Years ago, I saw a near-sighted cook peeling onions--a most pathetic
scene if one judges entirely from appearances. The incident impressed
me deeply at the time, although it had long since passed from my mind,
when good old Fritz came to me, with tears running down the dusty
furrows of his be-wrinkled and weather-beaten face.
Some strange analogy revived the old memory. There is--say what one
will--something tremendously ludicrous about honesty when clothed too
deeply in rusticity. We smile at it while we give it our love and
respect.
It can toy with our heart-strings, playing both grave and gay. We laugh
at it so that we may not cry and become laughable ourselves.
In broken English, he tried to explain that which was self-evident and
needed no explanation--his own distress and desperation. His simple
earnestness--his frank, honest manner--won every one's immediate
sympathy. The boys began to plan to relieve his distress, even while
they laughed with scant courtesy in the old man's face.
His clothes were many sizes too large, which was not entirely offset by
his cap that was several sizes too small. Through his broken shoes, ten
toes spoke in most eloquent English--the need of protection and shelter.
"What could ever cause a man to get into such a condition?" asked a
fellow, who, three weeks before, had arrived quite as dishevelled, but
had already forgotten the fact, which is just as well.
"The cause?" asked the German.
"Yes."
"Beer."
"Beer! You are the first man I ever saw who got to such a finish on
beer," returned the questioner.
"I drink nothing else--never," the old German affirmed.
"I am thinking Mr. Floyd will try to clean you up in a hurry--or not at
all--if you tell him that beer put you down and out."
"I hope so," said the old man; "I feel pretty bad."
"Some mighty arguments have been put out that it is the distilled
liquors that do all the mischief; that light wine and malt liquors are
no more harmful than tea. And here you are in our camp to disprove this
contention. If you say you have been on a beer debauch, you may not be
believed."
"Maybe someone put a little apple-jack into my glass when I wasn't
looking," replied the German, quickly, as he went into the boys'
kitchen to get a little coffee.
So it came about that Fritz became a Colony member, and his good nature
made him a general favorite almost immediately. His strength returned
to him rapidly.
The final cure was effected when, among the books that came in, one of
the men found a German volume. He took it to Fritz with some misgiving,
as it was a work on astronomy, and Fritz did not resemble a Heidelberg
professor; but when our friend glanced at the book and saw the German
text, and then, on closer scrutiny, observed that it was a work on
astronomy, he became excitedly enthusiastic.
"Good! Very good! I am happy to get it."
It was a week later, an hour or two after midnight, I saw Fritz in the
moonlight, walking around outside the house.