The holy Vedas teach us that as we pass from life to life, Time places
gentle fingers over the eyes of memory, lest we become disheartened by
past errors and falter enslaved by the fears of what we have been. Like
the child who, having worked out a problem on his slate, erases it all,
keeping only the answer, so we have within our soul-life the result of
our past experiences; all the rest is erased.
Who cares about the detailed account of all the happenings along the
path we have traveled? We know intuitively that much of the past must
be condemned, but that which concerns us vitally is the life we aim to
live to-day.
Night closes on the sorrows of yesterday. Dawn is radiant with the
promise of a better day.
Our friend, "Slippery Jim," tried to believe all this, and to look with
hope towards the future, but he kept much to himself. He would take
long walks into the woods.
It disturbed me to see him so slow to take the boys into his confidence.
"I never see you reading with the other men in the evening," I told
him. "Men who love solitude are either very good or very bad."
"I will try to do better," he answered, "but for so many years I have
been used to being by myself."
"Still one has to live in the world--and our world here is rather
small," I said. "Cheerfulness is a duty one owes to his own soul."
"And to others," he added.
"Yes, and to others," I replied.
"I am inclined to view lightly my duty to others. I owed a debt--a
great debt once--to others, and I have paid it. They measured it out of
my life, the payment they demanded. I have paid it--paid it in tears
and wretchedness--paid it out of my heart and soul. Now I prefer to
live apart.... The Indians, so the poet says, when on the march, leave
their old and sick alone to die. I am a sick savage, and as such, I ask
my rights."
"Do you believe in the Great Spirit and the Happy Hunting Grounds?" I
asked gently, for I knew he had no Indian blood in his veins.
"Their religion is as good as many another, and quite as poetical."
"Then go into the forest and pray to your Great Spirit," I said. "Only
don't discredit him by being inconsiderate of others who would be kind
to you."
"Do I not do my work?" he asked, with rising anger.
"You are expected to do your work, but I am not speaking to you on that
subject. I want to know what you are thinking about while you are at
work."
"If you please, that is my own affair."
"If you please, it is my affair also. You came out here to have me help
you. I want to help you."
"You have helped me; you took me into this Colony when my father had
closed the door on me; you have given me food--such as it is--and out
of the clothes sent in you have given me this second-hand suit."
"And you have worked like the other men and paid by your labor for what
you received?"
"Yes."
"And that is all there is to it?"
"Yes."
"It is very, very little I have done for you," and I started to leave
him.
"Wait a moment"--he stopped me. "I did not intend to be unkind to you.
You have treated me much better than I have deserved."
"It is something to have even simple food when one is hungry," I said,
severely. "You have also more courage than when you came. In your work
you know courage is quite important. You will soon be able to go back
to your old life."
"No, not that," his voice becoming less hardened. "In these days I have
lived with you and observed the happiness you get out of your work--in
spite of its sacrefice--and compared it with my own way of living, I
can not understand how I could have ignored the good there's in me.
But, really, you should not expect us all to be as cheerful as you are.
You may see clearly the Truth that we see only through a glass darkly."
"So you plan to live like an honest man?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I have not really lost after all," I said, thoughtfully.
"What did you say?" he questioned, not having heard clearly my remark.
"I said that if you have determined to live honestly, that is
something."
That evening I saw him walking up and down the kitchen floor with our
Baby in his arms--for that Winter we had a homeless mother and Baby at
the Colony. The Baby was kicking and laughing as he carried her with
measured stride around the room.
"I simply must put her to sleep," he said, confidingly.
"Why don't you sing to her," I suggested.
"I am hazy on my slumber songs," he said.
A little later the Baby was nodding with half closed eyes.
"Doesn't she look pretty," said the admiring mother.
"She looks like Jeffries at the end of the fifth," was Jim's reply.
A few moments later I heard him as he walked, singing music of his own
improvising to the words of Wilde's prison poem:
"With slouch and swing around the ring,
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care; we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade;
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade."