When we got back to the farm, who do you suppose was there? My ma and
Myrtle. She said she was just tired stayin' alone all the time--that pa
was always away; and now that Little Billie was dead, she couldn't stand
it. She said she never seed such a town as Petersburg was, that she had
half a mind to go back to Boston where she was born and raised. That she
didn't believe there was such characters in the whole world as Doc Lyon
and dozens of others in Petersburg, Joe Pink, and the hoodlums and
roughs, and she was afeard all the time some of 'em would kill pa for
bein' States Attorney. That it was just one murder after another, that
even she'd lost confidence in Mrs. Rainey, who had been her friend, and
couldn't understand the talk about Joe Rainey having a pistol when there
was no pistol. Then she said that's one part of the town; and the other
part was narrow as a knife blade, that they were talkin' of churchin'
Mr. Miller and drivin' him out of the pulpit and for nothin' except
sayin' that God was in everything, and that there wasn't room enough in
the world for anything but God. Sometimes Mr. Miller when he was
preachin', got to dreamin' and would wander way off. He had done this
when talkin' about God and give hisself away--that's what they said. And
what was he goin' to do with so many children and nothin' saved because
he never made nothin', and nothin' to do if he couldn't preach? Grandpa
said, "Well, where does that doctrine put old Satan?" And ma says, "Of
course it puts him out of the world, which I don't believe; there's too
much sin in the world to believe that; but anyway a man has a right to
his opinions without bein' persecuted for 'em."
All the time Myrtle was leanin' against ma, just like a cat, actin', I
thought. She did make me terrible mad sometimes. Grandpa couldn't see
through her. He petted her and went out and saddled a horse and put her
on it and led the horse around the lot for 'bout an hour, right in the
sun. And then she came in and began to honey around grandma and get
things. I saw the game was spoiled for me, and wanted the time to go by
so I could get away, or for somethin' to happen. Then about eleven
o'clock grandma came into the settin' room with apples to peel, and ma
helped her and they began to talk--and it was wonderful to listen, for
it was about Mitch and Zueline. Ma said she'd never seed such children,
such a boy as Mitch, that he would be a musician or a poet like
Longfellow when he grew up; that he was dreamin' all the time and
believed in fairy stories, and made everything real to hisself. Then she
said that Mitch thought so much of Zueline that it was enough to scare a
body; that if anything happened to her Mitch would go out of his head,
and if they was separated it would kill him, and she thought they would
be separated. That Mrs. Hasson thought of takin' a trip, and takin'
Zueline, but was keepin' it quiet. Grandma said it was silly for two
children to act that a way, or at least for Mitch to act that a way.
Zueline warn't doin' anything except just to be Zueline to Mitch--she
wasn't as much in love with Mitch as he was with her.
Then grandpa came in and said we'd all go to Bobtown the next day, that
his spring wagon was done and we'd go over and get it. It was an awful
ways, eighteen miles at least, and we'd have to start by six o'clock in
order to get there and get back, and take a lunch to eat on the way. I
suppose I had heard as much about Bobtown as any place in the world, but
never seen it. It was just in a straight line from the porch at
grandpa's, past Spotty Milt Stith's place, and just in the place between
the woods and where the sky came down beyond. So the next mornin' we was
off--grandpa and ma settin' in the front seat of the carriage; and me,
grandma and Myrtle in the back seat. And ma began right away to talk
about Petersburg, they agreed about hard drink and a lot of things.
But grandpa said that he'd been in the war and had seen two, and he'd
like to see war abolished with slavery and hard drink. He was in the
Black Hawk War, but that wasn't much; but the Mexican War was bad and
warn't necessary, and was unjust, even Linkern thought so, and had
stirred up a lot of hate. And he said the Civil War had left things bad.
It had killed off a lot of fine young men, and herded toughs into places
like Petersburg and stirred up all kinds of hate and bad feelin's, and
made people dishonest and tricky and careless and lazy--and we'd have to
stand the consequences for years to come in politics and everything. And
he said the way to avoid war was the same as a man would avoid fightin'
or killin' another man--you could do it mostly by usin' your mind and
bein' a civilized being and not standin' too much on your pride and all
that. But if you couldn't avoid it, then fight and fight hard.
It was pretty near eleven o'clock and we came in sight of a white
steeple and white houses, right amongst green trees--and sure enough it
was Bobtown. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And I said: "It's
a downright shame that Mitch ain't here. He never saw Bobtown, and he's
there in Petersburg waitin' for me, and here I am havin' this wonderful
trip." We were just in a little grove, and grandpa stopped and unreined
the horses and fed 'em and said, "We'll have our lunch here." "Oh," says
I, "let's go on to Bobtown first." Grandpa laughed, for he knew I was
wild to go on. But he said, "By and by." So we spread the tablecloth on
the grass and had the lunch--and it was wonderful, fried chicken and
blackberry pie and about everything. Then we drove into Bobtown. Here
was a drug store, and a post-office and a billiard parlor, and a saloon
kept by Porky Jim Thomas, grandpa said; and a lot of white houses, and a
big store, and this wagon shop which was also a blacksmith shop. We
separated now. Grandma and ma and Myrtle went to the store, and grandpa
and me to the wagon shop.
The wagon maker was a big man with bushy hair and he was tickled to
death to see my grandpa. The wagon was all done, all except puttin' in a
few bolts. It shone like a lookin' glass, all varnished up with pretty
pictures on the sides, and the man said it would be ready in an hour. So
grandpa said he'd go to see a man about the temperance work, and I could
go with him or stay around. So I stayed to see the wagon finished.
I hadn't noticed a man sittin' on a bench in the shop and whittlin'; but
when grandpa was gone, he said to the blacksmith, "Ain't that Squire
Kirby?" (they called grandpa squire because he had been Justice of the
Peace onct); and the blacksmith said "yes"; and the man said: "I
suppose he's sincere. I suppose so, but that ain't the whole story. He
gets used by people who ain't sincere, who want law about temperance,
but don't want it about somethin' else. It's a hell of a country," he
went on, "everybody is talkin' about law and about enforcin' the law,
and everybody is breakin' the law himself. Take Porky Jim Thomas, they
make an awful fuss about his sellin' to habituals or anything, and look
at it: who sells Porky Jim adulterated stuff, who allows it to be sold
to him? Are the revenue agents obeyin' the law? No, they ain't. Go right
down the list. Congress don't obey the law--they don't obey the
constitution. Yet they're always talkin' law and denouncin' law
breakers. Do the judges obey the law? No, they don't--they talk about it
and make other folks obey what they say is the law. And everywhere you
go you hear about law breakers from people breakin' the law
themselves--they're all breakin' it, and them that's highest is breakin'
it most--and it's just like ants climbin' over each other--that's what
it's like--and it ain't worth a damn. Look what the city folks do to the
farmers. And take the mine owners--they don't obey the law, they don't
prop their ceilin's and protect their men as the law says. And now
they're goin' to strike over at Springfield, and you hear talk of the
law and they're goin' to call out the guards. And look at me--losin' my
farm through the law--just look anywhere you want and you'll see the
same thing--everybody hollerin' law and nobody obeyin' it himself."
"Lem," said the blacksmith, "you've been mad ever since the war."
"Wal, ain't I got a right to be? Here I was just a young feller and
hated slavery and loved liberty, and I was one of the first to
volunteer. Yes, sir, I went right into Petersburg when Cap Estil was
recruitin' and joined the army and me not more'n seventeen, and all
because I wanted to help free the country and put down rebellion, and
serve God. Yes, that's what a boy says to hisself, 'God and my country.'
You get into kind of a religion. Wal, what happened? They treat a
soldier worse'n a dog--they feed you like a dog and sleep you like a
dog. And they order you in danger worse'n a dog. What in hell are you,
anyway? Here you are, we'll say, with a couple of hundred, and the
captain thinks that by sacrificing a couple of hundred, he can do
somethin', turn a certain trick. It's like checkers, you make a
sacrifice to get into the king's row and come back stronger and clean up
the board. That's how I got it. They ordered us in when it was death to
go, and I got it through the lung, and here I am, no good to this here
day."
"Lem," says the blacksmith, "you talk like a democrat."
[Illustration: Like a Piece of Licorice]
"Wal, I ain't no democrat. I ain't nothin'. How can a man be anything?
Look at what they did. Look at the way the stay-at-homes made money.
Look at the grabs in the country, look at the money scandals, look at
the poor, look at the fellers goin' around in the name of the army
gettin' themselves elected to office. Just look at the country. Look at
me with just enough pension to keep body and soul together, and tryin'
to grub out a little farm. Why, look here, if the next generation knew
what we know about war, how they get it up, and how they get the young
fellers into it, and what it means after they get into it, you couldn't
get 'em into a war. That's the way to stop war. Pass the word along, so
the young fellers that can fight will know what they're a takin' a hold
of--and they won't fight. You can't burn a child that knows the fire.
These here pot-bellies that sit in banks, and these here loud-mouthed
orators that make speeches and say they wished they could go to war,
it's their only regret that they can't go, and die with the flag in
their hands--these fellers, damn 'em, can't make any headway if the boys
are on to the game. And, by God, furst thing you know they ain't anybody
to do the fightin' but the pot-bellies and the orators who want to die
but are too old to carry a gun, and so go around lamentin' their age,
the furst thing you know, nobody is left but 'em to fight. And then
there won't be no war, because they wouldn't fight. They are too
careful of their precious selves, and too afraid of hell, and have got
over believin' in God, or country, except the price of corn and cotton,
and so that ends war. And that's the way to end it, pass the word
along."
So he went on talkin' and the blacksmith was makin' a rod and he took it
out of the forge and put it on the anvil and it sputtered sparks, and he
pounded it around, and finally he took a chisel and cut off a piece, and
I watched it grow from dull red till it got black and looked like a
piece of licorice. So I went and picked it up. Gee! but it just cooked
my fingers, and I yelled. "Thar's your lesson," says Lem--"remember it.
Don't take hold of a hot thing till it gets cold. Thar's your lesson,
remember that as long as you live."
But I was cryin' and my grandpa came in and when he heard Lem talk, he
said Lem had been drinkin', poor feller, and was another victim of the
awful curse of drink. So he took me to the drug store and got somethin',
and by and by I was better and so we drove home to the farm.