"What's the name that grows
Upon you more and more?"
"Sullivan!"--"That's my name."
"Who's the man who wrote
The opera, Pinafore?"
"Sullivan!"--"That's my name."
"Big Tim, you all knew him;
John L., you know him well.
There never was a man, named Sullivan
Who wasn't a d---- fine Irishman."
--_George Cohan's Song, "Sullivan."_
If you thought it was imperative to change your name and you had access
to all the Literature--Ancient and Modern--to be found in a Carnegie
Library, would you select for yourself the name "Sullivan?"
Evidently our Irish Lad agreed with Cohan--that "it is a d--n fine
name"--for when I recognized in him one of my Family of Homeless Men
as he walked aimlessly along the city streets, and asked him rather
abruptly, what his name might be, his reply--too long considered to be
truthful--was, "Frank Sullivan."
"Pardon me," I said, immediately realizing that I had no right to ask
of him the question and that my thoughtlessness had caused the boy to
answer falsely. The outcast, distrustful of his fellow, frequently
seeks safety in falsehood until friendship disarms suspicion and Love
calls forth the Truth for which it has not asked.
"_Frank Sullivan_," I said. "I, too, like the name."
* * * * *
So upon my invitation he came gladly into our little Family to share
the happy freedom of a peaceful home, where others like himself give
honest work and receive--not in the spirit of organized charity, but in
the true warmth of fraternal love--the hospitality of a welcome guest.
His Irish heart soon caught the meaning of the work, and responded
readily in thoughtful service.... If our Self Master Colony attracted
the attention of some broad-minded man well known in humanitarian work
so that encouraged, it carried me and my dreams of uplift higher and
higher until the stars were our near neighbors--Sullivan, silent and
attentive, followed me in my dreams.
If my work was misunderstood and my best efforts discredited, Sullivan
was at my side silently consoling me with his loyalty and friendship.
He grew into my life. I depended upon him and he did not fail me.
"Richelieu," I would often say, "had his Friar Philip to aid him in his
ambitions and I have my good friend Sullivan."
Then as the months passed, once again, the grass spread its delicate
carpet beneath our feet, the trees blossomed sending a perfumed message
to us, the bluebird and the thrush called through the open windows
until we, busy with our work, were forced to remark that Spring time
had come--the beginning of another year.... Then the Brothers observed
the progress we had made in the twelvemonth.... It seemed so much to
them, so little to the outside world.
"It looks more prosperous now," said Sullivan proudly as he observed
the automobiles stopping at the door, "you make Prince as well as
Pauper do you homage."
"No, Sullivan, not I; it's the Truth that all are hungry for--Pauper
and Prince alike--and while the few may reach it by meditation and the
more by prayer, the most of common clay like you and I must reach it by
service."
"I never quite understand you when you speak," he said, "I never could
read those dry old books however much I tried.... But by the way, I
wonder if we have blankets for the new arrival who just came in."
For the Stranded Sons of the City come often to join our Family and
share our simple hospitality.
* * * * *
"Sullivan," I said one day, "this work is going to grow and grow....
When we have won I want you to share the credit with me--you will
remain, will you not?"
Then receiving no reply, I turned to look and he had gone--gone to
offer his blanket to the new guest.
"Yes," I heard him say, "I have some extra covers on my bed you may
have."
"Another falsehood. Sullivan, you should always speak the truth." For
the nights were cold and the blankets none too many. And yet since many
prayers are lies, why may not some lies be prayers? "Maybe in your
dark purgatory, my Irish lad, these little falsehoods of yours will be
counted as prayers."
One afternoon a letter came for my friend--in a young girl's rather
labored writing--he had received many such, and as I gave it to him I
smiled a little. To him I had always been an indulgent Father--for a
boy and girl will love, even though he or she may be our favorite child.
That night when the day's labor was over, Sullivan came to me, asking
if he could talk to me. It was a strange request, for he never seemed
to wish to talk, and I knew that something had moved him deeply.
"You know my name is not Frank Sullivan," he asked.
"Yes, I know," I answered.
"But did you know I was married?" he inquired.
"What, a boy like yourself married?" I asked.
"Yes, I have been married over two years and have a little girl a year
old. The letters that I have received have been from my wife Josephine.
She and I ran away and were married, but on our return her father
wouldn't accept me. He said I was not worthy of his daughter--and no
doubt he is right. He is wealthy and I could not support her in the way
to which she is accustomed. So I was forced to leave her. But Josephine
and I couldn't forget.
"All these months she has been working to interest her father in
me, and now the baby is a year old, he has decided to help me....
We--Josephine and I--knew he would soften in time; you see he, too,
loves Josephine and the Baby. So I want to go to them."
"Yes," I said simply, for a sense of approaching loss had robbed me of
my pretty speeches.
"When you met me, I didn't know where to go, nor what to do," he said.
"Yes."
"I have flattered myself I have been some help to you in starting your
work. Tell me have I made good to you?"
"Yes."
"I shall try to make good to Josephine's father."
"Yes."
Then in a few moments he said:
"Now that it is time to go from you, I hate to leave you and the boys."
"But you must go," I said, "your wife and child have the first claim."
"Josephine wanted me to ask you for two or three rugs that the boys
weave. We want them for our new home."
"You may have them."