*BOWERY POLITICS.*
*CHAPTER X.*
*BOWERY POLITICS.*
The death-knell of divedom had been sounded by the legislature. Albeit,
it had been sounded before, without stopping the dives from resurrecting
themselves. But vice had become so rampant, so nauseating that the
righteous of the city braced their backbones a trifle stiffer than usual
and insisted on having a committee of investigation appointed.
All the daily papers heralded the coming of the inquisitors in big head
lines, and the inhabitants of divedom began to quake in their shoes like
fallen angels on the eve of judgment day.
Shortly before the beginning of the upheaval, I had overcome one of my
many spells of lassitude and gentlemanly idleness and had accepted the
position of bouncer in the "Slide," the most notorious dive which ever
disgraced a community.
When a body is covered with a cancerous growth, the most dangerous ulcer
is the first to receive the surgeon's attention. For that reason, the
"Slide" was the first to be put under the prying probe. The
investigation was thorough. The investigators and prosecuting
officials, stimulated by fear of public censure and thoughts of
political advancement, were merciless, and, as a consequence, the
"Slide" was closed forever and the nominal proprietor sent to jail.
Without waiting for further developments, the other dive-keepers retired
from business and a general cleansing process struck all quarters of the
city.
The immediate effect of this was that a shifting of quarters of the
vicious began. The harlots, bereft of their known places of business,
hid themselves in the obscurity of virtuous surroundings, and the male
element of the lowest dives congregated on the Bowery, ever the
dumping-ground of human scum and offal. In a short time, the Bowery was
full of a muttering crowd of able-bodied men, each one cheating the
world out of an honest day's labor, all proclaiming loudly at the
injustice which deprived them of their "living." Even the recollection
is loathsome.
In company with a number of fellows who, like me, were "thrown out of
work" by this "uncalled-for interference," we established headquarters
in a ginmill owned by a legislator. As a matter of course, the
"back-room," seemingly a legislative annex, was very much in evidence,
and by no means subdued in its proceedings. If anything, the business
behind the "partition" had increased in volume since the other dives,
operated by less influential citizens, had been obliged to close. So we
have here another of the many paradoxes of our political conditions.
While his fellow-legislators were scouring the city with really
commendable zeal to rend the evil-doer limb from limb, this being of
their kin could be seen daily in front of his hall, sunning himself in
the radiance of his increased prosperity and influence, and looking with
self-satisfied smile across Chatham Square at the closed windows of
minor dives.
Yes, as the Romans clothed the men of wisdom and love of country in the
flowing robes of dignity and called them patriots, statesmen and
senators, so do we take--take by the will of the people--the men fat of
jowl and fat of paunch from beneath us and place them above us in the
seats of the mighty and give them power over us. And if you would growl
at my saying "from beneath us to above us," and would wrathfully
confront me with the slogan of political and other equality, I would not
wish to stand in your way of being their equal, but would have trifling
respect for your integrity. As I tell the stars by seeing them and find
but small difference in their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by their
rascality, and there is small difference in the degrees of rascality.
Senators! Rome and Albany! Would the difference of time, of centuries,
were the only one between them!
In all governments by and for the people, the making of the nation lies
with the common people; that great mass, which you would call "rabble"
were it not for the continental sound of the word and the danger of
being quoted. An ever-watchful press keeps its eye on you, and would
readily pillorize you as an offender against the most sacred of our
possessions and privileges; our sacred freedom; our sacred equality; our
sacred franchise, and, by no means lastly, our sacred screaming eagle,
screaming ofttimes from veriest agony. The buncombe of press and
loud-mouthed gabbers has decreed it to be treason to see the truth and
to speak it, and you must, to be above suspicion of being a traitor to
the land you love, on the Fourth of July let off in sissing streams of
pyrotechnics your patriotism, which, after its one gala day, is
forgotten for the rest of the year in the strenuous pursuit of getting
all you can out of "what's in it."
The common people of the fields and meadows plow, sow and reap their
harvest. They pluck the weeds from out among the useful growth and
stamp them under foot. The common people of our cities live
"downtown"--that vague and indefinite region--in tenement and barracks.
(Notice how "down" and "common" always run together).
They have no knowledge of agriculture, and, with their seldom sight of
plant or flower, even the stink-weed, for it is leafed and green, finds
a welcome and place among them through their ignorance. Yes, more, it
is cared for and nurtured until, as all ill-weeds, it grows to
tremendous proportions, overshadowing and dwarfing those who have spared
its life instead of plucking it out by the roots and pressing the heel
upon it.
Who plants the weeds? Who is their sower? They care not.
Does not the same blessed sunshine and dew of heaven fall upon them as
on the corn and roses? And do they not get more of it than the flower
and the fruit-bearing plant? For they are greedy and strive for that
which is not theirs according to merit.
Not most, but all the men, who played their part in our history so well
as to be immortalized forever were self-made from the field and farm.
Remember that there they destroy the weeds!
Not most, but all the men, who have made it a risk to a fair name and
reputation to become actively engaged in the affairs of one's own
country and state were self-made from the slums and gutters, with their
only chance of immortalization via Rogues' Gallery. We of the city do
not destroy the weeds!
They of the gutter, who have been forced upon and above the multitude,
if not caught or not too notoriously prominent, keep the data of their
success and formulative period secret. If, however, they run foul of
the calcium, which often strikes, unexpectedly, dark places, they become
arrogantly defiant in their ill-gotten might. Even against the scorn of
the decent and to the awe of their own kind, they swing themselves onto
the pedestal of the self-made man and strike their pose. All that is
intended as a parallel to several rail-splitting and canal-boating men
in our little history, who, as a "patriot" remarked, deserve a whole lot
of credit "even if they was farmers."
Then, when forced into the public focus from their disturbed obscurity,
is theirs the cry of repentance? Do they sob and cry: "Peccavi! Yes, I
have sinned! I have wronged you and my country! Have mercy and
forgive!"
If it were that it would be the cry of a tortured soul, rotten and
distorted, yet still a soul and worthy of the chance of atonement. No;
what reaches us from the usurped pedestal is the self-satisfied grunt of
the swine: "Look and behold! You know or can surmise what I have been!
Look now and wonder at what I am and how I got there!"
Surely this affront is resented and the daring knave pulled from his
lofty perch to be punished for his insults and ill deeds? Some are
foolish and un-American enough to suggest such a course of proceeding.
But what really does happen is a taking up of that refrain of
self-adulation by the admiring throng. There in almost worshipping
attitude, we find that the chicaning game of politics makes mates of all
sorts and conditions of men, and pickpocket and tax-paying citizen,
cut-throat and that very peculiar animal, the intelligent workingman,
all kneel in equal humility before the rum-soaked idol of their own
creation.
A subject for deep guesswork is where the workingman keeps his well
advertised intelligence. To claim to be one thing and then prove
yourself the opposite, which, in this case means a fool, is a rather
absurd proceeding. Presumably a good part of that intelligence is
occupied in defending their rights, which nobody assails. Howling and
haranguing do not require much intelligence, and of both the
"intelligent" workingman does more than enough and to no purpose. When
the time of his usefulness approaches--although it should be the time
for him to assert himself--he stops his howling and listens to the
strongly flavored persuasion of the wily politician--the weed he
permitted to grow and to prosper--and becomes the gently led sheep, to
awaken after election and find himself the twin brother of the donkey.
They will not recognize that far better, by virtue of his sincerity,
would be the sincere demagogue as leader than the dishonest politician
of the gutter breed.
No man can choose his birthplace. Mansion and tenement have each
furnished their quota of honest and dishonest men. If he of the gutter
gets above it and gets there by means which are those of a man and an
American, he will not lack the respect and esteem of those whose ranks
he has fought to join. That is what proves this the land of
opportunities and therein lies true equality.
There is another way to get out of the gutter, and that was the way
employed by statesmen of the stamp of the Hon. Michael Callahan, of the
State Legislature.
Mike Callahan's place in horticulture was most decidedly among the
rankest weeds. "Lucky" Callahan, as he was sometimes called, had
escaped the inconvenient calcium of public opinion, and, on that
account, little was known about his origin, except by his intimates.
Perhaps bootblack, perhaps newsboy, he had early learned to make himself
subservient to his superiors, genial to his equals and condescending to
his inferiors. Of course, these social lines were drawn by him
according to his viewpoint.
Mike's striving for political recognition was aggressive from the start,
and, having no other aim or ambition, he threw himself into the game of
intrigue and wire-pulling with all his energetic intensity. Never
questioning, always obeying, he became the ideal plastic mass to be
molded by the enterprising chiefs of the organization. His promotion
from ward heeler to captain, and from captain to the leadership of the
district was his logical reward.
Yet, even in spite of his usefulness, his ascendancy to the leadership
was not accomplished in a day. He did not mind this much, his bulldog
tenacity keeping him alive to his ultimate purpose. His manhood and
individuality, whatever they might have been, had long been sacrificed.
To strengthen his own power in the district it was necessary to weaken
the influence of the incumbent leader, and, to effect this, knowing
nothing of diplomacy, Callahan resorted to plain treachery. The fact
that the leader to be deposed had been his benefactor and stanch friend
was of small moment. Certainly Mike was sorry, but what could he do?
Take a back seat and beat himself out of his chances? "Not much," said
he, and invented the useful and often quoted phrase, "Friendship in
poker and politics don't go."
Mike's assumption of the leadership was worked by decisive methods.
There was no vagueness about him. The great leaders in the history of
nations were endowed with attributes and traits of the highest and
noblest order. Mike's most pronounced attribute in his functions as
leader was directness. It was this that enabled some of the brilliant
young men of the party press to apostrophize him as "rugged, bluff,
stalwart, frank and straightforward."
The district contained a population in which the intelligent workingman
was not greatly represented. The few of them who lived in the many
lodging houses had very little belief left in the dignity of labor and
toiled only enough to "square" themselves with their landlords and
liquor dealers. Still, they were of use. They could talk beautifully
about the rights of labor, and were encouraged--before election day--to
spout grandiosely about the tyrannical oppression of the American
workingman by the opposing faction.
The great majority of the voters in the district belonged to the class
of grafters, and for that reason if no other, the Hon. Michael Callahan
of the State Legislature was their born leader.
Callahan was at his best shortly before election. Then no man or
woman--unfortunately the ladies of the district would indulge too
strongly--had to linger in the throes of the law. It was the sacred
duty of the leader to call daily at the police court to save his
constituents and their "lady friends" from their impending fate.
On the eve of election no time had to be wasted in speculating on how
much the free and independent voter could expect to receive for the
exercise of his sacred franchise. According to the amount sent down
from the headquarters of the organization, Mike's ultimatum would settle
the market price of votes. One or one and a half, or two dollars were
the rates paid, although the last named rate was only given to liquidate
the voter's claim at the most critical periods. In this way the voter
could figure with certainty, and with very little interruption resume
his dissertation on the betterment of municipal and national politics.
The most important events in our history were conceived amidst
surroundings of severest simplicity. No marble hall, no lofty council
chamber, just the Common with its green sward and sturdy oak was the
favorite meeting place of our forefathers. In the shadow of the mighty
tree they spoke of liberty, of the rights of man and of the welfare of
our country, and we reap to-day the benefit of their integrity, in spite
of the machinations of politicians, whose very thoughts are a pollution
of patriotism.
A careful and thoughtful student of American history, the Honorable Mike
tried to live up to tradition as much as possible. Customs have
changed, civilization has progressed, real estate has risen in price,
and the political leader of to-day has felt himself obliged to
substitute the gin-mill and the dive for the Common of old. Besides,
"there is not much in Commons," excepting when the city fathers, in the
goodness of their charitable hearts, decide to create another breathing
place and playground for the poor children of the East Side, and,
thereby can get a "chance at" the property owners of the site.
When one is a leader, one must do as leaders do. Mike could not swerve
from the accustomed practice, and, nolens volens, found himself the
proprietor of a dive. But, forced into this, he had at least the
satisfaction of opening this adjunct to his legislative office on the
Common, or Square, as it is now called. True, there was no sturdy oak
and no green sward, but there were elevated railway pillars and their
shadows were quite sufficient for the practice of side issues in
politics. The oak bears only acorns. The pillars and their shadows
bore better fruit of silvery and golden sheen, and their sturdiness was
often welcome to the backs of the many weary pilgrims who had traveled
far to imbibe the pure draught of American patriotism as dispensed by
the Hon. Michael Callahan of the State Legislature.
With the characteristic modesty of great men, Mike refrained from making
the exterior of his place too showy. This superficial attraction to his
resort was absolutely needless, as his more lasting fame--some
detractors called it "disgraceful notoriety"--was firmly established.
Did he not have several fist-fights with "officious" police officers to
his credit, and, did he not openly dare and defy all known authorities
to "monkey" with him. He feared no man but one, and that one only,
because he was a more successful thug than himself and the Great Leader
and Chieftain.
Dives of a certain kind make no effort to attract transient trade by
bright, or, at least, neat and clean exteriors. Their business is not
supplied by the honest man, who is looking for an honest place to have
an honest drink. They depend on that flotsam and jetsam that can find a
dive blindfolded. Callahan's place was more suggestive than attractive
in its front and the interior was fairly dazzling in its austere
plainness. Sawdust and traces of former expectorations were the most
evident features in the bar-room, which only ran the length of the bar.
At the end of it a partition jealously claimed the rest of the space for
the back-room. There, and not in front, was the real business
transacted. The front, a pretense of respectability; the back, without
any pretense whatsoever.
I cannot tell you what furnished the real attraction of the back-room.
A minimum clearance of space in the centre of the room was reserved for
dancing and surrounded by tables and chairs which were nightly occupied
by young men and women, many of whom had been born and brought up in the
immediate neighborhood, under the very eyes of the legislating
dive-keeper. But that fact made no difference to this vile thing,
empowered by our sanction to make laws which were to safeguard homes,
property and life.
[Illustration: Mike Callahan's Saloon in Chatham Square. The entrance to
Chinatown on the right.]
And there, safe in the protecting radius of our friend and statesman, we
found a resting-place; for our enforced retirement from dive activity,
and there, in all my uncleanness, there came to me the sweet messenger
of a newer, better life, and took me from it by the all-powerful
persuasion of an unquenchable love.
Before telling you how this miracle transformed me in a way, which will
tax my power of description to the utmost, I must relate to you the one
and only attempt we, myself and two cronies, made to get away from a
life which was the only one we knew.
*A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.*
*CHAPTER XI.*
*A PILGRIMAGE TO NATURE.*
It was in May. The side-walk in front of Mike Callahan's dive was wide,
and we, the gang of discharged dive employees, were in the habit of
lounging on the empty beer barrels along the curb or sticking ourselves
up against the swinging doors of the place. People, whom we knew from
having met them in the "better" days, when we were still working, often
passed by and were eagerly hailed by us in the hope that they might buy
a drink for our thirsty throats.
Corner loafers are despised by all people who lead useful lives, and
justly so. Still, there is something very moving in thinking about the
dreary existence of these fellows. With brains as empty as their
pockets, they assemble with praiseworthy regularity at their open-air
clubs, and waste their days in pessimistic conjectures. The loafer is a
born pessimist and cynic. No matter what subject or event you may
mention to him, he will sneer at it and promptly proceed to pick it to
pieces. His criticisms are as acidly sarcastic as his excuses are
ingenious. Ask him his opinion about the work done by some skilled
mechanic, and he will find a multitude of faults and then expound how
the job ought to have been done. Surprised at his technical knowledge
you ask in a mild way why he does not put his evident ability to
practical use, and are forthwith shocked by suggesting such a thing to a
man, who has such a wealth of haughty and convincing reasons for
remaining a loafer.
Loafers are forever hovering in the ante-room of crime. If his Satanic
Majesty bethinks himself of his own and calls them, they willingly and
without compunction, do any crooked commission provided it does not
require too much physical courage. After due time, crime seems easy,
they have not yet been caught, and from their familiarity with
evil-doing, and not because of any lately awakened courage, they commit
deeds which are called "desperate" by every conscientious reporter.
Jack Dempsey, Frank Casey and myself formed a sort of inner circle in
the larger gang. We often philosophized together, exchanged ideas and
commented on things in general. At one of our confabs, Frank Casey
seemed to be entirely out of humor.
"What's the matter with you, Frank?" I asked.
"What do you think there is? There's nothing the matter with me,
excepting that I'm dead sick o' this game." We could see he was deeply
moved by some unsuspected emotion and were deeply interested in its
development.
"I tell you what I'd like to do," he resumed. "I'd like to cut this all
out and go to work some place. There's nothing in this kind o' life and
it's the same every day. See, it's years and years since I done what
you may call an honest day's work."
"Ah, you're only kidding!"
"Kidding?" he echoed, indignantly. "Say, Kil, and you, too, Dempsey, I
was never more serious in me life. What are we getting out o' this?
It's hanging round here all day, looking for graft and the few pennies
to go to bed with or to buy a beef-stew; and when a fellow does make a
piece o' money, does it do him any good? Not on your life! If you
flash it, you got to blow it in for booze, and if you don't they think
you're no good, and the whole gang gets sore on you. A fellow that's
working and making his dollar and a half or two dollars a day, is better
off than the whole bunch of us taken together."
"For the love of heaven, you ain't thinking about going to work?"
"That's just what I'm doing, and the sooner I can start in the better,"
attested Casey with emphasis.
A warm discussion followed. It is hard to tell if it was the novelty of
the proposition or Casey's evident sincerity, but Dempsey and I began to
consider it very seriously.
"Say Casey," I asked, "supposing the three of us really wanted to go to
work, where could we get it? They don't take men like us in shops or
factories, where there are a whole lot of trained help looking for work
every day. So, even if we wanted work, we couldn't get it."
"Is that so? You're talking as if New York City is the whole thing.
What's the matter with the country? That's where we ought to go,
because we'll never amount to anything here. In the first place, even
if we was to get jobs here, the three of us would be going on a drunk on
the first pay day and stay on it until we're broke. But in the country
you ain't got no chance to spend your money, and it's healthy and it's
better anyway."
The surety of Casey amused me.
"Will you tell me where you have ever been in the country to know so
much about it, and where you got your information from?"
"That don't make no difference," insisted Casey stubbornly, "I know
there's lots o' fellows going over to Philadelphia or Jersey or some
place over there every year about this time, and they come back like new
and with money from picking strawberries and whatever else there's
growing out there."
We put our heads together, discussed the matter, came to the conclusion
that, surely, we would not be in worse circumstances in the country than
we were in the city, and resolved to try our luck at strawberry picking.
To financier our expedition was our first duty. We skirmished round and
raised about six dollars as our joint capital. Casey went on a secret
errand to make inquiries of some well-known "hobo" authority where to
go, and how to get there, and then undertook to personally conduct the
tour into the unknown land.
Baggage did not encumber us. I had thought of taking my good old pal,
my Bill, along with us, but did not wish to expose him to the dangers,
which, no doubt, were lurking for us.
At the ferry, Casey flew his flag and read us the last orders. To save
our small capital, we were to walk or "jump" freight trains. Also, for
reasons of economy and sagacity, we were not to indulge in one solitary
drop of anything intoxicating.
The first hitch occurred in Hoboken. To get a freight train was
impossible. Dempsey and I never knew why we were unable to make
connections, as Casey's plausibility drove the question from our minds
and made us follow him blindly.
We walked from Hoboken to Newark. It was a scorching afternoon, the
sand was hot and heavy under foot, and our mouths became parched at an
uncomfortable rate. A few wells and pumps were passed by us, but Casey
would not permit us to slake our thirst, as "Newark is only a step or so
further on, and it's dangerous to monkey with them country people. They
got dogs and are kind of suspicious of fellows like us, who come from
New York."
Ah, really and truly, it would have been the most confiding and
unsophisticating nature that would not have been suspicious of us, no
matter where we hailed from. Three tough specimens of humanity, indeed,
we were!
No stop was made until we reached the railroad station at Newark. Quite
a crowd was assembled to wait for either an incoming or outgoing train,
but we, without paying the slightest attention to the many mistrustful
glances given in our direction, raced for the ice-water tank, prepared
to gorge ourselves with the cooling drink.
Casey was the last to have his turn at the chained tin cup. He started
off splendidly, but paused after, his first gulp and smacked his lips in
a most critical manner.
"Taste anything funny in that water?"
We replied in the negative.
"There's something wrong with it, just the same," Casey persisted. "And
do you know, the worst thing a man can do this time o' the year is to
drink bad water."
"But we got to drink something. We ain't going to drink any beer, and I
hate to spend money for soda and ginger-ale and stuff like that,"
remarked Dempsey.
"That's true enough," admitted Casey, "but, I'll tell you what we'll do.
The same fellow who gave me points on how to get to the strawberries,
also, told me that the biggest glass of beer in the country was sold
right here in Newark. Now, we ain't going to get full or anything like
that, but, being as the water ain't fit to drink, I guess we might have
one, just one o' those biggest schooners, which I never seen and which,
besides quenching our thirst, are surely worth looking at, the same as
any curiosities."
Without the aid of a Baedeker, we found our way to Newark's most
interesting spot. We entered the hospitable tavern at about seven
o'clock, and, at ten o'clock, were still tarrying there admiring the
size and beauty of the biggest beers in the world.
Regardless of the size of the drink, the beer alone,--never a product of
malt and hops--a vile concoction of injurious chemicals, is sufficient
to put the indulger far above the most worrying troubles. Late that
night, the quiet streets of Newark were profaned by three unsteady
musketeers, who, with song and laughter, were making their way to the
"meadows."
Only one more resolution made and broken. It was not the first and was
not the last.
Out in the "meadows," the train-yard, where the freight trains were made
up, we succeeded, after many mishaps, including Casey's tumble from a
moving train into a ditch, in catching a train at about midnight. We
had only traveled about a mile, when a trainman, stepping from car to
car with lighted lantern, saw us huddled between the bumpers.
"Where are you fellows going?"
"Philadelphia," came the answer in sleepy, drowsy tones.
"You're on a wrong train. This train goes to the 'branch.'"
At the time we did not know that this was only a common ruse to make
"hoboes" leave the train and accepted it at its face value.
"Where did he say we were going?" asked Casey.
"To the 'branch,' wherever that may be," I answered.
"I guess we better get off, then. This train ain't going to
Philadelphia," suggested Dempsey.
"What we'll get off for? This train goes somewhere, don't it? And it
don't make much difference where it goes to, as long as it goes
somewhere into the country and away from New York," said Casey, with the
evident intention of ending further argument.
The heavy, damp night air and the drink partaken by us lulled us into
deep slumber, forgetful of our precarious attitude. We had journeyed
for hours without waking and were not aroused until the coldness in our
limbs became actually painful. Without speaking a word and merely
staring at each other we jolted on and on into the unknown, and the
dawning morning.
Suddenly a brilliant spectacle caught our eyes. Coming out from wooded
land, the train sped along a level stretch and we fed our looks on the
Fata Morgana of a large city. The size, brilliancy of illumination and
distance from New York left no doubt in our minds that we were not far
from Philadelphia, and had we known how to pray, we would surely have
done so. I have never regretted the experience, still have no wild
desire to repeat it. There are more easily obtainable joys in life than
the riding on the bumpers of a freight train on a chilly May morning.
It was not long before we were slinking along Market street in
Philadelphia. After fortifying ourselves against the bad consequences
of our benumbing voyage by sampling some "speak-easy" whiskey, we
visited "Dirty Mag's" famous all-night restaurant on Sixth street and
feasted on steak-pie and coffee, with crullers included. The bill
amounted to ten cents.
We were so tired out by our traveling that it was out of the question to
continue our journey. Down on Calomel street we found a resting-place
for our weary and frozen bones at fifteen cents per couch. It was
almost noon before we woke from our sleep and held a conference. At its
termination we hied ourselves to the nearby grocery store and spent
almost the entire remainder of our depleted treasury in buying
provisions for our trip into the wilds of Pennsylvania. After that,
with a last parting drink, we turned our backs on Philadelphia and set
boldly out to win our fortunes.
Just as the suburbs had been reached by us we were reminded by our
stomachs that we had forgotten to breakfast. An inviting tree stood
nearby, a brook, as clear as crystal, was rippling past our feet, and
the place seemed to be made for a picnic ground. The enjoyment of the
meal was marred by the thought that now we would have no lunch or
dinner.
"What's the use of worrying about that now? Besides, we won't have to
carry so much," was Casey's way of consoling us.
We rose and began our tramp in earnest. For hours we walked, giving
little attention to the things about us and only holding desultory
conversation. Not one of us knew the route to the "strawberry country,"
and we were often obliged to ask people whom we met for directions. We
had little luck in this. Most of the people addressed by us would
quickly button their coats and hurry on without heeding us. Others
would barely stop and throw us such a small scrap of information that,
instead of enlightening us, they only bewildered us the more. At last,
Casey got tired of this way of securing information and burst upon us
with his latest and brightest inspiration.
"It's no use of asking any o' these men. Most o' them are hayseeds and
been to New York and have been buncoed. They can see in a minute that
we're from New York and ain't going to take no chances with us. It's
different with women. They're always nice and gentle and, especially,
when they get spoken to the way I know how to talk to them. Leave this
to me. Don't ask any more men. Wait till we meet some women, and then
I'll ask them, and then you'll be surprised in the difference."
Casey, who had given voice to this speech with properly inflated chest,
proved himself to be a true prophet. We found there was a difference in
the way in which men and women received our approach.
Before long, we saw two women with baskets coming our way.
"Now, you fellows want to keep a little behind, and watch me how I do
this," was Casey's final instruction.
Giving his clothes a quick brushing with his hands and setting his hat
jauntily over his ear, Casey went toward his fate with a grace all his
own.
Dempsey and I could not hear the first passage of words, but it was
hardly necessary, as the effects of it were immediately visible.
One woman proceeded to pummel Casey with her umbrella, while the other
was trying to fit her market-basket on his head. When they saw Dempsey
and me come running to the rescue, they left Casey and took it on a run
across the fields, but they took good care to shout back to us that they
would have the sheriff or constable after us.
"For heaven's sake, what did you say to those women?" I asked Casey,
after I had pulled the basket from his head.
"What did I say to them? They ain't civilized, and it don't make no
difference what a fellow says to them kind o' people. I spoke to them
like a regular dude. This is what I said: 'Ain't this a fine morning,
girls. We're strangers here and didn't like this country very much
until it was our good fortune to see you, who are sweeter than any
sugar, and now we'd like to stay here if you will tell us the road to
where the strawberries grow and where there are as many girls as
beautiful as yourselves!' And the minute I said that they soaked me."
We consoled Casey and resumed our tramp.
It was now late in the afternoon and I determined that we should know
something about our whereabouts. I stopped the very next man we met in
such a way that he could not get away from us.
After assuring him that we had no intention of robbing him, I insisted
on getting correct information.
Can you imagine our feelings when he told us that we had spent our time
and energy in describing circles around Philadelphia, without getting
away from it?
Dempsey and Casey made no attempt to hide their chagrin. The blow was
too crushing. I, also, felt fearfully discouraged, but did not want to
give in.
"There is no use in going back. We're here now, and must go on. If we
go back to Philadelphia, we might as well go back to New York. We're in
the country now, and we might as well stay here. I don't care what you
fellows do, I'm going to go ahead."
The last sentence was a fearful bluff. Had Dempsey and Casey decided to
return to New York, I would have joined them on the spot. Fortunately,
they adopted my way of looking at it, and we once more pursued our sorry
pilgrimage.
Now, we were sure of penetrating right into the heart of the country and
evidences of it were not lacking. Suburban villas grew fewer and fewer
and we had to walk for a considerable distance before we passed another
farmhouse. With our inborn stubbornness we kept plodding on, until our
legs almost refused to obey.
It was the hour in which evening unwittingly yields supremacy to night.
We felt it, as was proven by Casey in answer to Dempsey's question in
regard to the time.
"Well, when it looks like this they always begin to light up in
Callahan's, and that's about seven o'clock."
Again we were silent and tramped and tramped. Dempsey was the next to
speak.
"Say, fellows, I ain't seen any strawberries yet. And even if we were to
see any now, we couldn't go to work at them this evening, it being so
late now, and I think the best thing we can do is to sit down some place
and take a rest."
Only a few more steps and we saw a spot, which by you, would have been
called a dell. We called it nothing, just saw the soft grass and, with
one accord, sank down on it.
The tone of evening now rang unmistakably clear. Evening and its
partner, the gloaming, were at the last and best moment of their
supremacy. Too short, by far, are evenings in the country, those short
brief hours of nature's neutral state, before retiring to its
well-earned rest. But that I only feel now, and did not then.
Remember! this was my first night in God's country. Like thousands of
others who live and die in the southeast corner of Manhattan--along the
Bowery--I had never had a sight of nature. I could not have told a daisy
from a rose; or a crow from a robin. All that I write here are the
impressions that linger in my mind of this, my first night with nature.
It was one grand moment in our lives, yet we did not feel it. Hold, I
am wrong! We did feel it, perhaps subconsciously, but feel it we did.
Our kind is not given to much talking while doing anything of import.
Then our energies are in our task, no matter how dirty that may be. As
soon as we rest, we change, and the silent drudge becomes a veritable
magpie. We three were resting as, like three daisies in the wilderness,
we sat in our dell, but there was something all about and around us that
stopped our flow of talk from loosening itself.
We sat and stared, and the most insignificant changes in the tranquil
scene before us left their unrecognized, yet deep impressions on us.
And looking back through all the years passed since then, I see it all
still before me, though I cannot attempt to picture it to you.
From where we sat it looked before us like the setting for a glorious
play. On both sides, small sketches of woodland interjected just far
enough to serve as the wings on the stage. Back of it, there was a
grand, majestic last drop, a range of hills, running unbrokenly from
where to where we could see. The cast, the actors of the play were
supplied by all the many living things about us and, above it all, like
the last curtain, hung the forerunners of the coming night.
It was no tumultuous melodrama, no rollicking farce, it was a pastoral
play so successful, so wisely composed and staged that from its first
night it has been enacted every night through all the ages. No wonder
that with so many rehearsals the scene, as we saw it, was played with
perfection.
Out from a loophole in the sky, a bird came flying toward us with
unfaltering swing. Night after night it had flown the same course,
night after night it had the same role, that of bringing their share to
the young striplings in the nest above our heads. Along the road came a
creaking, lumbering farm-wagon. The farmer looked at us with suspicion,
still, gave us a "good evening, boys." I do not know if we returned his
greeting or not.
It was quiet, so quiet, that the many little noises, made by unseen
beings, pealed like tornadoes of sound. The snatch of laughter, coming
from the tree-encircled farm-house behind us, was as the laughter of a
multitude; the chirrup of that homeward bound bird was as a lofty, airy
chorus; the croaking of the frog was as a grunting wail from many, many,
who never get above the very ground. While we had sat staring holes into
the air before us, evening had flown, and night, a gallant victor, had
unrolled the standard of the stars. I know I cannot tell you my
impressions, but even had I the gift and genius of a hundred of our
greatest writers, I could not convey to you what a picture that night,
my first night in God's country, left with me. It seemed to me that all
and everything, before becoming wrapped in slumber, gave one
praise-offering to Above. The corn of the field and the poor lowly
flower by the roadside and even the tiny blade of grass, they all were
straightened by one last, upward tremor before relaxing to their
drooping doze. The birds of the air and the beasts of the ground, all
sounded their evening song. With some it was a thrill of sweetest
divine melody, with others it was but a grunt, but it all seemed like a
thanksgiving for having lived and worked a day made by the Creator of
all.
And from beneath all this, the silent attitude of prayer and the intoned
evening hymn of creatures rose onward, upward, like an anthem to the
sky, where brilliant orbs and shining, milky veils were interwoven in a
web of glory, and peeping over the tops of hours into the birthing
cradle of another day. It is a witching hour, this hour, when stars and
nature in unison sing their evening song.
Where nature is grandest, man most likes to profane it.
The sublime, sweet spell held us enthralled. Not a word had been spoken
by us. How long we had sat there we did not know. How much longer we
would have sat there is a matter of unprofitable conjecture. As if
turned loose from the regions of the arch-fiend, with howling screech,
with snorting, rumbling, rattling, a train, looking like a string of
toy-cars in the distance, clattered along the range of hills, the last
drop of our scene. Spitting fire before it, leaving white streamers
behind it, the iron disrespecter of nature's sanctity rushed into the
very heart of the hills and took the haze of idealism with it.
The spell was broken, and we were not long in getting back to terra
firma.
"Say," remarked Casey very pensively, "ain't it very quiet here?"
"Well, I should say so," hastened Dempsey to corroborate him. "It's so
quiet you couldn't sleep here if you wanted to. This ain't no place for
us. Let's go."
We started ahead and tumbled along the country road. All directions, as
to our route, were, for the present, forgotten. We only had one purpose
now, to get away from the haunting quiet. With every step our nerves
became more unstrung. A rabbit scooted across the road and made us
grasp each other's arms. The faint rustle of the leaves sent shivers
down our backs.
Out in the open, we felt the hazy, vapory night air enshroud us, which
showed every object in ghost-like mold. A dog barked far away, then it
howled, and I can swear to it, we trembled.
It was not physical fear. It was the weirdness of the unaccustomed that
played havoc with our reasoning powers. Some may doubt all this and
mention as proof the "hoboing" tramps, who spend their most pleasing and
profitable period of vagrancy in their country. I am not prepared to
discuss this at all, but am quite sure that every tramp, at the
beginning of his career as such, was similarly impressed on his first
night in the country, provided he had not found shelter in a barn or
haystack or had not been born and lived in the country before.
We, we were city bred to the bone, and noise was essential to us as
ozone is to the country lad. He cannot sleep with noise,--we could not
sleep without it.
Our musings--we had not spoken for a long time--were interrupted by
Dempsey, who had fallen over a rail, which he had not noticed in the
shadowy Darkness. Yes, it was a full-fledged railroad track and, for
some obscure reason, it seemed to possess a great deal of fascination
for us. We were apparently not able to get away from it. We stood and
looked at it as if we had never seen a railroad track before.
This lasted until the ever-ready Casey interpreted our feelings.
"I wonder if this is the Pennsylvania railroad?"