Once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles
on their backs. But they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as--as
anything, the bundles was. And these folks all b'longed to one person,
that they called the Head Man. They was his folks, and nobody else's,
and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. But he was
real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest
thing, whatever folks might say against it.
Well, I was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o'
bundles on their backs. 'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a
real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all
to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us
bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way,
or hurt him, or put him back. Some on 'em was jest little stones that
had hurt his feet, and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him
as he went by 'em, and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at
him, not meanin' no great o' harm. He'd picked 'em all up, every bit o'
worryin', prickin', hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his
back till he had a big bundle that he allers carried about and never
forgot for a minute.
He was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see
'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em
when there wa'n't any there't all. And, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where
they was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every
single one on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever
he went.
And he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little
stone that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him,
and t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him.
He fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that
nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. He
never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and
piled 'em on his own back. If he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along,
he'd 'a' forgot 'em all, I guess, after a spell.
Then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was
all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry. Every
speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle, till he
couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. He had
plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along the
road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no
victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money
dreadful bad. But the man never gin 'em a mite. He kep' it all on his
back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down.
Then ag'in there was another man. He had a bundle that he didn't put on
his back hisself, nor the Head Man didn't nuther. Folks did it to him.
He hadn't done nothin' to deserve it, 't was jest put on him by other
people, and so 't was powerful hard to bear. But, ye see, the Head Man
had pervided partic'lar for them kind, and he'd said in public, so 't
everybody knowed about it, that he'd help folks like that,--said he'd
help 'em carry sech bundles hisself, or mebbe take 'em off, if it
'peared to be best.
But this man disremembered that,--or, worse still, p'r'aps he didn't
'zackly believe it. So he went along all scrunched down with that hefty
bundle other folks had piled up on him, not scoldin' nor complainin'
nor gittin' mad about it, but jest thinkin' it had got to be, and nobody
could help him. But ye see it hadn't got to be, and somebody could 'a'
helped him.
And then bimeby along come a man that had sech a hefty, hefty bundle!
'Twas right 'tween his shoulders, and it sort o' scrooched him down, and
it hurt him in his back and in his feelin's. The Head Man had put that
bundle on the man hisself when he was a little bit of a feller. He'd
made it out o' flesh and skin and things. It was jest ezackly like the
man's body, so 't when it ached he ached hisself. And he'd had to carry
that thing about all his born days.
I don't know why the Head Man done it, I'm sure, but I know how good and
pleasant he was, and how he liked his folks and meant well to 'em, and
how he knowed jest what oughter be and what hadn't oughter be, so 't
stands to reason he'd done this thing a-purpose, and not careless like,
and he hadn't made no mistake.
I've guessed a lot o' reasons why he done it. Mebbe he see the man
wouldn't 'a' done so well without the bundle,--might 'a' run off, 'way,
'way off from the Head Man and the work he had to do. Or, ag'in, p'r'aps
he wanted to make a 'zample of the man, and show folks how patient and
nice a body could be, even though he had a big, hefty bundle to carry
all his born days, one made out o' flesh and skin and things, and that
hurt dreadful.
But my other guess is the one I b'leeve in most,--that the Head Man done
it to scrooch him down, so's he'd take notice o' little teenty things,
down below, that most folks never see, things that needed him to watch
'em, and do for 'em, and tell about 'em. That's my fav'rite guess. 'Tany
rate, the Head Man done right,--I'm cert'in sure o' that.
And it _had_ made the man nicer, and pleasanter spoken, and kinder to
folks, and partic'lar to creaturs. It had made him sort o' bend down,
'twas so hefty, and so he'd got to takin' notice o' teenty little things
nobody else scursely'd see,--mites o' posies, and cunnin' little bugs,
and creepin', crawlin' things. He took a heap o' comfort in 'em. And he
told other folks 'bout them little things and their little ways, and
what they was made for, and things they could learn us; and 'twas real
int'restin', and done folks good too.
And, deary me, he was that patient and good and uncomplainin', you never
see! No, I ain't a-cryin'. This was a stranger, this man, you know, and
I make a p'int o' never cryin' about strangers.
There was a lot and a lot more kinds o' folks with bundles, but I'm only
goin' to tell ye about them four,--this time, any way.
Well, come pay day, these folks all come up afore the Head Man to be
settled with. And fust he called up the man that had the bundle all made
out o' things that had pricked him, and tripped him up, and scratched
him, and put him back on the road. And then he had up the man with the
money weighin' him down,--the money he'd kep' away from poor folks and
piled up on his own back. And then come the feller that was carryin' the
heavy bundle folks had put on him when 't wa'n't no fault o' his'n, and
that he might 'a' got red of a long spell back, if he'd only rec'lected
what the Head Man had said 'bout sech cases, and how they could be
helped.
I ain't a-goin' to tell ye what he said to them folks, 'cause 't ain't
my business, seems to me. Whether he punished either on 'em, or scolded
'em, or sent 'em off to try ag'in, or what all, never mind. Knowin' 's
much as I do about the ways o' that Head Man, I bet he made 'em feel
terrible ashamed, any way.
But when he came to the man with the bundle made out o' flesh and skin
and things, he looks at him a minute, and then says he, the Head Man
does, "Why," he says, "that's my own work! I made that bundle, and I
fixed it on your back all myself. I hefted and I sized it, and I hefted
you and sized you. A mite of a young one you was then. I made it jest
hefty enough for you to carry, not a bit heftier, no more nor less. I
rec'lect it well," he says. "I ain't forgot it. I never forgot it one
minute sence I fitted in on, though mebbe you kind o' thought by spells
that I had. And now," he says--No, I can't tell ye what he says. It's a
secret, that is. But I don't mind lettin' ye know that the man was
sat'sfied, perfec'ly sat'sfied. A Angel told me he was, and went on to
say the man was dreadful pleased to find he'd been wearin' a bundle the
Head Man hisself had made and fixed on him, heftin' it and sizin' it,
and heftin' him and sizin' him too, so's 'twa'n't too much for him to
carry. But he ain't carryin' it no more. The Angel said so.