twenty year fur highway robbery. No mortal knows how he come to do
it,' sez he, 'for he had a good trade, an' plenty o' work at it, an'
had allers borne a good character, an', only three months before, he'd
married the very girl he wanted, Delia White, as pretty as a pink, an'
smart as a steel trap. Some folks thought _she_ might 'a' ben at the
bottom on't, for she was a toppin' gal, an' mighty fond o' gew-gaws,
an' he'd 'a' cut off his right hand to please her. I should say she
turned out a poor bargain, anyhow, for he's never set eyes on her
sence he come to the prison. I remember folks pitied the poor feller a
good deal at the time, for he was young an' this was his first
offence; but highway robbery's bad business,' sez he, 'an' if a man
_will_ foller it, why then let him take the consequences, _I_ say.'
Next arternoon the chaplain he come up to the hospital agin', an' went
in an' talked a spell with the little tuckered-out man. I couldn't
hear what he said, but arterwards I heerd him tell the super how he'd
been to hunt up the 'fust cousin' who, as nigh as he could come at it,
kep' a grocery store on Cambridge Street fifteen year ago; but he'd
moved to Vermont, bag an' baggage, years ago, an' nobody round there
had heerd a lisp from him sence. Well, next day Deely's husband got
wild as a hawk, an' had to be locked up in his cell, an' afore he was
fit to go round loose again I'd got peart, an' gone down. An' purty
pleased I was, too, I tell you, for the warden he gin me a runner's
berth, an' that ain't to be sneezed at. Well, I should say it wa'n't
more'n six months arter that, when long in the edge o' the evenin' I
was sent up in the third tier of the north wing to kerry some apples
that one o' the instructors had brought in for a prisoner belongin' to
his shop. When I come to the right door I was goin' to hand 'em
through the gratin', but, not seein' nobody, I coughed to let the
feller know I was there; an' then, hearin' a rustlin' over on the bed,
I peeked in, an there, as sure as eggs, was the little 'tuckered-out'
man, tied in the same old hard knot, an' with the same old, lonesome,
hankerin' look on his wizened little face! When he heerd me, he riz
up, and come forrard, an' when I gin him the apples he kinder perked
up a minnit, but before I could turn round he drapped on to the bed
agin as dismal as ever, an', as I come away, I heerd him a moanin' to
hisself, 'O Lord! O Lord! tuckered out! tuckered out!'
"Well, arter that, I seen him consider'ble, off an' on, an', somehow,
he 'peared to take a shine to me, an' we got to be purty good friends.
He wa'n't a grain out o' his head now, but uncommon dismal, an'
enjoyed purty poor health, I should say from his looks, though he
didn't complain to nobody. One night, long 'bout Christmas time, I was
sent inter his wing on some arrant or other, an', as I was goin'
kinder slow past his door, I see him beckoning to me. I wa'n't apt to
go agin the rules, but, thinks I, 'twon't break nobody ef I stop a
minnit, an' jest say a word to this poor creetur. So I looked sharp,
an' seein' as nobody was twiggin' me, I went up to the gratin' an'
shook hands with him, an' sez I, 'I hope I see you well, Sweeney.' Sez
he, 'No, not _very_ well, Hiram, an' here's my goold ring,' sez he,
'an' I want you to keep it fur me. I sha'n't have no use fur it fur
some time.' So he put the ring on the little finger o' my left hand,
an' a tight squeeze it was, too. 'Twas real Guinny goold, with two
hearts, an' a 'D' cut inside on't. He wa'n't a grain flighty that
night, but sich a sorrowful look as he gin me, when he put that ring
on my finger, you never _did_ see. An' then he shook hands with me
agin, an' sez he, 'How dretful long these nights be, Hiram. But
they'll get shorter arter Christmas, won't they? Good-by, Hiram, God
bless you!'
"Well, to make a long story short, next mornin' airly, while the men
was bein' rung out, I was a settin' things to rights in the warden's
office, when he comes runnin' in in a great fluster, an' sez he to the
deputy, 'Sweeney's fell from the third corridor, an' I guess he's
'bout done for. He's up,' sez he, 'in the hospital. Send for the
doctor, an' the crowner, too, as quick as possible.' I was dretful
flurried, but I got through my work somehow, an' by'm by I went inside
to clean up the passage, an' when I see some spots o' blood there, I
knowed what _that_ meant. Arterwards, I heerd the warden an' the
chaplain talkin' it over, an', as fur as I could larn, the little
'tuckered-out' man never spoke to nobody arter they took him up,
though he lived half an hour. The crowners they sot on him, an' brung
in a verdick of '_death by accident_,' but _I_ hed his goold ring on
my finger, an' I knew all about _Deely_. 'An',' sez I to myself,
'some accidents is _done_ a _purpose_, I reckon!'
"Next day was Friday, an' a feller who'd had a visit from his sister
come along feelin' purty chipper, with a big bowkay in his fist. He
pulled out a spice pink an' a couple o' sprigs o' rose geranium, an'
gin 'em to me, an', thinkin' they might come in play, I put 'em by, in
a bottle o' water.
"Well, long in the forenoon, I had to kerry some truck to the
hospital, an' I took my little posy along. There stood the coffin, all
ready for Tewksbury, for the warden was away that day, and they wa'n't
goin' to have service over the body, as most ginerally they do. I
asked the super ef I might look at the corpse, and sez he, 'Certainly,
Hiram,' an' he steps up to the coffin an' lifts the forrard kiver, an'
bless me! ef I wa'n't beat! There lay the little 'tuckered-out' man,
as smilin' as a basket o' chips!
"I suppose I 'peared kinder took aback, for the super he says to me,
sez he, 'Don't he look naterel to you, Hiram?' 'Nateral, sir?' sez I,
'an' _that contented_! Why, I never should ha' knowed him, ef I'd met
him anywheres else!' Well, the super he kind er smiled, an' walked
off, an' I stood there a minnit or so, a lookin' at the corpse, an' a
thinkin'; an' sez I to myself, 'We know pleggy little 'bout t'other
world _anyhow_. The Scripters, now,' sez I, '_doos_ say that arter
death there ain't neither merryin' nor givin' in merrige.
Howsomedever,' I sez, 'I'll put my spice pink an' my geranium sprigs
inside the coffin.' An' I did. An' then I pulled off the goold ring
with the two hearts an' the 'D' inside on't. 'Fur,' sez I, 'though I
won't ezackly go agin Scripter, I'm sartin sure that Sweeney wouldn't
lay here _that_ smilin', ef he hadn't someways, in t'other world, got
wind o' Deely.' So I slipped that ring on to his stiff merrige finger,
an' as I shet the coffin up, an' come away, I e'en a'most thought I
heerd him larf right out."
A PRISON CHILD.
At an age when most children are tenderly wrapped in the cotton-wool
of domestic seclusion, that golden-haired toddler, the warden's
daughter, a motherless little creature, escaped from the careless
durance of a busy maid of all work, had become, comparatively, a
public character, and, no longer a private baby, had been tacitly
appropriated by an entire prison community.
"Taking her walks abroad" in the roomy guard-room; pattering right and
left, on tiny aimless feet, she peered curiously up and down and round
about. With childish wonder (herself "the cynosure of neighbouring
eyes") she peeped through tall iron gratings into mysterious
corridors, with their endless stretches of dusky cells; at dizzy
flights of iron stairs, where--pannikin in hand--listless men trod,
day after day, the same weary road. More intently she looked into the
shifting panorama of human faces, ever unfolding beneath her innocent
gaze. Faces of prison visitors, of prison officers, and instructors;
faces of that motley throng behind the bars; faces hard and evil,
reckless and defiant, cowed and sullen, or sorrowful, shamed, and
forlorn; yet none, among them all, turned disapprovingly upon her, the
prison child, the single sunbeam, the one pure and beautiful presence
in this attainted, unlovely place! Convict fathers,--hungry for baby
faces, foregone through their own graceless folly and crime,--catching
a passing glimpse of the golden head, a distant flutter of the white
baby gown, were, for the moment, glad and blest.
Although, in the main, light of heart,--as are all young creatures
drinking their first sweet wine of life,--little Mabel was not,
altogether, as the outside children, who breathe untainted air, and
have never neighboured with the wretchedness of that "black flower of
civilisation," a criminal prison. Looking into hard, despairing eyes
behind the guard-room grating, her own would sometimes fill with sudden
tears; and marking, in dull procession, the tread of listless,
joyless feet, the lithe young figure, with the springing step, would
often instinctively slow itself to sympathetic rhythm.
But, when grown in grace and in favour with God, and the prisoner,
Queen May, now a sedate maiden of five summers, had coaxed old Peter
Floome, the prison runner, and her _self_-elected nurse, to her
royal wishes; when lifted proudly in his arms she was permitted
to pass bodily into the prison yard, that hitherto unexplored
region,--to make a royal progress through the entire round of the
workshops,--scattering, right and left, gracious smiles and pungent
checkerberry lozenges saved up for this great occasion; when she was
triumphantly borne to the underground prison kitchen, there to be
handed gingerly around among as many aproned cooks as might have
served "Old King Cole," at his jolliest, and was munched and kissed by
lips,--presumably not morally of the cleanest,--yet what, indeed,
mattered this to the uncritical child? The convict, like "Cathleen's
dun cow," "Tho' wicked he was, was _gentle_ to _her_;"--then it was
that the glory of the occasion, and Peter Floome's pride in his
beloved nursling, rose far beyond the high-water mark of words!
And here let it be stated that Warden Flint's baby daughter had, in
the prison, another friend far more eligible than that brain-cracked
convict, Peter Floome.
He was a prison officer, to wit, that notable turnkey who keeps the
guard-room doors. His not over-euphonious name was Timothy Tucker,
and, though a bachelor of fifty, and a very dragon at holding a door,
to little birds and little children the turnkey's heart was as wax.
Soon after his instalment in the guard-room he had, with Warden
Flint's grudging permission, hung, high in its tall window, five small
bird cages. In these, three yellow canaries, a Java sparrow, and a
dainty pair of love-birds, all optimistic creatures that--
"Neither look before nor after,
Nor pine for what is not"--
hopped as contentedly, or sang as rapturously, as if the prison were
indeed (as fabled in convict slang) "the palace." As for the prison
child, from the first hour of her appearance in the guard-room, she
had commanded the turnkey's susceptible heart. His "little Blossom,"
he had called her, and when, later, she imparted to him the pretty
abbreviation of her name, it was he who wedded the two charming words,
and so made the "prison name" of the warden's daughter, May-blossom.
Seldom was the genial, child-loving turnkey too busy to pilot the
small, tottering feet across the guard-room floor; to hold her high in
his arms to "'ook at tunnin' birdies," or to lift her, in dizzy
delight, to her favourite perch, his tall desk, by the rear window,
commanding all the fascinating bustle of the prison yard. And when
from prattling infancy she had advanced to garrulous, inquisitive
childhood, it was he who lent an ever-ready ear to her thousand and
one questions.
"Children, now, _is_ curus," said Mr. Tucker to his landlady, over his
evening pipe, "they beat birds all holler! There's May-blossom, now,
only six years old, an' she sticks _me_ sometimes, she _does_, an' no
mistake!"
The train of thought, leading to these frank observations, had been
started in the good turnkey's mind by the recollection of a recent
theological skirmish with this astute little being, in which (to use
his own forcible words) he "had ben most gol darn'dly beat." This
embryo free-religionist having insisted upon being told "Why, if God,
_certain true_, loved everybody, an' was bigger an' stronger, an' ever
so much gooder than _other_ folks, He didn't stop people's being bad,
so's they had to be put in prison, without little children to kiss,
an' kittens to play with, an' strawberries an' cake, an' things to
eat?" Ah, little soul! too soon perplexed by the ancient riddle; why
_doesn't_ He--why, indeed! Young and old, wise and simple, we are all
guessing together; and no man solves the immemorial puzzle!
Peter Floome--when, upon a Sunday, the prison chaplain exhorted his
not over-heedful flock to pious dependence upon the divine care--was
wont to make his own disparaging comments upon the well-meant, but
often inapplicable discourse. "'Tain't a grain o' use" (said this
volunteer critic, to his fellow-convicts) "o' the chaplain braggin'
_in here_ 'bout Providence, an' sich. Most prob'ly th' Almighty _is_,
more or less, round 'tendin' to things; but, nat'rally, the devil
takes charge o' prisons, an' runs 'em putty much his own way."
Peter, having had a good twenty years' stretch of prison life, his
experience undoubtedly counted. His utterances were, however, to be
taken with that corrective grain of salt with which one wisely
qualifies the statement of the "crank;" for though, in the main,
mentally sound, through long confinement, and much hopeless pondering,
Peter Floome's brain had taken a decidedly pessimistic twist, and, in
prison circles, he was unanimously dubbed "a crank." It was after the
death of Warden Flint's wife, that Peter's theology became a shade
more optimistic, for then it was that the warden's year-old daughter,
by the tacit consent of all whom it might concern, fell to his
especial care.
In his capacity of runner, Peter had, comparatively, the freedom of
the prison, and was particularly detailed for duty in the warden's
household. The child--with that unaccountable choice of favourites
inherent in her kind--had taken famously to her convict dry-nurse. It
was the sudden rising of this new star on the runner's narrow horizon,
that inspired the following harangue: "Ef th' Almighty, as I say,
don't jest _put up_ in prisons, Himself, leastways He _does_, now an'
agin, send little angels, an' _sich_, to keep up a feller's courage."
Peter and his "little angel" might now often be seen together; for the
child, following hard upon his heels, had one day slipped furtively
through the guard-room door, and had thus become a regular _habitue_
of that semi-public apartment.
Ten summers of this exceptional child-life had passed over
May-blossom's golden head, when Destiny (that other name for
Providence) suddenly removed her to an environment far more kindly
than that in which her sweet young eyes had opened upon this
many-sided existence. But, to explain, we must escape at once from
prison.
* * * * *
Here, in the soft September sky, not the faintest speck of a cloud may
be seen. The river, broken into endless ripples by a crisp west wind,
glances like molten sunshine; and not many rods from its pebbled
shore, behold that goodly sight, an old colonial homestead!
Four generations of Parkers have lived their lives in this ancient
dwelling beside the Saganock, which has all the well-to-doativeness
(if one may coin a word) inherent in the ancestral homes of such
favoured children of men as have much goods laid up for many years.
And here, upon "the stoop," in after-dinner ease, sits the mistress of
the mansion--Miss Paulina Parker. Miss Paulina is the last of the
Parkers. In her snowy gown and gauzy dress-cap, she is, to-day, dainty
as a white butterfly. Far and wide is she known as the Lady Bountiful
of Saganock; and a dearer, lovelier old maid the sun never shone upon;
and, though her sixtieth birthday falls on the twentieth of this very
month, you would not take her to be a day over forty-five! The lean,
gaunt old body, rocking beside yonder window, in the kitchen ell, is
Harmy Patterson. For the last fifty years Harmy has cooked and saved
for the Parker family, and still considers herself in the prime
of her usefulness. She is reading the Boston _Recorder_, to her
_confrere_--Mandy Ann, the second girl; who, all agape, swallows the
delectable murders, marriages, and deaths that spice its columns.
Reuben, the hired man, leisurely running a lawn-mower past the open
window, pauses beneath it, from time to time, to solace himself with
some especial tidbit of horror. While Miss Paulina, in pensive
reverie, looks out on river and sky, and marks how, in the Saganock
burying-ground, a maple or two has prematurely reddened, she is
suddenly confronted by Harmy Patterson, newspaper in hand, spectacles
pushed over her brown foretop, and cap-strings flying in the wind.
Excitedly indicating, with her long forefinger, an especial column of
her favourite journal, she pantingly exclaims: "Fur pity sake, Miss
Paulina, du jes' read _this_!"
Promptly acceding to the request of the old body, Miss Parker reads
attentively the following:
FEARFUL TRAGEDY AT THE STATE PRISON!
As the warden of the Massachusetts State Prison was this
morning making his round of observation and inspection among
the shops, being in the shoemaking department at about ten and
a half o'clock, and passing the bench where one Hodges (a
disorderly convict, who, after repeated and severe punishment,
had, that morning, been remanded to his shop) was at work,
Hodges suddenly sprang upon him from behind, stabbing him with
a shoe-knife, and killing him instantly. The assassin was
immediately secured, heavily ironed, and committed, for
safe-keeping, to the "Lower Arch." The body of the unfortunate
warden was removed to the hospital, a coroner summoned, and the
inspectors convened. By this sad occurrence a young family is
bereaved of paternal support, and the prison of a long-tried
and faithful officer.
"Dear me, Harmy, what a sad affair!" cries the compassionate reader;
"and Josiah Flint's moth--no; let me see! I have it now. Josiah
Flint's _grandmother_ was a--was a Parker, Harmy."
"Yes'm," replies the woman, who has the Parker genealogy at her
tongue's end; "an' your pa's was _second_ cousins; an' the warden, ef
he'd a lived, would be your _third_ cousin. Law sakes! I mind, as well
as can be, young Josiah an' his pa comin' to Saganock. You was a girl
then, an' old Josiah, he was minister in Salem, an' his father before
him (an' hot and heavy _he_ made it for witches, folks say). Well, he
come to Saganock to preach for our minister, an' brung his boy along;
an' bein' connections, they was asked to put up with us. Sakes alive!
I remember it all well as ef it want but yisterday. That Sunday we had
apple pie an' milk betwixt sermons, an' when afternoon meetin' was
out, I gin 'em a pipin' hot supper. Well, the old man was a powerful
preacher," rambles on the old retainer, while Miss Paulina, heedless
of her chatter, sits pondering the situation. "An' I had remarkable
exercises of mind that Sunday; but there! that boy, goodness gracious!
didn't he make way with my clam fritters an' gooseberry pie? Well,
well, this is a dyin' world; an' now _his_ time's come; an' sich an
awful providence, too!" And here, kindly oblivious of the ancient
onslaught on her supper, old Harmy drops a pitying tear for the dead
warden.
"Harmy," says Miss Paulina, decisively, "Josiah Flint's wife has been
dead these nine years, and somebody must see to those poor orphan
children. Tell Reuben to put Major into the carryall. I shall take the
next train for Boston, and probably stay at the prison till the
funeral is over."
In accordance with this humane resolve, Miss Parker packs her
travelling bag, and, in her second best black silk gown, sets out at
four P. M. for the State Prison. Very cold and gray, in the early
autumn twilight, is the residence of the late Josiah Flint, when Miss
Paulina Parker alights from the depot carriage at its frowning
entrance. A jaded housemaid answers the bell, and ushers her into a
slipshod parlor, and thus meets her inquiries for "the warden's
family:"
"Famblee, is it, mem? sure, an' it's jist broken up, it is. There's
himself (God rest him) as dead as a dooer-nail. The baby wint years
ago, along wid the mother; an' the soon he died with the ammonia
(pneumonia) lasht fall, whilst he was away to the schule; an' as fur
the girl--she's that wantherin', sure, that I couldn't jist this
minnit lay me finger on the crather."
Discouraged by this curt summary, Miss Parker half inclines to a
French leave of the prison; but inspired by the hope of future
usefulness to the small estray upon whom Bridget cannot "jist lay a
finger," she resolves to remain, and somehow elbow her way into this
dubious and fragmentary domestic circle.
"I am Miss Parker (she explains), the warden's cousin, from Saganock.
I have come to stay over the funeral, if you can conveniently keep me.
"Sure, mem, no doot we can, if, be the same token, it proves
convanient to yerself," responds the girl. "The korp, indade, is after
wakin' itself in the bist chamber; but there's the intry bidroom at
your service, intirely."
Miss Paulina graciously accepting the proffered chamber, Bridget
kindly leads the way to the "intry bid-room;" and, bidding her "have
no fear of the korp," hurries off in pursuit of the needful toilet
furnishment, leaving the guest alone in the small dusky apartment.
Interwoven with her life experience, as it has ever been, death has
hitherto been calmly confronted by Miss Paulina; but to-night, alone
in a strange dwelling, with a murdered man in the adjoining apartment,
and neighboured, no doubt, by scores of murderers, it is all
unutterably depressing; and when Bridget, having, as she states,
waited to "rub out a clane towel, an' hate a flat for that same,"
comes clattering through the hall, with the damp napery across her
arm, a lamp in one hand, and a slopping ewer in the other, the nervous
lady is half disposed to hug her for the bare relief afforded by her
presence! Hastily arranging the dusty wash-stand, Bridget announces
the instant "goin' on" of supper, and graciously invites her to "tak a
look at the korp, an' thin walk doon." Left alone, Miss Paulina
removes bonnet and shawl, bathes her face, dons her cap, and, ignoring
"the korp," hastily descends to the dining-room.
The supper, a badly cooked, ill-served meal, is solitary and
uncomfortable, the "childer" having, according to Bridget, kindly
consented to be captured, to be put to bed, and to cry herself to
sleep. Miss Paulina, weary and forlorn, soon retires. Already
half-undressed, she finds that her travelling bag, containing her
night gear and toilet necessaries, together with sundry toothsome
packages, provided as "sops" for supposable hostile small Flints, has
been left below stairs. Bridget being presumably beyond call, the good
lady must herself seek the missing bag. It is safe in the entrance
hall, and, hastily securing it, she essays to return to her own
quarters. In her bewilderment, she somehow misses her bedroom door,
and, instead, opens that of the chamber containing the corpse.
Already well into the apartment, she discovers her mistake, and,
simultaneously, lets fall her lamp, surprised by the unlooked-for
tableau confronting her. Here, in the dimly-lighted room, close to the
murdered warden, whose face she has uncovered,--like some exquisite
statue of Pity, mute, motionless, and scarce less pallid than the
marble before her,--stands the night-robed figure of May-blossom. No
childish recoil from that awful presence disturbs her sweet, earnest
face. A solemn awe is in the wistful gray eyes, a mute interrogation
of that confronting mystery, blent with the tender pathos of
commisserating love. Startled by the clatter of the falling lamp, the
child turns, and timidly awaits the approach of the unknown intruder.
Dear, kind Miss Paulina! Surprise and wonder at once give way to the
one absorbing desire to clasp in her warm, motherly arms this lovely,
lonely child.
"Poor little darling," she murmurs, caressingly, approaching and
kissing the tear-wet cheek. "Why are you here so late, and all alone?"