A FAMILY REUNION.
TUSCARAWAS COUNTY POOR-HOUSE,
NEAR NEW PHILADELPHIA, O., March 25, 1896.
MR. EDITOR:—Your letter asking more about Betsy Gaskins received. I will
tell you all I know. Whether Betsy Gaskins is living or dead I cannot
say, and I never will know, though what I do know I never can forget.
The strange things I have seen since I last wrote you are mysteries that
can only be guessed at; they cannot be solved.
Betsy had been growing worse every day till the night of that terrible
storm. The rain and sleet and snow, the wind and hail, made it one of
the most dismal nights I ever saw. The roaring in the woods on the hill
back of the poor-house sounded like a storm on the ocean. In every
direction cattle and sheep were bawling. It was so cold, and the noise,
I suppose, kept them awake.
That night Betsy was worse. She had smothering spells that it seemed she
would die in, and her suffering was terrible. I couldn’t leave her,
though my baby was fretful and kept awake till after ten o’clock. I was
with her almost all the time.
I had let the window down from the top to let in fresh air, as she
seemed to need it. I had no light except what came in over the transom
of the door from the hall.
It was about two o’clock that I was sitting there all alone. Betsy
seemed to be getting worse very fast.
[Illustration: “Pushing back the hair of the sick woman, leaned over and
kissed her on the forehead.”]
The roaring of the storm, the bellowing of the cattle, the creaking of
the window shutters and the moaning of that old woman made it sad and
lonesome.
I was sitting there, thinking of what an awful thing it is to be poor
and homeless and sick and friendless,—thinking of the wrong and misery,
the cruelty and crime that is going on in the world against the weak and
helpless,—when for some reason I looked toward the window, and there was
the face of the most beautiful little girl I ever saw, looking in just
over the sash. Her face seemed to shine, it was so bright. Her hair was
the color of gold. I couldn’t speak.
That face (for the face and shoulders were all I could see) seemed to
float in at that window, and for a minute stood still, like a
humming-bird in the air, in the middle of that room, with its eyes
steadily fixed on the old woman. Then it moved slowly and quietly
downward and lit on the bed beside Betsy, and, pushing back the hair of
the sick woman, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. At that
Betsy opened her eyes and clasped the little girl in her arms, saying:
“Oh, my child!”
The head said, “Mamma.”
They held each other there a minute or so, when Betsy all of a sudden
threw her arms in the air, half rose up and screamed at the top of her
voice:
“See! see! Look yonder! Your father’s burning! Go, child! Go!”
The little girl turned her head, and they both looked toward the west
wall a second, as though they saw something terrible to behold. Then the
child rose as quick as thought, and, like a flash, went out at the
window, screaming in a tone that made the chills run over me, “Oh, my
papa!”
Betsy fell back upon the bed, and seemed to be greatly troubled and in
much pain.
I had set there possibly an hour, watching the sufferings of that poor
woman, and thinking of that little girl, when all of a sudden I looked
toward the window, and there again was the face of that little girl and
the face of an old man. The little girl was pointing with her chubby
finger toward the sick woman; the other arm she had around the old man.
He was looking to where she was pointing, troubled like.
I can’t say I was scared. I just felt speechless.
When they had looked a little bit, both of them came in at that
window—just floated in—and stood in mid-air.
Betsy was resting easier, and it seemed they didn’t wish to wake her.
[Illustration: “There lay Mrs. Gaskins.”]
I could see more of the little girl than before. Both their faces were
bright, and the lower down you looked the dimmer they got, till they
became colorless. I thought I could see their feet, as clear as glass.
Well, after they had rested there in the air a few seconds the little
girl took her arm from around the old man, and they both settled down
beside the old woman, one on one side of the bed, the other on the other
side, and they each stroked her hair back with their hands.
Pretty soon Betsy opened her eyes, and looked up, happy like, first at
one, then at the other; then she stretched out her arms, and they both
laid their faces down beside hers, one on one side and one on the other.
She seemed to rest easier then, only her breathing was slower and each
time farther apart. Pretty soon I saw a mist or something gathering over
her between the old man and the little girl. I watched it, and it kept
growing brighter and brighter, till I could see the form of a woman;
then I could see that it appeared alive and looked like Mrs. Gaskins,
only happier. Mrs. Gaskins began to suffer now, and was getting her
breath hard.
[Illustration: “THERE AGAIN WAS THE FACE OF THAT LITTLE GIRL AND THE
FACE OF AN OLD MAN.”]
Finally the old man and the little girl rose up, and each put an arm
around this form. The form would first look at one, then the other. Then
Mrs. Gaskins gave one long, hard gasp, and straightened out, and the
form broke loose, and all three rose up in the air and floated to the
middle of the room, stopped, turned, and all looked at the bed. Then
they turned and gazed at me. I couldn’t move. They kissed each other and
began to move slowly toward the window, each with an arm around another.
As they went out through the window the little girl began to sing the
prettiest song I ever heard, in a low, sweet tone.
When they were gone I got up and ran to the window. There they were,
going up through the sky above the barn, the little girl singing at the
top of her voice.
I stood there looking as long as I could see them. I heard that little
girl still singing as they went out of sight over the hill back of the
poor-house.
[Illustration: “In the morning there was found a white-haired man.”]
I felt so weak that I don’t know how long I stood there, but finally I
thought that I must run and tell the superintendent that Mrs. Gaskins
had gone. With that thought in my mind I turned from the window, crossed
the room, and was just opening the door, when I happened to look toward
the bed. And there lay Mrs. Gaskins as she had lain all evening, only
stiller.
I was scared. I could hardly believe it. I went to the bed. She was
cold. She did not breathe. I rubbed my eyes and hands and face to try to
bring myself to realize what it all meant. Then I went into my room and
lay down beside my baby till morning.
I straightened out Betsy’s clothes the next morning before they put her
in the box. While doing so, I found a little rose-bush, tied up neatly
in a rag and pinned fast to her skirt.
This, Mr. Editor, is all I know of Betsy Gaskins.
Of Jobe Gaskins I know very little, unless it was he that came with the
little girl.
In yesterday’s daily paper, however, I noticed this item:
“NEW PHILADELPHIA, O., March 22, 1896.—Last night a supposed tramp
entered the Canal Dover rolling-mill in an almost frozen condition and
asked for shelter from the storm. In accordance with his instruction
from the company, the night watchman ejected him. In the morning there
was found a white-haired man, apparently sixty years of age, lying cold
in death on the ash-heap. The initials ‘J. G.’ were marked on his shirt.
His face was burned so that it scarcely looked like a human countenance.
His feet and body were covered with ice and snow.
“The coroner’s jury, judging from the time the man was refused shelter
in the mill and from the amount of snow on his feet and body, decided
that he must have died between two and three o’clock the night before.”
Could this tramp, Mr. Editor, have been the old man who was trying to
get back to his sick wife?
HATTIE MOORE.
P. S.—The rose-bush which I found pinned to poor Betsy’s skirt I have
planted on her grave.
[Illustration]