I was riding on the train through the eastern section of North Carolina. Nothing can be flatter than that portion of the country, unless it be the religious experience of some people. The rain was pouring down fast, and, for a person so inclined, not a better day and place for the blues could be found. Looking out of the car windows brought nothing more interesting to view than pine trees, bony mules and razor-back hogs. Groups of men, white and black, gathered at each station to see the train arrive and depart. Each passenger that entered brought in more damp, moisture and blues.
Two men at last came in and took the seat in front of me. Shortly after, one of them took a bottle from his pocket, pulled the cork, and handed the bottle to his companion. He took a drink, and the smell of liquor filled the car. Then the first one took a drink, and back and forth the bottle passed, until at last it was empty and they were full. Then one of them commenced swearing, and such blasphemy I never heard in all my life. It made the very air blue—women shrank back, while the heads of men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity came from. It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself. I always did like to talk to a sensible man.
"Henry, that man belongs to the devil."
"There is no doubt about that," I replied.
"He is not ashamed of it."
"Not a bit ashamed."
"Whom do you belong to?"
"I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Are you glad or sorry?"
"I am glad—very glad."
"Who in the car knows that man belongs to the devil?"
"Everybody knows that, for he has not kept it a secret."
"Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?"
"Why, no one knows it, for you see I am a stranger around here."
"Are you willing they should know whom you belong to?"
"Yes; I am willing."
"Very well, will you let them know it?"
I thought a moment and then said, "By the help of my Master I will."
Then straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a voice that could be heard by all in the car:
There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.
Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the chorus, he said:
"What are you doing?"
"I am singing," I replied.
"Well," said he, "any fool can understand that."
"I am glad you understand it."
"What are you singing?"
"I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus."
"Well, you quit."
"Quit what?"
"Quit singing your religion on the cars."
"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master; now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."
"Who is my master?"
"The devil is your master—while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the passengers don't object."
A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."
I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon after, and I am glad to say I've never seen him since. Song after song followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, "Sir, I owe you thanks and a confession."
"Thanks for what?"
"Thanks for rebuking that blasphemer."
"Don't thank me for that, but give thanks to my Master. I try to stand up for Him wherever I am. What about the confession?"
"I am in my eighty-third year. I have been a preacher of the Gospel for over sixty years. When I heard that man swearing so, I wanted to rebuke him. I rose from my seat two or three times, to do so, but my courage failed. I have not much longer to live, but never again will I refuse to show my colors anywhere."
She did—I am sorry to record it, but she did—Letty Bascombe salted her pie-crust with a great, big tear.
Not that she had none of the other salt, nor that she intended to do it, but, all of a sudden, a big tear, oh, as big as the end of your thumb, if you are a little, little girl, ran zigzag across her cheek down to her chin, and, before she could wipe it off, a sudden, sharp sob took her unawares and, plump, right into the pastry, went this big fat tear. Of course, if you are even a little girl you must know that it is as useless to hunt for tears in pie-crust as it is to "hunt for a needle in a hay-stack." So Letty did not even try to recover her lost property. But it had one good effect, it made her laugh, and, between you and me (I tell this to you as a secret), Letty, like every other girl, little or big, fat or thin, was much pleasanter to look upon when she smiled than when she cried. But she didn't smile for that. Oh, dear, no. She smiled because she couldn't help it. She was a good-natured, sweet-tempered little puss, most times, and possessed of a very sunny disposition. "Why did she salt her pie-crust with tears, then?" I hear you ask. Ah, "Why?" And wait till I tell you. The most curious part of it all was that it was a Thanksgiving crust. There, now. The worst is out. A common, every-day, week-a-day pie, or even a Sunday pie, would be bad enough, but a Thanksgiving pie of all things. Why, everybody is happy at Thanksgiving.
Well, not quite everybody, it seems, because if that was so Letty wouldn't be crying.
Now let me tell you why poor Letty Bascombe, with her sunny temper, cried on this day while she was making pies.
You see, she was only fifteen, and when one is fifteen, and there is fun going on that one can't be in, it is very trying, to say the least. Not that tears help it the least in the world, no, indeed. In fact, tears at such times always make matters worse.
Well, she was only fifteen, as I was saying, and, instead of going with the family into town, she had to stay home and make pies.
Now the family were no relation to her. She was only Mrs. Mason's "help." Eighteen months ago Letty's mother (a widow) had died. Her brother had gone away off to a large city, and she had come to Mrs. Mason's to live. Mrs. Mason was as kind as she could be to her, but you know one must feel "blue" at times when one has lost all but one relative in the world, and that one is a dear brother who is way, way off, even if one is surrounded by the kindest friends.
So now, tell me, don't you think Letty had something to shed tears about?
"I j-just c-can't help it. I'm not one bit 'thankful' this Thanksgiving, and I'm not going to pretend I am. So there. And here I am making nasty pies, when everybody else has gone to town having a good time. No, I'm not one bit thankful, so there, and I feel as if turkey and cranberries and pumpkin pie would choke me."
But after Letty "had her cry out" she felt better, and in a little while her nimble fingers had finished her work and she was ready for a little amusement. This amusement she concluded to find by taking a little walk to the end of the garden. The garden ended abruptly in a ravine, and it was a source of unfailing delight to go down there and, from a secure position, see the trains go thundering by.
In fifteen minutes the train would be along and then she would go back. Idly gazing down from her secure height, her eye was suddenly caught by something creeping along the ground. Letty's keen sight at once decided this to be a man—a man with a log in his hand. This log he carefully adjusted across the track.
"What a very curious—" began Letty. But her exclamation was cut short by the awful intuition that the man meant to wreck the on-coming train.
All thought of private sorrow fled in an instant. What could she do? What must she do, for save the train she must, of course. Who else was there to do it? And oh, such a little time to do it in. To go around by the path would take a half-hour. To climb down the side of the ravine would be madness. Suddenly her mind was illuminated. Yes, she could do that, and like the wind she was up at the house and back again, only this time she steered for a spot a hundred rods up, just the other side of the curve.
In a trice she had whipped off her scarlet balmoral, the balmoral she hated so, and had attached to it one end of the hundred feet of rope she had brought from the house.
Could she do it? Could she crawl out on that branch there and hold that danger signal down in front of the train?
She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. O, no, no, she never could do it. Suppose she should fall off or the limb break. But she wouldn't fall, she mustn't fall. Hark! There is the engine. If she is going to save the train there is no time for further delay. With a prayer for guidance and protection, slowly, oh so slowly, that it seemed hours before she got there, Letty crawled out to the branch and dangled below her, across the track, her flag of danger. She could not see what was going on, because she dared not look down. So, looking constantly up (and, children, believe me, "looking up" is one of the best things you can do when in danger or trouble), and sending a silent wordless petition for the safety of the train, Letty held her precarious post. Hark, it is slowing up. Her balmoral has been seen and the train is saved. The tension over, she cautiously turned and crawled slowly back to land, and then dropped in a dead faint. Recovering, however, she went slowly up to the house, trembling and sick and shivering with the cold from the loss of the warm skirt hanging on the clothes-line down in the ravine.
Relaxed and limp she sat down in the big rocker before the kitchen stove, a confused mass of thoughts racing through her head. Dazed and excited, she hardly knew how time was passing until she heard the sound of wheels.
"O, Letty, the funniest thing—" shouted Laura, bursting into the kitchen.
"Wait, let me tell," interrupted Jamie. "Why, Letty, somebody's hung—"
"Somebody hung," exclaimed Letty, in horror. "Why, Laura Mason, how dare you say that was funny?"
"I didn't—" began Laura, indignantly, but here Mrs. Mason interfered with a "Sh-sh-sh, children, mercy, goodness, you nearly drive me wild. Here. Laura, take mother's bonnet and shawl up-stairs.
"Here, Jamie, take my boots and bring me my slippers. I'm that tired I don't know what to do with myself. Goodness, but it feels good to get home. The strangest thing's happened, Letty. The afternoon express was coming into town this afternoon, and, when it was about two miles out, all of a sudden the engineer saw a red flannel petticoat hanging right down in the middle of the track, hanging by a clothes-line, mind, from the limb of a tree. He thought at first it was a joke, but changed his mind and thought he'd look further, and would you believe it, he found a great, big log across the track. If the train had come on that I guess there'd been more grief than Thanksgiving in this neighborhood to-morrow."
Mrs. Mason had said all this along in one steady strain, while she was walking round the room putting away her parcels.
Getting no response, she turned to look at Letty for the first time. "Why goodness! The girl has fainted. What on earth do you suppose is the matter with her?
"Jamie, come quick. Get me some water.
"There," when the restorative had had the desired effect. "Why, what ailed you, Letty? You weren't sick when I went away. Bless me! I hope you ain't going to be sick, and such a surprise as we've got for you, too, out in the barn. But there. If that isn't just like me. I didn't mean to tell you yet."
"Why, mother, mother," exclaimed Father Mason excitedly as he rushed into the room. "Somebody's just come from the village with this," flourishing Letty's skirt wildly around, "and they say the train was stopped right back of our house."
"For the land's sake, Job! Well, if that ain't our Letty's red balmoral. How did it—is that the—Letty, was it you?" she finished up rather disjointedly.
Letty nodded, unable to speak just then.
"Well, who'd 'a' thought it. So you saved the train! Do tell us all about it."
"Mother, don't you think we'd better wait a bit till she looks a mite stronger," suggested kind-hearted Job Mason.
"Well, I don't know but you're right, but I'm clean beat out. Don't you think, Job, that we might bring Letty's surprise—but there's the surprise walking in from the barn of itself. Tired of waiting, likely as not."
"Yes, Letty," broke in Laurie. "Did you know your brother had come home and that you saved his life this afternoon with that old red skirt of yours?" So the mischief was out at last, and though the excitement and everything nearly killed Letty, it didn't quite, or I don't think I would have undertaken to tell this story. I don't like sad Thanksgiving stories. Not that there aren't any; I only say I don't like them, that's all.
Well, sitting in her brother's lap—(what, fifteen years old?)—yes, sitting in her brother's lap, she had to tell over and over again all she thought and felt that afternoon, and to hear over and over again what a dreadful time they had keeping the secret from her. How they were so afraid that she would find out that they expected to meet her brother—how he had been so anxious that she should not be told lest by some accident he shouldn't arrive, and then she would be bitterly disappointed and her Thanksgiving spoiled.
Accident! Letty shuddered each time that they reached that part of the story, for she thought how nearly the accident had happened, and as she knelt to say her prayers that night it was with a penitent heart that she remembered how she had felt in the morning, and she had added fervently, "Dear Lord, I thank Thee for this beautiful Thanksgiving."
One of the nobles of King Arthur's court had grievously transgressed the laws of chivalry and knightly honor, and for this cause had he been condemned to suffer death. Great sorrow reigned among all the lords and dames, and Queen Guinevere, on bent knees, had sued the king's pardon for the recreant knight. At length, after many entreaties, Arthur's generous heart relented, and he gave the doomed life into the queen's hands to do with it as she willed.
Then Guinevere, delighted at the success of her suit with her royal husband, sent for the knight to appear before her, in her own bower, where she sat among the ladies of her chamber.
When the knight, who was called Sir Ulric, had reached the royal lady's presence, he would have thrown himself at her feet with many thanks for the dear boon which she had caused the king to grant him. But she motioned him to listen to what she had to say, before she would receive his gratitude.
"Defer all thanks, Sir Knight," said the queen, "until first I state to thee the conditions on which thou yet holdest thy life. It is granted thee to be free of death, if within one year and a day from this present thou art able to declare to me what of earthly things all women like the best. If in that time thou canst tell, past all dispute, what this thing be, thou shalt have thy life and freedom. Otherwise, on my queenly honor, thou diest, as the king had first decreed."
When the knight heard this he was filled with consternation and dismay too great for words. At once in his heart he accused the king of cruelty in permitting him to drag out a miserable existence for a whole year in endeavoring to fulfill a condition which in his thoughts he at once resolved to be impossible. For who could decide upon what would please all ladies best, when it was agreed by all wise men that no two of the uncertain sex would ever fix upon one and the same thing?
With these desponding thoughts Sir Ulric went out of the queen's presence, and prepared to travel abroad over the country, if perchance by inquiring far and wide he might find out the answer which would save his life.
From house to house and from town to town traveled Sir Ulric, asking maid and matron, young or old, the same question. But never, from any two, did he receive a like answer. Some told him that women best loved fine clothes; some that they loved rich living; some loved their children best; others desired most to be loved; and some loved best to be considered free from curiosity, which, since Eve, had been said to be a woman's chief vice. But among all, no answers were alike, and at each the knight's heart sank in despair, and he seemed as if he followed and ignis fatuus which each day led him farther and farther from the truth.
One day, as he rode through a pleasant wood, the knight alighted and sat himself down under a tree to rest, and bewail his unhappy lot. Sitting here, in a loud voice he accused his unfriendly stars that they had brought him into so sad a state. While he spoke thus, he looked up and beheld an old woman, wrapped in a heavy mantle, standing beside him. Sir Ulric thought he had never seen so hideous a hag as she who now stood gazing at him. She was wrinkled and toothless, and bent with age. One eye was shut, and in the other was a leer so horrible that he feared her some uncanny creature of the wood, and crossed himself as he looked on her.
"Good knight," said the old crone, before he could arise to leave her sight, "tell me, I pray thee, what hard thing ye seek. I am old, and have had much wisdom. It may happen that I can help you out of the great trouble into which you have come."
The knight, in spite of her loathsomeness, felt a ray of hope at this offer, and in a few words told her what he was seeking.
As soon as she had heard, the old creature burst into so loud a laugh that between laughing and mumbling Sir Ulric feared she would choke herself before she found breath to answer him.
"You are but a poor hand at riddles," she said at length, "if you cannot guess what is so simple. Let me but whisper two words in your ear, and you shall be able to tell the queen what neither she nor her ladies nor any woman in all the kingdom shall be able to deny. But I give my aid on one condition,—that if I be right in what I tell, you shall grant me one boon, whatever I ask, if the same be in your power."
The knight gladly consented, and on this the old hag whispered in his ear two little words, which caused him to leap upon his horse with great joy and set out directly for the queen's court.
When he had arrived there, and given notice of his readiness to answer her, Guinevere held a great meeting in her chief hall, of all the ladies in the kingdom. Thither came old and young, wife, maid and widow, to decide if Sir Ulric answered aright.
The queen was placed on a high throne as judge if what he said be the truth, and all present waited eagerly for his time to speak. When, therefore, it was demanded of him what he had to say, all ears stretched to hear his answer.
"Noble lady," said the knight, when he saw all eyes and ears intent upon him, "I have sought far and wide the answer you desired. And I find that the thing of all the world which pleaseth women best, is to have their own way in all things."
When the knight had made this answer in a clear and manly voice, which was heard all over the audience chamber, there was much flutter and commotion among all the women present, and many were at first inclined to gainsay him. But Queen Guinevere questioned all thoroughly, and gave fair judgment, and at the end declared that the knight had solved the question, and there was no woman there who did not confess that he spoke aright.
On this Ulric received his life freely, and was preparing to go out in great joy, when suddenly as he turned to go, he saw in his way the little old woman to whom he owed the answer which had bought his life. At sight of her, more hideous than ever, among the beauty of the court ladies, who looked at her in horror of her ugliness, the knight's heart sank again. Before he could speak she demanded of him her boon.
"What would you ask of me?" said Ulric, fearfully.
"My boon is only this," answered the hag, "that in return for thy life, which my wit has preserved to thee, thou shalt make me thy true and loving wife."
Sir Ulric was filled with horror, and would gladly have given all his goods and his lands to escape such a union. But not anything would the old crone take in exchange for his fair self; and the queen and all the court agreeing that she had the right to enforce her request, which he had promised on his knightly honor, he was at last obliged to yield and make her his wife.
Never in all King Arthur's court were sadder nuptials than these. No feasting, no joy, but only gloom and heaviness, which, spreading itself from the wretched Sir Ulric, infected all the court. Many a fair dame pitied him sorely, and not a knight but thanked his gracious stars that he did not stand in the like ill fortune.
After the wedding ceremonies, as Ulric sat alone in his chamber, very heavy-hearted and sad, his aged bride entered and sat down hear him. But he turned his back upon her, resolving that now she was his wife, he would have no more speech with her.
While he sat thus inattentive, she began to speak with him, and in spite of his indifference, Sir Ulric could but confess that her voice was passing sweet, and her words full of wit and sense. In a long discourse she painted to him the advantage of having a bride who from very gratitude would always be most faithful and loving. She instanced from history and song all those who by beauty had been betrayed, and by youth had been led into folly. At last she said:—
"Now, my sweet lord, I pray thee tell me this. Would you rather I should be as I am, and be to you a true and humble wife, wise in judgment, subject in all things to your will, or young and foolish, and apt to betray your counsels. Choose now betwixt the two."
Then the knight, who had listened in much wonder to the wisdom with which she spoke, and had pondered over her words while speaking, could not help being moved by the beauty of her conversation, which surpassed the beauty of any woman's face which he had ever seen. Under this spell he answered her:—
"Indeed I am content to choose you even as you are. Be as you will. A man could have no better guidance than the will of so sensible a wife."
On this his bride uttered a glad cry.
"Look around upon me, my good lord," she said; "since you are willing to yield to my will in this, behold that I am not only wise, but young and fair also. The enchantment, which held me thus aged and deformed, till I could find a knight who in spite of my ugliness would marry me, and would be content to yield to my will, is forever removed. Now, I am your fair, as well as your loving wife."
Turning around, the knight beheld a lady sweet and young, more lovely in her looks than Guinevere herself. With happy tears she related how the enchantments had been wrought which held her in the form of an ancient hag until he had helped to remove the spell. And from that time forth they lived in great content, each happy to yield equally to each other in all things.
"Black yer boots, mister? Shine 'em up—only a nickel." Such were the cries that greeted me from half a dozen boot-blacks as I came through the ferry gates with my boots loaded down with New Jersey mud. Never did barnacles stick to the bottom of a vessel more tenaciously, or politician hold on to office with a tighter grip, than did that mud cling to my boots. And never did flies scent a barrel of sugar more quickly than that horde of boot-blacks discovered my mud-laden extremities. They swooped down upon me with their piercing cries, until many of my fellow-passengers gazed on my boots with looks that seemed to rebuke me for my temerity in daring to bring such a large amount of soil to add to the already over-stocked supply of the city. My very boots seemed to plead with me to let one of those boys relieve them of the load that weighed them down. But, behold my dilemma—six persistent, lusty, vociferous boys clamoring for one job, while I, as arbiter, must deal out elation to one boy, and dejection to the five.
"Silence! Fall into line for inspection!" Behold my brigade, standing in line, and no two of them alike in size, feature or dress. All looked eager, and five of them looked at my boots and pointed their index fingers at the same objects. The sixth boy held up his head in a manly way and looked me in the eye. I looked him over and was affected in two ways. His clothes touched my funny bone and made me laugh before I knew it. If those pants had been made for that boy, then since that time there had been a great growth in that boy or a great shrinkage in the pants. But, if the pants were several sizes too small and fit him too little, the coat was several sizes too large and fit him too much, so that his garments gave him the appearance of being a small child from his waist down, and an old man from his waist up. The laugh that came as my sense of humor was touched, instantly ceased as I saw the flush that came to the boy's face. The other five boys wanted to get at my boots, but this one had got at my heart, and I made up my mind he should get at my boots as well, and straightway made known my decision. This at once brought forth a volley of jibes and jeers and cutting remarks. "Oh, 'His Royal Highness' gets the job, and he will be prouder and meaner than ever, he will. Say, mister, he's too proud to live, he is. He thinks he owns the earth, he does."
The flush deepened on the boy's face, and I drove his assailants away ere I let him begin his work.
"Now, my boy, take your time, and you shall have extra pay for the job; pardon me for laughing at you; don't mind those boys, but tell me why they call you 'His Royal Highness?'"
He gazed up in my face a moment with a hungry look, and I said, "You can trust me."
"Well, sir, they thinks I'm proud and stuck-up, 'cause I won't pitch pennies and play 'craps' with 'em, and they says I'm stingy and trying to own the earth, 'cause I won't chew tobacco and drink beer, or buy the stuff for 'em. They says my father must be a king, for I wears such fashionable clothes, and puts on so many airs, but that I run away from home 'cause I wanted to boss my father and be king myself. So they calls me 'His Royal Highness.'"
There was a tremble in his voice as he paused a moment, and then he continued:
"If I ever had a father, I never seen him, and if, I had a mother, I wish someone would tell me who she was. How can a feller be proud and stuck-up who ain't got no father and no mother, and no name only Joe? They calls me stingy 'cause I'm saving all the money I can, but I ain't saving it for myself—I'm saving it for Jessie."
"Is Jessie your sister?" I asked.
"No, sir; I ain't got no relatives."
"Perhaps, then, she is your sweetheart," I said.
Again he looked up in my face and said very earnestly, "Did you ever know a boot-black without any name to have an angel for a sweetheart?"
His eyes were full of tears, and I made no answer, though I might have told him I had found a boot-black who had a big, warm heart even if he had no sweetheart. Very abruptly he said:
"You came over on the boat; what kind of a land is it over across the river?"
"It is very pleasant in the country," I replied.
"Is it a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign?"
Having just come from New Jersey where the infamous race track, and the more infamous rum-traffic legalized by law, would sink the whole State in the Atlantic Ocean, if it were not that it had a life preserver in Ocean Grove, I was hardly prepared to vouch for it being that kind of a land.
"Why do you ask that?" I said.
"Because I hear Jessie sing about it so much, and when I asked her about it, she said it's a land where there's green fields, and flowers that don't wither, and rivers of delight, and where the sun always shines, and she wants to go there so much. I hasn't told anybody about it before, but I eats as little as I can and gets along with these clothes what made you laugh at me, and I'm saving up my money to take Jessie to that land of pure delight just as soon as I gets enough. Does yer know where that land is?"
"I think I do, my boy, but you haven't told me yet who Jessie is."
"Jessie's an angel, but she's sick. She, lives up in a room in the tenement, and I lives in the garret near by. She ain't got no father, and her mother don't get much work, for she can't go out to work and take care of Jessie, too. She cries a good deal when Jessie don't see her, 'cause she thinks she is going to lose Jessie, but over in that land of pure delight, Jessie says nobody is sick, and everybody who goes there gets well right away, and, oh sir, I wants to take Jessie there just as soon as I can. I takes her a flower every night, and then I just sits and looks at her face, until my heart gets warmer and warmer, and do yer think I could come out of such a place and then swear and drink, and chew tobacco, and pitch pennies, and tell lies? I tells Jessie how the boys calls me 'His Royal Highness,' and she tells me I musn't mind it, and I musn't get mad, but just attend to my work. And—and—and, oh sir, I wanted to tell somebody all this, for I always tries to look bright when I goes in to see Jessie, and not let her know I am fretting about anything; but I does want to take Jessie to the land where flowers always bloom and people are always well. That's so little for me to do after all the good that's come to me from knowing Jessie. But, I begs yer pardon for keeping yer so long, and I thanks yer for letting me tell yer about Jessie."
Ah, the boys named him better than they knew, for here was a prince in truth, and despite his rags "His Royal Highness" was a more befitting name than Joe.
"Where does Jessie live, my boy?"
"Oh, sir, yer isn't going to take Jessie to that land of pure delight, and spoil all my pleasure. I does want to do it myself. Yer won't be so mean as that, after listening to what I've been telling yer, will yer?"
"Not I, my boy, not I. Just let me go and see Jessie and her mother, and whatever I can do for them, I'll do it through you."
A little persuasion, and then "His Royal Highness" and I made our way to the tenement and began climbing the stairs. We had gone up five flights and were mounting the sixth, when the boy stopped suddenly and motioned for me to listen. The voice of a woman reached my ear—a voice with deep grief in every tone—saying, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble." A pause—then a sob—and the voice wailing rather than singing:
Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, oh, leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring,
Cover my defenceless head,
With the shadow of Thy wing.
The boy grasped my hand a moment—gasped out "That's Jessie's mother, something's happened"—and then bounded up the stairs and into the room. I followed him and found sure enough something had happened, for Jessie had gone to the land of pure delight, and the mother stood weeping beside her dead. On the face of Jessie lingered a smile, for she was well at last. In her hand was a pure white rosebud, the last flower Joe had carried to her the evening before. Her last message to him was that she had gone to the land of pure delight, and for him to be sure and follow her there.
I draw the curtain over the boy's grief. His savings bought the coffin in which Jessie was laid under the green sod. Where "His Royal Highness" is, must for the present remain a secret between Joe and myself. His face and his feet are turned toward the land of pure delight. His heart is there already. You have his story, and it may help you to remember that some paupers wear fine linen and broadcloth, while here and there a prince is to be found clothed in rags.
Many years ago, in a lovely country of Italy, shut in by Alpine mountains, there lived a noble young duke, who was lord over all the land. He was one of a long line of good princes, and his people loved him dearly. They had only one fault to find with him, for he made good laws, and ruled them tenderly; but alas! he would not marry. So his people feared he would not leave any son to inherit his dukedom. Every morning his wise counsellors asked him if he had made up his mind on the subject of marriage, and every morning the young duke heard them patiently; and as soon as they had spoken, he answered, "I am thinking of marriage, my lords; but this is a matter which requires much thought."
Then he called for his black hunting-steed and held up his gloved hand for his white falcon to come and alight upon his wrist, and off he galloped to the hunt, of which he was passionately fond, and which absorbed all the time that was not occupied with the cares of his government.
But after a while, his counsellors insisted on being answered more fully.
"Most dear prince," urged they, "only fancy what a dreadful thing it would be if you should be taken from your loving people, and leave no one in your place. What fighting, and confusion, and anarchy there would be over your grave! All this could never happen, if you had a sweet wife, who would bring you, from God, a noble son, to grow up to be your successor."
The morning on which they urged this so strongly, Duke Walter stood on the steps of his palace, in his hunting-suit of green velvet, with his beautiful falcon perched on his wrist, while a page in waiting stood by holding his horse. Suddenly he faced about, and looked full at his advisers.
"What you say is very wise," he answered. "To-day I am going to follow your advice. This is my wedding-day."
Here all the counsellors stared at each other with round eyes.
"Only you must promise me one thing," continued the duke. "Whoever I marry, be she duchess or beggar, old or young, ugly or handsome, not one of you must find fault with her, but welcome her as my wife, and your honored lady."
All the courtiers, recovering from their surprise, cried out, "We will; we promise."
Thereupon, all the court who were standing about gave a loud cheer; and the little page, who held the horse's bridle, tossed up his cap, and turned two double somersaults on the pavement of the court-yard. Then the duke leaped into his saddle, humming a song of how King Cophetua wooed a beggar maid; tootle-te-tootle went the huntsmens' bugles; clampety-clamp went the horses' hoofs on the stones, and out into the green forest galloped the royal hunt.
Now, in the farther border of the wood was a little hut which the hunting-train passed by daily. In this little cottage lived an old basketmaker named Janiculo, with his only daughter Griselda, the child of his old age. He had also a son Laureo, who was a poor scholar in Padua, studying hard to get money enough to make himself a priest. But Laureo was nearly always away, and Griselda took care of her father, kept the house, and wove baskets with her slender, nimble fingers, to sell in the town close by.
I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of Griselda. She was as pure as the dew which gemmed the forest, as sweet-voiced as the birds, as light-footed and timid as the deer which started at the hunters' coming. Then her heart was so tender and good, she was so meek and gentle, that to love her was of itself a blessing; and to be in her presence was like basking in the beams of the May sun.
This morning she and her father sat under the tree by their cottage door, as the hunting-train passed by. They were weaving baskets; and, as they worked, they sang together.
As the hunting party swept by, Griselda looked up, and noted again, as had happened several mornings before, that the penetrating eyes of the handsome duke were fixed on her.
"I fear he is angry that we sit so near his path," mused Griselda.
"How his eyes look into one's soul. His gaze really makes me tremble.
I will not sit here on his return, lest it be displeasing to him."
Before the hunt was fairly out of sight, a gossiping neighbor came to the hut of Janiculo, to tell the good news. Now, indeed, the duke was really going to wed. He had promised to bring a wife with him when he came back from the hunt. People said he had ridden into the next province, to ask the hand of the duke's beautiful daughter in marriage. And it might be depended on he would bring the bride home on the milk-white palfrey, which one of his squires had led by a silver bridle.
It was almost sunset when the trampling of hoofs told Griselda that the hunting party were coming back; and remembering what the talkative neighbor had said, she thought she would like to take a peep at the young bride when they passed on their way to the palace. She had just been to the well for some water, and she stood in the doorway, with her bare, round arm poising the earthen pitcher on her head, and the rosy toes of her little bare feet peeping from beneath her brown gown, to watch the hunt go by.
Nearer and nearer came the train; louder and louder sounded the clatter, and full in sight came the duke, with the white palfrey, led by its silver bridle, close beside him. But the saddle was empty, and no bride was among the huntsmen.
"Can it be possible the lady would refuse him,—so handsome and noble as he looks?" thought Griselda.
How astonished she was when the duke, riding up to the hut, asked for her father. She was pale with fright, lest their humble presence had in some way offended the prince; and, all in a tremble, ran in to call old Janiculo. He came out, as much puzzled and frightened as his daughter. "Look up, Janiculo," said the duke, graciously. "You have heard, perhaps, that to-day is my wedding-day. With your good will, I propose to take to wife your daughter Griselda. Will you give her to me in marriage?"
If a thunder-bolt had struck the earth at old Janiculo's feet, he could not have been more stunned. He gazed at the earth, the sky, and into his lord's face, who had to repeat his question three times, before the old man could speak.
"I crave your lordship's pardon," he stammered at length. "It is not for me to give anything to your lordship. All that is in your kingdom belongs to yourself. And my daughter is only a part of your kingdom."
And when he had said this, he did not know whether he was dreaming or awake.
Griselda had modestly stayed in-doors; but now they called her out, and told her she was to be the duke's bride. All amazed, she suffered them to mount her on the snow-white steed, and lead her beside the duke, to the royal palace. All along the road the people had gathered, and shouts rent the air; and at the palace gates the horses' feet sank to the fetlocks in roses, which had been strewn in their pathway. Everywhere the people's joy burst bounds, that now their prince had taken a bride. As for Griselda, she rode along, still clad in her russet gown, her large eyes looking downward, while slow tears, unseen by the crowd, ran over her cheeks, caused half by fear and half by wonder at what had happened. Not once did she look into her lord's face, till the moment when they reached the palace steps; and leaping lightly from his horse, Duke Walter took her from the palfrey in his own royal arms. Then he said, "How say'st thou, Griselda? Wilt be my true wife, subject to my will, as a dutiful wife should be?"
And looking in his face, she said solemnly, as if it were her marriage vow, "I will be my lord's faithful servant, obedient in all things."
Then they brought rich robes to put on Griselda, and the priest pronounced the wedding ceremony, and the bridal feast was eaten, and patient Griselda became a great duchess.
For a time all went on happily in the country of Saluzzo, where Duke Walter held reign. The people loved the meek duchess no less that she was lowly born; and when two beautiful twin babes were born to the duke, a boy and girl, the joy was unbounded all over the kingdom. Walter, too, was very joyful; or, he would have been very happy, if a demon of distrust had not been growing up in his heart ever since he had married the beautiful Griselda. He saw how gentle she was, and how obedient to him in all things, and he was all the time uncertain whether this yielding spirit was caused by love of him, or by gratitude at the high place to which he had lifted her, and the grandeur with which he had surrounded her. He remembered the vow she had taken when she looked into his eyes and said, "I will be my lord's faithful servant, obedient in all things," and thinking of it, day by day, there arose in his heart a desire to put her love and faith to the test.
The resolution to which he came was so cruel, that we can scarcely believe he could have loved Griselda, and had the heart to attempt to carry out his design. He took into his counsel only an old servant named Furio, and to him he gave the execution of his plan.
One day Griselda sat in her chamber, caressing and playing with her two babes. She had never intrusted their care and rearing to any but herself, and her chief delight had been to tend them, to note their pretty ways, to rock them asleep, and to watch their rosy slumbers. At this moment, tired out with play, her noble boy, the younger Walter, lay in his cradle at her foot; and the sweet girl, with her father's dark eyes, lay on the mother's bosom, while she sang softly this cradle song, to lull them to sleep:
"Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake when you do rise;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby;
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
"Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,
You are care, and care must keep you;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby;
Rock them, rock them, lullaby."
While the young duchess sang the last notes of her song, Furio appeared on the threshold. Some remorse for what he was to do, made the water for an instant dim his eyes, as he watched the group. But he had sworn to do his lord's bidding, and he only hesitated for a moment, looking up, Griselda saw him, and greeted him with a smile.
"Enter, good Furio," she said. "See, they are both asleep. When he sleeps, my boy is most like his father; but awake, my girl's dark eyes recall him most. Have you any message from my lord, Furio?"
"My lady," answered the old man, hesitatingly, "I have a message. It is somewhat hard to deliver, but the duke must have his own will. My lord fears you are too much with the babes; that you are not quite a fitting nurse for them. Not that he fears your low birth will taint the manners of his children, but he fears the people might fancy it was so, and he must consult the wishes of his people."
"If my lord thinks so," answered Griselda, "he may find nurses for his babes. It seems as if no love could be so dear as mine. But perchance he is right. My ways are uncouth beside those of royal blood. I will give my babes a better teacher. Only I may see them often, and love them still as dear, can I not, Furio?"
"That is not my lord's wish, madam," said Furio, not daring to look full at the duchess, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "The duke fears that even now the people murmur that an heir of base origin shall grow up to rule over them. And he is forced to study the will of his people. So he has sent me to take away the babes, and dispose of them according to his royal orders."
When he had said this, Griselda looked at him as one who did not understand the language which he spake. All the blood forsook her cheek, her strength gave way, and falling at the feet of the old servant, still holding her baby clasped to her breast, she looked up in his face imploringly, like the deer who lies under the knife of the hunter.
But when Furio began to take up the babes, the boy from his nest among his cradle pillows, the girl from her soft refuge in the mother's bosom,—then the sorrow of Griselda would have melted the tough flint to tears. She prayed with moving words, she shed such floods of tears, she gave such piteous cries of agony, that Furio, tearing the children away with one strong effort, ran from the room with the screaming infants, his own face drenched with weeping. When the duke heard of all this, though it did not move him from his obstinacy of purpose, he yet grieved in secret, and wondered if Griselda's love could outlast this trial.
The twin babes, torn so rudely from their mother, were sent to a noble sister of the duke, who dwelt in Pavia; but no word was told to Griselda of their fate; and she, poor mother, submissive to her husband's will, because she believed it supreme, like God's, dared not ask after them, lest she should hear that they were slain.
When the duke saw how Griselda had no reproaches, nothing but grief, to oppose to his will, even his jealousy was forced to confess that her faith had stood the test. Whenever he looked on her, her gentle patience moved his heart to pity, and many times he half repented his cruelty.
Month after month, and year after year went by, and again and again did this demon of suspicion stir the duke to some trial of his wife's obedience and patience. He drove out the aged Janiculo from the comfortable lodgment in the palace in which Griselda had bestowed him, and forced him to return to the hut where he had lived before his daughter's greatness. And though Griselda's paling face and sad eye told her sorrow, she uttered no word of complaint or anger against the duke.
"Is he not my liege lord?" she said to her own heart, when it sometimes rose in bitter complainings, "and did I not swear to obey his will in all things?"
At last the day came when they had been wedded twelve years. Long ago had Griselda won the hearts of the people by her gentle manners, her sweet, sad face, her patient ways. If Walter's heart had not been made of senseless stone, he would now have been content. But in his scheming brain he had conceived one final test, one trial more, from which, if Griselda's patience came out unmoved, it would place her as the pearl of women, high above compare.
On this wedding morn, then, he came into her bower, and in cold speech, thus spoke to her,—"Griselda, thou must have guessed that for many years I have bewailed the caprice which led me to take thee, low-born, and rude in manners, as my wife. At last my people's discontent, and my own heart, have told me that I must take a bride who can share fitly my state, and bring me a noble heir. Even now from Pavia, my sister's court, my young bride, surpassing beautiful, is on her way hither. Canst though be content to go back to thy father, and leave me free to marry her?"
"My dear lord," answered Griselda, meekly, "in all things I have kept my vow. I should have been most happy if love for me had brought thy heart to forget my low station. But in all things I am content. Only one last favor I ask of thee. Thy new wife will be young, high-bred, impatient of restraint, tender to rude sorrow. Do not put on her faith such trials as I have borne, lest her heart bend not under them, but break at once."
When she had done speaking, she turned to her closet, where all these years she had kept the simple russet gown which she had worn on the day Duke Walter wooed her, and laying aside her velvet robes, her laces, and jewels, she put it on, went before the duke again, ready to depart from the palace forever. But he had one request to make of her. It was that she would stay to superintend the bride's coming, to see that the feast was prepared, the wedding chamber ready, and the guests made welcome, because none so well as she knew the management of the affairs in the palace.
Then Griselda went among the servants and saw that the feast was made, and all things were in order, concealing her aching heart under a face which tried to smile. When at evening she heard the fickle people shouting in the streets, and saw the roses strewn as they had been on her wedding-day, then the tears began to fall, and her soul sank within her. But at that moment the duke called, "Griselda, where is Griselda?"
On this, she came forth into the great feast chamber from whence he called. At the head of the room stood the duke, still handsome and youthful; and on each side of him a noble youth and maiden, both fresh, blooming and beautiful.
A sudden faintness overcame Griselda at the sight. She grew dizzy, and would have fallen, if Duke Walter had not quickly caught her in his arms.
"Look up, Griselda, dear wife," he cried, "for thou art my dear wife, and all I shall ever claim. I have tried enough thy faith and patience. Know, truly, that I love thee most dear; and these are thy children returned to thee, whom for so many years I have cruelly kept hid from thee."
When Griselda heard these words, as one who hears in a dream, she fell into a deep swoon, from which for a time neither the voice of her husband, nor the tears and kisses of her children, could rouse her. But when she was brought back to life, to find herself in the arms of her lord, and meet the loving looks of her children, she was speedily her calm and gentle self again.
Then they led her to her chamber, and put on her richest robes, and a crown of jewels on her head; and, radiant with happiness, all the beauty of her girlhood seemed to come back to her face. Nay, a greater beauty than that of girlhood; for, softened by heavenly patience, her face was sweet as an angel's. From that time forth the duke strove, by every look and deed, and tender word, to make amends for her hard trials. And to all ages will her story be known, and in all poetry will she be enshrined as the sweet image of wifely patience, the incomparable Griselda.
"Hold him tight, Sid!"
"I'm a-holding, Dave!"
The two-year colt, Rix, lay on the ground. Sid was holding tightly to the lasso, while Dave was trying to put the points of a pair of small nippers into Rix's right eye. Rix had objected very much, but Dave was determined; he knew something was wrong with that eye.
"There!" said Dave at last, holding up the nippers. "See? Fox-tail, just's I thought. Got it in his eye."
Dave jumped up, holding the piece of fox-tail grass yet in the nippers. Sid relaxed the lasso, and Rix rose slowly to his feet. The colt shut his eyes, and shook his head, as if wondering whether the agonizing fox-tail was really out at last.
"Poor fellow!" said Sid.
"I knowed that was it," asserted Dave. "I see something was the matter with his eye when he come in this noon."
Rix, released, trotted away.
"Guess he'll stay out of fox-tail after this," said Sid.
"I dunno," said Dave. "Critters walk right into trouble with their eyes wide open. I'm going to make bread now."
Sid followed into the shanty, and watched Dave stir together sour milk and soda for bread. The ranch was away in the hills, much too far from any town for visits from the baker's wagon. The treeless hills were the ranging-place of cattle and horses. Far away in the valley Sid could see the river-bed. It was dry now, but Dave said that if one dug down anywhere in the sand, one could find a current of water a few feet below the surface. Dave always knew things. Sid liked to hear him talk. All this country was new to Sid.
"Does your bread always rise?" he asked.
"If it don't I give it to the chickens," said Dave, putting in some more soda. "Tried yeast-cakes, but I couldn't make them work."
"Is fox-tail grass much bother to folks?" questioned Sid, seeing Rix from the door.
"Awful!" said Dave. "Gets in the hogs' eyes, and the sheep's too. Sheep-men try to burn the fox-tail off the pasture land, and the fire runs into the farmers' grain, lots of times. That's what makes farmers hate sheep-men so. Folks down 'n the valley round up the hogs every June to pick fox-tail out of their eyes. If they didn't, half the hogs'd go blind."
"Round up?" questioned Sid.
"Drive 'em together," explained Dave. "You'll see a round-up of my cattle 'fore long. Got to go out and hunt the hills for 'em, and drive 'em away down to the railroad. The other men are going to do it on their ranches too. Takes about a day for us little cattle-men to round up, and then about two days more to drive them down to the railroad. Big cattle-men it takes longer."
"You like it?" asked Sid.
Dave laughed.
"Well 'nough," he said. "We stop, you know, and have a good time on the road every little while."
"What do you do?" questioned Sid.
"Oh! drink—some," answered Dave.
"You don't though—do you?" asked Sid.
"Oh! well—some," said Dave slowly, as he poked the fire. "Have to drink with other men, you know. They wouldn't think I was friendly if I didn't."
Sid looked troubled. Dave never used to drink when he worked for Sid's father two or three years before, on the fruit ranch up country.
Dave's bread was done. There were yellow streaks in it, but Sid ate it.
"The principal thing's to get something to eat when your [Transcriber's note: you're?] ranching," apologized Dave.
About a week after this the round-up began.
"You take Rix," said Dave. "I'll take another horse, and we'll hunt the cattle up."
In and out of the gullies they rode, here and there through the hills. Late in the afternoon all the cattle that were to be shipped were together. The moon rose full and bright, making the hills almost as light as day. Sid and Dave stood by the shanty, looking back at the corral, where the cattle were.
"We'll start early to-morrow morning, Sid," said Dave. "Guess we'll meet some of the other ranchers on the road, most likely. You tired? Musn't let one day's riding use you up. We'll be two days going down, and one coming back. We can ride nights some, maybe. It'll be pleasant."
Next night they were part way down the hills, far enough so that they were leaving the bare portions behind, and entering the live-oak districts. Sid stood in the moonlight by an oak, and watched some of the men. They sat around a little fire, and played cards and drank. Out in the moonlight were other men, taking charge of the droves of cattle. Sid could see horns and heads, and once in a while a man would come to the fire and drink and joke with the others. Dave came after a time. He saw Sid with Rix by the tree. Sid had tied the horse there.
"Come over to the fire, and get warm," said Dave.
Sid went. One of the men held out a bottle to Dave. He took it, and drank.
"Give some to the youngster," said the man good-naturedly. "He's tired driving cattle, I reckon."
Dave looked at Sid, but Sid shook his head.
"Too fine to drink with us cowboys?" asked the man by the fire.
"Let him alone," said Dave. "He ain't going to drink if he don't want to."
Sid went back to his tree. He put an old gray quilt around him, and lay down. Then he remembered. He rose again, and knelt in the dark by the tree trunk. He asked God to keep the cattle from injuring anybody, and to keep the men and Dave from becoming very drunk. Sid was afraid.
He lay down again. Once in a while he looked over toward the fire. Dave came to it sometimes, and always one or the other of the men offered him a bottle. Sometimes Dave acted as though he were going to refuse; but the other men always joked, and then Dave drank.
"Why doesn't he stay away from the fire if he doesn't want to drink?" thought Sid. "Maybe he's cold. I wonder if mother—"
He went to sleep.
Next day they drove the cattle again a long, long way. At last they came to a town. There was the railroad, and there were the stock cars. When the cattle were on board, Dave and Sid jumped on their horses.
"Want to stay in town over night?" asked Dave. "Like a little change from the hills?"
"Let's go and get something to eat," said one of the other men, who rode up. "I want somethin' different from ranch cookin'. Ain't a first-class cook myself."
Sid was glad to eat bread that did not have yellow streaks in it. He was glad to have some meat, too. But, after eating, the other man said to Dave:
"Come take a drink."
They were on the sidewalk, untying their horses. Sid pulled Dave by the sleeve.
"Don't," whispered Sid.
Dave stopped and smiled.
"Come on!" said the other man.
"I don't get down to town only once in a while," said Dave. "Never drink other times, Sid."
He went with the man. Sid waited; it seemed to him that he had to wait a long time.
"Round-ups are bad things for Dave," thought he. "Mother'd be sorry."
There was a great noise from the saloon on the corner. Pretty soon Dave came out. He looked very white as he came to the place where the boy waited. Dave leaned against Rix, and groaned.
"What's the matter?" asked Sid in alarm.
"It's my arm," said Dave, growing whiter. "There was a fight—in that place—somehow. They knocked against me. I fell. One man fell on top of me and my arm was sort of doubled up under me. It hurts—awful. I don't know whether it's sprained—or broken—or—"
They had to stay in town a week before they could go back to the ranch.
When they went back Dave had his arm in a sling.
"It's a good thing the twenty-three tons of hay are in," said Sid.
"You couldn't do much with that arm."
Dave did not say anything.
Next Sunday night Sid sat in the door of the shanty on the ranch. He was singing to himself a little. "Safely through another week," he hummed. His mother always sang that Sundays at home. Sid was a bit homesick Sundays in the hills.
Dave came and sat down by Sid, and looked out at the sunset and the dry river away down in the valley. Rix came trotting up near the shanty.
"He's a smart colt—ain't he?" said Sid. "He hasn't been bothered with
fox-tail since that day you'n and I took that piece out of his eye.
He's kept his eyes away from the stuff, whether he's meant to or not.
Do you suppose he has as much sense as that?"
"Critters ain't the only things that walk into trouble with their eyes open," said Dave. "I ain't goin' to let Rix be smarter than I be. I'm goin' to keep out of trouble, too, Sid. I ain't goin' to drink no more, ever."
"Not round-up times?" asked Sid.
"Not round-up times, nor other times, if God will help me," said Dave, soberly.
"He will," said Sid. "Oh, I'm so glad!"