long. There'll be nothin' to house-keep on till I can save up some
more.'
"'Yes, we can, too,' says she. 'I don't keer if yeh ain't got so much as
a piece o' bale-rope.'
"'But yer paw?'
"'I don't keer,' says she, very hard-like, a-stampin' her foot. 'He can
like it or lump it.'
"Wal, I sneaks away an' leaves 'em there, an' by an' by they comes up to
where I sets on top o' the boat, an' Jud isn't so plumb gloomy as I
thinks he'd be.
"Him an' her goes down ter Fresno nex' day an' buys one o' that same
identical make o' pianners an' has it shipped up on the first
freight-wagon to Skyland. An' they puts it inter the warehouse, an'
there she stands till Mr. Sneath comes home with his wife.
"When Mis' Sneath she sees the pianner brung inter her house she don't
notice any difference fer a while; but one day she sets down ter play,
an' she pounds out a few music, an' then she gives a jump an' looks all
over the machine an' she says, 'Good Lord!' An' Sneath he comes in, an'
they has a great time over how the' 's be'n sech a change in that
pianner. She finally makes up her mind it's a bran'-new one, an' sends
fer Jud an' asts him what he knows about it. An' he cain't lie a little
bit, so he up an' tells her that her pianner is all inter sawdust an'
scrap-iron down on the rocks, an' that this is a new one that he owes a
hundred an' fifty dollars on down ter Fresno.
"Then she busts out a-laughin', an' says:
"'Why, that old tin-pan! I'm glad it flew the flume. It wasn't wuth
twenty dollars. I got a noo grand pianner on the way here that I ordered
in Noo York. I'll make this here one a weddin' present to you an' Jess.'
"And the soop'rintendent he writes out his check an' sends it down to
Fresno to pay off the hundred an' fifty, an' when the weddin' it comes
off he gives 'em a set o' chiny dishes besides.
"Jud's flume boss now, an' Jess she plays that pianner an' sings like a
bird. When we gits down ter Mill Flat I'll show yeh their house. It's a
white one up on the side o' the hill, jest across the gulch from the
mill.
"Wal, yeh had all the grub yeh want, pardner? Say, ain't them green
gages sour? They sets yer teeth on aidge all right. An' I couldn't find
the boys' sugar-can. If yer full up, I guess we'd better git inter the
boat."
I took my seat behind Oram and a particularly offensive pipe he had
just lighted. Looking down the long, swift-running, threatening flume, I
shuddered; for since Oram's recital the native hue of my resolution had
been "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." I remarked that if
he saw any of those Cape Horn curves ahead to let me know and I would
get out and walk.
"Don't yeh be skeer'd by what I told yeh," said he. "Yeh got a pretty
fair-sized head, but yeh ain't quite so top-heavy as Mis' Sneath's big
upright. An', besides, the' ain't no more Cape Horn on this flume; they
calls that place Pianner P'int now."
THE CONTUMACY OF SARAH L. WALKER
BY
MIRIAM MICHELSON
Reprinted from _Munsey's Magazine_ of April, 1904 by permission
"THE BOARD will now pass to consideration of the case of Mrs.--Mrs.
Walker."
The president looked from the report in front of her to the
superintendent sitting opposite.
The Rev. Alexander McCaleb rose slowly to his feet.
"I regret exceedingly," he said, "to have to report this case to the
board. I need not say that if it had been possible to convince Mrs.
Walker of the error of her ways, no pains or time would have been
spared. But I have done all that I could. Mrs. Walker persists.
She--ah!--she flouts all authority, and--ah!--sets such an example of
rebellious conduct that I fear the discipline of the home may be gravely
compromised."
The president knitted her pretty, dark brows. Her hair was white, with a
soft, youthful whiteness that haloed her head as if it was a joke of old
Time's. She was new to her office, and was conscious of a critical
atmosphere that subtly underlined the formality of the proceedings--an
official formality that made the meeting of the lady managers of this
Old People's Home a formidable affair.
"I see no record of any case of disciplining heretofore," she said,
troubled. "There is no precedent by which the chair can be----"
"But there are the by-laws," suggested the superintendent. He reached
over to his own desk, and read from a pamphlet that had lain open there:
"If any inmate of the home shall persistently and willfully disobey the
rules, the superintendent shall report such case to the board of
managers. If, after full and complete investigation, and a notice to
that effect having been duly served, said inmate shall continue to
persist in contumacy, the board is by a majority vote empowered to
expel."
A little hush fell upon the assemblage at this invocation of its dread
powers.
"It seems rather hard on the old bodies, doesn't it?" the president was
encouraged to remark.
"But it is plainly stated in the by-laws," said the recording secretary,
a bright-eyed, business-like matron.
"And dear Mr. McCaleb is so patient and tactful that it is seldom
necessary," remarked the single member of this week's visiting
committee.
"I thank you, Mrs. Davis." The superintendent bowed in his stateliest
manner. "I do my best--I try always to do my best. Old people are
trying, we all know."
The president looked up from her perusal of the by-laws.
"Suppose we have the old lady in," she said. "Mr. McCaleb, will you send
for Mrs. Walker?"
The old lady held her head haughtily as she walked into the handsomely
furnished office. The president, mindful of her official capacity,
looked severely upon Mrs. Walker--Sarah Lucinda Walker, according to the
cramped signature of the home's register, widow, native of Maine, aged
sixty-seven on her entrance into the home five years ago. And Mrs.
Walker--a miracle of aged neatness, trim, straight, little, in her
somber black and immaculate cap--looked severely back.
"Be seated, Mrs. Walker," said the president.
"Thank you." Mrs. Walker crossed with a formal "Good morning, ladies,"
and took the chair indicated.
"Now, Mr. McCaleb, if you please----" said the president.
The superintendent rose.
"Ladies," he began with a solemnity that made the offender quake within,
though outwardly she was calm as the president herself, "it is with
positive pain that I have to report to you the case of Mrs. Sarah
Lucinda Walker. It is now fully three months since I began to labor with
her--three months since I warned her of this very thing that has come to
pass, an investigation by your honorable board. On the 9th of
January"--he glanced methodically at a note-book--"I sent her a copy of
the by-laws, with the section referring to insubordination underscored
in red ink. On the 23d I made a personal call upon her, and sought to
convince her how impossible it was that such conduct could be tolerated.
On February 7th I publicly reprimanded her. On the 13th--five days
ago--I informed her that, after considering it prayerfully, I had laid
the matter before your honorable body, and that she should hold herself
in readiness to be summoned before you to meet the following charges:
"First, insubordination; second, breaking Rule VIII of the house
regulations; third, taking food from the table; fourth, disturbing
neighbors in early morning; and fifth, defacing the building."
Mr. McCaleb took his seat. The shocked gaze of the board bent itself
upon the criminal. The bad little old lady's far-sighted eyes swept
insolently past them all and met the president's--twenty years younger
than her own.
"Do you like birds, ma'am?" she asked, herself in an eager, bird-like
way. And then, without waiting for an answer, she went on: "I love
'em--anything that's got wings. Old Cap'n Walker used to say, 'Sary
Lucindy, they was a moughty fine ornithologist spiled when God A'mighty
made you a woman 'stead of a man.' He was a free-spoken man, Cap'n
Walker, not so pious-mouthed as some, but he had charity in his soul,
which is more than some others has."
She swept a superbly disdainful look toward the Rev. McCaleb. The
recording secretary tapped reprovingly with her pencil, but the
president only listened.
"Now, ma'am, we ain't paupers, we old folks. Every one of us, as you
know, has paid our thousand dollars in. An' we ain't bad children as
needs disciplinin'; an' they's no use treatin' grandmothers an'
great-grandmothers as though they was. It's in me to love birds, an' no
'mount of rules and regulations is goin' to change me. My canary bird
died the same year Cap'n Walker saved every other soul on board his
ship and went down alone to the bottom with her. Since then I've sort o'
adopted the sparrers. Why, haven't I spent every afternoon through the
summer out in the park a-feedin' them my lunch? An' now that winter's
come, d'ye think I'd have the face to desert them?
"'Not one of them is forgotten before God'--do you remember, ma'am? One
of 'em seemed to be in the early winter. It was before my rheumatism got
so bad. I was out in the park the afternoon the first snow fell, an'
this poor little crittur with a wing broke kep' a trailin' an' chirpin'
an' scuttlin' in front o' me. It'd fell out o' the nest; hardly covered
with feathers, it was. I picked it up an' carried it to my room in my
apron. Poor little mite--how it fluttered an' struggled! I kep' it
overnight in my spool-box. In the mornin' I fed it; by noon the sun come
out, an' I let it out on the window-sill, where I keep my house plants;
just a bit o' musk--the cap'n liked musk--an' a pot o' bergamot. Do you
know, ma'am, that little thing was that contented by the end of the week
that I could leave the windows open an' nary a wing's stroke away would
it go? That was in December, 'fore it got to be known that I kep' a bird
in my room. That mild spell we had 'fore Christmas it did fly away one
morning, but at sundown there it was back again; an' when it came on to
snow that night I felt same's I used to 'tween voyages, when I could
hear how the ocean'd get lashed to a fury, an' Cap'n Walker'd be fast
asleep safe beside me.
"Of course it was a pity that when the bird came back it showed others
the way--but wasn't it cute of it, ma'am? An' wasn't it just like a lot
o' children hangin' 'round at maple-syrup time? They did make a clatter
an' a racket in the early mornin' when I wouldn't be up an' they'd be
ready for breakfast. But wasn't it for all the world like children with
empty little stummicks an' chatterin' tongues? When Mis' Pearson
complained of me an' the noise, I didn't take it kind of her. Take food
from the table? Course I did. But it was my own lunch, that I'd a right
to go hungry for ef I wanted to, an' nobody's affair.
"But I tell you, ma'am, one day--it was that day Mr. McCaleb sent me
that printed notice, an' everybody on my floor see it comin' an' knew it
was something shameful an' legal--that evening I tried honestly to keep
'em out. I pulled down the shade--it was a bitter cold day, a regular
blizzard blowing--an' I sat with my back to the window an' tried to read
my Bible while them birds jest shrieked themselves hoarse outside. Well,
guess where that Bible opened to! 'Yea, the sparrow hath found a house
and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young.' That
was a message, ma'am, a straight, sure message. I opened the window an'
scattered their bread-crumbs out on the sill, which I had made jest the
least bit wider for them--that's what he calls 'defacin' the buildin'.'
After that, I told Mr. McCaleb flat-footed that if he had the heart to
starve them innocent critturs in the dead o' winter, it was more than I
had. I told him if he'd wait till spring, I'd promise never to open the
window that faces south after that; but till they could shift for
themselves, I'd shift for them. That's all. Thank _you_, ma'am, for
letting me have my say."
She smiled into the president's soft eyes, and rose, looking like a
trim, saucy, gray-haired sparrow about to take flight. The president's
smile started back to her, but on the way it had to pass the recording
secretary, the visiting committee, and the Rev. Alexander McCaleb. By
the time it had made the journey it was shorn of half its sympathetic
understanding.
"You admit then, Mrs. Walker, that you have broken the rule against
having pets in the room?" the president asked with gravity. "It is a
necessary rule. Fancy what would be the condition of the place if a lady
in No. 117 had a tame sparrow, a gentleman in No. 120 a monkey, his
neighbor a spaniel, the lady across the way a cat, and so on! I
appreciate--we all do, and Mr. McCaleb more than all of us--how tender
and charitable a nature yours is, but"--she looked at the recording
secretary to gain courage--"but we simply must enforce the rules. I know
so good a housekeeper as you must have been will understand this, and
agree with me when I say that such a disciplinarian as Captain Walker no
doubt was--unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of his
acquaintance--would have been the first to counsel you to obey the
rules. Won't you think it over from our point of view, Mrs. Walker, when
you go back to your room? Do! Good afternoon."
It was a very dejected Sarah Lucinda Walker that returned to her room.
Her depression was noted and audibly commented upon by Mrs. Pearson, her
next-door neighbor and arch-enemy. In fact, the whole corridor was alive
with the news of her defeat. At the lunch-table it was the sole topic
of conversation, and in the library old Colonel Rockwell--in the pauses
of a quavering rendition of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"--bet Mr.
Patterson three of the cigars his nephew always sent him on Fridays that
Mrs. Walker, being a woman of spirit, would not yield even though the
ultimatum were expulsion.
Mrs. Walker heard of the wager, of course, that afternoon. They were a
hundred or more antiquated and unseaworthy vessels, all anchored in a
semi-genteel haven; and from morning till night, till sun should cease
for them to shine and water to flow they had nothing to do but to listen
to the whispering tide that told of the great ocean of life beyond, or
to gossip among themselves of their own voyages dead and done.
The incorrigible Mrs. Walker's spotless little room, with its bag of
dried crusts on the window-sill, saved for her pet, became the storm
center that afternoon. Every old lady who could possibly claim
acquaintance called to inquire her intentions; every old gentleman
leaned hard upon his cane as he lifted his hat to her in the halls with
the deference due a gallant rebel. They loved a rebel, these old
children, at the end of their lives fallen again into the domain of "you
must" and "you must not."
Sarah Lucinda Walker's world rocked beneath her. She intended, she
believed, to obey the rules, to cast off the one creature on earth to
which she could still play Lady Bountiful; to shut her hospitable window
and her loving old heart on all these fluttering, visiting strangers who
had heard of her generosity, and with every hour carried the news of it
further.
She intended all this, but when the time came she did simply as old
Colonel Rockwell had wagered she would. She opened wide her windows and
fed the hungry throng that whirred about her, scattering crumbs and
floating feathers over the immaculate marble of Mr. McCaleb's front
door-step.
A knock at the door brought her to her senses. She put a withered little
old hand, very like a sparrow's claw, upon the window-sash to shut it
hastily, and then, too proud to deceive, turned boldly to meet her fate.
Mrs. Pearson, on the lookout at her half-open door saw the
official-looking document handed to her.
"It's her notice to leave," she said in an awed whisper to herself.
In the face of so great a calamity she felt, not triumph, but a shocked
sense of loss, of self-reproach. Five minutes after she was in her
enemy's room.
"You mustn't--you mustn't cry, dear Mrs. Walker," she sobbed, putting
her arms about the slender old shoulders.
"Am I crying?" the little old lady answered. "I can't help it--I'm so
happy!"
"Happy!" Mrs. Pearson's dazed old eyes turned bewildered from the
envelope with the home's letterhead on it to the bird-like creature in
her arms. "And you've got your notice to leave?"
"Did you think it was that? So did I for a minute, an' it 'most killed
me. But I opened it, an' found a note from the president--that dear,
dear president! She wants to know if I'll take care of her summer
cottage till the spring comes. An', Marthy Pearson, they's chickens up
there--fancy breeds--a whole yard of 'em--an' I'm to have the feedin' of
'em. Ain't it enough to make a body cry for joy? Say, Marthy, would
you--would you mind feedin' the sparrers?--only on the very stormiest
days--McCaleb would never suspect you, an' spring's near!"
BREAKING THROUGH
BY
W. C. MORROW
Reprinted from _Success Magazine_ of September, 1906 by permission
"RAY," SAID his mother, whom he shyly and secretly worshipped, without
her ever suspecting the least of it beneath his cautious reserve and
occasional outbursts of temper, "my son, I hope you will remember,
tonight. You are nearly a man."
She was a wise woman, and said it kindly and meant it well; but his face
flamed, his eyes hardened, and he sullenly walked away. Mrs. Gilbert
sighed, and went about the preparations for the young people's party
which her daughters, aged sixteen and eighteen, were to give that
evening. She could not foresee what her son would do. Would her gentle
warning, filled with the tender pride of a mother's love for her one
man-child, drive him with his dog to the woods, whither many a time
before this day a word less pointed had sent him, there to live for a
week or longer at a time, in a manner that he had never disclosed?--or
would the disjointed thing within him which harried his somber, lonely
life force him in a blind moment to make a disgraceful scene at the
gathering? She prayed that neither would happen, and that the sunshine
fighting for egress through his darkness would come forth soft and
genial and very fine and sweet, as it did sometimes, and always
unaccountably....
The worst had happened at the party. No doubt it was intolerable,--but
not so bad as when (he was then only four) he had tried to kill a boy
for lying about him and was whipped mercilessly by his father,--for
here, in the library, he was sitting before Mr. Gilbert, who was pale
and whose eyes had a deep, inscrutable look. He was a large and powerful
man, and had a genial nature, with force and sternness. The lad had
never seen him looking thus, and so evidently guarding a prisoner, and
the boy felt a strange weight within.
Whatever had happened must have left a shadow on the assemblage, for,
though faint sounds came through the closed doors, they were somewhat
lacking in the robustness of youth. Ray did not deign an effort to
remember. More than that, he hoped that it never would come back, for it
might be disturbing to his solitudes. Of his attempts to remember the
attack on the boy ten years ago, there had never come any result but the
recollection of a wholly disconnected event,--when he was enveloped in a
swirl of flame and smoke from a fierce grass fire, and had to fight his
way through to life. He did not try to think what his father's purpose
was in holding him a prisoner tonight. Was it to give him a lecture?
Pshaw! The beautiful, peaceful woods would make him forget that
child's-play, and he would steal away to them with Cap this very night,
as soon as all were asleep.
Thus, motionless and in silence, sat he and his father, seemingly
through an endless, aching time. After a while the guests quietly left.
His sisters omitted their customary good night to their father. All
sounds from the servants ended. Then entered his mother, uncommonly
pale, and in silence looked from her son to her husband. She was small
and dainty, and very, very pretty, the boy reflected. It was a pity that
her bright eyes should be dim tonight and her sweet mouth drawn. She
looked worn and as though she dreaded something.
"Are you ready?" Mr. Gilbert asked, regarding her fixedly.
Her lip trembled, but there came a flash from her eyes. "Do you really
mean it?" she asked.
"Certainly. It must be done."
"My dear, dear, he's too large for----"
"He'll never be too large for it so long as he is a boor and coward,
insults our guests, scandalizes us all, shames his sisters, and treats
his parents with open scorn. He won't try to be like other people and
accept his world as he finds it. His inordinate conceit is a disease. It
is eating up his own life and making our lives miserable. We will cure
it."
He had spoken calmly, but with a low vibration of tone; and as he came
to his feet he looked very tall and terrible. Ray's blood began to rise,
and as he looked about for something undefined he felt the heat and
smelled the smoke of the grass fire of ten years ago.
He knew he was a coward. That was the shame and the curse of his life.
He did not think it had always been so, but believed it had come about
gradually. At first he had not minded the whippings that other boys gave
him because of his temper and his physical inadequacy, for he had
invited the punishment; but when they all learned that his fighting
spirit had weakened, that they could whip him easily, that they need not
wait for provocation, and that he would never tell, they bullied and
hounded and beat him until he had come to know a craven, sordid fear,
which spread from the boys to the whole terrible world in which the
masculine entity must fight for a place.
"I am ready," said Mrs. Gilbert, trying to hide a sigh.
"Come," Mr. Gilbert ordered the boy, looking at him for the first time
in two hours.
The boy quailed before that look, the most dreadful thing he had ever
seen. It made him numb and sick, and when he rose he staggered; for,
though tall, he was slender and had little strength. The weight on his
chest became a pain and fixed on his throat, to choke and torment him.
His mother had gone out. He followed his father, and the three went out
into the back yard, the boy bare-headed. The night was sharp and the
moon very bright. All the boy's power of thought was suspended.
In silence they walked down the terraces of the park-like yard in the
rear. Cap, Ray's dog, his only intimate, came bounding forward for his
young master's unfailing good night, but Mr. Gilbert angrily ordered him
away. The animal, astonished and hurt, slunk away, keeping a watchful
view of the group, and sat down at a distance and gazed in wonder. They
passed through a gate into an orchard, and shut the dog out.
Mr. Gilbert selected an apple tree, because the wood was tougher than
that of a peach. From it he cut two switches a yard long, and carefully
pared the knots, his wife observing without a word or a movement, and
the boy looking away into the distance. When Mr. Gilbert had done, he
ordered his son to prepare.
The lad numbly, dumbly removed his coat and waistcoat, slipped his
suspenders down, tightened the strap at the back of his trousers,
clasped his hands in front, and bowed his head. The dog, which had crept
to the fence and was peering through the pickets, whined anxiously and
was quivering. When roughly ordered away by Mr. Gilbert, he went upon a
terrace that overlooked the fence, and trembled as he watched. The boy
did not once look toward him. He was struggling with the pain in his
throat.
Mr. Gilbert offered one of the switches to his wife.
"Oh, how can you!" she pleaded.
"You must," he firmly said. "I'll relieve you when you are tired."
The boy's mind suddenly cleared, and he comprehended. A whipping from
his father would be frightful enough,--not for the blows; they were
nothing. The plan was not alone to humiliate him beyond all measure, but
to scourge his soul, ravage the sanctuary of his mother there, rend him
asunder, and cast him into an unthinkable hell of isolation; for she was
the bond that held him to the world, she was the human comfort and
sweetness of his life.