THE SHADED SIDE
I was having a happy girl's life with friends and pleasures. Nanette
Piaget had a lover, a young French Canadian, who became enamored of
prairies, and saw boundless possibilities in wheat. He had some money
and would settle in Chicago.
One day father was brought home from a bad fall, unconscious; they
feared at first that he was dead. I was stunned. Mrs. Piaget came over
and one of our neighbors, Mrs. Lewis.
They found his hip was badly broken. Three physicians worked over him,
and after some hours he was bandaged. One doctor remained all night,
and Mrs. Lewis stayed. She did a good deal of nursing, and made her home
with a married daughter.
Fever set in, and there followed six weeks of danger. I don't know what
would have happened, but Dan Hayne took charge of the outside matters.
The wheat had been cut and was to be brought in, a splendid crop it was.
"Everything grows its best for your father," he said. "This is the first
setback he has had."
Everybody was very kind. But I had never known sorrow or anxiety, and
the saddest of all was not to do anything that would help. He had to
lie still and suffer. In the height of the fever he was strapped to
the cot, to keep him from doing any worse injury to his hip. Mrs. Hayne
coaxed me to come down and stay a few days, but I had an awful fear that
father would die. Or he might come to consciousness and ask for me. Now
and then he talked of our journey from the old Bay State, and murmured,
"Little girl, little girl," but he did not realize that the little girl
was at his side whenever she was allowed to be.
There were a few days when he hovered between life and death and dozed
most of the time. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me and said in
a tremulous tone, "Ruth."
"Father!" I caught his thin white hand and covered it with kisses and
tears.
He drew a long breath. "I've been pretty sick, haven't I? How long has
it been—a fortnight?"
"Almost two months."
"Two months! And the wheat—the corn—ruined! And what is the matter with
my side? I can't move my leg. Why, I don't understand."
"You were hurt by a fall. You have been very ill with a fever. And now
you are better. You are going to get well."
I leaned my head down on his shoulder and cried. I could not help it.
"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"
Then Dr. Carpenter came in, and I know he was greatly relieved.
"But we are not out of the woods!" He shook his head dubiously. "You
can blow out your candle very easily, but with care you may burn it to
the socket. Still you have had a mighty tight squeeze. And there must
be no crying over him," shaking his finger at me.
"Except for joy," I retorted, wiping my eyes.
"I do begin to recall things, but I had no idea I had been ill so long.
And my hip—my leg?"
"It was a very bad break. It hasn't gone on as we hoped, the fever was
too much for it. But we think it will be all right in the end. It will
be a winter's job, and call for a good deal of patience."
Father groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"You may be dismissed, little maid," with a smile and gesture of the
hand, "we have some secret rites to perform."
I went out and hugged Jolette in my joy.
"I knowed 'twas all right," said Jolette. "I've harked to dat ar
schreech owel an' never yet counted t'ree. T'ree jes' sure sartin', fer
a death. An' the candile didn't roll up a windin' sheet in de new of
the moon. As fer dogs howlin,' you can't depend on dem no mo', 'ceptin
dey run right in de sick room."
Mrs. Lewis had stayed with us nearly all the time, making a call now
and then at her daughter's. She returned before the doctor went away,
and declared that she, too, expected favorable word, for she had seen a
change the last three days. "And if one doesn't drop off sudden, they're
sure to pull through."
Dan came in every night and I told him of the comforting verdict.
"I thought he'd pull through. You see, he's wiry, and a steady man, too.
Had everything in his favor, but it was a tight squeeze."
"Oh, Dan, you've been so good, so splendid!" and I caught his hand,
looking up with tears in my eyes. "I don't know what we should have done
without you."
"Remember that some day."
I did not understand the words nor the tone.
The next was Sunday, and many of the neighbors were in. I was not
needed, and I went to Sophie's with the good tidings. The baby was so
sweet and cunning. There had been quite a time about naming it. They
both decided upon Ruth, but there was grandmother, who would have
felt hurt if left out. Elise and Elizabeth were so much alike they
could compliment both in the same name. So it was Ruth Elizabeth,
but Homer always called her Little Girl. What would Chicago be when
she was sixteen? Men would be describing old Chicago as they did now.
But the log houses would be gone, and the plain brick houses were not
picturesque. Would there be any old Fort Dearborn? And some of the
Indians had thought it wiser to move further back. The wheat and oats
and corn were trenching upon the ground to which they really had no
claim. They still had their ball games and their races, the ambition of
every young brave was to own a horse. Work for anything else they would
not. The squaws supplied them with clothing. They fished and hunted,
but the squaws tilled the fields, did bead work, made curious chains of
polished shells, that looked as if they were set with gems. They seemed
happy, too, but at middle life they were wrinkled old women.
Saturday afternoon was a gala time. They had games and dances, sometimes
such fierce war dances it seemed as if they would scalp each other.
There were stringent laws against selling them any quantity of liquor,
and the clergymen tried to rouse some moral and intellectual ambition
in them, but it was hard work. Were they really the ornamental denizens
of the wilderness, and with the passing of that would they disappear?
Homer and Sophie were glad of my good news. I really was in an exultant
state. And when Homer took me home we found Ben there, who was delighted
and eager.
"I'm so glad," he said afterward, as we stood on the old stoop, that
now extended out to the edge of the sidewalk. Father had raised us at
least two feet. "I've been thinking what I could do for you, and that
I ought to come in often, but I had a splendid chance to learn German,
which will take three evenings in a week. And the disturbances in Europe
send so many immigrants over here. I don't wonder they love to get to a
free land, out of the reach of tyrants, and there is so much to study."
"Oh, Ben," I replied, "don't worry about us. I dare say some one will
be in every evening when father is well enough to talk, and when he can
go out a little—"
"It's you I am thinking about, and if I can be of any service you will
surely let me know."
I promised. How good they all were to me. Does one recall past events
more distinctly as one grows older? I could always see myself as father
lifted me out of the old wagon, when I was half frightened at such a
host of boys.
Father improved very slowly, but his mind was clear, and he had a good
hope of being able to get about by spring. I had known that Dan Hayne
had been attending to the place, but I was hardly prepared for the
accounting he gave father.
"Really, Dan," and father's voice was husky with emotion, "things would
have gone to the dogs if you had not come to the fore. I don't know how
I will ever get straight with you."
Dan laughed. He had such a jolly, light-hearted ring in his voice, just
like his mother's.
"It wasn't such a desperate sight, just to oversee. The men seemed to
know how to take hold. Gaynor, I suppose you're a shrewd, long-headed
Yankee, looking at the end, instead of going off half cocked. You have
everything dovetailed, and one thing just fits in with another. I've
learned a lot of things these two months and looked after my own affairs
as well. I think you're about right. Twenty or thirty years from now
we'll be feeding these people of the East, who think they know a little
bit more than all the rest."
"I wasn't brought up in a slipshod fashion," returned father dryly.
"Though I don't wonder you people trust to chance. I never saw such pure
luck in my life as there is here—one can't call it anything else."
Father had an excellent appetite and began to feel real well at heart,
as he termed it. Homer made him a very convenient chair, that could be
raised and lowered by an ingenious crank and a set of pins. But they
found when the doctor and Jolette, who was good and strong, stood him
up that he had no power at all over the hurt limb—very little feeling
in it.
"Are you going to tell me that I must be a one-legged limpy Dick all
the rest of my life?" he demanded of the doctor. He was not a profane
man usually, but he did swear then.
"Well, we hope not. The joint has not mended as we expected; it isn't
sound. It's the worst break a man can have to knock him out, but here
it hasn't been quite four months, and the fever was awful. A man who
could pull through that can pull through other things. There is some
paralysis, but when you come to exercise even that may mend. I think it
has improved in a month. I give you a year before I lose heart."
Father groaned, and when he took his hands from his face I saw there
were tears in his eyes.
But we made his room cheerful, and he could be pushed about in his
chair. Jolette was as good as a masseur, she was so strong and vigorous.
The doctor instructed her how to rub him, and some medicaments were
used. We had a good fire blazing on the hearth. Neighbors came in
and played cards and repeated the general gossip. Then I read to
him. We took the _Democrat_ now, and a new paper, the _Journal_,
had been started. He liked to hear all sides. Some of the ideas he
flatly contradicted, others he called fool talk. He was very fond of
arguing. He and Dan had it hot and heavy sometimes, and I was afraid
Dan would break off in anger. I used to go to the door with him and say
pleadingly:
"Oh, Dan, you won't mind, will you? Remember how ill father has been,
and how awfully disappointed he feels at not getting thoroughly well.
He doesn't mean all he says, and he would miss you terribly——"
"Don't worry, little one. I can make allowance. Some of it amuses me,
too."
Then he took my face in his hands and turned it up a little until our
eyes met. His were a deep gray. There was a masterful expression in them
that went all through one. He stooped a little and kissed me with what
I understood later was the passion of a strong man, and it left me as
helpless for a moment as that night of the wild ride.
"Never mind, little dear," he said, and was gone.
"Such a dumb idiotic fool as Dan Hayne is in some things! If I couldn't
see an inch before my nose I'd get some sort of a machine and pull it
out longer. He's all right on this slavery business—we don't want it
here at the North. And the tariff has two sides, I'm free to confess.
But some other matters——"
"I wish you wouldn't quarrel so much with him," I interrupted. "And he
is so good to us. You and Mr. Harris always get along so nicely."
"Shucks!" snorted father in disdain. "There's no arguing where two
people believe just the same things in the same way, or pretend to. I
like a man to have some sharp opinions, if he does ram the points into
you. It's like a wrestling bout, and stirs up your blood. Dan won't be
so sure of things when he is forty."
I felt a little relieved. But the kiss burned upon my lips and brought
a curious heat to my cheek.
There was a young paper started about this time by a Mr. Wright, who
was always promulgating some scheme for the public good. He was very
eager and earnest about public-school education, and the necessity for
children, who were to be the future rulers of the State, to know what
their duties were, and to be able to undertake them. Many improvements
in old Chicago were owing to his fertile brain, and the energy and
ability to carry them through.
This particular one that interested father from its first inception
was the "_Prairie Farmer_." At the head of it was this motto—"Farmers,
write for your paper." All kinds of agricultural questions were asked
and answered as correctly as possible for the limited knowledge of that
time. Experiences were exchanged—the value of inventions and what might
be done by machinery. Some of those old ideas did get appropriated.
Father told me to draw up the table and bring him pen and ink. He often
looked over and straightened up accounts. He kept every item and knew
the returns of different methods, always adopting the most profitable
one.
This kept him busy for a long time. He had a quill pen, and he chewed
the end of it, wrinkled up his brow, and shut his lips in a straight
line so that you could hardly see the color. Somewhere in the afternoon
he asked me to read a rather discouraging article, and then said:
"Now listen to this, and it's no visionary thing either."
He read a very spirited reply. I recognized at once that some of it was
his own experience.
"Oh, father!" I cried, delighted, "you wrote it yourself. It's splendid!
And you ought to have it printed."
"Good enough for that, eh?" He gave his quizzical smile and twinkled
his eyes.
"Oh, yes; can't you have it put in the _Prairie Farmer_?"
"Well," with a sort of amused deliberateness, "I had thought a little of
that, since they are inviting plain farmer people to air their wisdom.
Do you think you could copy it, not in a scratchy girl's hand, but one
easy to read? Sit here and try. I'm tired and feel like a clock with its
machinery running down. By the great boot! I wonder if I am only to be
half a man the rest of my life!" and he gave a groan.
"But the better half is in good order, your head and your hands, and Dr.
Carpenter is sure you will improve as soon as the weather is pleasant
enough to get out."
I arranged the little table just beside him. I was happy to see him so
interested. Then I began on odd slips of paper to see what I could do
writing large. Father looked them over. I suppose it would have made
a modern girl nervous, but we knew nothing about nerves in those days,
and then I was so intent upon pleasing him. My whole heart had been full
of sympathy all winter. I had never seen any one helpless before but a
baby.
"This I think will do. And you write only on one side of the paper."
"Oh, dear," I cried, aghast, "think of all the paper it will take!"
He made a funny little _moue_, as the French call it. Paper was dear
and poor. Foolscap was in general use.
I did not get along very fast, and presently the dark overtook me. So
I put it away for the next day, but I was all impatience.
"Call Jolette to let me down a little. And then stir the fire."
Both were attended to. Then Ben ran in. He was going home to supper,
and this was German evening. But he had two or three bits of brightness
that amused father.
I finished the paper the next morning, and we folded it up and tied
it with a cord, writing on the outside, "To the Editor of the _Prairie
Farmer_."
"Now, Ruth," he said, "I wish you would take it down to the office. I
doubt if any one is in just at this time, and so much the better. Lay
it on the desk in plain sight. And I dare say it will go into the waste
basket. But I believe that has been the result of some first efforts of
people who came up to fame afterwards. Don't stop to talk or explain,
and I hope no one will see you. Then we won't get laughed at."
"If anybody laughs at that"—my face was scarlet and my eyes flashed—I
could think of nothing bad enough for punishment.
"There, there, run along."
Men were going to and fro to dinner. I threaded my way hurriedly, and
had a green veil tied over my face. Through Randolph Street, here it was
on the corner of an alley way, "Prairie Farmer" over the unpretentious
door way. I peered in timidly. There was a clumsy-looking boy with very
red cheeks sitting on a box and kicking his heels against it. There was
also a high square desk with four slim legs. I crossed over to this and
laid down the precious package.
"What cher want?" exclaimed the boy gruffly. "Folks gone ter dinner."
"Nothing," I replied. But before I had shut the door curiosity jumped
down with a thump and no doubt satisfied himself.
Father was very well pleased with the adventure.
"Now, Little Girl," he said, giving my hand a squeeze, as if it was the
sign of a conspiracy, "don't say a word or give a hint to a living soul,
not Ben or Sophie. We'll see what comes next week."
I laughed and nodded, and we crooked little fingers, and said, "Honor
bright."
But oh, what a long week it was. I think if later on I had written a
book and offered it to a publisher I couldn't have been more anxious.
I looked over the back numbers, and it didn't seem as if the articles
were truly any better, though some took up a wider range.
Those old papers were narrow and local. Boston, mayhap, might have begun
intellectual, but there was too much work in Chicago in those early
years to indulge in flights of poesy or literary evolution. But they
were strong and earnest, full of boundless enterprise and ambition,
and the romance was to come later. Indeed, the romance then outside of
the real business was marrying, having a home, and counting on what the
children would do in the next generation. They did not think to build
their Rome in a day, but they could lay foundations, stretch out arms
that would bring the great world in its grasp.
I counted the days. Father said not a word about it. And I could hardly
wait until afternoon. Cold as it was, I hung about the door-step and
then ran down to the sidewalk to meet the boy, who stared at me as if
I was demented. I glanced down the outside—oh, there it was. There was
a throb of joy in my heart and a rush of tears to my eyes. I hurried in
and laid the paper on father's lap.
"Hello!" he ejaculated.
I went and mended the fire and stood there many minutes, it seemed to me.
"Well, they didn't take us to kindle the fire with, did they!" His tone
was so light-hearted it was like the ringing of a joy bell, and it gave
me a thrill.
"I'm a foolish old fellow and you're a foolish young thing, but I guess
we enjoy this bit of print, and there's no one to say we shan't. But
there's been lots of books and papers printed before we were thought
of, and there will be after we are gone, and I s'pose each fellow will
have a moment of pleasure, so why shouldn't we enjoy ours?"
We did enjoy it to the full. It was so sensible, so strong and
practical, and full of a certain hope, assurance. And what gave us a
greater delight was these few words on the inside, in the column of
queries and items.
"Will John Farmer please send his address to this office? We commend
his article heartily to our readers."
"We won't shout it out on the housetops yet. Roofs are too slippery to
climb," and father laughed.
It was the best medicine he had for weeks. The sudden interest in a new
channel, taking him out of his dreary waiting, strengthened heart and
brain, if not body. It was a new resource.
The inquiry was answered, and to our surprise brought Mr. Wright
himself. He spent a whole morning with father, and had really known
considerable about father's work and success. He was a most delightful
man, and years afterward I appreciated him and his work more truly than
any unformed girl could have done.
He asked father then to go on writing, to give his experiences and
advice. He, too, had boundless ambitions for Chicago, and his was the
larger insight for education and broader movements.
His sympathy was very cheering as well. He put new heart into father.
And though less than a year afterward he was compelled by the stress
of other matters, fully as important, to transfer the editorial helm
to the Reverend Ambrose Wight, one letter in the name was not to make
much difference. It was conducted with the same untiring zeal for local
advancement, the same strong common sense and sterling integrity. Father
had a warm friendship with him through a sorrowful time, and Ben Hayne
found in him a splendid practical adviser.
And so spring opened. Father had some crutches and began to go out
a little. But the streets were still in a dreadful condition, though
now strenuous efforts were being made for some kind of pavements and
sidewalks. As many people had raised their sidewalks two and three feet
it was resolved to establish this grade. New houses were being built.
Homer was rushed with business, and he wished Ben wasn't so booky. As a
firm they could make no end of money just now. It was hard to find good
workmen.