little school teacher in those old days.”

“Go on,” she cried. “Oh, I love to hear you talk of my papa and mamma as they were before they were married! I wonder if they loved each other like the people we read about in the story books?”

“I believe they did, Jean. At least your father loved Carrie Green just as fondly as young men love in story books. I had a best girl, too, in those days, and we often spoke of them, and what we would do after we got married.”

“And did you marry your best girl, too?” she eagerly inquired.

“No, Jean,” I said, and a wave of memory flashed over my mind and I paused to look down through that memory to the vista away off in the distance.

“Did you quarrel?” she asked, her eyes showing how much she was interested.

“No, Jean—she died.”

“You poor man!” she cried. “Did it almost break your heart? Oh, I can feel all you felt when your sweetheart died, for there can be no greater sorrow than to be homesick—to wish so earnestly for the ones you love best on earth—to long for your mother’s breast—that you may lay your aching head down and close your eyes and think only of how dear she is to you. Oh, I’m so glad you told me of your dead sweetheart, for you know how it feels to be sad and sorrowful, and can sympathize with a homesick girl!”

WHY HE QUIT HUNTING

My friend Stevenson visited me a few weeks ago, and during our conversation I asked him what luck he had during the last hunting season. He looked at me shame-faced and said: “I don’t hunt any more. I gave it up two years ago. I don’t believe it’s the kind of pleasure a civilized man needs. I prefer to live for other things—for joys that give pain to no other living thing. I’ll tell you about that last hunt. We were out on the Hogback mountain and three of us had been standing at the head of the Cramer Hollow while one went down along the point and drove the game into the ravine. While we were standing there looking down the hollow I noticed something moving through the brush far down the ravine. I whispered to the others and we all watched the thicket closely with eager, alert eyes.

“Pretty soon two small deer stepped into view—a spike buck and a little doe. Silently we drew up our guns and all aimed at the unsuspecting little creatures. How eager we were to kill. Every man tingled with eagerness and excitement. Not a shadow of mercy flitted across our souls. We were savages and barbarians eager for blood! Why? We had gone hunting for the pleasure of killing something. We needed a change. We had been tied to our business for several months and felt worn-out and low spirited, so we went out to the woods to take on new life by taking the life of some innocent creature that loved life as well as we. The sight of blood would appeal to the old savage nature that still lingers in the human heart like typhoid germs in an old well.

“‘Crack, crack, crack!’ went the three rifles, and our victim fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet and started to run up the hill. We could see that he was wounded badly. How our souls rejoiced and exalted. Some one’s bullet had gone tearing through his little body and his life’s blood was flowing away. Again our guns cracked and belched forth the death dealing lead, and the animal fell to the earth without a cry or appeal for mercy. Did instinct, or reason, teach the poor creature that it need not appeal to man for mercy?

“We all rushed down the hollow to where our victim lay. There was no more mercy in our hearts than there is charity in the heart of a rattle snake. The deer had tried to get up again and was on its knees when we came upon it. I was in the lead. As I approached, the dying animal turned its hopeless eyes full upon me, and the pain and the fear and the horror, all mingled into one last dying appeal, went straight to my heart. I stopped dead still and allowed the others to pass me. They grabbed the animal by the head with eager, cruel hands and turned it over on its side. I shut my eyes, but I could hear the ugly rasping sound of the knife as it was drawn viciously back and forth across that helpless throat, and heard the life blood gushing out upon the dead leaves.

“I felt sick at heart. A wave of regret and remorse swept over me—of guilt and shame and humiliation, and the sweat stood on my forehead like animated grains of corn. I had helped kill the innocent creature for pleasure—for the mere pleasure of killing; for I did not even like the taste of venison.

“I was too sick to assist in the job, but the others cut through the abdominal walls and tore out the steaming entrails like savages. Not a thought entered their mind that this poor animal loved life as well as they. They came to kill, and they were exultant over the killing. The life blood went coursing through their veins in a happy, exultant stream, and their hearts beat in tune with the song of their souls. And on the ground the stains of red showed where the innocent blood had seeped into the earth. If the earth is part of God, then God was absorbing the evidence of our guilt.

“We shouldered our victim and struggled down the ravine. We tied the animal’s legs together and had a pole between them, and put the ends on our shoulders. I managed to take the lead, so that I need not look upon the body of our slain friend. But with all my care I got blood on my hands and on my clothes! While my companions took delight in displaying the dried blood stains on their hands when we reached home, I felt guilty of mine and washed them several times before I went to bed.

“But I couldn’t sleep for many hours after I had gone to bed—not until I made a solemn vow that I would never willingly shed innocent blood again.”

THE HARD-LUCK SHOWMAN

Few people pity the circus people when they are in hard luck. So long as they can amuse and entertain they are applauded, but when they fail to do this, people turn from them as they would from a bundle of old clothes, forgetting that heartaches and sorrows and disappointments sink as deep into their hearts as they do into the hearts of the unsuccessful people in any other calling or profession. Dyke Dingleman had been a successful clown and funny man for ten years. The audience had fairly whooped and yelled at some of his funny sayings and antics, and the managers paid his salary cheerfully and praised him for his successful work. But one night in a large city he failed to win a smile from the large audience. He went through his stunts in such a stiff and listless way that nobody could see any fun in him or his bad attempts at humor. After the show was out the senior proprietor of the show scolded him for his poor playing and threatened to discharge him if it ever occurred again. He said nothing, but pulled a telegram from his pocket and handed it to the proprietor. It read: “Bessie is dying—can’t you come home?—Edith.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had trouble, Dyke? Forgive me for what I have said to you. Go home to your wife and dying child at once. Billings can take your place until you join us again.”

Dyke didn’t seem like his old self after Bessie died. He joined the show at Lima, Ohio, but he was no good as a clown. All the fun had gone out of his soul, and the audience hissed him. The people did not understand. He had to give up the situation and take the part of assistant, and wear a red coat. Carrying mats and other fixtures into the ring was very humiliating, and the wages were very low for such work. He couldn’t support his wife on the salary, and she went home to her folks and refused to write to him. She thought there was a chance to please his other women, or for booze.

One day the man who gave the outside entertainment was ill, and the proprietor wanted a substitute. Dyke used to perform on the tight rope, and he thought here was a chance to please his employer. He felt that he could do the clown stunts again, if he had another trial. Sorrow had sweetened his bitter life, and he thought he knew better what genuine humor should be than ever before. He would perform the old stunts on the high rope in a more ridiculous manner than any man dared. It was all pantomime, and he need not use his broken voice at all.

And the audience did enjoy the performance. They never saw such a daring, desperate man before. He was playing for reputation and his wife’s love and sympathy. The last jump on the rope was higher and wilder and more daring than any before. When he landed on the rope something gave away, the rope slipped through the pulley so rapidly that Dyke couldn’t grasp any of the stays in his fall. He landed with one leg on a stake and the bone was snapped above the knee. His poor shoulder was also dislocated and his head bruised. The roustabouts picked him up and carried him into the tent, and the crowd jammed closer to see his blood on the ground. A few women had screamed when they saw him fall, and several men groaned, but he was only a showman, and they all went away and soon forgot him.

The afternoon performance was just as good, and the clowns were just as funny, as though poor Dyke Dingleman did not lie unconscious at the hospital. In the morning the circus left town, but not before the proprietors of the circus had made arrangements at the hospital for the care of the injured actor.

Two weeks after the accident Dyke told his nurse all about his misfortunes and about his wife leaving him. He said he had nothing to live for and might as well die. The nurse was a romantic soul and set about to win Dyke’s wife back to him. She wrote a long letter, telling her husband’s story of hard luck just as he had told it to her, and begged her to come at once to his bed and give him love and hope and sympathy, so that he would have something to live for.

There never was a happier set of hospital nurses than there was in that particular hospital when Dyke’s wife came to his bed and threw her loving arms around his wasted body and asked him to forgive her for leaving him when his heart was heavy with sorrow from grieving over Bessie’s death.

And then she embraced the nurse who had told Dyke’s story so beautifully and pathetically, and the doctor assured them all that the patient was going to recover rapidly now. He could see signs of health and love of life coming back to the haggard face of the hard-luck showman.

The story was written up by the same romantic nurse and sent to a paper, and the whole town was in sympathy with Dyke Dingleman and his wife. Next day when another big circus came to town the nurse wrote the manager, inclosing Dyke’s story, and advised a benefit exhibition. The city turned out and Dyke’s share of the net profits was $300.

PLAYING WITH HEARTS

He was a cripple, without education or any accomplishments, and it was wrong in Mary Mackey to encourage the boy in falling head over heels in love with her, but she was only a school girl, with a desire for romance and excitement, and Lyndal Mason, with his boyish adoration and loyalty was just what she wanted to make life tolerable. In a way she liked Lyndal, because he was full of romantic and heroic tales of adventure, most of the tales being coined to suit the occasion.

I often wonder why boys, without future prospects or opportunity to make life a success, are always falling seriously in love, with thoughts of matrimony in the near future.

Looking back to my own early boyhood days, I can see myself in love with girls who only laughed at my grotesque aspirations. I never once thought of the responsibilities that go with matrimony. I only knew that there was one girl on earth I could not live without possessing her love. But I did live through it all, after discovering that she did not care a fig for me. I always took consolation by falling in love with some other girl. By the time I was eighteen years old, I had been slighted and jilted so often that I began to realize my worth—or worthlessness, rather.

It was different with Lyndal, because Mary encouraged him and led him on. She even sent him an invitation to her graduation at the high school where she attended, and where Lyndal often called on her. I remember now that he came to me and asked for a job to earn some money to buy Mary a graduation present. I remember still how hard he worked and how pleased he was at sight of the money he had earned. He bought her a pretty little pin, and the superstitious told him it would prick the love bubble and let out all her affections.