(After Rudyard Kipling, for Trotwood’s Monthly.)
(A yellow editor has complained to the governor of Minnesota that the
warden of the Stillwater penitentiary has refused to allow one of his
convicts to subscribe for a certain saffron journal.—News Item.)
Now Tomlinson once robbed a man in Berkeley Square,
And a copper caught him in the act and nabbed him then and there.
The copper grabbed him by the neck and hurried him away.
In a blue patrol that was right outside, he rode through shadows gray
To a gloomy place in the darksome town where the blatant noises cease,
And they came to a gate within a wall where the jailer has the keys.
“Stand up, stand up, now Tomlinson, and answer loud and high.
Your name and age, and all of that and ye need not ask me why.”
The morning dawned and before the judge to trial came Tomlinson,
He sentenced him to the gloomy “Pen,” and a year he got—just one,
And the judge’s voice resounding loud to him seemed like a knell
Or ever they took the man away to lock him in his cell.
Then Tomlinson looked up and down and sought for things to read:
“A yellow journal is my meat, yea, that is what I need,
And I will crawl upon my knees and ask the jailer man
If he will only bring to me a sheet of the hue of tan.”
But the jailer held his hands aloft and swore by heaven high
That no such evil thing should come that penitentiary nigh;
“For by my troth,” the jailer cried, “ye are a devilish mess,
But ye dare not steep your guilty soul in the filth of the saffron
press.”
Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in the penitentiary there,
And a spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair—
The spirit gripped him by the hair and sun by sun they fell
Till they came to the belt of wicked stars that rim the mouth of hell.
The devil sat behind the bars where the desperate legions drew,
And spied the hasting Tomlinson and gladly let him through:
“Sit down, sit down, upon the slag and yammer loud and high,
And tell me what you did, my man, or ever ye came to die.”
“I spent my time on earth, my lord, in reading the yellow press.”
Thus Tomlinson let out his voice and shouted in distress.
Then the devil gripped him by the hair, and redder grew his face:
“If that be true, ye dare not spend one minute in this place;
Wot ye the price of good pit coal that I must pay?” asked he,
“That ye rank yourself so fit for hell and ask no leave of me?
Go back to earth with lip unsealed—go back with an open eye,
And carry my word to the sons of men, or ever ye come to die,
That the readers of the yellow press on earth may bide and dwell.
But we do not want them down below to corrupt the hordes of hell.”
—Will Reed Dunroy.
* * * * *
Here is a letter from a young man in Wisconsin, one whom I have never
met except in that way in which kindred spirits so often meet—by mail.
Stricken ere his manhood had scarcely begun, blind, he has never given
up, and is making a living and doing good to all around him—one of the
best and most useful citizens of his town.
Trotwood believes in this whole country, North and South. He does not
believe that either section has all the good or all the bad, but that
in both there is far more good than evil and that the only reason why
people do not like each other is because they do not know each other.
Transportation, the cable, the telegraph, wireless telegraphy and the
telephone have changed the face of the world and corralled mankind with
wires of steel. Japan is nearer Washington to-day than Boston was fifty
years ago. You have more neighbors in Europe than your grandfather had
in the county adjoining him. I am publishing this letter hoping my blind
friend may find the kind surgeon, and also to show the spirit of our
reunited country for which my pen has always and will ever work to cement:
Merrill, Wis., June 30, 1905.
Dear Trotwood: Rather tardy in thanking you for taking the
trouble of sending me “Songs and Stories of Tennessee,” but my
wife and daughter have been away on a visit and though it’s
vacation, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to press my
sister into service. We all enjoyed the stories very much, and
are looking forward eagerly to the time when your new book will
be out.
I’ve been wanting to tell you of my father’s experience during
the Civil War, to see what you think of it, and to see if you
have any idea who the surgeon could have been and to show you
another family in the North with the kindliest of feelings for
the people of the South.
July 1, ’63, at about 2 o’clock p.m., a Confederate bullet laid
my father low at the Battle of Gettysburg. The ball passed
through and killed the man directly in front of him, entering
father below the heart, the wound being very similar to that
of President Garfield. He still carries the lead. He lay the
afternoon until along in the evening the Union line having
retreated, and firing ceased. About this time Gen. Lee and his
staff came on the field. The general, seeing father was alive,
asked what troops he had fought and how boys happened to get
commissions in the Northern Army. Father answered, “They fought
and earned them.” As the party passed on, the surgeon returned,
eased father’s position, gave him a drink of liquor and said he
would see him later. He came again at about nine o’clock that
night, twice the next day and late the afternoon of July 2 he
had two Confederate soldiers prepare a litter and carry father
to a farm house where, being the most dangerously wounded, he
was given the only mattress in the house. Father calls him his
“Good Samaritan.” During his time on the field his hat cord was
stolen and he gave all the money he had, twenty dollars, ten
each to two Union soldiers to get him off the field or get him
something to drink. They never returned. During the night a
Confederate soldier gave him a drink of milk for which he had
spent his last cent. This is in brief, but explicit enough to
show that though father was struck down by a Confederate bullet
he nevertheless owes his life to men of that army. When the
Confederate line retreated, father was taken to the hospital
in the city and was never able to learn the name of his “Good
Samaritan.” How his wound did not heal for two years, how Dr.
Bliss treated him and how an abscess formed in his back which
also took a long time to heal is probably but a repetition of
many such incidents of which you’ve already heard.
For fear you’ll grow weary, I’ll desist.
Yours very truly,