SOLOMON.

Midway in the eastern part of Ohio lies the coal country; round-topped

hills there begin to show themselves in the level plain, trending back

from Lake Erie; afterwards rising higher and higher, they stretch away

into Pennsylvania and are dignified by the name of Alleghany Mountains.

But no names have they in their Ohio birthplace, and little do the

people care for them, save as storehouses for fuel. The roads lie along

the slow-moving streams, and the farmers ride slowly over them in their

broad-wheeled wagons, now and then passing dark holes in the bank from

whence come little carts into the sunshine, and men, like _silhouettes_,

walking behind them, with glow-worm lamps fastened in their hat-bands.

Neither farmers nor miners glance up towards the hilltops; no doubt they

consider them useless mounds, and, were it not for the coal, they would

envy their neighbors of the grain-country whose broad, level fields

stretch unbroken through Central Ohio; as, however, the canal-boats go

away full, and long lines of coal-cars go away full, and every man's

coal-shed is full, and money comes back from the great iron-mills of

Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Cleveland, the coal country, though unknown

in a picturesque point of view, continues to grow rich and prosperous.

Yet picturesque it is, and no part more so than the valley where stands

the village of the quaint German Community on the banks of the

slow-moving Tuscarawas River. One October day we left the lake behind us

and journeyed inland, following the water-courses and looking forward

for the first glimpse of rising ground; blue are the waters of Erie on a

summer day, red and golden are its autumn sunsets, but so level, so

deadly level are its shores that, at times, there comes a longing for

the sight of distant hills. Hence our journey. Night found us still in

the 'Western Reserve.' Ohio has some queer names of her own for portions

of her territory, the 'Fire Lands,' the 'Donation Grant,' the 'Salt

Section,' the 'Refugee's Tract,' and the 'Western Reserve' are names

well known, although not found on the maps. Two days more and we came

into the coal country; near by were the 'Moravian Lands,' and at the end

of the last day's ride we crossed a yellow bridge over a stream called

the 'One-Leg Creek.'

'I have tried in vain to discover the origin of this name,' I said, as

we leaned out of the carriage to watch the red leaves float down the

slow tide.

'Create one, then. A one-legged soldier, a farmer's pretty daughter, an

elopement in a flat-bottomed boat, and a home upon this stream which

yields its stores of catfish for their support,' suggested Erminia.

'The original legend would be better than that if we could only find it,

for real life is always better than fiction,' I answered.

'In real life we are all masked; but in fiction the author shows the

faces as they are, Dora.'

'I do not believe we are all masked, Erminia. I can read my friends like

a printed page.'

'O, the wonderful faith of youth!' said Erminia, retiring upon her

seniority.

Presently the little church on the hill came into view through a vista

in the trees. We passed the mill and its flowing race, the blacksmith's

shop, the great grass meadow, and drew up in front of the quaint hotel

where the trustees allowed the world's people, if uninquisitive and

decorous, to remain in the Community for short periods of time, on the

payment of three dollars per week for each person. This village was our

favorite retreat, our little hiding-place in the hill-country; at that

time it was almost as isolated as a solitary island, for the Community

owned thousands of outlying acres and held no intercourse with the

surrounding townships. Content with their own, unmindful of the rest of

the world, these Germans grew steadily richer and richer, solving

quietly the problem of co-operative labor, while the French and

Americans worked at it in vain with newspapers, orators, and even cannon

to aid them. The members of the Community were no ascetic anchorites;

each tiled roof covered a home with a thrifty mother and train of grave

little children, the girls in short-waisted gowns, kerchiefs, and

frilled caps, and the boys in tailed coats, long-flapped vests, and

trousers, as soon as they were able to toddle. We liked them all, we

liked the life; we liked the mountain-high beds, the coarse snowy linen,

and the remarkable counterpanes; we liked the cream stewed chicken, the

Kaese-lab, and fresh butter, but, best of all, the hot bretzels for

breakfast. And let not the hasty city imagination turn to the hard,

salty, saw-dust cake in the shape of a broken-down figure eight which is

served with lager-beer in saloons and gardens. The Community bretzel was

of a delicate flaky white in the inside, shading away into a

golden-brown crust of crisp involutions, light as a feather, and flanked

by little pats of fresh, unsalted butter, and a deep-blue cup wherein

the coffee was hot, the cream yellow, and the sugar broken lumps from

the old-fashioned loaf, now alas! obsolete.

We stayed among the simple people and played at shepherdesses and

pastorellas; we adopted the hours of the birds, we went to church on

Sunday and sang German chorals as old as Luther. We even played at work

to the extent of helping gather apples, eating the best, and riding home

on top of the loaded four-horse wains. But one day we heard of a new

diversion, a sulphur-spring over the hills about two miles from the

hotel on land belonging to the Community; and, obeying the fascination

which earth's native medicines exercise over all earth's children, we

immediately started in search of the nauseous spring. The road wound

over the hill, past one of the apple-orchards, where the girls were

gathering the red fruit, and then down a little declivity where the

track branched off to the Community coal-mine; then a solitary stretch

through the thick woods, a long hill with a curve, and at the foot a

little dell with a patch of meadow, a brook, and a log-house with

overhanging root, a forlorn house unpainted and desolate. There was not

even the blue door which enlivened many of the Community dwellings.

'This looks like the huts of the Black Forest,' said Erminia. 'Who would

have supposed that we should find such an antique in Ohio!'

'I am confident it was built by the M. B.'s,' I replied. 'They tramped,

you know, extensively through the State, burying axes and leaving every

now and then a mastodon behind them.'

'Well, if the Mound-Builders selected this site they showed good taste,'

said Erminia, refusing, in her afternoon indolence, the argumentum

nonsensicum with which we were accustomed to enliven our conversation.

It was, indeed, a lovely spot,--the little meadow, smooth and bright as

green velvet, the brook chattering over the pebbles, and the hills, gay

in red and yellow foliage, rising abruptly on all sides. After some

labor we swung open the great gate and entered the yard, crossed the

brook on a mossy plank, and followed the path through the grass towards

the lonely house. An old shepherd-dog lay at the door of a dilapidated

shed, like a block-house, which had once been a stable; he did not bark,

but, rising slowly, came along beside us,--a large, gaunt animal that

looked at us with such melancholy eyes that Erminia stooped to pat him.

Ermine had a weakness for dogs; she herself owned a wild beast of the

dog kind that went by the name of the 'Emperor Trajan'; and, accompanied

by this dignitary, she was accustomed to stroll up the avenues of C----,

lost in maiden meditations.

We drew near the house and stepped up on the sunken piazza, but no signs

of life appeared. The little loophole windows were pasted over with

paper, and the plank door had no latch or handle. I knocked, but no one

came. 'Apparently it is a haunted house, and that dog is the spectre,' I

said, stepping back.

'Knock three times,' suggested Ermine; 'that is what they always do in

ghost-stories.'

'Try it yourself. My knuckles are not cast-iron.'

Ermine picked up a stone and began tapping on the door. 'Open sesame,'

she said, and it opened.

Instantly the dog slunk away to his block-house and a woman confronted

us, her dull face lighting up as her eyes ran rapidly over our attire

from head to foot. 'Is there a sulphur-spring here?' I asked. 'We would

like to try the water.'

'Yes, it's here fast enough in the back hall. Come in, ladies; I'm right

proud to see you. From the city, I suppose?'

'From C----,' I answered; 'we are spending a few days in the Community.'

Our hostess led the way through the little hall, and throwing open a

back door pulled up a trap in the floor, and there we saw the

spring,--a shallow well set in stones, with a jar of butter cooling in

its white water. She brought a cup, and we drank. 'Delicious,' said

Ermine. 'The true, spoiled-egg flavor! Four cups is the minimum

allowance, Dora.'

'I reckon it is good for the insides,' said the woman, standing with arms

akimbo and staring at us. She was a singular creature, with large black

eyes, Roman nose, and a mass of black hair tightly knotted on the top of

her head, but pinched and gaunt; her yellow forehead was wrinkled with a

fixed frown, and her thin lips drawn down in permanent discontent. Her

dress was a shapeless linsey-woolsey gown, and home-made list slippers

covered her long, lank feet 'Be that the fashion?' she asked, pointing

to my short, closely fitting walking-dress.

'Yes,' I answered; 'do you like it.'

'Well, it does for you, sis, because you're so little and peaked-like,

but it wouldn't do for me. The other lady, now, don't wear nothing like

that; is she even with the style, too?'

'There is such a thing as being above the style, madam,' replied Ermine,

bending to dip up glass number two.

'Our figgers is a good deal alike,' pursued the woman; 'I reckon that

fashion ud suit me best.'

Willowy Erminia glanced at the stick-like hostess. 'You do me honor,'

she said, suavely. 'I shall consider myself fortunate, madam, if you

will allow me to send you patterns from C----. What are we if not well

dressed?'

'You have a fine dog,' I began hastily, fearing lest the great, black

eyes should penetrate the sarcasm; 'what is his name?'

'A stupid beast! He's none of mine; belongs to my man.'

'Your husband?'

'Yes, my man. He works in the coal-mine over the hill.'

'You have no children?'

'Not a brat. Glad of it, too.'

'You must be lonely,' I said, glancing around the desolate house. To my

surprise suddenly the woman burst into a flood of tears, and sinking

down on the floor she rocked from side to side, sobbing, and covering

her face with her bony hands.

'What can be the matter with her?' I said in alarm; and, in my

agitation, I dipped up some sulphur-water and held it to her lips.

'Take away the nasty smelling stuff,--I hate it!' she cried, pushing the

cup angrily from her.

Ermine looked on in silence for a moment or two, then she took off her

neck-tie, a bright-colored Roman scarf, and threw it across the trap

into the woman's lap. 'Do me the favor to accept that trifle, madame,'

she said, in her soft voice.

The woman's sobs ceased as she saw the ribbon; she fingered it with one

hand in silent admiration, wiped her wet face with the skirt of her

gown, and then suddenly disappeared into an adjoining room, closing the

door behind her.

'Do you think she is crazy?' I whispered.

'O no; merely pensive.'

'Nonsense, Ermine! But why did you give her that ribbon?'

'To develop her aesthetic taste,' replied my cousin, finishing her last

glass, and beginning to draw on her delicate gloves.

Immediately I began gulping down my neglected dose; but so vile was the

odor that some time was required for the operation, and in the midst of

my struggles our hostess re-appeared. She had thrown on an old dress of

plaid delaine, a faded red ribbon was tied over her head, and around her

sinewed throat reposed the Roman scarf pinned with a glass brooch.

'Really, madam, you honor us,' said Ermine, gravely.

'Thankee, marm. It's so long since I've had on anything but that old

bag, and so long since I've seen anything but them Dutch girls over to

the Community, with their wooden shapes and wooden shoes, that it sorter

come over me all 't onct what a miserable life I've had. You see, I

ain't what I looked like; now I've dressed up a bit I feel more like

telling you that I come of good Ohio stock, without a drop of Dutch

blood. My father, he kep' store in Sandy, and I had everything I wanted

until I must needs get crazy over Painting Sol at the Community. Father,

he wouldn't hear to it, and so I ran away; Sol, he turned out good for

nothing to work, and so here I am, yer see, in spite of all his pictures

making me out the Queen of Sheby.'

'Is your husband an artist?' I asked.

'No, miss. He's a coal-miner, he is. But he used to like to paint me all

sorts of ways. Wait, I'll show yer.' Going up the rough stairs that led

into the attic, the woman came back after a moment with a number of

sheets of drawing-paper which she hung up along the walls with pins for

our inspection. They were all portraits of the same face, with brick-red

cheeks, enormous black eyes, and a profusion of shining black hair

hanging down over plump white shoulders; the costumes were various, but

the faces were the same. I gazed in silence, seeing no likeness to

anything earthly. Erminia took out her glasses and scanned the pictures

slowly.

'Yourself, madam, I perceive' she said, much to my surprise.

'Yes, 'm, that's me,' replied our hostess, complacently. 'I never was

like those yellow-haired girls over to the Community. Sol allers said my

face was real rental.'

'Rental?' I repeated, inquiringly.

'Oriental, of course,' said Ermine. 'Mr.--Mr. Solomon is quite right.

May I ask the names of these characters, madam?'

'Queen of Sheby, Judy, Ruth, Esthy, Po-co-hon-tus, Goddess-aliberty,

Sunset, and eight Octobers, them with the grapes. Sunset's the one with

the red paint behind it like clouds.'

'Truly a remarkable collection,' said Ermine. 'Does Mr. Solomon devote

much time to his art?'

'No, not now. He couldn't make a cent out of it, so he's took to digging

coal. He painted all them when we was first married, and he went a

journey all the way to Cincinnati to sell 'em. First he was going to buy

me a silk dress and some ear-rings, and, after that, a farm. But pretty

soon home he come on a canal-boat, without a shilling, and a bringing

all the pictures back with him! Well, then he tried most everything, but

he never could keep to any one trade, for he'd just as lief quit work in

the middle of the forenoon and go to painting; no boss 'll stand that,

you know. We kep' a going down, and I had to sell the few things my

father give me when he found I was married whether or no,--my chany, my

feather-beds, and my nice clothes, piece by piece. I held on to the big

looking' glass for four years, but at last it had to go, and then I just

gave up and put on a linsey-woolsey gown. When a girl's spirit's once

broke, she don't care for nothing, you know; so, when the Community

offered to take Sol back as coal-digger, I just said, "Go," and we

come.' Here she tried to smear the tears away with her bony hands, and

gave a low groan.

'Groaning probably relieves you,' observed Ermine.

'Yes, 'm. It's kinder company like, when I'm all alone. But you see it's

hard on the prettiest girl in Sandy to have to live in this lone lorn

place. Why, ladies, you mightn't believe it, but I had open-work

stockings, and feathers in my winter bunnets before I was married!' And

the tears broke forth afresh.

'Accept my handkerchief,' said Ermine; 'it will serve your purpose

better than fingers.'

The woman took the dainty cambric and surveyed it curiously, held at

arm's length. 'Reg'lar thistle-down, now, ain't it?' she said; 'and

smells like a locust-tree blossom.'

'Mr Solomon, then, belonged to the Community?' I asked, trying to gather

up the threads of the story.

'No he didn't either; he's no Dutchman, I reckon, he's a Lake County

man, born near Painesville, he is.'

'I thought you spoke as though he had been in the Community.'

'So he had; he didn't belong, but he worked for 'em since he was a boy,

did middling well, in spite of the painting, until one day, when he come

over to Sandy on a load of wood and seen me standing at the door. That

was the end of him,' continued the woman, with an air of girlish pride;

'he couldn't work no more for thinking of me.'

'_Ou la vanite va-t-elle se nicher?_' murmured Ermine, rising. 'Come,

Dora, it is time to return.'

As I hastily finished my last cup of sulphur water, our hostess followed

Ermine towards the door. 'Will you have your handkercher back, marm?'

she said, holding it out reluctantly.

'It was a free gift, madam,' replied my cousin; 'I wish you a good

afternoon.'

'Say, will yer be coming again to-morrow?' asked the woman as I took my

departure.

'Very likely; good by.'

The door closed, and then, but not till then, the melancholy dog joined

us and stalked behind until we had crossed the meadow and reached the

gate. We passed out and turned up the hill; but looking back we saw the

outline of the woman's head at the upper window, and the dog's head at

the bars, both watching us out of sight.

In the evening there came a cold wind down from the north, and the

parlor, with its primitive ventilators, square openings in the side of

the house, grew chilly. So a great fire of soft coal was built in the

broad Franklin stove, and before its blaze we made good cheer, nor

needed the one candle which flickered on the table behind us. Cider

fresh from the mill, carded ginger-bread, and new cheese crowned the

scene, and during the evening came a band of singers, the young people

of the Community, and sang for us the song of the Lorelei, accompanied

by home-made violins and flageolets. At length we were left alone, the

candle had burned out, the house door was barred, and the peaceful

Community was asleep; still we two sat together with our feet upon the

hearth, looking down into the glowing coals.

'Ich weisz nicht was soll es bedeuten

Dasz ich so traurig bin,'

I said, repeating the opening lines of the Lorelei; 'I feel absolutely

blue to-night.'

'The memory of the sulphur-woman,' suggested Ermine.

'Sulphur-woman! What a name!'

'Entirely appropriate, in my opinion.'

'Poor thing! How she longed with a great longing for the finery of her

youth in Sandy.'

'I suppose from those barbarous pictures that she was originally in the

flesh,' mused Ermine; 'at present she is but a bony outline.'

'Such as she is, however, she has had her romance,' I answered. 'She is

quite sure that there was one to love her; then let come what may, she

has had her day.'

'Misquoting Tennyson on such a subject!' said Ermine, with disdain.

'A man's a man for all that and a woman's a woman too,' I retorted. 'You

are blind, cousin, blinded with pride. That woman has had her tragedy,

as real and bitter as any that can come to us.'

'What have you to say for the poor man, then!' exclaimed Ermine, rousing

to the contest. 'If there is a tragedy at the sulphur-house, it belongs

to the sulphur-man, not to the sulphur-woman.'

'He is not a sulphur-man, he is a coal-man; keep to your bearings,

Ermine.'

'I tell you,' pursued my cousin, earnestly, 'that I pitied that unknown

man with inward tears all the while I sat by that trap door. Depend upon

it, he had his dream, his ideal; and this country girl with her great

eyes and wealth of hair represented the beautiful to his hungry soul. He

gave his whole life and hope into her hands, and woke to find his

goddess a common wooden image.'

'Waste sympathy upon a coal-miner!' I said, imitating my cousin's former

tone.

'If any one is blind, it is you,' she answered, with gleaming eyes.

'That man's whole history stood revealed in the selfish complainings of

that creature. He had been in the Community from boyhood, therefore of

course he had no chance to learn life, to see its art-treasures. He has

been shipwrecked, poor soul; hopelessly shipwrecked.'

'She too, Ermine.'

'She!'

'Yes. If he loved pictures, she loved her chany and her feather-beds,

not to speak of the big looking-glass. No doubt she had other lovers,

and might have lived in a red brick farmhouse with ten unopened front

windows and a blistered front door. The wives of men of genius are

always to be pitied; they do not soar into the crowd of feminine

admirers who circle round the husband, and they are therefore called

'grubs,' 'worms of the earth,' 'drudges,' and other sweet titles.'

'Nonsense,' said Ermine, tumbling the arched coals into chaos with the

poker; 'it's after midnight, let us go up stairs.' I knew very well that

my beautiful cousin enjoyed the society of several poets, painters,

musicians, and others of that ilk, without concerning herself about

their stay-at-home wives.

The next day the winds were out in battle array, howling over the

Strasburg hill, raging up and down the river, and whirling the colored

leaves wildly along the lovely road to the One-Leg Creek. Evidently

there could be no rambling in the painted woods that day, so we went

over to old Fritz's shop, played on his home-made piano, inspected the

woolly horse who turned his crank patiently in an underground den, and

set in motion all the curious little images which the carpenter's deft

fingers had wrought. Fritz belonged to the Community, and knew nothing

of the outside world; he had a taste for mechanism, which showed itself

in many labor-saving devices, and with it all he was the roundest,

kindest little man, with bright eyes like a canary-bird.

'Do you know Solomon the coal-miner?' asked Ermine, in her correct,

well-learned German.

'Sol Bangs? Yes, I know him,' replied Fritz in his Wuertemburg dialect.

'What kind of a man is he?'

'Good for nothing,' replied Fritz, placidly.

'Why?'

'Wrong here'; tapping his forehead.

'Do you know his wife?' I asked.

'Yes.'

'What kind of a woman is she?'

'Too much tongue. Women must not talk much.'

'Old Fritz touched us both there,' I said, as we ran back laughing to

the hotel through the blustering wind. 'In his opinion, I suppose, we

have the popular verdict of the township upon our two _proteges_, the

sulphur-woman and her husband.'

The next day opened calm, hazy, and warm, the perfection of Indian

summer; the breezy hill was outlined in purple, and the trees glowed in

rich colors. In the afternoon we started for the sulphur-spring without

shawls or wraps, for the heat was almost oppressive; we loitered on the

way through the still woods, gathering the tinted leaves, and wondering

why no poet has yet arisen to celebrate in fit words the glories of the

American autumn. At last we reached the turn whence the lonely house

came into view, and at the bars we saw the dog awaiting us.

'Evidently the sulphur-woman does not like that melancholy animal,' I

said, as we applied our united strength to the gate.

'Did you ever know a woman of limited mind who liked a large dog?'

replied Ermine. 'Occasionally such a woman will fancy a small cur; but

to appreciate a large, noble dog requires a large, noble mind.'

'Nonsense with your dogs and minds,' I said, laughing, 'Wonderful! There

is a curtain.'

It was true. The paper had been removed from one of the windows, and in

its place hung some white drapery, probably part of a sheet rigged as a

curtain.

Before we reached the piazza the door opened, and our hostess appeared.

'Glad to see yer, ladies,' she said. 'Walk right in this way to the

keeping room.'

The dog went away to his block-house, and we followed the woman into a

room on the right of the hall; there were three rooms, beside the attic

above. An Old-World German stove of brick-work occupied a large portion

of the space, and over it hung a few tins, and a clock whose pendulum

swung outside; a table, a settle, and some stools completed the

furniture; but on the plastered walls were two rude brackets, one

holding a cup and saucer of figured china, and the other surmounted by a

large bunch of autumn leaves, so beautiful in themselves and so

exquisitely arranged that we crossed the room to admire them.

'Sol fixed 'em, he did,' said the sulphur-woman; 'he seen me setting

things to rights, and he would do it. I told him they was trash, but he

made me promise to leave 'em alone in case you should call again.'

'Madam Bangs, they would adorn a palace,' said Ermine, severely.

'The cup is pretty too,' I observed, seeing the woman's eyes turn that

way.

'It's the last of my chany' she answered, with pathos in her

voice,--'the very last piece.'

As we took our places on the settle we noticed the brave attire of our

hostess. The delaine was there; but how altered! Flounces it had,

skimped, but still flounces, and at the top was a collar of crochet

cotton reaching nearly to the shoulders; the hair, too, was braided in

imitation of Ermine's sunny coronet, and the Roman scarf did duty as a

belt around the large flat waist.

'You see she tries to improve,' I whispered, as Mrs. Bangs went into the

hall to get some sulphur-water for us.

'Vanity,' answered Ermine.

We drank our dose slowly, and our hostess talked on and on. Even I, her

champion, began to weary of her complainings. 'How dark it is!' said

Ermine at last, rising and drawing aside the curtain. 'See, Dora, a

storm is close upon us.'

We hurried to the door, but one look at the black cloud was enough to

convince us that we could not reach the Community hotel before it would

break, and somewhat drearily we returned to the keeping-room, which grew

darker and darker, until our hostess was obliged to light a candle.

'Reckon you'll have to stay all night; I'd like to have you ladies,' she

said. 'The Community ain't got nothing covered to send after you, except

the old king's coach, and I misdoubt they won't let that out in such a

storm, steps and all. When it begins to rain in this valley, it do rain,

I can tell you; and from the way it's begun, 't won't stop 'fore

morning. You just let me send the Roarer over to the mine, he'll tell

Sol; Sol can tell the Community folks, so they'll know where you be.'

I looked somewhat aghast at this proposal, but Ermine listened to the

rain upon the roof a moment, and then quietly accepted; she remembered

the long hills of tenacious red clay and her kid boots were dear to her.

'The Roarer, I presume, is some faithful kobold who bears your message

to and from the mine,' she said, making herself as comfortable as the

wooden settle would allow.

The sulphur-woman stared. 'Roarer's Sol's old dog,' she answered,

opening the door; perhaps one of you will write a bit of a note for him

to carry in his basket,--Roarer, Roarer!'

The melancholy dog came slowly in, and stood still while she tied a

small covered basket around his neck.

Ermine took a leaf from her tablets and wrote a line or two with the

gold pencil attached to her watch-chain.

'Well now, you do have everything handy, I do declare,' said the woman,

admiringly.