“THEM ROOMS.” THE “DIRECTOR OF CHARITIES.”
THAT mornin arter I wrote you the last time—arter I had built me a fire
in my stove and got my breakfast and washed up my dishes and made my
bed—I sot down on a chair out there by the big road. I never felt so
queer in all my life. Not a sound could be heard, except over on the
hill near Jake Stiffler’s I could heer a cow a bawlin. It was awful
lonesome. No one to speak to, nothin to look at, except my things piled
up there beside the road.
I couldent help thinkin of poor Jobe—his beggin, and bein cold, and
starvin, and sleepin in box-cars, and sich.
Well, arter I had sot there a while a thinkin, I felt so bad that I jist
thought I would go up to the house and take a look at them rooms and the
place we had so long loved as our home.
I felt afraid like to go, but I thought it might cheer me up to look
into them rooms that I had cleaned and papered and swept—the rooms where
Jobe and me had set in and slept; the rooms that had sheltered us in
sickness and in health.
So I jist throwed a shawl over my head, and walked up the walk that I
had walked up thousands of times.
There were the currant bushes, the lilac, the dead poppy stalks. And all
the weeds and posies, that used to appear to wear a smile for me, now
seemed to turn from me as if to say, “We haint yours any more. You have
no bizness here now.”
[Illustration: “I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.”]
And as I looked at them and felt that feelin, a lump would raise up in
my throat, no matter how much I swallered and tried to keep it back.
Well, I walked on until I got up to the kitchen winder. When I got there
it jist seemed that I couldent look in, but, knowin I had come there to
see them rooms, half afraid like but determined, I slipped over and put
my face agin the glass.
Everything was silent and still. There was my kitchen, all empty. Not a
thing to be seen but that dear old kitchen—empty—no stove, no table, no
chairs, no nothin. There was the winder where I stood cryin the mornin
Jobe left. There by that winder I had set a combin my little Jane’s hair
years ago, while she drew pictures on them same winderpanes with her
little fingers. There were the nails Jobe had drove in the wall when we
fust moved in; there was the same floor over which we had walked for
years. Oh, how I longed to be a walkin over it agin! I was locked out—I
couldent git in.
So I went from one winder to another, lookin in at them rooms. There was
the same grate that had warmed us; there in that corner, evenin arter
evenin, Jobe had set and studied; there in the other corner I had set
and knit, or set and read. It seemed that I could see Jobe there now.
Oh! how I would love to see him there. Poor Jobe! I wonder if he thinks
of the evenins weve spent beside that fire together. There was our
bed-room—empty, silent and still—no bed, no nothin. There in that room I
had set, nite arter nite, with little Jane when she was sick; there she
had throwed her little arms around my neck and put her fevered face agin
mine the last time. From that room Ellen Jane Moore had carried her
arter she was gone. It was empty now. I was locked out. I couldent go
in.
Turnin from them rooms, I walked around the yard, lookin at the fence,
the well, the coal-house, and the things that had been mine. Then, comin
to the front yard, I come to the little white rose-bush; it seemed to
look at me pleadin like. I started to go on, but I couldent. That
rose-bush seemed to call me back. So I jist got me a sharp stick and dug
it up, and took it down to where my things were and wrapped it up in a
cloth.
When I got back to the big road, and was settin there wonderin what Ide
do, how long Ide have to live there in the big road, where Ide go to and
sich, Constable Bill Adams come a ridin by.
When he got up to me, says he:
“Why, Mrs. Gaskins, what are you a doin with all this stuff piled in the
road?”
“Ime livin here,” says I.
“Well, youle have to git this stuff out of the road,” says he. “You
darent obstruct the public highway. Its dangerous to have a pile of
stuff like this in the big road; its liable to scare horses, and
somebody might git hurt or killed. Its aginst the law, Mrs. Gaskins, its
aginst the law, and you will have to move it.”
“The law put it here,” says I.
“No matter,” says he; “youle have to git out of here, or youle be
arrested.”
“Where will I put it?”
“How do I know?” says he. “Youle have to look out for that yourself. Git
it out of here, and that mighty quick, or you will git yourself into
trouble.”
And he rode on towards town.
Well, as he rode away I sot down and begin to think. Here I was, a old
woman, set out in the big road by the Law—put out of the house we had
paid $3,800 towards; the house empty, and now comes the Law and orders
me to even git away from where the Law had put me. What to do I dident
know. I jist sot there a cryin and helpless, when I heerd wagons comin
down the road. I looked up, and there come two wagons and four men down
the hill.
They drove up and stopped, and there was Tom Osborne, and Charley
McGlinchey, and that fat black-smith, and Jones the baker, all from
Mineral Pint. They had come to move me.
Tom Osborne had went home the night before and told them about me bein
put out in the big road, and they went together and got teams and come
and moved me to town here.
They seemed to be nice, kind men, but talked like them Populists.
They dident talk much to me, but I heerd them talkin to each other,
sayin: “Its a shame,” “a disgrace to civilization,” “wrong,” “wouldent
be if the people could borrow money from the government like they do in
Switzerland,” and all sich. They even said: “The time haint fur off when
it can be done, and the likes of this wont be.” And then they said a
good deal agin the money power and polerticians, and sich, until I was
glad Jobe wasent there to flare up. I was glad he wasent there, though
Ide give the world to know where he is, or to have him with me.
Well, they brought me to town and rented me this house here at 1412 West
Front Street, and paid the rent for a month; then two of them drove off,
and soon brought me a load of coal. While them two were gone for the
coal the other two set up my stove, and fixed up my bed, and set things
around in pretty good shape for men; then, wishin me good luck, and
hopin Jobe would soon git work and I would git to go to him, they drove
off. They all looked pityin like as they left.
I went to the post-office the next mornin to tell them I had changed my
place of livin. I got this letter from Jobe. It jist seems there is no
end of trouble for the people who are poor.
Poor Jobe, how my heart bleeds for him. Here is his letter. Read it for
yourself:
JOBE’S SECOND LETTER.
CLEVELAND WORK-HOUSE,
CLEVELAND, O., March 5, 1896.
_To Betsy Gaskins._
MY DEAR WIFE AND ONLY FRIEND:—I am here in this prison—put here by the
law. God only knows my feelins. I am not a criminal. Ive done no wrong.
Betsy, don’t blame me. Pity me. I am a old man. I have worked hard. Ive
been honest. Ive tried to do right. To-day I am in prison, wearin
stripes. I was hungry. I had no money. I asked for bread. They arrested
me.
[Illustration]
It was day before yisterday. I had hunted for work all day. I had had
nothin to eat for a whole day and nite. I was passin up Ontario Street,
near Hull & Dutton’s big clothin store. I saw a well-dressed man, with a
high silk hat on, with a hand full of paper money, talkin loud and
offerin to bet $500 that McKinley would git the delegates from Allegheny
County. There were several fellers standin there a listenin and talkin,
and two policemen. I stepped up and asked the feller with the money if
he could give me enough to git me a supper and bed. I was so hungry and
nearly sick by sleepin outdoors.
The feller turned around and looked black at me. Then, turnin to the
policemen, he ordered them to arrest me, sayin:
“Ime d—d if I dont intend to break up this beggin on the streets.”
The policemen took hold of me and jerked me out of the crowd and pulled
me down Champlain Street hill to the city prison, and locked me in a
iron cage.
I asked one of them who the big man was that ordered me arrested. He
said it was “the Director of Charities, one of the leadin city
officers.”
You may have read in the papers of him a havin a tramp arrested for
askin him for somethin to buy bread with.
That tramp, Betsy, was me.
They say he gits $5,000 a year for bein “Director of Charities.”
Well, they tried me next mornin and found me guilty.
I am up for ten days. I cant find any work or a place for you till I git
out.
They brought me out here in a wagon with a cage on it. They call it the
“Black Mariar.” There was a lot of us in it. Betsy, pity me. Dont blame
me.
Your lovin husband, JOBE GASKINS.
Mistur Editure, I cant comment. I feel so bad.
[Illustration]