_How President Lincoln Set Out for Washington and How He Returned._
Little Morris Rosenfelt stirred uneasily on the hard bench as he tried
in vain to concentrate his wandering thoughts on his Hebrew lesson. It
happened to be all about the building of the Tabernacle in the
wilderness, but Morris was not at all interested in Bezalel, the
artist of old, who built the first sanctuary for his people. Instead,
although his eyes were fastened to the coarse black characters in the
page before him, the boy was living over again the scene that had
passed in the parlor of his father's house, the night before.
Mr. Abraham Kohn, city clerk of Chicago, had dropped in to talk over
congregational matters with Morris's father, for Mr. Kohn was one of
the early presidents of _Kehilath Anshe Ma'arav_, Chicago's first
synagogue, and one of its most active members. Morris, busy in the
next room with his lessons for the next day, had paid scant attention
to their conversation, until the words, "Mr. Lincoln," and "flag"
caught his ear. Then he closed his geography with a slam, for like
every other nine-year-old boy of his day, he had heard much of the
"rail splitter from Illinois," as his opponents called him, and shared
his state's enthusiasm for the man who had just been elected
president.
"I'm glad we Jews did our part in electing him," said Mr. Kohn. "He
will make a strong president in these uncertain times; perhaps, the
only man who can keep this country out of civil war if the southern
states attempt to secede."
"They'll not fight, especially as Mr. Lincoln has promised not to
interfere with slavery in the states where it now exists," Mr.
Rosenfelt answered easily. He was a stout, cheerful man who refused to
borrow trouble, very unlike Morris's mother who always saw sorrow and
accident for her family hovering in the near future. "With a strong
man like Mr. Lincoln in Washington, we can stop worrying for a while."
"I hope so." Mr. Kohn's voice was a little doubtful. "I hate to
predict trouble, but I do believe that our candidate is going to have
a harder row to plough than any president we ever had since
Washington. I was thinking of that when I had the verses printed on
the flag I am going to send him."
"Oh, are you going to send Mr. Lincoln a flag?" cried Morris,
forgetting he was not supposed to be listening.
His father shook his head and ordered the boy to attend to his
lessons. "His reports are worse every month," he told Mr. Kohn. "Rabbi
Adler tells me he is a good boy, but that doesn't raise his marks in
Hebrew and arithmetic and history, and his mother----"
"But I don't like history about dead people," objected the boy. "Now
Mr. Lincoln's alive--and he's history, too, isn't he?"
"The boy's right," laughed Mr. Kohn. "Come in here, Morris, if your
father'll let you, and I'll tell you all about the flag I'm sending
Mr. Lincoln next week before he leaves his home in Springfield for
Washington." Morris, needing no second invitation, gladly deserted his
books and slipped into the parlor, curling up in one corner of the
horsehair sofa as he attempted to be as little in the way as possible.
For he didn't want his mother, should she happen to come into the
room, to send him back to his lessons again.
"It is a large American flag," explained Mr. Kohn, "woven of the
finest silk. And across it I've had inscribed in Hebrew the command
given to Joshua when he took command of the Israelites after the death
of Moses." He turned to Morris, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "I
suppose you can tell your father what that was," he said, very
seriously. "What?" as Morris, really embarrassed, shook his head. "I
thought you really learned more in Rabbi Adler's school. Suppose you
get your Bible and show us how well you can translate the passage."
Doubtful of his skill as translator, but sure that kindly Mr. Kohn who
had been one of the early cantors of the congregation and "knew
everything about Hebrew" would lend him a hand at the hard places,
Morris turned to the first chapter of Joshua, and, with a little
prompting translated the command given to the Jewish leader:
"Have I not commanded thee?" he read. "Be strong and of good courage;
be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with
thee whithersoever thou goest." He looked up, his boyish spirit
thrilled with the words. "I like that," he exclaimed naively, "it's
so--so--alive--not a bit like the Bible."
"So that's what's written on your flag?" commented Mr. Rosenfelt.
"Well, no matter what happens, I guess we won't have to worry over our
Mr. Lincoln. He'll be 'strong and of good courage,' alright, and make
us glad we sent him on to Washington. Morris, go into the dining room
now and study your lessons. Are you going to take the flag to Mr.
Lincoln yourself before he leaves Springfield?" he asked, turning back
to Mr. Kohn, as Morris unwillingly went back to his lessons for the
next morning.
"No. I can't leave my work just now," answered Mr. Kohn, who was city
clerk. "But I'm sending it with a friend who will be in Springfield
before Mr. Lincoln leaves. I want him to have a real going-away
present to tell him what the Jews of Illinois think of their new
president."
Then the talk drifted to other matters, but Morris went to bed his
heart filled with envy for the man who should take the flag to Mr.
Lincoln. He knew that there wasn't the slightest chance for him to go
to Springfield; his mother would remember all the dreadful stories she
had ever heard of little boys being kidnapped while taking railway
journeys alone; his father would tell him he couldn't spare the money
for such a trip and that Morris couldn't afford to lose a day of
school. Then, if he couldn't go to Springfield, it would be almost as
good to send a present to Mr. Lincoln such as Mr. Kohn planned to
do--but what could a little boy with a limited amount of pocket money
send a man just elected to be president of the United States. He even
crept out of bed very stealthily, not caring to arouse his
ever-wakeful mother in the next room--to look over the treasures in
the top drawer of his little dresser; the finest stamp collection ever
possessed by any boy who attended his school, he thought proudly; a
box of shells and lucky stones gathered on the lake shore last
vacation; a prize book given him at school for perfect attendance,
which Morris never cared to read, as it seemed to be the tale of a
very good little boy who always stood at the head of his class and
never disobeyed his parents; a set of fishing tackle discarded by his
older brother, Harry. Treasures, though they were, Morris would have
sent any or all of them with Mr. Kohn's flag as a going-away gift to
the new president, already enshrined in so many hearts; but, boy
though he was, he knew that a grown up man would not care for his poor
presents. He even lifted his little blue bank and rattled it softly;
but he did not take the trouble to pry it open, for he knew that for
all its jingling, the pennies inside would not amount up to more than
a dollar. Disappointed, yet determined not to let Mr. Kohn outdo him
in the matter, Morris crept back to bed.
The next morning he found his plans for Mr. Lincoln's present far more
fascinating than his lessons as he sat in the basement schoolroom
provided for the children of the congregation. One of the school's
non-Jewish teachers had heard his history and geography. In a little
while Rabbi Adler would take the classes in Hebrew and German. Morris
knew he ought to prepare the lessons so shamefully neglected the night
before, but he found it difficult to put his mind on his task.
Fortunately for him, he wasn't called upon during the Hebrew session
and managed to escape a scolding for his lack of preparation. So he
sat sedately with his eyes glued upon the thick black characters,
while his mind pictured the flag with the Hebrew lettering which was
to be sent to Springfield. He had seen a good many pictures of Mr.
Lincoln and now he tried to imagine how the kindly, homely face would
break into a smile at Mr. Kohn's thoughtfulness. Then he roused
himself to listen, for now the rabbi was saying something about the
lesson that really interested him.
"Of course," said Rabbi Adler, "the Sanctuary Bezalel built in the
desert wasn't half so beautiful as the Temple we afterwards raised at
Jerusalem. But we were willing to wait. It was always that way with
our people--with every nation, too; we must wait for what is worth
while and if we wait long enough and work while we are waiting, we
will finally achieve what we have been striving for." He paused for a
moment, closing his book, as he looked over the class. "Has anyone a
question to ask about the lesson?" he ended, in his usual way.
Hardly thinking what he did, Morris shot his hand up in the air, then
wished with all his heart that he had not raised it, when the rabbi
said: "Well, Morris, what's your question?"
"It's not exactly about the lesson," confessed the boy, awkwardly.
"But when you talked about waiting for something for a long time, I
wondered--I--how long is a person president of the United States?" he
ended desperately, realizing how foolish his question must sound not
only to the teacher but to his fellow students as well.
If Rabbi Adler failed to see any connection between the building of
the Sanctuary and American politics, he was too kind to say so. "The
president is elected for four years," he answered, "although sometimes
he is reelected for a second term, which makes eight years in all."
"Then Mr. Lincoln'll be in Washington eight years, 'cause everybody
will want him for two terms," decided Morris, loyally, though a little
disappointed that the plan which had just occurred to him must take so
long to mature.
"So you're a Lincoln man, too?" smiled his teacher. He hesitated a
moment, then, feeling that high civic ideals were as necessary to his
class as Hebrew, he went on: "We who have worked hard to elect Mr.
Lincoln feel that our country is in good hands. He is not one of our
people, yet I believe he is more like our Hebrew prophets than any
man, Jew or non-Jew, living today. None of you boys may ever be
president, but if you strive as earnestly as Mr. Lincoln has always
done to serve the right, I shall be well satisfied.... We will take
the next chapter for tomorrow," and the lesson was over.
Next came the German class and Morris, after reading and translating
his portion of a German fairy tale quite creditably, sank back in his
place, again busy with his plans. Rabbi Adler was right, he decided.
If one just worked and waited, everything would turn out all right. So
Mr. Lincoln would be gone for four years, perhaps eight. Well, since a
Jewish gentleman had sent him a going-away present, wouldn't it be a
fine thing for a Jewish boy to send him some gift when he returned to
his home in Springfield? Morris wasn't sure just what the gift would
be, but he was no longer worried. Even four years were not long to
wait, especially if one had to save a good deal of money in the
interval. For Morris was sure that he would have to send a really
expensive present; perhaps a gold watch, which at that particular
moment was the one thing, next to a Shetland pony, he most desired for
himself.
The four years passed for Morris, now slowly when lessons were long
and hard, now all too swiftly during the holiday seasons. They were
years of struggle for the nation now torn asunder by a dreadful civil
war. Even from the first, Morris was not too young to understand the
history that was being made about him; the firing upon Fort Sumter;
the secession of the southern states; Mr. Lincoln's call for
volunteers. How he despised himself for being such a small boy when he
saw his brother Harry in his blue uniform with the brass buttons! He
couldn't understand why his mother had cried when Harry went away to
be a soldier, since he himself felt cruelly cheated in being deprived
of marching off to the battle field. Nor could he understand why
Rabbi Adler's voice always faltered now when he read the _Kaddish_
prayer for the mourners every Sabbath in the synagogue, although he
had heard that his teacher's young son, Dankmar, serving in the
artillery, was wounded at the battle of Chickamauga. For war to the
little boy meant nothing but lines of straight soldiers marching to
music with flying banners above them, and even when bits of crape
appeared, so it seemed, upon the doors of every other home in the
city, he thought only of the glory, not the horror of it all. Nor did
he ever imagine how President Lincoln's great heart almost broke in
those days over the suffering not only of his own Northern soldiers,
but the Southern boys too, whom he would never call "rebels" nor cease
to regard but as brother Americans. When the boy thought of the
president at all, it was always as the captain of a mighty host,
pressing fearlessly on to victory. "Like Joshua," he thought,
remembering the verses on the flag, resolving that when victory did
come at last he would celebrate in his own way, by sending Mr. Lincoln
his present.
"We can't do too much for Mr. Lincoln," his brother Harry had said
when he came home on a furlough, so tanned and sturdy that even Mrs.
Rosenfelt had to confess that his soldiering had not broken down his
health. And Morris's heart had reechoed the sentiment again and again,
especially when Harry was taken to one of the Washington hospitals and
wrote glowingly of the president's visits to the sick and wounded
soldiers. "He's not like a president--he's just like a father," he
wrote, and more than one bereaved household in those dark days
learned to agree with him.
For the sadly-tried man from Illinois was never too busy with affairs
of state to write a word of comfort to a mother who had lost her son
on the battlefield, never too harassed with his many duties to listen
to a plea for a furlough or a pardon. But, perhaps, of all the stories
that reached Morris at that time the account of Mr. Abraham Jonas of
Peoria meant the most.
Mr. Jonas was a Jewish citizen of Peoria, Illinois, and had been a
staunch friend and political associate of Lincoln before the latter
left Springfield for the White House. Strangely enough, Mr. Jonas's
four sons all enlisted in the Southern army. Towards the close of the
war, Abraham Jonas fell ill, and, learning from his doctors that his
disease would prove fatal, felt that he could never die in peace until
he had seen his son Charles, then a Confederate prisoner of war on
Johnson's Island, Lake Erie. The dying father appealed to his old
friend, and President Lincoln at once gave the order to parole Charles
Jonas for three weeks that he might visit his father's bedside.
"After that," admitted Mrs. Rosenfelt, wiping her eyes as she heard
the story from a Chicago friend of the Jonas family, "after that, I'll
forgive the president everything!" She never explained just why she
should feel called upon to forgive President Lincoln for anything, but
up to that time the good lady had entertained the notion that the
president had made the war and was entirely responsible for her son's
enlistment. "Things like that make you feel that there's good in
everybody's heart even in war time. Anyhow, the war can't last much
longer."
The great war did end that very year and in the spring of 1865 Morris
realized that at last he might send Mr. Lincoln his present. "Just for
a sort of extra celebration," he told himself, as he counted the money
he had so painfully hoarded in an old wallet during the four years of
waiting.
It was not a large sum after all, for Mr. Rosenfelt was not a rich man
and his business interests had suffered during the war. And, it must
be confessed, several times Morris had yielded to temptation and had
broken into his little treasury to buy some toy or pleasure that he
felt he just must have, intending to pay himself back as soon as he
could earn the money. But chores were few and brought little, and even
his uncle's _barmitzvah_ present of five dollars failed to raise the
sum above fifteen. Still that was a good deal, thought Morris,
although he couldn't buy a gold watch with it. But he had grown up a
little during the past four years and realized that probably Mr.
Lincoln had a gold watch, anyhow. And so, much as he hated to do it,
for he wanted the secret to be all his own, he decided to ask his
father's advice and waited impatiently for him to come in from the
porch, where he stood talking with a neighbor, and have breakfast the
Saturday morning after peace was declared.
Although he was only a boy of thirteen at the time, Morris never
forgot how the parlor looked that day with the flag draped over
Harry's picture taken in uniform, the pale sunshine of early spring
streaming upon the bright red geranium plant on the marble-topped
table. There was a large tidy on the table, a doily his mother had
crotched, his mother who started up with a cry of alarm as Mr.
Rosenfelt entered, his face white with terror.
"Harry----" was all she could say for a moment. Then, when she could
control her voice a little: "Has anything happened to our Harry?"
Her husband shook his head. "No," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone
that contrasted strangely with his dreadful pallor. "Harry, thank God,
is safe and will soon be on his way home. But President Lincoln----"
"Yes?" cried Mrs. Rosenfelt, "the president?"
"He was shot last evening by an assassin. He has just died," answered
her husband, and he spoke as one speaks of a dear friend.
"It can't be true," cried Morris, hotly. "No one would hurt him--he
was so good--we all loved him so." The tears ran down his face as he
spoke and for once he was not ashamed to have his father see him cry.
Without another word he turned and ran upstairs to his own room. The
little blue bank still standing upon the dresser hurt him with a
sudden memory. He was comparatively rich now, but he hated the fifteen
dollars he had saved with so much eagerness through the years of
patient waiting.
The money, still unspent, lay in Morris's wallet the day Mr. Lincoln
came home to Springfield. The humble rail splitter had returned to his
home town in kingly triumph. As his funeral train crossed the
continent, every great city, every tiny village, crape-hung and
grief-stricken, had sent its citizens to do him homage. Even the
farmers from the scattered farms along the way lit funeral pyres as
the dark procession thundered past through the night. Now the citizens
of Chicago stood bowed in grief as the body of the martyred president
was borne through the silent streets. Strong men wept openly and
unashamed; but Morris, standing at his father's side on the curbing,
did not cry. Somehow, it all seemed too terrible for tears. And,
because he was just a small boy, after all not the least of his grief
was the thought that now it was too late to send Mr. Lincoln his
present.