'Lias and the minister were the heroes of the occasion. The old man
again broke his silence, and recounted, with infinite dryness, ancient
tales of his prowess with rod and line; while Aunt "Ca'line" told of
famous fish suppers that in the bygone days she had cooked for "de white
folks." In the midst of it all, however, 'Lias disappeared. No one had
noticed when he slipped out, but all seemed to become conscious of his
absence about the same time. The talk shifted, and finally simmered into
silence.
When the Rev. Mr. Dokesbury went to bed that night, his charge had not
yet returned.
The young minister woke early on the Sabbath morning, and he may be
forgiven that the prospect of the ordeal through which he had to pass
drove his care for 'Lias out of mind for the first few hours. But as he
walked to church, flanked on one side by Aunt Caroline in the stiffest
of ginghams and on the other by her husband stately in the magnificence
of an antiquated "Jim-swinger," his mind went back to the boy with
sorrow. Where was he? What was he doing? Had the fear of a dull church
service frightened him back to his old habits and haunts? There was a
new sadness at the preacher's heart as he threaded his way down the
crowded church and ascended the rude pulpit.
The church was stiflingly hot, and the morning sun still beat
relentlessly in through the plain windows. The seats were rude wooden
benches, in some instances without backs. To the right, filling the
inner corner, sat the pillars of the church, stern, grim, and critical.
Opposite them, and, like them, in seats at right angles to the main
body, sat the older sisters, some of them dressed with good
old-fashioned simplicity, while others yielding to newer tendencies were
gotten up in gaudy attempts at finery. In the rear seats a dozen or so
much beribboned mulatto girls tittered and giggled, and cast bold
glances at the minister.
The young man sighed as he placed the manuscript of his sermon between
the leaves of the tattered Bible. "And this is Mt. Hope," he was again
saying to himself.
It was after the prayer and in the midst of the second hymn that a more
pronounced titter from the back seats drew his attention. He raised his
head to cast a reproving glance at the irreverent, but the sight that
met his eyes turned that look into one of horror. 'Lias had just entered
the church, and with every mark of beastly intoxication was staggering
up the aisle to a seat, into which he tumbled in a drunken heap. The
preacher's soul turned sick within him, and his eyes sought the face of
the mother and father. The old woman was wiping her eyes, and the old
man sat with his gaze bent upon the floor, lines of sorrow drawn about
his wrinkled mouth.
All of a sudden a great revulsion of feeling came over Dokesbury.
Trembling he rose and opened the Bible. There lay his sermon, polished
and perfected. The opening lines seemed to him like glints from a bright
cold crystal. What had he to say to these people, when the full
realization of human sorrow and care and of human degradation had just
come to him? What had they to do with firstlies and secondlies, with
premises and conclusions? What they wanted was a strong hand to help
them over the hard places of life and a loud voice to cheer them through
the dark. He closed the book again upon his precious sermon. A something
new had been born in his heart. He let his glance rest for another
instant on the mother's pained face and the father's bowed form, and
then turning to the congregation began, "Come unto me, all ye that labor
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you,
and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find
rest unto your souls." Out of the fullness of his heart he spoke unto
them. Their great need informed his utterance. He forgot his carefully
turned sentences and perfectly rounded periods. He forgot all save that
here was the well-being of a community put into his hands whose real
condition he had not even suspected until now. The situation wrought him
up. His words went forth like winged fire, and the emotional people were
moved beyond control. They shouted, and clapped their hands, and praised
the Lord loudly.
When the service was over, there was much gathering about the young
preacher, and handshaking. Through all 'Lias had slept. His mother
started toward him; but the minister managed to whisper to her, "Leave
him to me." When the congregation had passed out, Dokesbury shook 'Lias.
The boy woke, partially sobered, and his face fell before the preacher's
eyes.
"Come, my boy, let's go home." Arm in arm they went out into the street,
where a number of scoffers had gathered to have a laugh at the abashed
boy; but Harold Dokesbury's strong arm steadied his steps, and something
in his face checked the crowd's hilarity. Silently they cleared the way,
and the two passed among them and went home.
The minister saw clearly the things which he had to combat in his
community, and through this one victim he determined to fight the
general evil. The people with whom he had to deal were children who must
be led by the hand. The boy lying in drunken sleep upon his bed was no
worse than the rest of them. He was an epitome of the evil, as his
parents were of the sorrows, of the place.
He could not talk to Elias. He could not lecture him. He would only be
dashing his words against the accumulated evil of years of bondage as
the ripples of a summer sea beat against a stone wall. It was not the
wickedness of this boy he was fighting or even the wrong-doing of Mt.
Hope. It was the aggregation of the evils of the fathers, the
grandfathers, the masters and mistresses of these people. Against this
what could talk avail?
The boy slept on, and the afternoon passed heavily away. Aunt Caroline
was finding solace in her pipe, and Stephen Gray sulked in moody silence
beside the hearth. Neither of them joined their guest at evening
service.
He went, however. It was hard to face those people again after the
events of the morning. He could feel them covertly nudging each other
and grinning as he went up to the pulpit. He chided himself for the
momentary annoyance it caused him. Were they not like so many naughty,
irresponsible children?
The service passed without unpleasantness, save that he went home with
an annoyingly vivid impression of a yellow girl with red ribbons on her
hat, who pretended to be impressed by his sermon and made eyes at him
from behind her handkerchief.
On the way to his room that night, as he passed Stephen Gray, the old
man whispered huskily, "It's de fus' time 'Lias evah done dat."
It was the only word he had spoken since morning.
A sound sleep refreshed Dokesbury, and restored the tone to his
overtaxed nerves. When he came out in the morning, Elias was already in
the kitchen. He too had slept off his indisposition, but it had been
succeeded by a painful embarrassment that proved an effectual barrier to
all intercourse with him. The minister talked lightly and amusingly, but
the boy never raised his eyes from his plate, and only spoke when he was
compelled to answer some direct questions.
Harold Dokesbury knew that unless he could overcome this reserve, his
power over the youth was gone. He bent every effort to do it.
"What do you say to a turn down the street with me?" he asked as he
rose from breakfast.
'Lias shook his head.
"What! You haven't deserted me already?"
The older people had gone out, but young Gray looked furtively about
before he replied: "You know I ain't fittin' to go out with
you--aftah--aftah--yestiddy."
A dozen appropriate texts rose in the preacher's mind, but he knew that
it was not a preaching time, so he contented himself with saying,--
"Oh, get out! Come along!"
"No, I cain't. I cain't. I wisht I could! You needn't think I's ashamed,
'cause I ain't. Plenty of 'em git drunk, an' I don't keer nothin' 'bout
dat"--this in a defiant tone.
"Well, why not come along then?"
"I tell you I cain't. Don't ax me no mo'. It ain't on my account I won't
go. It's you."
"Me! Why, I want you to go."
"I know you does, but I mustn't. Cain't you see that dey'd be glad to
say dat--dat you was in cahoots wif me an' you tuk yo' dram on de sly?"
"I don't care what they say so long as it isn't true. Are you coming?"
"No, I ain't."
He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there was no use
arguing with him. So with a resigned "All right!" he strode out the gate
and up the street, thinking of the problem he had to solve.
There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame that it should be
lost. It would be lost unless he were drawn strongly away from the paths
he was treading. But how could it be done? Was there no point in his
mind that could be reached by what was other than evil? That was the
thing to be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, he
were not trying to do too much,--trying, in fact, to play Providence to
Elias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift the
responsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that something
entirely independent of his intentions would happen.
Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled from some
unknown source caught the minister square in the chest, and spattered
over his clothes. He raised his eyes and glanced about quickly, but no
one was in sight. Whoever the foe was, he was securely ambushed.
"Thrown by the hand of a man," mused Dokesbury, "prompted by the malice
of a child."
He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to the house.
"La, Brothah Dokesbury!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "what's de mattah 'f
you' shu't bosom?"
"Oh, that's where one of our good citizens left his card."
"You don' mean to say none o' dem low-life scoun'els----"
"I don't know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out of
sight."
"'Lias!" the old woman cried, turning on her son, "wha' 'd you let
Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse'f fu? Why n't you go 'long an' tek
keer o' him?"
The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes took
in the expression on her son's face.
"I'll kill some o' dem damn----"
"'Lias!"
"'Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I'll bus' ef I don't
'spress myse'f. It makes me so mad. Don't you go out o' hyeah no mo'
'dout me. I'll go 'long an' I'll brek somebody's haid wif a stone."
"'Lias! how you talkin' fo' de ministah?"
"Well, dat's whut I'll do, 'cause I kin outth'ow any of 'em an' I know
dey hidin'-places."
"I'll be glad to accept your protection," said Dokesbury.
He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud,--the one thing that
without an effort restored the easy relations between himself and his
protege.
Ostensibly these relations were reversed, and Elias went out with the
preacher as a guardian and protector. But the minister was laying his
nets. It was on one of these rambles that he broached to 'Lias a subject
which he had been considering for some time.
"Look here, 'Lias," he said, "what are you going to do with that big
back yard of yours?"
"Oh, nothin'. 'Tain't no 'count to raise nothin' in."
"It may not be fit for vegetables, but it will raise something."
"What?"
"Chickens. That's what."
Elias laughed sympathetically.
"I'd lak to eat de chickens I raise. I wouldn't want to be feedin' de
neighborhood."
"Plenty of boards, slats, wire, and a good lock and key would fix that
all right."
"Yes, but whah 'm I gwine to git all dem things?"
"Why, I'll go in with you and furnish the money, and help you build the
coops. Then you can sell chickens and eggs, and we'll go halves on the
profits."
"Hush man!" cried 'Lias, in delight.
So the matter was settled, and, as Aunt Caroline expressed it, "Fu' a
week er sich a mattah, you nevah did see sich ta'in' down an' buildin'
up in all yo' bo'n days."
'Lias went at the work with zest and Dokesbury noticed his skill with
tools. He let fall the remark: "Say, 'Lias, there's a school near here
where they teach carpentry; why don't you go and learn?"
"What I gwine to do with bein' a cyahpenter?"
"Repair some of these houses around Mt. Hope, if nothing more,"
Dokesbury responded, laughing; and there the matter rested.
The work prospered, and as the weeks went on, 'Lias's enterprise became
the town's talk. One of Aunt Caroline's patrons who had come with some
orders about work regarded the changed condition of affairs, and said,
"Why, Aunt Caroline, this doesn't look like the same place. I'll have to
buy some eggs from you; you keep your yard and hen-house so nice, it's
an advertisement for the eggs."
"Don't talk to me nothin' 'bout dat ya'd, Miss Lucy," Aunt Caroline had
retorted. "Dat 'long to 'Lias an' de preachah. Hit dey doin's. Dey done
mos' nigh drove me out wif dey cleanness. I ain't nevah seed no sich
ca'in' on in my life befo'. Why, my 'Lias done got right brigity an'
talk about bein' somep'n."
Dokesbury had retired from his partnership with the boy save in so far
as he acted as a general supervisor. His share had been sold to a friend
of 'Lias, Jim Hughes. The two seemed to have no other thought save of
raising, tending, and selling chickens.
Mt. Hope looked on and ceased to scoff. Money is a great dignifier, and
Jim and 'Lias were making money. There had been some sniffs when the
latter had hinged the front gate and whitewashed his mother's cabin, but
even that had been accepted now as a matter of course.
Dokesbury had done his work. He, too, looked on, and in some
satisfaction.
"Let the leaven work," he said, "and all Mt. Hope must rise."
It was one day, nearly a year later, that "old lady Hughes" dropped in
on Aunt Caroline for a chat.
"Well, I do say, Sis' Ca'line, dem two boys o' ourn done sot dis town on
fiah."
"What now, Sis' Lizy?"
"Why, evah sence 'Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpenter an' Jim
'cided to go 'long an' lu'n to be a blacksmiff, some o' dese hyeah
othah young people's been trying to do somep'n'."
"All dey wanted was a staht."
"Well, now will you b'lieve me, dat no-'count Tom Johnson done opened a
fish sto', an' he has de boys an' men bring him dey fish all de time. He
gives 'em a little somep'n fu' dey ketch, den he go sell 'em to de white
folks."
"Lawd, how long!"
"An' what you think he say?"
"I do' know, sis'."
"He say ez soon 'z he git money enough, he gwine to dat school whah
'Lias and Jim gone an' lu'n to fahm scientific."
"Bless de Lawd! Well, 'um, I don' put nothin' pas' de young folks now."
Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to her to which she
might aspire,--something that she could understand and reach. She was
not soaring, but she was rising above the degradation in which Harold
Dokesbury had found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed.
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
The Negro race in America has produced musicians, composers and
painters, but it was left for Paul Laurence Dunbar to give it fame in
literature. He was of pure African stock; his father and mother were
born in slavery, and neither had any schooling, although the father had
taught himself to read. Paul was born in Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. He
was christened Paul, because his father said that he was to be a great
man. He was a diligent pupil at school, and began to make verses when he
was still a child. His ability was recognized by his class mates; he was
made editor of the high school paper, and wrote the class song for his
commencement.
The death of his father made it necessary for him to support his mother.
He sought for some employment where his education might be put to some
use, but finding such places closed to him, he became an elevator boy.
He continued to write, however, and in 1892 his first volume was
published, a book of poems called _Oak and Ivy_. The publishers were so
doubtful of its success that they would not bring it out until a friend
advanced the cost of publication. Paul now sold books to the passengers
in his elevator, and realized enough to repay his friend. He was
occasionally asked to give readings from his poetry. Gifted as he was
with a deep, melodious voice, and a fine power of mimicry, he was very
successful. In 1893 he was sought out by a man who was organizing a
concert company and who engaged Paul to go along as reader. Full of
enthusiasm, he set to work committing his poems to memory, and writing
new ones. Ten days before the company was to start, word came that it
had been disbanded. Paul found himself at the approach of winter without
money and without work, and with his mother in real need. In his
discouragement he even thought of suicide, but by the help of a friend
he found work, and with it courage. In a letter written about this time
he tells of his ambitions: "I did once want to be a lawyer, but that
ambition has long since died out before the all-absorbing desire to be a
worthy singer of the songs of God and nature. To be able to interpret my
own people through song and story, and to prove to the many that we are
more human than African."
A second volume of poems, _Majors and Minors_, appeared in 1895. Like
his first book it was printed by a local publisher, and had but a small
sale. The actor James A. Herne happened to be playing _Shore Acres_ in
Toledo; Paul saw him, admired his acting, and timidly presented him with
a copy of his book. Mr. Herne read it with great pleasure, and sent it
on to his friend William Dean Howells, who was then editor of _Harper's
Weekly_. In June, 1896, there appeared in that journal a full-page
review of the work of Paul Laurence Dunbar, quoting freely from his
poems, and praising them highly. This recognition by America's greatest
critic was the beginning of Paul's national reputation. Orders came for
his books from all over the country; a manager engaged him for a series
of readings from his poems, and a New York firm, Dodd Mead & Co.,
arranged to bring out his next book, _Lyrics of Lowly Life_.
In 1897 he went to England to give a series of readings. Here he was a
guest at the Savage Club, one of the best-known clubs of London. His
readings were very successful, but a dishonest manager cheated him out
of the proceeds, and he was obliged to cable to his friends for money to
come home.
Through the efforts of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, the young poet obtained
a position in the Congressional Library at Washington. It was thought
that this would give him just the opportunity he needed for study, but
the work proved too confining for his health. The year 1898 was marked
by two events: the publication of his first book of short stories,
_Folks From Dixie_, and his marriage to Miss Alice R. Moore. In 1899 at
the request of Booker T. Washington he went to Tuskeegee and gave
several readings and lectures before the students, also writing a school
song for them. He made a tour through the South, giving readings with
much success, but the strain of public appearances was beginning to tell
upon his health. He continued to write, and in 1899 published _Lyrics of
the Hearthside_, dedicated to his wife. He was invited to go to Albany
to read before a distinguished audience, where Theodore Roosevelt, then
governor, was to introduce him. He started, but was unable to get
farther than New York. Here he lay sick for weeks, and when he grew
stronger, the doctors said that his lungs were affected and he must have
a change of climate. He went to Colorado in the fall of 1899, and wrote
back to a friend: "Well, it is something to sit under the shadow of the
Rocky Mountains, even if one only goes there to die." From this time on
his life was one long fight for health, and usually a losing battle, but
he faced it as courageously as Robert Louis Stevenson had done. In
Colorado he wrote a novel, The _Love of Landry_, whose scene was laid in
his new surroundings. He returned to Washington in 1900, and gave
occasional readings, but it was evident that his strength was failing.
He published two more volumes, _The Strength of Gideon_, a book of short
stories, and _Poems of Cabin and Field_, which showed that his genius
had lost none of its power. His last years were spent in Dayton, his old
home, with his mother. He died February 10, 1906.
One of the finest tributes to him was paid by his friend Brand Whitlock,
then Mayor of Toledo, who has since become famous as United States
Minister to Belgium during the Great War. This is from a letter written
when he heard that the young poet was dead:
Paul was a poet: and I find that when I have said that I have said
the greatest and most splendid thing that can be said about a
man.... Nature, who knows so much better than man about everything,
cares nothing at all for the little distinctions, and when she
elects one of her children for her most important work, bestows on
him the rich gift of poesy, and assigns him a post in the greatest
of the arts, she invariably seizes the opportunity to show her
contempt of rank and title and race and land and creed. She took
Burns from a plough and Paul from an elevator, and Paul has done
for his own people what Burns did for the peasants of Scotland--he
has expressed them in their own way and in their own words.
WITH THE POLICE
_Not all Americans are good Americans. For the lawbreakers, American
born or otherwise, we need men to enforce the law. Of these guardians of
public safety, one body, the Pennsylvania State Police, has become
famous for its achievements. Katherine Mayo studied their work at first
hand, met the men of the force, visited the scenes of their activity,
and in_ THE STANDARD BEARERS, _tells of their daring exploits. This
story is taken from that book_.
ISRAEL DRAKE
BY
KATHERINE MAYO
Israel Drake was a bandit for simple love of the thing. To hunt for
another reason would be a waste of time. The blood in his veins was pure
English, unmixed since long ago. His environment was that of his
neighbors. His habitat was the noble hills. But Israel Drake was a
bandit, just as his neighbors were farmers--just as a hawk is a hawk
while its neighbors are barnyard fowls.
Israel Drake was swarthy-visaged, high of cheek bone, with large, dark,
deep-set eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth covered by a long and drooping
black mustache. Barefooted, he stood six feet two inches tall. Lean as a
panther, and as supple, he could clear a five-foot rail fence without
the aid of his hand. He ran like a deer. As a woodsman the very deer
could have taught him little. With rifle and revolver he was an expert
shot, and the weapons he used were the truest and best.
All the hill-people of Cumberland County dreaded him. All the scattered
valley-folk spoke softly at his name. And the jest and joy of Israel's
care-free life was to make them skip and shiver and dance to the tune of
their trepidations.
As a matter of fact, he was leader of a gang, outlaws every one. But his
own strong aura eclipsed the rest, and he glared alone, in the thought
of his world, endued with terrors of diverse origin.
His genius kept him fully aware of the value of this preeminence, and it
lay in his wisdom and pleasure to fan the flame of his own repute. In
this it amused him to seek the picturesque--the unexpected. With an
imagination fed by primeval humor and checked by no outward
circumstances of law, he achieved a ready facility. Once, for example,
while trundling through his town of Shippensburg on the rear platform of
a freight train, he chanced to spy a Borough Constable crossing a bridge
near the track.
"Happy thought! Let's touch the good soul up. He's getting stodgy."
Israel drew a revolver and fired, neatly nicking the Constable's hat.
Then with a mountaineer's hoot, he gayly proclaimed his identity.
Again, and many times, he would send into this or that town or
settlement a message addressed to the Constable or Chief of Police:--
"I am coming down this afternoon. Get away out of town. Don't let me
find you there."
Obediently they went away. And Israel, strolling the streets that
afternoon just as he had promised to do, would enter shop after shop,
look over the stock at his leisure, and, with perfect good-humor, pick
out whatever pleased him, regardless of cost.
"I think I'll take this here article," he would say to the trembling
store-keeper, affably pocketing his choice.
"Help yourself, Mr. Drake! Help yourself, sir! Glad we are able to
please you to-day."
Which was indeed the truth. And many of them there were who would have
hastened to curry favor with their persecutor by whispering in his ear a
word of warning had they known of any impending attempt against him by
the agents of peace.