_By Allan Updegraff_
A little Belgian and an old violin--
A short, dumpy, melancholy little Belgian
And a very fine old violin....
An inconsequential small Belgian
Wearing a discouraged bit of mustache,
American "store" clothes that didn't fit,
Cheap American shoes, shined but shapeless....
(And yet he had often played in high honor
Before great audiences in Belgium;
But that was before Hell's lid was lifted
Somewhere in the North of Germany--
May it be clamped down, hard, before long!)
So this shabby, fat, discouraged oldish Belgian
(Too old and fat for military service),
And his very old beautiful violin,
(Borrowed--he'd lost his better one to his conquerors),
Appeared before a dubious tag-end of an audience
In a music hall built in the woods
Near an American summer resort,
And played a dozen selections for forty-five dollars.
Then we learned why he had often played in high honor
Before great audiences in Belgium;
And why his king and his country
Had given him the honors he still wore,
The riches recently taken away
By his conquerors.
Then we saw what manner of man he was,
How that his soul was finely clad, upright,
Nobly statured, crowned with Apollo's bays.
Then we knew, when he played Tartini's sonata for violin,
That Belgium would own once more
Its little place in the sun.
For the old Italian master might have written that sonata
With the devastated Belgium of these days in mind.
First, streaming from beneath the Belgian's sentient bow,
The music told of peace and common things,
With some bickering, some trivialities,
But much melody and deep harmony underneath.
The third movement, _affetuoso_, awoke to ruin--
To ruin too sudden and complete.
Too bloody and bestial and cruel
And thorough and filthy and Prussian
To be more than wailed over softly.
There was a stabbed child
Lying in the mud beneath a half-burned house,
Beside the naked corpse of its mother,
The mutilated bodies of its old grandfather,
And young sister;
And the child cried faintly, and moaned,
And cried again....
And then was silent.
A while after, from far away,
Rose dull outcries, trampling feet,
Voices indomitable--
Retreating, returning, joined by others, dying, reviving,
Always indomitable.
And still others joined those beaten but unconquered ones,
And the end came in one long, high,
Indomitable cry.
Then we knew, and bowed our heads,
And were ashamed of our poor part,
And prayed God we might bear a nobler part,
In the reply to that most cold-planned,
Murderously carried out,
Unexpurgable horror over there.
"Old Bill"
_By Henry C. Wallace_
We buried Old Bill to-day. As we came back to the house it seemed
almost as if we had laid away a member of the family. All afternoon I
have been thinking of him, and this evening I want to tell you the
story.
Old Bill was a horse, and he was owned by four generations of our
family. He was forty-one years old when he died, so you will understand
that for many years he was what some might call a "dead-beat boarder."
But long ago he had paid in advance for his board as long as he might
stay with us. In winter a warm corner of the stable was his as a matter
of right, and not a day went by but a lump of sugar, an apple, or some
other tidbit found its way to him from the hands of those who loved
him. Old Bill was never in the slightest danger of meeting the sad fate
of many a faithful old horse in the hands of the huckster or trader.
My grandfather liked a good horse. He loved to draw the lines over a
team that trotted up into the bits as if they enjoyed it. He had such a
team in a span of eleven-hundred pound mares, full sisters, and well
matched both as to appearance and disposition. The old gentleman said
they were Morgan bred. Whether they were or not, they had a lot of warm
blood in them. He raised several colts from these mares by light
horses, but none of them had either the spirit or the quality of their
dams. One year a neighbor brought in a Percheron horse, a rangy fellow
weighing about seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, clean of limb, and
with plenty of life, as were most of the earlier horses of that breed,
and grandfather bred these mares to him. The colts foaled the next
spring, developed into a fine span, weighing about twelve hundred and
fifty each, sound as nuts, willing workers and free movers. Grandfather
gave this team to my father the spring he started to farm for himself.
They were then three years old, and one of them was Old Bill.
In those days the young farmer's capital was not very large: a team of
horses, a cow, two or three pigs, and a few farm implements, the horses
being by far the most important part of it. I shall not try to tell of
the part these horses played in helping father win out. They were never
sick; they were always ready for work. And well do I remember father's
grief when Bill's mate slipped on the ice in the barnyard one cold
winter day and had to be shot. It was that evening that my father
talked of the important part a good horse plays in the life of a
farmer, and gave us a little lecture on the treatment of horses and
other animals. I was but a lad of ten at that time, but something
father said, or the way he said it, made a deep impression on me, and
from that time forward I looked upon horses as my friends and treated
them as such. What a fine thing it would be if all parents would teach
the youngsters at an early age the right way to treat our dumb animals.
Bill was already "Old Bill" when he became mine. He was four years
older than I when we started courting together, and my success must
have been due in large part to his age and experience. We had but a
mile and a half to go, and of a summer evening Bill would trot this off
at a pace equal to a much younger horse. When the girl of my affection
was snugly seated in the buggy, he would move off briskly for half a
mile, after which he dropped to a dignified walk, understanding full
well the importance of the business in hand. He knew where it was safe
to leave the beaten track and walk quietly along the turf at the side,
and he had a positive genius for finding nice shady places where he
could browse the overhanging branches, looking back once in a while to
see that everything was going along as it should be. I suppose I am
old-fashioned, but I don't see how a really first-class job of courting
can be done without such a horse as Old Bill. He seemed to take just
about as much interest in the matter as I did. One night Jennie brought
out a couple of lumps of sugar for him (a hopeful sign to me, by the
way), and after that there was no time lost in getting to her house,
where Bill very promptly announced our arrival by two or three nickers.
One time I jokingly said to my wife that evidently she married Bill as
much as she did me. That remark was a mistake. She admitted it more
cheerfully than seemed necessary, and on sundry occasions afterward
made free to remind me of it. Sometimes she drew comparisons to my
discredit, and if Old Bill could have understood them, he would have
enjoyed a real horse laugh. Jennie always said Bill knew more than some
real folks.
After the wedding, Old Bill took us on our honeymoon trip--not a very
long one, you may be sure--and the three of us settled down to the
steady grind of farm life. We asked nothing hard of Old Bill, but he
helped chore around, and took Jennie safely where she wanted to go. I
felt perfectly at ease when she was driving him. I wish I had a picture
of the three of them when she brought out the boy to show to Old Bill.
I can close my eyes and see her standing in front of the old horse,
with the boy cuddled up in a blanket in her arms. I can see the proud
light in her eyes, and I can see Old Bill's sensitive upper lip
nuzzling at the blanket. He evidently understood Jennie perfectly, and
seemed just as proud as she was.
The youngster learned to ride Old Bill at the age most children are
riding broomsticks. Jennie used to put him on Old Bill's back and lead
him around, but Old Bill seemed so careful that before a great while
she would trust him alone with the boy in the front yard, she sitting
on the porch. I remember a scare I had one summer evening. Old Bill did
not have much hair left on his withers, but he had a long mane lock
just in front of the collar mark, and the youngster held onto this. I
was walking up toward the house, where Bill was marching the youngster
around in front, Jennie sitting on the porch. Evidently a botfly was
bothering Bill's front legs, for he threw his head down quickly,
whereupon the youngster, holding tightly to this mane lock, slid down
his neck and flopped to the ground. You may be sure I got there in a
hurry, almost as quickly as Jennie, who was but a few steps away,
calling as I ran: "Did he step on him?" You should have seen the look
of scorn Jennie gave me. Such an insult to Old Bill deserved no answer.
The old horse seemed as much concerned as we were and Jennie promptly
replaced the boy on his back and the ride was resumed, with me
relegated to the corner of the porch in disgrace. As if Old Bill would
hurt her boy!
Old Bill's later years were full of contentment and happiness, if I
know what constitutes horse happiness. In the winter he had the best
corner in the stable. In the summer he was the autocrat of the small
pasture where we kept the colts. He taught the boy to ride properly and
with due respect for his steed. He would give him a gallop now and
then, but as a rule he insisted upon a dignified walk, and if the
youngster armed himself with a switch and tried to have his way about
it, the old fellow would quickly show who was boss by nipping his
little legs just hard enough to serve as a warning of what he could do.
Bill had a lot of fun with the mares and colts. We never allowed the
colts to follow the mares in the fields, but kept them in the five-acre
pasture with Bill for company. At noon, we would lead the mares in
after they had cooled off, and let the colts suck, and at night we
turned the mares into the pasture with them. Bill had a keen sense of
humor. He would fool around until the colts had finished, and then
gallop off with all the colts in full tilt after him. Naturally the
mares resented this. They followed around in great indignation, but it
did them no good. We used to walk over to the pasture fence and watch
this little byplay, and I think Bill enjoyed having us there, for he
kept up the fun as long as we would watch. He surely was not popular
with the mares. They regarded him about as the proud mother regards
grandfather when he entices away her darling boy and teaches him tricks
of which she does not approve.
Although Bill took delight in teaching the colts mean little tricks
during their days of irresponsibility, when they reached the proper age
he enjoyed the part he had to play in their training with a grim
satisfaction. For more than twenty-five years he was our main reliance
in breaking the colts to work. It was amusing to watch a colt the first
time he was harnessed and hooked up to the wagon alongside Bill, his
halter strap being tied back to the hames on Bill's collar.
Our colts were always handled more or less from infancy, and we had
little trouble in harnessing them. When led out to the wagon with Bill,
the colt invariably assumed he was out for a good time. But the Bill he
found now was not the Bill he had known in the pasture, and he very
quickly learned that he was in for real business.
Bill was a very strict disciplinarian; he tolerated no familiarities;
with his teeth he promptly suppressed any undue exuberance of spirit;
he was kind but firm. As he grew older, he would lose patience now and
then with the colts that persisted in their unruly ways. When they
lunged forward, he settled back against their plunges with a bored air,
as much as to say: "Take it easy, my young friend; you surely don't
think you can run away with Old Bill!" When they sulked, he pulled them
along for a bit. But if they continued obstreperous he turned upon them
with his teeth in an almost savage manner, and the way he would bring
them out of the sulky spell was a joy to see.
Finally, when the tired and bewildered colt had settled down to an
orderly walk, and had learned to respond to the guiding reins, Bill
would reward him with a caress on the neck and other evidences of his
esteem.
Old Bill knew the game thoroughly, and was invaluable in this work of
training the young ones. But after the first round at the wagon with
him, the colts always seemed to feel as if they had lost a boon
companion; they kept their friendship for him, but they maintained a
very respectful attitude, and never after took liberties unless assured
by his manner that they would be tolerated.
I got a collie dog for the youngster when he was about three years old.
When he was riding Old Bill, Jack would rush back and forth, in front
and behind, barking joyously. Old Bill disliked such frivolity. To him
it was a serious occasion. I think he never forgot the time the boy
fell off, for nothing could tempt him out of a steady walk until the
youngster got to an age when his seat was reasonably secure. When the
ride was over, Old Bill would lay back his ears and go after Jack so
viciously that the collie would seek refuge under the porch. Except
when the boy was about, however, Old Bill and Jack were good friends,
and in very cold weather Jack would beg a place in Bill's stall,
curling up between his legs, to the apparent satisfaction of both.
There was a very real friendship between them, but just as real
jealousy for the favors of the little fellow. They were much like human
beings in this respect.
Until the last year of his life Bill was a most useful member of the
family. Jennie liked a good garden and used to say before we were
married that when we had our own home, she would have a garden that was
a garden, and that she did not propose to wear herself out with a hoe
as her mother had done. She laid out her garden in a long, narrow strip
of ground between the pasture and the windbreak, just back of the
house, and with Bill's help she had the garden she talked about. Bill
plowed the ground and cultivated it, and the care with which he walked
the long narrow rows was astonishing. This was another place where he
did not want to be bothered with Jack. He was willing Jack should sit
at one end and watch the proceedings, but he must keep out of the way.
During the school season Bill's regular job was to take the children to
school, a mile away. They rode him, turning him loose to come home
alone. He learned to go back for them in the afternoon, and he
delivered them at the porch with an air as much as to say: "There are
your little folks, safe and sound, thanks to Old Bill." Jennie always
met him with an apple or a lump of sugar. She and Old Bill seemed to be
in partnership in about everything he could have a part in. They
understood each other perfectly, and I don't mind confessing now that
once in a great while I felt rather jealous of Old Bill.
Well, as I said in the beginning, we buried Old Bill to-day. He died
peacefully, and, as we say of some esteemed citizen, "full of honors."
He was buried on the farm he helped pay for; and, foolish as it may
seem to some folks, before long a modest stone will mark his last
resting place. And sometimes, of a summer afternoon, if I find Jennie
sitting with her needlework in the shade of the big oak tree under
which Old Bill rests, I will know that tender memories of a faithful
servant are being woven into her neat stitches.