there is something about the deadly bandit which we sometimes admire,
but if there is anything fascinating about Harvard James and his
sympathizers who sneak in under the cloak of morality to influence the
young to turn against the great thinking spiritual world, I, for one,
cannot see it.
I may be too blunt and plain in my remarks concerning soulless
advocates but I feel that these teachers are not only swinging to the
other extreme from religion, but through selfishness or ignorance they
are creating unrest and war.
Most of our national leaders have been drilled in these theories and
while many are too wise to accept them there are those who accept what
they are taught just as a calf takes milk from the cow.
These thoughtless learned often become political leaders. Especially
where finances are concerned, for with this no soul theory in view,
their only object in life can be aggrandizement and luxury tinctured
with animal passion.
EVENING OF MY LIFE DAY
Years have passed since my cycling days and yet I am strong and
athletic.
My daughter Minnie and her husband, Dr. B. H. Chamberlain, with their
only boy Hiland, have lately sold their home on Washington boulevard
and are not yet settled again.
Arthur and Jessie, with three children, Marvin and the twins, Jean and
Willard, have an elegant home on Keystone avenue, Rivert Forest. He
owns the Inland Whitelead Co., which is a large concern.
Alberta and her husband, George Carlson, with their three bright girls,
Mary, Mildred and Frances, live in their comfortable home near me in
Oak Park. George is captain of our fire department.
Thus I have my children and grandchildren around me, all in good health
and standing in the community.
I am still conducting my manufacture of copper and tinware on my
property, corner Washington boulevard and Curtis street. My 75 years
does not seem to trouble me, for I feel as well as I did fifty years
ago.
Mary Hoyt, my first wife, long since entered the shadows where faults
and failings grow dim, while virtues and charms blend the past, present
and future into one eternal morning of gladness.
In 1902, I married Mrs. Williamson, whose maiden name was Mary
Prickett, of Goshen, Ind. Our days together have been continued
sunshine and joy. Evenings when I return home each tells of the day's
joys, troubles and ludicrous incidents.
My Mary not only runs the home, buying, paying, attending to her
church trotting and downtown shopping, but she is interested in my
ups and downs at the factory. Inquires all about Dorfman, my factory
superintendent; Bilthouse, my mechanical engineer, and carries in mind
my business associates, knows their names and who they represent.
To me, a man who expects his wife to stay in her place, never deserving
of praise, misses much he might enjoy if he knew enough to appreciate
her worth. Many a man's success in life is owing to the genius of his
wife, a fact which neither seems to understand.
Our home, northwest corner East and Chicago avenue, Oak Park, we built
in 1909 and 1910. The house is spacious and elegant, but the gem of
Fair Oaks subdivision is our large yard.
Of the six stately burr oaks, known to be hundreds of years old, one
stands near our sleeping room window, on which is the house or home of
a mother squirrel, who when she has babies allows no other squirrel to
even climb the tree. Each day she comes down to the kitchen for dinner,
often sitting on Mrs. Richardson's shoulder while eating and does not
even care if her tail does brush the ladies' eyes.
There are about forty other large trees in the yard besides, on either
side of the bridge, a dense thicket of thorn and crab apple trees.
Here the wrens and robins raise their broods in harmony with the saucy
sparrows who live with us all the year, eat that which would be thrown
away, and never disturb other birds' nests. They all bathe in the same
pool and actually seem to appreciate our little dog Joe, who assumes
great responsibility in keeping the cats from catching the young birds
and the boys from climbing over our high iron fence.
FIFTY-FOUR MILES' HIKE
The latest excitement in our neighborhood has been the exploit of
myself and my son Arthur, with several other aspirants, attempting
without training, to walk to Channel Lake, fifty-four miles, in one day.
Our plan was for the men to leave Oak Park at sundown and walk in the
dark thirty miles, and the ladies leave home, in automobile, at 3:30
in the morning, then all take breakfast together at Libertyville, from
where the ladies would accompany the men on the last twenty-four miles.
The evening before the start we had a laughable wrangle as to who, of
the men, could or could not pull through to Libertyville, as the heavy
fall rains had so impaired the roads that there would be much high
stepping and low dipping as we stumbled along in the dark. Also, we
knew that the journey from Libertyville to Antioch, being over clay
hills, would be either slip-slop or hard and sharp for the feet of the
ladies, but everybody seemed anxious to make a record.
Jessie, Arthur's wife, and Mrs. Buhler felt dubious about the outcome
of the ladies' walk, but my wife declared she would like to see the man
who had walked thirty miles in the night that she could not accompany
through the following day.
Of the very many aspirants all found plausible excuses except the two
Richardsons and their wives, Eugene Buhler, and Paul Highland and their
wives, Albert Hauter, Edd Hauter and Bruce Tate.
[Illustration: FANNIE PETERSON.]
Accordingly, as the autumn sun was casting its last gleam through the
old oaks we seven men grouped for a picture, by a neighbor lady, who
declared it would be nice for the survivors, if any, to look at after
they had become weaker and wiser.
After kissing all the kissable ladies and promising to take it easy,
we, in spite of ourselves, lit out at a pace that would have done
justice to trained pedestrians.
In River Forest we turned north on Keystone avenue and then on to the
country road, when we broke step and strung out, each man attending to
his own feet.
It was understood that we stop for supper at Desplaines, but when we
arrived at Kolze, seven miles out, the two Hauters, Highland and Tate
ordered ham and eggs, while Buhler, Arthur and myself pegged on fast,
because the others had declared they would catch us before we reached
Desplaines, but they did not.
At Desplaines, thirteen miles out, we found the summer restaurant
closed, but in a sort of hotel annex we found a damsel of about 12
years ready to prepare for us ham, eggs and coffee.
She did step around like a regular woman, for which we recompensed her
liberally, for she was exceptionally quaint and interesting for a child.
While we were eating, the rear guard arrived, when Albert and Paul came
in, saying Bruce and Edd were waiting outside.
When we were ready to start Edd and Bruce were nowhere to be found. We
inquired, called and whistled, but no response, so concluded they had
either become discouraged and taken the train for Chicago or gone on
ahead to fool us, so we five struck out for Wheeling.
At every house the dogs came out barking, which set the dogs at the
next house agoing, who, together with the dogs at the last house, which
had not yet stopped barking, gave us real dog encouragement.
To keep up our spirits we accompanied the dogs by striking up "Old
Black Joe." Really we lacked only a bagpipe to have made the farmers
think Gabriel was at hand calling the elect from their graves.
At every bend in the old Desplaines River the water babbled loudly,
seeming to join in our merriment, as we jested, told stories and
laughed through the joyous hours of our moonlight escapade along the
winding stream.
At Wheeling, twenty-two miles out, Buhler began to realize he ought
not to have attempted so strenuous an effort, but said he would stick
it out forty miles, to Gray's Lake, after which we could continue our
foolishness if we did not know enough to get in and ride.
Tate and Ed Hauter put in their appearance at Libertyville, just before
the ladies arrived, and to prove they had actually walked all the way,
exhibited blisters on their heels.
The ladies teased us and seemed greatly amused while arousing us for
breakfast, but soon we were all out in the glorious dawn while the sun
was yet lingering beyond old Lake Michigan.
Our way was over the hills which overlook the head waters of the sleepy
Desplaines. Touched with a glimmer of pathos at the golden dawn, Arthur
and I stopped to listen to my wife's sentimental refrain:
"Not so long ago the red men with their squaws and papooses gathered
here, when the leaves were falling, to celebrate their autumn pow-wow,
feasting on wild rice, berries and venison, never dreaming that a
pale-faced foe lurked on an unknown shore who would soon appear to
drive them far away from their own hunting ground, never more to return
to join in the chase or the young braves to woo the sun-burned Indian
maids."
[Illustration: VIDA.]
This little day dream of long ago seemed to awaken serious thought,
into which Arthur took part thus:
"Isn't this lovely away from the great city of catch as catch can--to
enjoy the inspiration of these quiet hills and valleys? I wonder if
this morning may not be just a glimmer of worlds in the far away
Eternity more beautiful than ours. Do you think, father, there are
other worlds like ours?"
"Not exactly like ours, my boy, there are no two cherries on the tree
just alike, still like folks they are all similar. Eternity is the
abode of millions of worlds--see, there, our party are climbing the
next hill; no more monologues here, we must overtake them."
From Gray's Lake, when our party of eleven had dwindled to five,
Arthur, Hauter and Highland pegged steadily on, while Mary and I lagged
to enjoy the beautiful northern hilly country.
We really did enjoy our lark, as Mary called it. She observed every
interesting thing. Listened to the barking of the squirrels, songs
of the birds and strayed into the woods for pretty autumn leaves and
berries until her arms were full.
Our daughter Vida, at Carroll College, who knew of our contemplated
walk, telephoned to Chicago and on learning we had actually started
took the train to Antioch and came down the road to surprise us.
We were loafing along when our Weiders (Vida), whom we had not seen in
eight weeks, sprang from a concealment and grabbed us.
Surely I would not have been much more surprised if one of the fair
sex from the planet Mars had accosted us.
After the shower of kisses Mary and I forgot our sore toes, and, with
her, hurried on, visiting all the way until we neared our destination,
when in the woods, a flood of red bitter-sweet berries attracted their
attention and, in spite of all I could do or say, they left the road
and began browsing again.
Vida's animation reached serene heights, when from a perch on a fallen
tree she cried, "Oh, Papa, see how I can climb. Come up here and see
the rippling wave of old Fox Lake dance in the blushing rays of the
evening sun. Oh, isn't it a pity that girls cannot fly."
When we arrived at the home of my brother, G. M. Richardson, we found
Arthur, Hauter and Highland, with many friends, awaiting us, all
pleased to learn that the Richardsons were far from being played out.
After dinner, and Amanda (my brother's wife) had taken Mary and me to
the kitchen and exhibited their 24-pound turkey for dinner next day, we
gathered in the big living room, when even those who were tired were
able to tease and tell stories which had the semblance of truth.
It was not intended for a Richardson reunion, still there were
Richardsons enough to render the occasion one of merriment and joy.
Besides mates and friends, the following Richardsons were present.
My brother Gordon.
His son Perin.
His son Merrick.
His son Lawrence.
His son George.
His daughter Gertie.
His daughter Elma.
Myself--Merrick Abner.
My son--Merrick Arthur.
And--Vida.
[Illustration: BARBARA BEAVER.]
We had a high old time, for the Richardsons when teasing are said to be
somewhat given to exaggeration, so one can easily understand that when
they cut loose no one felt sleepy.
BACK HOME
The following evening a few of our immediate friends gathered to
congratulate us, among whom were two of Vida's college chums, (Bob)
Barbary Beaver and (Peter) Fannie Peterson, who with our Weiders made
an interesting trio of entertainers.
Really, when Bob was acting "When Angelina Johnson Came Swinging Down
the Line," one could see the pretty colored girl, right from the cotton
fields, shaking her heels to the tune of the "Old Virginia Reel."
Peter singing "Maggie, Maggie, the Cows Are in the Clover," was enough
to make the most sedate forget themselves, especially the last verse,
where Maggie had gone to the county fair and was up in a balloon
spooning with her lover, when away in the distance from the kitchen
door she faintly heard that old familiar scream, "Maggie, Maggie"--
The cows are in the clover,
They've trampled there since morn.
Go and drive them, Maggie,
To the old red barn.
Thus ended our glad, eccentric lark to Channel Lake, but our hikes
still continue. Since our Channel Lake episode, our neighbor, Mrs. Wm.
F. Kraft, together with Mrs. Richardson and myself, walked in one day
to Elgin, thirty miles, and really these two interesting dames did give
me a right lively chase.
[Illustration: NOT SO LONG AGO, THE RED MEN WITH THEIR SQUAWS AND
PAPOOSES GATHERED HERE, WHEN THE LEAVES WERE FALLING, TO CELEBRATE
THEIR AUTUMN POWWOWS. SEE PAGE 344.]
I close this book with regret that I am unable, through language, to
express my conviction of the immortality of the soul of both man and
beast. Consummated life on earth consists of coming from and returning
to; creation, action and dissolution of the body do not account for
the personal, invisible cause of action. You, dear reader, and myself
are now cloaked in garments of dust. When this mantle is laid aside
we shall know each other. We shall remember more distinctly; see more
clearly; love more dearly; enjoy more purely and wonder that our faith
while on earth was so weak.
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON.
[Illustration: CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN AT HOME WITH US IN OUR YARD
APRIL 1, 1917.]
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
-Obvious print and punctuation errors fixed.
-Several errors found in the List of Illustrations in original book;
corrected by transcriber.
End of Project Gutenberg's Looking Back, by Merrick Abner Richardson