“Sam, have you ever been in the country?”
It was Michael who asked the question. They were sitting in a small
dismal room that Michael had found he could afford to rent in a house
on the edge of the alley. Not that he had moved there, oh, no! He could
not have endured life if all of it that he could call his own had to be
spent in that atmosphere. He still kept his little fourth floor back in
the dismally respectable street. He had not gone to the place
recommended by Endicott, because he found that the difference he would
have to pay would make it possible for him to rent this sad little room
near the alley; and for his purposes this seemed to him an absolute
necessity at present.
The weather was growing too cold for him to meet with his new-old
acquaintances of the alley out of doors, and it was little better
indoors even if he could have endured the dirt and squalor of those
apartments that would have been open to him. Besides, he had a great
longing to show them something brighter than their own forlorn homes.
There was a settlement house three or four blocks away, but it had not
drawn the dwellers in this particular alley. They were sunken too low,
perhaps, or there were so many more hopeful quarters in which to work;
and the city was so wide and deep and dark. Michael knew little about
the settlement house. He had read of such things. He had looked shyly
toward its workers now and then, but as yet knew none of them, though
they had heard now and again of the “Angel-man of the alley,” and were
curious to find him out.
But Michael’s enterprise was all his own, and his ways of working were
his own. He had gone back into the years of his childhood and found out
from his inner consciousness what it was he had needed, and now he was
going to try to give it to some other little “kids” who were as forlorn
and friendless as he had been. It wasn’t much that he could do, but
what he could he would do, and more as soon as possible.
And so he had rented this speck of a room, and purified it. He had
literally compelled Sam to help him. That compelling was almost a
modern miracle, and wrought by radiant smiles, and a firm grip on Sam’s
shoulder when he told him what he wanted done.
Together they had swept and scrubbed and literally scraped, the dirt
from that room.
“I don’t see what you’re making sech a darned fuss about dirt fer!”
grumbled Sam as he arose from his knees after scrubbing the floor for
the fourth time. “It’s what we’re all made of, dey say, an’ nobuddy’ll
know de diffrunce.”
“Just see if they won’t, Sam,” encouraged Michael as he polished off
the door he had been cleaning. “See there, how nice that looks! You
didn’t know that paint was gray, did you? It looked brown before, it
was so thick with dirt. Now we’re ready for paint and paper!”
And so, in an atmosphere of soap and water they had worked night after
night till very late; and Sam had actually let a well-planned and
promising raid go by because he was so interested in what he was doing
and he was ashamed to tell Michael of his engagement.
Sam had never assisted at the papering of a room before; in fact, it is
doubtful if he ever saw a room with clean fresh paper on its walls in
all his life, unless in some house he had entered unlawfully. When this
one stood arrayed at last in its delicate newness, he stood back and
surveyed it in awed silence.
Michael had chosen paper of the color of the sunshine, for the court
was dark and the alley was dark and the room was dark. The souls of the
people too were dark. They must have light and brightness if he would
win them to better things. Besides, the paper was only five cents a
roll, the cheapest he could find in the city. Michael had learned at
college during vacations how to put it on. He made Sam wash and wash
and wash his hands before he was allowed to handle any of the delicate
paper.
“De paper’ll jest git dirty right away,” grumbled Sam sullenly, albeit
he washed his hands, and his eyes glowed as they used to when a child
at a rare “find” in the gutter.
“Wot’ll you do when it gits dirty?” demanded Sam belligerently.
“Put on some clean,” said Michael sunnily. “Besides, we must learn to
have clean hands and keep it clean.”
“I wish we had some curtains,” said Michael wistfully. “They had thin
white curtains at college.”
“Are you makin’ a college fer we?” asked Sam looking at him sharply.
“Well, in a way, perhaps,” said Michael smiling. “You know I want you
to have all the advantages I had as far as I can get them.”
Sam only whistled and looked perplexed but he was doing more serious
thinking than he had ever done in his life before.
And so the two had worked, and planned, and now tonight, the work was
about finished.
The walls reflected the yellow of the sunshine, the woodwork was
painted white enamel. Michael had, just put on the last gleaming coat.
“We can give it another coat when it looks a little soiled,” he had
remarked to Sam, and Sam, frowning, had replied: “Dey better hev dere
han’s clean.”
The floor was painted gray. There was no rug. Michael felt its lack and
meant to remedy it as soon as possible, but rugs cost money. There was
a small coal stove set up and polished till it shone, and a fire was
laid ready to start. They had not needed it while they were working
hard. The furniture was a wooden table painted gray with a cover of
bright cretonne, two wooden chairs, and three boxes. Michael had
collected these furnishings carefully and economically, for he had to
sacrifice many little comforts that he might get them.
On the walls were two or three good pictures fastened by brass tacks;
and some of the gray moss and pine branches from Michael’s own room. In
the central wall appeared one of Michael’s beloved college pennants. It
was understood by all who had yet entered the sacred precincts of the
room to be the symbol of what made the difference between them and “the
angel,” and they looked at it with awe, and mentally crossed themselves
in its presence.
At the windows were two lengths of snowy cheese-cloth crudely hemmed by
Michael, and tacked up in pleats with brass-headed tacks. They were
tied back with narrow yellow ribbons. This had been the last touch and
Sam sat looking thoughtfully at the stiff angular bows when Michael
asked the question:
“Have you ever been in the country?”
“Sure!” said Sam scornfully. “Went wid de Fresh Air folks wen I were a
kid.”
“What did you think of it?”
“Don’t tink much!” shrugged Sam. “Too empty. Nothin’ doin’! Good ’nough
fer kids. Never again fer _me_.”
It was three months since Michael had made his memorable first visit
down to Old Orchard Farm. For weeks he had worked shoulder to shoulder
every evening with Sam and as yet no word of that plan which was
nearest his heart had been spoken. This was his first attempt to open
the subject.
That Sam had come to have a certain kind of respect and fondness for
him he was sure, though it was never expressed in words. Always he
either objected to any plan Michael suggested, or else he was extremely
indifferent and would not promise to be on hand. He was almost always
there, however, and Michael had come to know that Sam was proud of his
friendship, and at least to a degree interested in his plans for the
betterment of the court.
“There are things in the country; other things, that make up for the
stir of the city,” said Michael thoughtfully. This was the first
unpractical conversation he had tried to hold with Sam. He had been
leading him up, through the various stages from dirt and degradation,
by means of soap and water, then paper and paint, and now they had
reached the doorway of Nature’s school. Michael wanted to introduce Sam
to the great world of out-of-doors. For, though Sam had lived all his
life out-of-doors, it had been a world of brick walls and stone
pavements, with little sky and almost no water. Not a green thing in
sight, not a bird, nor a beast except of burden. The first lesson was
waiting in a paper bundle that stood under the table. Would Sam take
it, Michael wondered, as he rose and brought it out unwrapping the
papers carefully, while Sam silently watched and pretended to whistle,
not to show too much curiosity. “What tings?” at last asked Sam.
“Things like this,” answered Michael eagerly setting out on the table
an earthen pot containing a scarlet geranium in bloom. It glowed forth
its brilliant torch at once and gave just the touch to the little empty
clean room that Michael had hoped it would do. He stood back and looked
at it proudly, and then looked at Sam to see if the lesson had been
understood. He half expected to see an expression of scorn on the
hardened sallow face of the slum boy, but instead Sam was gazing
open-mouthed, with unmitigated admiration.
“Say! Dat’s all right!” he ejaculated. “Where’d you make de raise? Say!
Dat makes de paper an’ de paint show up fine!” taking in the general
effect of the room.
Then he arose from the box on which he had been sitting and went and
stood before the blossom.
“Say! I wisht Jim eud see dat dere!” he ejaculated after a long
silence, and there was that in the expression of his face that brought
the quick moisture to Michael’s eyes.
It was only a common red geranium bought for fifteen cents, but it had
touched with its miracle of bright life the hardened soul of the young
burglar, and opened his vision to higher things than he had known. It
was in this moment of open vision that his heart turned to his old
companion who was uncomplainingly taking the punishment which
rightfully belonged to the whole gang.
“We will take him one tomorrow,” said Michael in a low voice husky with
feeling. It was the first time Sam had voluntarily mentioned Jim and he
had seemed so loth to take Michael to see him in jail that Michael had
ceased to speak of the matter.
“There’s another one just like this where I bought this one. I couldn’t
tell which to take, they were both so pretty. We’ll get it the first
thing in the morning before anybody else snaps it up, and then, when
could we get in to see Jim? Would they let us in after my office hours
or would we have to wait till Sunday? You look after that will you? I
might get off at four o’clock if that’s not too late.”
“Dey’ll let us in on Sunday ef _you_ ask, I reckon,” said Sam much
moved. “But it’s awful dark in prison. It won’t live, will it? Dere’s
only one streak o’ sun shines in Jim’s cell a few minutes every day.”
“Oh, I think it’ll live,” said Michael hastily, a strange choking
sensation in his throat at thought of his one-time companion shut into
a dark prison. Of course, he deserved to be there. He had broken the
laws, but then no one had ever made him understand how wrong it was. If
some one had only tried perhaps Jim would never have done the thing
that put him in prison.
“I’m sure it will live,” he said again cheerfully. “I’ve heard that
geraniums are very hardy. The man told me they would live all winter in
the cellar if you brought them up again in the spring.”
“Jim will be out again in de spring,” said Sam softly. It was the first
sign of anything like emotion in Sam.
“Isn’t that good!” said Michael heartily. “I wonder what we can do to
make it pleasant for him when he comes back to the world. We’ll bring
him to this room, of course, but in the spring this will be getting
warm. And that makes me think of what I was talking about a minute ago.
There’s so much more in the country than in the city!”
“More?” questioned Sam uncomprehendingly.
“Yes, things like this to look at. Growing things that you get to love
and understand. Wonderful things. There’s a river that sparkles and
talks as it runs. There are trees that laugh and whisper when the wind
plays in their branches. And there are wonderful birds, little live
breaths of air with music inside that make splendid friends when you’re
lonely. I know, for I made lots of bird-friends when I went away from
you all to college. You know I was pretty lonely at first.”
Sam looked at him with quick, keen wonder, and a lighting of his face
that made him almost attractive and sent the cunning in his eyes
slinking out of sight. Had this fine great-hearted creature really
missed his old friends when he went away? Had he really need of them
yet, with all his education—and—difference? It was food for thought.
“Then there’s the sky, so much of it,” went on Michael, “and so wide
and blue, and sometimes soft white clouds. They make you feel rested
when you look at them floating lazily through the blue, and never
seeming to be tired; not even when there’s a storm and they have to
hurry. And there’s the sunset. Sam, I don’t believe you ever saw the
sunset, not right anyway. You don’t have sunsets here in the city, it
just gets dark. You ought to see one I saw not long ago. I mean to take
you there some day and we’ll watch it together. I want to see if it
will do the same thing to you that it did to me.”
Sam looked at him in awe, for he wore his exalted look, and when he
spoke like that Sam had a superstitious fear that perhaps after all he
was as old Sal said, more of angel than of man.
“And then, there’s the earth, all covered with green, plenty of it to
lie in if you want to, and it smells so good; and there’s so much
air,—enough to breathe your lungs full, and with nothing disagreeable
in it, no ugly smells nor sounds. And there are growing things
everywhere. Oh, Sam! Wouldn’t you like to make things like this grow?”
Sam nodded and put forth his rough forefinger shamedly to touch the
velvet of a green leaf, as one unaccustomed might touch a baby’s cheek.
“You’ll go with me, Sam, to the country sometime, won’t you? I’ve got a
plan and I’ll need you to help me carry it out. Will you go?”
“Sure!” said Sam in quite a different voice from any reluctant assent
he had ever given before. “Sure, I’ll go!”
“Thank you, Sam,” said Michael more moved than he dared show, “And now
that’s settled I want to talk about this room. I’m going to have five
little kids here tomorrow early in the evening. I told them I’d show
them how to whittle boats and we’re going to sail them in the scrub
bucket. They’re about the age you and I were when I went away to
college. Perhaps I’ll teach them a letter or two of the alphabet if
they seem interested. They ought to know how to read, Sam.”
“I never learned to read—” muttered Sam half belligerently. “That so?”
said Michael as if it were a matter of small moment. “Well, what if you
were to come in and help me with the boats. Then you could pick it up
when I teach them. You might want to use it some day. It’s well to know
how, and a man learns things quickly you know.”
Sam nodded.
“I don’t know’s I care ’bout it,” he said indifferently, but Michael
saw that he intended to come.
“Well, after the kids have gone, I won’t keep them late you know, I
wonder if you’d like to bring some of the fellows in to see this?”
Michael glanced around the room.
“I’ve some pictures of alligators I have a fancy they might like to
see. I’ll bring them down if you say so.”
“Sure!” said Sam trying to hide his pleasure.
“Then tomorrow morning I’m going to let that little woman that lives in
the cellar under Aunt Sally’s room, bring her sewing here and work all
day. She makes buttonholes in vests. It’s so dark in her room she can’t
see and she’s almost ruined her eyes working by candle light.”
“She’ll mess it all up!” grumbled Sam; “an’ she might let other folks
in an’ they’d pinch the picters an’ the posy.”
“No, she won’t do that. I’ve talked to her about it. The room is to be
hers for the day, and she’s to keep it looking just as nice as it did
when she found it. She’ll only bring her work over, and go home for her
dinner. She’s to keep the fire going so it will be warm at night, and
she’s to try it for a day and see how it goes. I think she’ll keep her
promise. We’ll try her anyway.”
Sam nodded as to a superior officer who nevertheless was awfully
foolish.
“Mebbe!” he said.
“Sam, do you think it would be nice to bring Aunt Sally over now a few
minutes?”
“No,” said Sam shortly, “she’s too dirty. She’d put her fingers on de
wall first thing—”
“But Sam, I think she ought to come. And she ought to come first. She’s
the one that helped me find you—”
Sam looked sharply at Michael and wondered if he suspected how long
that same Aunt Sally had frustrated his efforts to find his friends.
“We could tell her not to touch things, perhaps—”
“Wal, you lemme tell her. Here! I’ll go fix her up an’ bring her now.”
And Sam hurried out of the room.
Michael waited, and in a few minutes Sam returned with Aunt Sally. But
it was a transformed Aunt Sally. Her face had been painfully scrubbed
in a circle out as far as her ears, and her scraggy gray hair was
twisted in a tight knot at the back of her neck. Her hands were several
shades cleaner than Michael had ever seen them before, and her shoes
were tied. She wore a small three-cornered plaid shawl over her
shoulders and entered cautiously as if half afraid to come. Her hands
were clasped high across her breast. She had evidently been severely
threatened against touching anything.
“The saints be praised!” she ejaculated warmly after she had looked
around in silence for a moment “To think I should ivver see the loikes
uv this in de alley. It lukes loike a palace. Mikky, ye’re a Nangel, me
b’y! An’ a rale kurtin, to be shure! I ain’t seen a kurtin in the alley
since I cummed. An’ will ye luke at the purty posy a blowin’ as foine
as ye plaze! Me mither had the loike in her cottage window when I was a
leetle gal! Aw, me pure auld mither!”
And suddenly to Michael’s amazement, and the disgust of Sam, old Sal
sat down on the one chair and wept aloud, with the tears streaming down
her seamed and sin-scarred face.
Sam was for putting her out at once, but Michael soothed her with his
cheery voice, making her tell of her old home in Ireland, and the kind
mother whom she had loved, though it was long years since she had
thought of her now.
With rare skill he drew from her the picture of the little Irish
cottage with its thatched roof, its peat fire, and well-swept hearth;
the table with the white cloth, the cat in the rocking chair, the
curtain starched stiffly at the window, the bright posy on the deep
window ledge; and, lastly, the little girl with clean pinafore and
curly hair who kissed her mother every morning and trotted off to
school. But that was before the father died, and the potatoes failed.
The school days were soon over, and the little girl with her mother
came to America. The mother died on the way over, and the child fell
into evil hands. That was the story, and as it was told Michael’s face
grew tender and wistful. Would that he knew even so much of his own
history as that!
But Sam stood by struck dumb and trying to fancy that this old woman
had ever been the bright rosy child she told about. Sam was passing
through a sort of mental and moral earthquake.
“Perhaps some day we’ll find another little house in the country where
you can go and live,” said Michael, “but meantime, suppose you go and
see if you can’t make your room look like this one. You scrub it all up
and perhaps Sam and I will come over and put some pretty paper on the
walls for you. Would you like that? How about it, Sam?”
“Sure!” said Sam rather grudgingly. He hadn’t much faith in Aunt Sally
and didn’t see what Michael wanted with her anyway, but he was loyal to
Michael.
Irish blessings mingled with tears and garnished with curses in the
most extraordinary way were showered upon Michael and at last when he
could stand no more, Sam said:
“Aw, cut it out, Sal. You go home an’ scrub. Come on, now!” and he
bundled her off in a hurry.
Late as it was, old Sal lit a fire, and by the light of a tallow candle
got down on her stiff old knees and began to scrub. It seemed nothing
short of a miracle that her room could ever look like that one she had
just seen, but if scrubbing could do anything toward it, scrub she
would. It was ten years since she had thought of scrubbing her room.
She hadn’t seemed to care; but tonight as she worked with her trembling
old drink-shaken hands the memory of her childhood’s home was before
her vision, and she worked with all her might.
So the leaven of the little white room in the dark alley began to work.
“The Angel’s quarters” it was named, and to be called to go within its
charmed walls was an honor that all coveted as time went on. And that
was how Michael began the salvation of his native alley.