A SET OF RESOLUTIONS.
It was the morning of the third day after the disaster at Burnham
Shaft. The breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the
mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face.
They had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the
privilege had been granted.
Grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow
in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere.
Had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces
and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been
a constant reminder.
As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was
universally mourned. The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had
especial cause for grief. He had a way of coming to the mines and
looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. He
knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of
kindly greeting for each one whom he met. When he came among them out
of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be
more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of
cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these
men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of
his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this
spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham
Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any
way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon
this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed
to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day
above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them,
and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their
tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a
child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a
type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his
poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for
them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If
he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he
was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile
and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time.
They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was,
but--they would see it.
They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker,
under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They
were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure,
patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best.
There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being
played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced,
earnest, and sorrowful.
One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I
think we ought to pass res'lutions like what the miners they done."
"Res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?"
"W'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil,
w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al."
Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly
organized. Many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew
something about parliamentary organization.
"I move't Ralph Buckley, he be chairman," said one.
"I second the move," said another. The motion was put, and Ralph was
unanimously elected as chairman.
"They ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against
the tree in order to face the assemblage. "We got jest time to 'lect a
sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions."
"I move't Jimmie Donnelly be sec'etary."
"I second Jimmie Donnelly."
"All you who want Jimmie Donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right
han's an' say yi."
There was a chorus of yi's.
"I move't Ed. Williams be treasher."
Then the objector rose. "Aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher.
W'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money."
"You got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful Gushing, "you got to
have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions,
neither!"
The discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination
of Ed. Williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried.
"Now," said another young parliamentarian, "I move't the chairman pint
out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions."
This motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and Ralph designated
three boys in the company, one of whom, Joe Foster, had more than an
ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and,
while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper,
the meeting took a recess.
It was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in
writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer,
and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it.
There was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. One
thought they should begin by saying, "Know all men by these presents."
"But we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we
had it ain't no time to give any presents."
Joe Foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the
miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the
language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"We, the
breaker boys, of Burnham Breaker, in mass meeting met"--
After that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the
spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the
end.
"You two write your names on to it," said Jack Murphy; "I won't put
mine down; two's enough."
"Oh! we've all got to sign it," said Joe Foster; "a majoriky ain't
enough to make a paper like this stan' law."
"Well, I don't b'lieve I'll sign it," responded Jack; "I don't like
the res'lutions very well, anyway."
"Why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, I know! you can't write
your name.
"Well, I guess I could, maybe, if I wanted to, but I don't want to;
I'm 'fraid I'd spile the looks o' the paper. You's fellows go ahead
an' sign it."
"I'll tell you what to do," said Joe; "I'll write your name jest as
good as I can, an' then you can put your solemn cross on top of it,
an' that'll make it jest as legal as it can be got."
So they arranged it in that way. Joe signed Jack Murphy's name in his
very best style, and then Jack took the pen and under Joe's explicit
directions, drew one line horizontally through the name and another
line perpendicularly between the two words of it, and Joe wrote
above it: "his solem mark." This completed the resolutions, and
the committee hurried back with them to the impatient assembly.
The meeting was called to order again, and Joe Foster read the
resolutions.
"That's jest the way I feel about it," said Ralph, "jest the way that
paper reads. He couldn't 'a' been no better to us, no way. Boys," he
continued, earnestly, forgetting for the time being his position, "do
you 'member 'bout his comin' into the screen-room last Tuesday an'
givin' us each a quarter to go t' the circus with? Well, I'd cut my
han' that day on a piece o' coal, an' it was a-bleedin' bad, an' he
see it, an' he asked me what was the matter with it, an' I told 'im,
an' he took it an' washed it off, he did, jest as nice an' careful;
an' then what d'ye think he done? W'y he took 'is own han'kerchy, his
own han'kerchy, mind ye, an' tore it into strips an' wrapped it roun'
my han' jest as nice--jest as nice--"
And here the memory of this kindness became so vivid in Ralph's mind
that he broke down and cried outright.
"It was jes' like 'im," said one in the crowd; "he was always a-doin'
sumpthin' jes' like that. D'ye 'member that time w'en I froze my ear,
an' he give me money to buy a new cap with ear-laps on to it?"
The recital of this incident called from another the statement of some
generous deed, and, in the fund of kindly reminiscence thus aroused,
the resolutions came near to being wholly forgotten. But they were
remembered, finally, and were called up and adopted, and it was agreed
that the chairman should carry them and present them to whoever
should be found in charge at the house. Then, with Ralph and Joe
Foster leading the procession, they started toward the city. Reaching
Laburnum Avenue, they marched down that street in twos until they came
to the Burnham residence. There was a short consultation there, and
then they all passed in through the gate to the lawn, and Ralph and
Joe went up the broad stone steps to the door. A kind-faced woman
met them there, and Ralph said: "We've come, if you please, the
breaker boys have come to--to--" The woman smiled sweetly, and said:
"Yes, we've been expecting you; wait a moment and I will see what
arrangements have been made for you."
Joe Foster nudged Ralph with his elbow, and whispered:--
"The res'lutions, Ralph, the res'lutions; now's the time; give 'em to
her."
But Ralph did not hear him. His mind was elsewhere. As his eyes
grew accustomed to the dim light in the hall, and he saw the
winding staircase with its richly carved posts, the beauty of the
stained-glass windows, the graceful hangings, the broad doors, the
pictures, and the flowers, there came upon him a sense of strange
familiarity with the scene. It seemed to him as though sometime,
somewhere, he had seen it, known it all before. The feeling was so
sudden and so strong that it made him faint and dizzy.
The kind-featured woman saw the pallor on his face and the tremor on
his lips, and led him to a chair. She ascribed his weakness to sorrow
and excitement, and the dread of looking on a dead face.
"Poor boy!" she said. "I don't wonder at it; he was more than generous
to us all."
But Joe, afraid that the resolutions he had labored on with so much
diligence would be forgotten, spoke of them again to Ralph.
"Oh, yes," said Ralph, with a wan smile, "oh, yes! here's the
res'lutions. That's the way the breaker boys feel--the way it says in
this paper; an' we want Mrs. Burnham to know."
"I'll take it to her," said the woman, receiving from Ralph's hands
the awkwardly folded and now sadly soiled paper. "You will wait here a
moment, please."
She passed up the broad staircase, by the richly colored window at the
landing, and was lost to sight; while the two boys, sitting in the
spacious hall, gazed, with wondering eyes, upon the beauty which
surrounded them.
The widow of Robert Burnham sat in the morning-room of her desolated
home, talking calmly with her friends.
After the first shock incident upon her husband's death had passed
away, she had made no outcry, she grew quiet and self-possessed, she
was ready for any consultation, gave all necessary orders, spoke
of her dead husband's goodness to her with a smile on her face, and
looked calmly forth into the future. The shock of that terrible
message from the mines, two days ago, had paralyzed her emotional
nature, and left her white-faced and tearless.
She had a smile and a kind word for every one as before; she had eaten
mechanically; but she had lain with wide-open eyes all night, and
still no one had seen a single tear upon her cheeks. This was why they
feared for her; they said,
"She must weep, or she will die."
Some one came into the room and spoke to her.
"The breaker boys, who asked to come this morning, are here."
"Let them come in," she said, "and pass through the parlors and look
upon him; and let them be treated with all kindness and courtesy."
"They have brought this paper, containing resolutions passed by them,
which they would like to have you read."
Mrs. Burnham took the paper, and asked the woman to wait while she
read it. There was something in the fact that these boys had passed
resolutions of sympathy that touched her heart. She unfolded the
soiled paper and read:--
Wee, the braker Boys of burnham braker in mass meeting met Did
pass thease res'lutions. first the braker Boys is all vary sory
indede Cause mister Burnham dide.
second Wee have A grate dele of sympathy for his wife and his
little girl, what has got to get along now without him. third wee
are vary Proud of him cause he dide a trying to save John Welshes
life and pat Morys life and the other mens lifes. fourth he was
vary Good indede to us Boys, and they ain't one of us but what
liked him vary mutch and feel vary bad. fift Wee dont none of us
ixpect to have no moar sutch good Times at the braker as wee did
Befoar. sixt Wee aint scollers enougth to rite it down just what
wee feel, but wee feel a hunderd times more an what weave got rote
down.
JOE FOSTER, comity,
PAT DONNELLY, comity,
his solem mark
JACK + MURFY comity.
The widow laid aside the paper, put her face in her hands, and began
to weep. There was something in the honest, unskilled way in which
these boys had laid their hearts open before her in this time of
general sorrow, that brought the tears into her eyes at last, and for
many minutes they flowed without restraint. Those who were with her
knew that the danger that had menaced her was passed.
After a little she lifted her head.
"I will see the boys," she said. "I will thank them in person. Tell
them to assemble in the hall."
The message was given, and the boys filed into the broad hall, and
stood waiting, hats in hand, in silence and in awe.
Down the wide staircase the lady came, holding her little girl by the
hand, and at the last step they halted. As Ralph looked up and saw her
face, pallid but beautiful, and felt the influence of her gracious yet
commanding presence, there came over him again that strange sensation
as of beholding some familiar sight. It seemed to him that sometime,
somewhere, he had not only seen her and known her, but that she had
been very close to him. He felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to
cry out to her for some word, some look of recognition. Then she began
to speak. He held himself firmly by the back of a chair, and listened
as to a voice that had been familiar to him in some state of being
prior to his life on earth.
"Boys," said the lady, "I come to thank you in person for your
assurances of sympathy for me and for my little daughter, and for your
veneration for the dead. I know that his feeling toward you was very
kind, that he tried to lighten your labors as he could, that he hoped
for you that you would all grow into strong, good men. I do not wonder
that you sorrow at his loss. This honest, simple tribute to his memory
that you have given to me has touched me deeply.
"I cannot hope to be as close to you as he was, but from this time
forth I shall be twice your friend. I want to take each one of you by
the hand as you pass by, in token of our friendship, and of my faith
in you, and my gratitude toward you."
So, one by one, as they passed into the room beyond, she held each
boy's hand for a moment and spoke to him some kind word, and every
heart in her presence went out to her in sympathy and love.
Last of all came Ralph. As leader of the party he had thought it
proper to give precedence to the rest. The lady took his hand as he
came by, the same hand that had received her husband's tender care;
but there was something in his pallid, grief-marked face, in the brown
eyes filled with tears, in the sensitive trembling of the delicate
lips, as she looked down on him, that brought swift tenderness for him
to her heart. She bent over and lifted up his face to hers, and kissed
his lips, and then, unable longer to restrain her emotion, she turned
and hastened up the stairway, and was lost to sight.
For many minutes Ralph stood still, in gratified amazement. It was
the first time in all his life, so far as memory served him, that any
one had kissed him. And that this grief-stricken lady should be the
first--it was very strange, but very beautiful, indeed. He felt that
by that kiss he had been lifted to a higher level, to a clearer, purer
atmosphere, to a station where better things than he had ever done
before would be expected of him now; he felt, indeed, as though it
were the first long reach ahead to attain to such a manhood as was
Robert Burnham's. The repetition of this name in his mind brought him
to himself, and he turned into the parlor just as the last one of the
other boys was passing out. He hurried across the room to look upon
the face of his friend and employer. It was not the unpleasant sight
that he had feared it might be. The dead man's features were relaxed
and calm. A smile seemed to be playing about the lips. The face had
all its wonted color and fulness, and one might well have thought,
looking on the closed eye-lids, that he lay asleep.
Standing thus in the presence of death, the boy had no fear. His only
feeling was one of tenderness and of deep sorrow. The man had been so
kind to him in life, so very kind. It seemed almost as though the lips
might part and speak to him. But he was dead; this was his face, this
his body; but he, himself, was not here. Dead! The word struck harshly
on his mind and roused him from his reverie. He looked up; the boys
had all gone, only the kind-faced woman stood there with a puzzled
expression in her eyes. She had chanced to mark the strong resemblance
between the face of the dead man and that of the boy who looked upon
it; a resemblance so striking that it startled her. In the countenance
of Robert Burnham as he had looked in life, one might not have noticed
it, but--
"Sometimes, in a dead man's face,
To those that watch it more and more,
A likeness, hardly seen before,
Comes out, to some one of his race."
It was so here. The faces of the dead man and of the living boy were
the faces of father and son.
Ralph turned away, at last, from the lifeless presence before him,
from the searching eyes of the woman, from the hall with its dim
suggestions of something in the long ago, and went out into the
street, into the sunlight, into the busy world around him; but from
that time forth a shadow rested on his young life that had never
darkened it before,--a shadow whose cause he could not fathom and
whose gloom he could not dispel.