weight of East Falls descended upon him like a damp sea fog. He fought
it from him, thrusting it off and aside by sentimental thoughts on the
"honest snow," the "fine elms," the "sturdy New England spirit," and the
"great homecoming." But at sight of Agatha's house he wilted. Before he
knew it, with a recrudescent guilty pang, he had tossed the half-smoked
cigar away and slackened his pace until his feet dragged in the old
lifeless, East Falls manner. He tried to remember that he was the owner
of Childs' Cash Store, accustomed to command, whose words were listened
to with respect in the Employers' Association, and who wielded the gavel
at the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce. He strove to conjure visions
of the letters in black and gold, and of the string of delivery wagons
backed up to the sidewalk. But Agatha's New England spirit was as sharp
as the frost, and it travelled to him through solid house-walls and
across the intervening hundred yards.
Then he became aware that despite his will he had thrown the cigar away.
This brought him an awful vision. He saw himself going out in the frost
to the woodshed to smoke. His memory of Agatha he found less softened by
the lapse of years than it had been when three thousand miles
intervened. It was unthinkable. No; he couldn't do it. He was too old,
too used to smoking all over the house, to do the woodshed stunt now.
And everything depended on how he began. He would put his foot down. He
would smoke in the house that very night ... in the kitchen, he feebly
amended. No, by George, he would smoke now. He would arrive smoking.
Mentally imprecating the cold, he exposed his bare hands and lighted
another cigar. His manhood seemed to flare up with the match. He would
show her who was boss. Right from the drop of the hat he would show her.
Josiah Childs had been born in this house. And it was long before he
was born that his father had built it. Across the low stone fence,
Josiah could see the kitchen porch and door, the connected woodshed, and
the several outbuildings. Fresh from the West, where everything was new
and in constant flux, he was astonished at the lack of change.
Everything was as it had always been. He could almost see himself, a
boy, doing the chores. There, in the woodshed, how many cords of wood
had he bucksawed and split! Well, thank the Lord, that was past.
The walk to the kitchen showed signs of recent snow-shovelling. That had
been one of his tasks. He wondered who did it now, and suddenly
remembered that his own son must be twelve. In another moment he would
have knocked at the kitchen door, but the _skreek_ of a bucksaw from the
woodshed led him aside. He looked in and saw a boy hard at work.
Evidently, this was his son. Impelled by the wave of warm emotion that
swept over him, he all but rushed in upon the lad. He controlled himself
with an effort.
"Father here?" he asked curtly, though from under the stiff brim of his
John B. Stetson he studied the boy closely.
Sizable for his age, he thought. A mite spare in the ribs maybe, and
that possibly due to rapid growth. But the face strong and pleasing and
the eyes like Uncle Isaac's. When all was said, a darn good sample.
"No, sir," the boy answered, resting on the saw-buck.
"Where is he?"
"At sea," was the answer.
Josiah Childs felt a something very akin to relief and joy tingle
through him. Agatha had married again--evidently a seafaring man. Next,
came an ominous, creepy sensation. Agatha had committed bigamy. He
remembered Enoch Arden, read aloud to the class by the teacher in the
old schoolhouse, and began to think of himself as a hero. He would do
the heroic. By George, he would. He would sneak away and get the first
train for California. She would never know.
But there was Agatha's New England morality, and her New England
conscience. She received a regular remittance. She knew he was alive. It
was impossible that she could have done this thing. He groped wildly for
a solution. Perhaps she had sold the old home, and this boy was somebody
else's boy.
"What is your name?" Josiah asked.
"Johnnie," came the reply.
"Last name I mean?"
"Childs, Johnnie Childs."
"And your father's name?--first name?"
"Josiah Childs."
"And he's away at sea, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
This set Josiah wondering again.
"What kind of a man is he?"
"Oh, he's all right--a good provider, Mom says. And he is. He always
sends his money home, and he works hard for it, too, Mom says. She says
he always was a good worker, and he's better'n other men she ever saw.
He don't smoke, or drink, or swear, or do anything he oughtn't. And he
never did. He was always that way, Mom says, and she knew him all her
life before ever they got married. He's a very kind man, and never hurts
anybody's feelings. Mom says he's the most considerate man she ever
knew."
Josiah's heart went weak. Agatha had done it after all--had taken a
second husband when she knew her first was still alive. Well, he had
learned charity in the West, and he could be charitable. He would go
quietly away. Nobody would ever know. Though it was rather mean of her,
the thought flashed through him, that she should go on cashing his
remittances when she was married to so model and steady-working a
seafaring husband who brought his wages home. He cudgelled his brains in
an effort to remember such a man out of all the East Falls men he had
known.
"What's he look like?"
"Don't know. Never saw him. He's at sea all the time. But I know how
tall he is. Mom says I'm goin' to be bigger'n him, and he was five feet
eleven. There's a picture of him in the album. His face is thin, and he
has whiskers."
A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. He
had worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnnie
had said his father's name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this model
husband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring man
whose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha's forgiving
fiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since he
left. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought of
trying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boy
with the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he'd have to
do it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn't thought she
had it in her.
The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be,
for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman's nagging,
irritable voice.
"Johnnie!--you!" it cried.
How often had he heard it in the old days: "Josiah!--you!" A shiver went
through him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, he
turned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felt
himself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. It
was his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the same
sour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was more
sourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkles
were deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare.
"Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?" she
demanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah.
"I was only answering his questions," Johnnie pleaded doggedly but
hopelessly. "He wanted to know--"
"And I suppose you told him," she snapped. "What business is it of his
prying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to work
at once. I'll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa'n't like
that. Can't I ever make you like him?"
Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek.
Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him.
"You be off," she commanded harshly. "None of your snooping around
here."
Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistened
his lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech.
"You be off, I say," she rasped in her high-keyed voice, "or I'll put
the constable after you."
Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down the
walk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousand
times and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was a
dream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his
forehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of the
bucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spirit
in him, sooner or later he'd run away. Agatha was beyond the endurance
of human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such a
thing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybe
now.
Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. The
great-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness of
consequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamed
up in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoke
to himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith:
"I don't care a hang about the law. That boy can't be crucified. I'll
give her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me.
She can follow on to California if she wants, but I'll draw up an
agreement, in which what's what, and she'll sign it, and live up to it,
by George, if she wants to stay. And she will," he added grimly. "She's
got to have somebody to nag."
He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie looked
up, but kept on sawing.
"What'd you like to do most of anything in the world?" Josiah demanded
in a tense, low voice.
Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for him
to keep it up.
"Go to sea," Johnnie answered. "Along with my father."
Josiah felt himself trembling.
"Would you?" he asked eagerly.
"Would I!"
The look of joy on Johnnie's face decided everything.
"Come here, then. Listen. I'm your father. I'm Josiah Childs. Did you
ever want to run away?"
Johnnie nodded emphatically.
"That's what I did," Josiah went on. "I ran away." He fumbled for his
watch hurriedly. "We've just time to catch the train for California. I
live there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward.
I'll tell you all about it on the train. Come on."
He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for a
moment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate,
and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last they
heard was:
"Johnnie!--you! Why ain't you sawing? I'll attend to your case
directly!"
THE FIRST POET
SCENE: _A summer plain, the eastern side of which is bounded by grassy
hills of limestone, the other sides by a forest. The hill nearest to the
plain terminates in a cliff, in the face of which, nearly at the level
of the ground, are four caves, with low, narrow entrances. Before the
caves, and distant from them less than one hundred feet, is a broad,
flat rock, on which are laid several sharp slivers of flint, which, like
the rock, are blood-stained. Between the rock and the cave-entrances, on
a low pile of stones, is squatted a man, stout and hairy. Across his
knees is a thick club, and behind him crouches a woman. At his right and
left are two men somewhat resembling him, and like him, bearing wooden
clubs. These four face the west, and between them and the bloody rock
squat some threescore of cave-folk, talking loudly among themselves. It
is late afternoon. The name of him on the pile of stones is Uk, the
name of his mate, Ala; and of those at his right and left, Ok and Un._
_Uk:_
Be still!
(_Turning to the woman behind him_)
Thou seest that they become still. None save me can make his kind be
still, except perhaps the chief of the apes, when in the night he deems
he hears a serpent.... At whom dost thou stare so long? At Oan? Oan,
come to me!
_Oan:_
I am thy cub.
_Uk:_
Oan, thou art a fool!
_Ok and Un:_
Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!
_All the Tribe:_
Ho! ho! Oan is a fool!
_Oan:_
Why am I a fool?
_Uk:_
Dost thou not chant strange words? Last night I heard thee chant strange
words at the mouth of thy cave.
_Oan:_
Ay! they are marvellous words; they were born within me in the dark.
_Uk:_
Art thou a woman, that thou shouldst bring forth? Why dost thou not
sleep when it is dark?
_Oan:_
I did half sleep; perhaps I dreamed.
_Uk:_
And why shouldst thou dream, not having had more than thy portion of
flesh? Hast thou slain a deer in the forest and brought it not to the
Stone?
_All the Tribe:_
Wa! Wa! He hath slain in the forest, and brought not the meat to the
Stone!
_Uk:_
Be still, ye!
(_To Ala_)
Thou seest that they become still.... Oan, hast thou slain and kept to
thyself?
_Oan:_
Nay, thou knowest that I am not apt at the chase. Also it irks me to
squat on a branch all day above a path, bearing a rock upon my thighs.
Those words did but awaken within me when I was peaceless in the night.
_Uk:_
And why wast thou peaceless in the night?
_Oan:_
Thy mate wept, for that thou didst heat her.
_Uk:_
Ay! she lamented loudly. But thou shalt make thy half-sleep henceforth
at the mouth of the cave, so that when Gurr the tiger cometh, thou
shalt hear him sniff between the boulders, and shalt strike the flints,
whose stare he hatest. Gurr cometh nightly to the caves.
_One of the Tribe:_
Ay! Gurr smelleth the Stone!
_Uk:_
Be still!
(_To Ala_)
Had he not become still, Ok and Un would have beaten him with their
clubs.... But, Oan, tell us those words that were born to thee when Ala
did weep.
_Oan (arising):_
They are wonderful words. They are such:
The bright day is gone--
_Uk:_
Now I see thou art liar as well as fool: behold, the day is not gone!
_Oan:_
But the day was gone in that hour when my song was born to me.
_Uk:_
Then shouldst thou have sung it only at that time, and not when it is
yet day. But beware lest thou awaken me in the night. Make thou many
stars, that they fly in the whiskers of Gurr.
_Oan:_
My song is even of stars.
_Uk:_
It was Ul, thy father's wont, ere I slew him with four great stones, to
climb to the tops of the tallest trees and reach forth his hand, to see
if he might not pluck a star. But I said: "Perhaps they be as
chestnut-burs." And all the tribe did laugh. Ul was also a fool. But
what dost thou sing of stars?
_Oan:_
I will begin again:
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sad, sad, sad--
_Uk:_
Nay, the night maketh thee sad; not sad, sad, sad. For when I say to
Ala, "Gather thou dried leaves," I say not, "Gather thou dried leaves,
leaves, leaves." Thou art a fool!
_Ok and Un:_
Thou art a fool!
_All the Tribe:_
Thou art a fool!
_Uk:_
Yea, he is a fool. But say on, Oan, and tell us of thy chestnut-burs.
_Oan:_
I will begin again:
The bright day is gone--
_Uk:_
Thou dost not say, "gone, gone, gone!"
_Oan:_
I am thy cub. Suffer that I speak: so shall the tribe admire greatly.
_Uk:_
Speak on!
_Oan:_
I will begin once more:
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sad, sad--
_Uk:_
Said I not that "sad" should be spoken but once? Shall I set Ok and Un
upon thee with their branches?
_Oan:_
But it was so born within me--even "sad, sad--"
_Uk:_
If again thou twice or thrice say "sad," thou shalt be dragged to the
Stone.
_Oan:_
Owl Ow! I am thy cub! Yet listen:
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sad--
Ow! Ow! thou makest me more sad than the night doth! The song--
_Uk:_
Ok! Un! Be prepared!
_Oan (hastily):_
Nay! have mercy! I will begin afresh:
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sad.
The--the--the--
_Uk:_
Thou hast forgotten, and art a fool! See, Ala, he is a fool!
_Ok and Un:_
He is a fool!
_All the Tribe:_
He is a fool!
_Oan:_
I am not a fool! This is a new thing. In the past, when ye did chant, O
men, ye did leap about the Stone, beating your breasts and crying, "Hai,
hai, hai!" Or, if the moon was great, "Hai, hai! hai, hai, hai!" But
this song is made even with such words as ye do speak, and is a great
wonder. One may sit at the cave's mouth, and moan it many times as the
light goeth out of the sky.
_One of the Tribe:_
Ay! even thus doth he sit at the mouth of our cave, making us marvel,
and more especially the women.
_Uk:_
Be still!... When I would make women marvel, I do show them a wolf's
brains upon my club, or the great stone that I cast, or perhaps do whirl
my arms mightily, or bring home much meat. How should a man do
otherwise? I will have no songs in this place.
_Oan:_
Yet suffer that I sing my song unto the tribe. Such things have not been
before. It may be that they shall praise thee, seeing that I who do make
this song am thy cub.
_Uk:_
Well, let us have the song.
_Oan (facing the tribe):_
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sa--sad.
But the stars are very white.
They whisper that the day shall return.
O stars; little pieces of the day!
_Uk:_
This is indeed madness. Hast thou heard a star whisper? Did Ul, thy
father, tell thee that he heard the stars whisper when he was in the
tree-top? And of what moment is it that a star be a piece of the day,
seeing that its light is of no value? Thou art a fool!
_Ok and Un:_
Thou art a fool!
_All the Tribe:_
Thou art a fool!
_Oan:_
But it was so born unto me. And at that birth it was as though I would
weep, yet had not been stricken; I was moreover glad, yet none had given
me a gift of meat.
_Uk:_
It is a madness. How shall the stars profit us? Will they lead us to a
bear's den, or where the deer foregather, or break for us great bones
that we come at their marrow? Will they tell us anything at all? Wait
thou until the night, and we shall peer forth from between the boulders,
and all men shall take note that the stars cannot whisper.... Yet it may
be that they are pieces of the day. This is a deep matter.
_Oan:_
Ay! they are pieces of the moon!
_Uk:_
What further madness is this? How shall they be pieces of two things
that are not the same? Also it was not thus in the song.
_Oan:_
I will make me a new song. We do change the shape of wood and stone, but
a song is made out of nothing. Ho! ho! I can fashion things from
nothing! Also I say that the stars come down at morning and become the
dew.
_Uk:_
Let us have no more of these stars. It may be that a song is a good
thing, if it be of what a man knoweth. Thus, if thou singest of my club,
or of the bear that I slew, of the stain on the Stone, or the cave and
the warm leaves in the cave, it might be well.
_Oan:_
I will make thee a song of Ala!
_Uk (furiously):_
Thou shalt make me no such song! Thou shalt make me a song of the
deer-liver that thou hast eaten! Did I not give to thee of the liver of
the she-deer, because thou didst bring me crawfish?
_Oan:_
Truly I did eat of the liver of the she-deer; but to sing thereof is
another matter.
_Uk:_
It was no labour for thee to sing of the stars. See now our clubs and
casting-stones, with which we slay flesh to eat; also the caves in which
we dwell, and the Stone whereon we make sacrifice; wilt thou sing no
song of those?
_Oan:_
It may be that I shall sing thee songs of them. But now, as I strive
here to sing of the doe's liver, no words are born unto me: I can but
sing, "O liver! O red liver!"
_Uk:_
That is a good song: thou seest that the liver is red. It is red as
blood.
_Oan:_
But I love not the liver, save to eat of it.
_Uk:_
Yet the song of it is good. When the moon is full we shall sing it about
the Stone. We shall beat upon our breasts and sing, "O liver! O red
liver!" And all the women in the caves shall be affrightened.
_Oan:_
I will not have that song of the liver! It shall be Ok's song; the tribe
must say, "Ok hath made the song!"
_Ok:_
Ay! I shall be a great singer; I shall sing of a wolf's heart, and say,
"Behold, it is red!"
_Uk:_
Thou art a fool, and shalt sing only, "Hai, hai!" as thy father before
thee. But Oan shall make me a song of my club, for the women listen to
his songs.
_Oan:_
I will make thee no songs, neither of thy club, nor thy cave, nor thy
doe's-liver. Yea! though thou give me no more flesh, yet will I live
alone in the forest, and eat the seed of grasses, and likewise rabbits,
that are easily snared. And I will sleep in a tree-top, and I will sing
nightly:
The bright day is gone.
The night maketh me sad, sad, sad,
sad, sad, sad--
_Uk:_
Ok and Un, arise and slay!
(_Ok and Un rush upon Oan, who stoops and picks up two casting-stones,
with one of which he strikes Ok between the eyes, and with the other
mashes the hand of Un, so that he drops his club. Uk arises._)
_Uk:_
Behold! Gurr cometh! he cometh swiftly from the wood!
(_The Tribe, including Oan and Ala, rush for the cave-mouths. As Oan
passes Uk, the latter runs behind Oan and crushes his skull with a blow
of his club._)
_Uk:_
O men! O men with the heart of hyenas! Behold, Gurr cometh not! I did
but strive to deceive you, that I might the more easily slay this
singer, who is very swift of foot.... Gather ye before me, for I would
speak wisdom.... It is not well that there be any song among us other
than what our fathers sang in the past, or, if there be songs, let them
be of such matters as are of common understanding. If a man sing of a
deer, so shall he be drawn, it may be, to go forth and slay a deer, or
even a moose. And if he sing of his casting-stones, it may be that he
become more apt in the use thereof. And if he sing of his cave, it may
be that he shall defend it more stoutly when Gurr teareth at the
boulders. But it is a vain thing to make songs of the stars, that seem
scornful even of me; or of the moon, which is never two nights the same;
or of the day, which goeth about its business and will not linger though
one pierce a she-babe with a flint. But as for me, I would have none of
these songs. For if I sing of such in the council, how shall I keep my
wits? And if I think thereof, when at the chase, it may be that I babble
it forth, and the meat hear and escape. And ere it be time to eat, I do
give my mind solely to the care of my hunting-gear. And if one sing when
eating, he may fall short of his just portion. And when, one hath eaten,
doth not he go straightway to sleep? So where shall men find a space for
singing? But do ye as ye will: as for me, I will have none of these
songs and stars.
Be it also known to all the women that if, remembering these wild words
of Oan, they do sing them to themselves, or teach them to the young
ones, they shall be beaten with brambles. Cause swiftly that the wife of
Ok cease from her wailing, and bring hither the horses that were slain
yesterday, that I may apportion them. Had Oan wisdom, he might have
eaten thereof; and had a mammoth fallen into our pit, he might have
feasted many days. But Oan was a fool!
_Un:_
Oan was a fool!
_All the Tribe:_
Oan was a fool!
FINIS
It was the last of Morganson's bacon. In all his life he had never
pampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had been a sort of negligible
quantity that bothered him little, and about which he thought less. But
now, in the long absence of wonted delights, the keen yearning of his
stomach was tickled hugely by the sharp, salty bacon.
His face had a wistful, hungry expression. The cheeks were hollow, and
the skin seemed stretched a trifle tightly across the cheek-bones. His
pale blue eyes were troubled. There was that in them that showed the
haunting imminence of something terrible. Doubt was in them, and anxiety
and foreboding. The thin lips were thinner than they were made to be,
and they seemed to hunger towards the polished frying-pan.
He sat back and drew forth a pipe. He looked into it with sharp
scrutiny, and tapped it emptily on his open palm. He turned the
hair-seal tobacco pouch inside out and dusted the lining, treasuring
carefully each flake and mite of tobacco that his efforts gleaned. The
result was scarce a thimbleful. He searched in his pockets, and brought
forward, between thumb and forefinger, tiny pinches of rubbish. Here and
there in this rubbish were crumbs of tobacco. These he segregated with
microscopic care, though he occasionally permitted small particles of
foreign substance to accompany the crumbs to the hoard in his palm. He
even deliberately added small, semi-hard woolly fluffs, that had come
originally from the coat lining, and that had lain for long months in
the bottoms of the pockets.
At the end of fifteen minutes he had the pipe part filled. He lighted it
from the camp fire, and sat forward on the blankets, toasting his
moccasined feet and smoking parsimoniously. When the pipe was finished
he sat on, brooding into the dying flame of the fire. Slowly the worry
went out of his eyes and resolve came in. Out of the chaos of his
fortunes he had finally achieved a way. But it was not a pretty way.
His face had become stern and wolfish, and the thin lips were drawn very
tightly.