THE PREACHER AND THE SALOONKEEPER.
MY heart is so broke that I hardly know how to rite. This is March 3d,
and yisterday arternoon they put me out.
I had about give up their comin, and was tryin to feel better, when all
of a suddint I heerd a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood
three strange men.
Said the one who acted as leader: “Is this where the Gaskinses live?”
Says I: “One of them is stayin here, and the Lord only knows where the
other one is.”
“I am a deputy sheriff,” says he, “and have orders to set you out.”
Says I: “Where is Mr. Richer?”
“In Washington,” says he.
“Where is his agent—his lawyer?” says I.
“In town,” says he.
“Well, dont they have to be here to put me out?” says I.
“No,” says he; “the law puts you out for them.”
“Well, Mistur,” says I, “couldent you let me stay a little longer?
Jobe’s gone to hunt work and a place to move to. If you will let me
stay, as soon as he finds it Ile go out without your botherin.”
“I cant do it, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he; “the law must be inforced. The
law is no respecter of persons.”
Says I, pleadin like: “You see, I am a old woman, and not stout. Jobe is
away, and I am here alone. If the law is no respecter of persons, why
should it come here and put me out of a home that we have paid over
$3,800 toward, jist to please the man that we have paid the money to?”
He shook his head.
“Where are you a goin to put me?” says I.
“I am goin to put you out,” says he; “out in the big road yonder, off
these premises.”
Says I: “Mistur, please dont be so cruel as that. It would kill me to
sleep out there all nite. Please let me stay a little longer—jist a
little longer.”
“No use a talkin,” says he. “Ile have to do as the law says. Its not me
a puttin you out, Mrs. Gaskins—its not me that is cruel. It is the law,
the law, that is doin it.”
“Come on, men,” says he, speakin to the other fellers.
So they come right into the house, the house I had loved so well, walkin
over the floor I have scrubbed on my hands and knees thousands of times,
and begin to tear up my things and carry them out in the big road.
I jist felt so queer I could hardly breathe.
They tore down my stove and tore up my carpet, and carried out fust one
thing, then another, and sot them down beside the road, till all I had
was out there.
When they got it all out, the deputy come in and says:
“Why dont you go out there where your things are? You have no right
here. You must git out, so I can lock up the house.”
Says I: “Mistur, is Congressman Richer a goin to move in to-nite?”
Says he, sneerin like: “Why, Lord no; Mr. Richer wouldent live in sich a
house as this—he lives in Washington; he lives in a _fine_ house.”
“Well, then, Mistur, let me stay in here till I hear from Jobe.”
“No,” says he, “you must git out.”
[Illustration: “They pulled me away from the winder.”]
Says I, chokin like: “Mistur, I _cant_ go.”
“Well, youve _got_ to go,” says he. “Are you a goin?”
“I cant,” says I.
“Here, men,” says he, “take her out of here and out yonder, where she
belongs.”
So one of them big men took hold of one arm, and the other hold of the
other arm, and pulled me away from the winder where I was standin (the
same one where I was standin the mornin Jobe left), and pulled me out of
that dear old kitchen door and across the yard and out into the big
road, where they had piled my things, and sot me down on a chair.
The sheriff had locked the house and follered them out.
When he came out he says, as though he wanted to be friendly: “Where do
you think of goin to, Mrs. Gaskins?”
I looked at him to see if he was crazy or what, but I couldent speak, I
was so full.
Says he: “Do you want the boys to put up your bed for you?”
I nodded my head.
They set my bed up and put two jints of pipe on my stove, and then got
in their buggy and went to town. It was nearly sundown when they left
me.
Soon arter they had gone Tom Osborne come a ridin by and brought me a
letter.
As soon as he said “letter” my heart leapt. I knew it was from Jobe.
Tom said he was sorry to see me out here in the road, and the man really
shed tears. He lives some eight miles from here, and wanted me to go
home with him for the nite. But I jist couldent go. So he rode on.
Arter he was gone I got a lamp and sot down by the fire I had built in
the stove, with some quilts around me, to read poor Jobe’s letter. And
every word seemed to be another knife stuck in my heart.
Poor Jobe he is havin it hard too. I jist cried like my heart would
break as I read what he writ. I send it to you to read. I want you to
return it, as it is from the only person in the world that cares for me.
Here it is—you can read it for yourself. You see it was writ at
different times and places.
JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.
ELYRIA, O., Feb. 22, 1896.
_To Betsy Gaskins._
MY DEAR WIFE:—I have put off ritin to you thinkin I would be able to
rite you somethin to make you happy, but to date I cant.
I got into Lorain the third day arter leavin you. I found a big iron
works there and lots of men at work, but on the sides of the door to
their office and at all the gates around the big fence they have signs
stuck up, readin:
+———————————+
| NO HELP WANTED HERE. |
+———————————+
I went into their office, and asked them if they couldent give me
something to do.
They said: “No, we have all the men we need.”
I told them how I wanted somethin to do at any price; of our bein
foreclosed and havin to git out and all. They shook their head and said
they “had to turn away hundreds of men every day,” and told me to “look
around,” I “might find work somewhere else.”
So I left and went from one place to another, and everywhere I went I
saw them signs and was told the same thing.
I found lots of men huntin work.
On nearly every street, and down along the river and over by the lake,
were men a campin and a sleepin in railroad cars and outdoors; cookin by
fires built along the banks and on the shore; “waitin,” they said, “till
they could git a job.”
I got my supper with three fellers that nite that done their cookin that
way. They seemed to be nice fellers. They was from different parts of
the country.
[Illustration: “At all the gates around the big fence they had signs
stuck up.”]
That nite I got a bed for fifteen cents, and had forty-three cents left.
The next day I walked and walked and walked to find work, but couldent.
At nite I had twenty-four cents left. Not wantin to git clear out of
money, I got into an empty box-car and slept the best I could. It was
cold, and most of the nite I had to walk from one end of the car to the
other, back and forth, to keep myself warm.
So this mornin I come down here to Elyria, and have been from one end of
the town to the other tryin to find work; but nobody seems to want to
hire me.
I find men stayin out around town here too. They say they have been all
over the country, and cant find work anywhere. I dont know what I will
do. Ile go over to Berea and see if I cant find somethin there. I will
not send this letter till I git there.
CLEVELAND, O., Feb. 26, 1896.
BOX-CAR 1406, VALLEY RAILWAY.
[Illustration: “I asked him for something to eat.”]
BETSY:—I am here. I will finish my letter. God only knows what it is to
be out of work, out of money and out of home. I am not well. Ive had to
sleep outdoors, in cars and barns and around lumber piles so much that I
have a bad cold. I have not had anything to eat since yisterday mornin.
This cold weather has nearly used me up. I got one day’s work cuttin
ice, and got a dollar for it. That nite I got me a warm supper and slept
in a bed.
I run out of money at Elyria, and come from there to Berea.
The first beggin I done was from the farmers on the way. I got one warm
meal and a cold lunch. I was in Berea a whole day and nite without
anything to eat, so I jist had to go to beggin agin. I went to the
Methodist preacher’s house one of them real cold mornins. I knocked, and
the preacher come to the door. I asked him for somethin to eat. He
called to the hired girl and told her to hand me a lunch, and went in,
shut the door, and sot down by the fire. I could see him a settin there
a readin the Cleveland _Leader_, with his feet restin on a plush
foot-stool, and while that girl was a gittin that lunch and I was a
standin out there in the wind a lookin at that good big fire I thought I
would freeze. My teeth shook.
When the girl brought that lunch I was so cold that I could hardly take
it. It was two pieces of cold bread, with some cold beef shaved off and
laid between.
I was hungry and tried to eat it; the bites seemed to stick in my
throat, it was so dry and cold. What I did swallow seemed like chunks of
ice in my stomach, and made me colder. I shook from head to foot. I
couldent eat it, I was so cold. So I put what I couldent eat in my
pocket, thinkin I would eat it when I got warmer.
I thought Ide die with cold. No matter how fast I walked, I dident get
warm. I went on and on till I got down where the bizness houses were. I
could smell coffee and warm meat a fryin. It jist seemed as though I had
to go in and take some, but I knew I darent. It seemed to make me
colder. Finally I saw a sign sayin:
+————————+
| FREE HOT SOUP. |
+————————+
When I got up to it a man opened the door, a sweepin. I stopped, told
him I had no money and was cold, and asked him if I could go into his
place and warm.
“Certainly,” says he, “go right in. Ile be in in a minit.”
I went in—yes, Betsy, went into a saloon, the fust time in my life. Dont
blame me. I had to—I was so cold. The stove was red-hot. When the feller
come in and saw how I was shakin, says he:
“Old man, this is pretty cold weather to be out.”
“Yes,” says I, shiverin.
He brought me a chair and told me to set down. Then he felt my hands and
ears and says:
“Why, you are nearly froze.”
I told him about havin to stay out all nite, and about not havin
anything warm for breakfast, the best I could, I shook so.
He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got
hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of
liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I
hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life.
“Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man
like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to
drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.”
So he set the glass down on the counter and says:
“Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel
better.”
When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin
me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer
outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of
whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm
feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel
myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of
whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast
ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always
loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot
cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth.
Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down
and asked me all about myself, and you too.
[Illustration: “‘WELL, OLD MAN, SICH THINGS HADENT ORT TO BE.’”]
And as I told all our trouble, about our foreclosin and sellin out, and
my huntin work and not findin it, big tears would every now and then
leave his big blue eyes and roll down his cheeks, and he kept a
swallerin every little bit. When I had told him all, says he:
“Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.”
So, when I got ready to go, he shook my hand and wished me good luck in
findin work; and when he took hold of my hand I felt somethin hard in
his, and when he let go I had a silver dollar in mine. I handed it back
to him, and told him I dident know as I could ever return it to him.
“No matter, pap,” says he, “keep it. If you are never able to return it,
all right, and if you are able and never see me, ‘do unto some other
human brother as I have done unto you,’ and the debt will be paid. Times
are hard, and I have sich high taxes to pay that it makes money scarce
with me, or I would give you more. I hate to see you go out in this
cold; you are welcome to stay if you wish.”
But, Betsy, I was so anxious to find work and git a place for you that I
couldent stay. So that day and nite I made it to here. This is a big
town, but so far I have found no work.
Your lovin husband,
JOBE GASKINS.
When I got done readin that letter I was cryin out loud. Poor Jobe. I
wonder where he was last nite.
Oh, how I love that man that took Jobe in and warmed him and fed him!
I love him though he is a saloonkeeper. I could throw my arms around his
neck and cry on his shoulder with love for him and for his kindness
toward Jobe.
Well, this mornin the world seems strange to me. Last nite arter I had
gone to bed and could look up in the clear sky at the bright stars, it
jist seemed to me, while I laid there in my bed beside the big road,
that every star was a eye lookin down on me with pity. And, thinkin that
they looked that way, I was not a bit afraid and went to sleep, and
slept till daylite.
Hopin God will forgive them for makin and havin laws to put sich people
as me out of home, I am
Your troubled and homeless
BETSY GASKINS.
[Illustration]